My Father’s Volkswagen and Our Family’s Journey |
As a teenager, I used to go with my father, Rubie Spector, on weekends to work at his store, the Glen Oaks Deli, in Queens. The commute from Long Island was thirty minutes, which in those days seemed enormous. In 1963 he needed a new car and declared that he would never buy a Volkswagen. Hitler had promoted that car and overseen its production, after all. But then my dad decided that if Israel could accept reparations from Germany, why shouldn’t he buy a car that was reliable and economical, and that fit his budget. The VW was tiny and rickety as it bounced along the highways. When he drove through a puddle on the Northern State, my father would say, “Quick, Steve, raise your feet.” I did, before realizing it was a joke.
I enjoyed those trips. But aside from them I didn’t get to see my father much. My sister and I used to complain that our parents didn’t give us enough guidance or instruction to prepare us for life. But now, as I consider their own childhoods, I understand.
My dad was a gentle man whom life treated harshly. He couldn’t catch a break, except for the love he gave and received. And that was a lot.
His grandfather was a rabbi in Kiev who sent his children to New York when they left revolutionary documents in public places. Then my dad’s........