(With spelling improved and grammar saluted by the Editor.)
3 July, 1902
I have been with Rebbe Weinstock and his Mrs. for over a month now and they treat me well. I have many chores around their apartment and often, the Rebbe or the Mrs. will give me something extra for completing this task or that. If the Rebbe for instance wants his Yid newspaper, a penny he’ll give me to run down the block to pick it up. Or if the Mrs. needs a pound of this or a loaf of that, she’ll send me out with a whack on what she calls my toochas—my ass—and welcome me back with a glass of cold milk and a biscuit or two. In all, over and above the 50-cents I make a week for the most minimal of laboring, I am picking up bits of change here and there as they seem fit to bestow it.
I have wondered, Diary, what Rebbe Weinstock does to make his ends meet. He doesn’t go to a factory like me Father, or work doing laundry like me Mater. No, he seems to sit around his comfortable home. Once a day or twice, a caller comes to the door, with a message. “Nathan Goldstein,” he’ll say, “seven pounds, three ounces. Next Friday at eleven.” He has a dozen of these callers a week and a dozen times, he rushes out of the apartment with his small leather bag dressed in his prayer robes and with his Kike prayer book.
I have asked Malka, who continues to visit with pleasing frequency, what it is that Rebbe Weinstock does, to where is he always rushing to and yon. Malka, who is usually a serious girl, only turned as red as the sweet wine the Yids drink on their Sabbath and she giggled. A very uncharacteristic deportment for her, as I said a serious girl. Now I am determined to discover what it is that is making Malka laugh, and where Rebbe Weinstock runs to with his leather bag and what his does to put, as Mrs. Rebbe likes to say, ‘kishkes on the table.’
More soon, Diary.