Histories

Introduction

For the benefit of family members who did not get to go to the Sydney Reunion and who did not have the pleasure of meeting Edna Wilson, Edie is 89 years old and is one of those lovely and amazing women who stays active and sharp and engaged through the years. She and Neryl have a close relationship, and her detailed account of her family's history follows:



PORTRAIT OF A MAN: ISADORE DOMOWITZ

My father was Isadore Domowitz from Lomza, Poland. In around 1896, not quite 21 years of age, he married my mother, Lena Selansky who was 18 years of age and from a wealthy orthodox Jewish family in Kaunas (Kovna) Poland.

They didn't know each other until the day they married, via the 'matchmaker'. My parents told me how everyone was standing outside the morning after their wedding as the ceremonial sheet was hung out for everyone to see that she was a virgin!

To escape the Czar's army where Jewish boys were taken off the streets and killed, with the help of my mother's father, they sailed from Bremerhaven, Germany on the Grosse Korfa for Sydney, Australia. He the eldest son, she the eldest daughter. My mother had a brother and another family member here.

Isadore learnt English on the ship while my mother struggled despite being fluent in Polish, Russian, German and Yiddish.

Isadore gained a position with an established jewelry business in the city of Sydney before opening his own manufacturing jewelry business, a workshop right near The Great Synagogue where they were members and eventually a store in the heart of the city. He created beautiful pieces of jewelry and some of the diamonds are still with the family.

My father, Isadore, was a fun-loving man who was always joking, laughing, crazy about animals and forever bringing home stray cats and dogs!

He was a very affectionate husband and loved bringing home gifts of fine hats and pieces of clothing for my mother. He liked to see her looking good. My mother took their two elder children when they were very young back to Poland to visit the family and records showed letters my father sent that were signed "my pillow is wet with my tears for missing you". My sister, Maizie (Neryl's mother) was born nine months after her return to Sydney and I was born ten years later. They proved that Fiddler on the Roof wasn't just a film without substance.

Isadore was a wonderful father - very strict but fair. He used to take my sisters to parties in the Jewish community in our Eastern Suburbs, which was a long way on the other side of Sydney Harbour from where they lived on the North Shore of Sydney. It was long before the Sydney Harbour Bridge was built so he took them by train/boat/train and then a hansom cab to their house! (We all became members of National Council of Jewish Women and W.I.Z.O.)

He loved his garden of fruit trees (my mother preserved the fruit) and vegetables. He kept all the Jewish High Holidays and how well I remember the ritual for Passover of the searching for the Chomitz when he'd search every corner for a possible crumb of bread. Our Seder nights were marvelous. He had an outstanding tenor voice and the Passover service remains strongly in my memories. He always had a non-Jewish guest at the Seder table. He was an ardent member of Jewish Masonic Lodge, taking my mother to dances and balls and loved politics. He always took me as a little girl and of course the youngest of four children, to hear 'soap-box' speakers and had a political viewpoint. He loved brass band music and insisted that we all learn to play piano and/or sing.

The Depression changed my parent's lives irrevocably. No one wanted diamonds or jewelry of any kind. The house had to be sold and one can only imagine, not for much money at all. No one had any money. The furniture had to go as well for practically nothing. They moved into an apartment in the Eastern Suburbs and were at the mercy of their young elder three children to support them. Their pride was shattered. However, my mother was always resourceful and did the best she could in the circumstances.

My father on the other hand, tried to gain extra money by gambling - going to the races with his 'mates' and playing cards. The opposite occurred, sadly, he lost more than he could have gained.

His health was suffering and during WWII he was operated on at a large Catholic hospital for a goiter in his throat that proved to be a very delicate operation. He wasn't expected to survive the operation. Sydney was being bombed by the Japanese at this time and he couldn't be moved to a safer area. The nuns stood by his bed and prayed for his recovery. He called them white angels as indeed they were.

My father continued smoking and his lungs just couldn't cope. His health deteriorated so much that he was taken to a nursing home and tragically for us, passed away just a few day's later and just before the end of the war on 19th June 1945.

Signed: Isadore Domowitz's youngest child, Edna. Born 8th June 1918 at their home in Chatswood, Sydney, Australia - and like Johnny Walker's Black Label Scotch - Still Going Strong!!


P.S. For whatever reason, immigrants who came to Australia from Europe changed their names. It was commonplace. They either shortened, changed a letter or changed it completely. My father changed his name to Adams.

My mother, Lena, didn't see her family in Poland again. They perished at the hands of Nazis in Auschwitz except for one niece who survived miraculously and through the Red Cross after the War, found her family here and was brought to Sydney. My mother passed away in May, 1963.

When Neryl went to live in Canada in 1959 and met Uncle Sol Domowitz in Rochester, she wrote in a letter I felt that I was looking at my grandfather - Little Pa.



Ilene Janchill Klass Palum Kline

And in the beginning...

there were our grandparents, Isaac and Esther Domovich. We take special pride in recognizing Isaac (otherwise known as Yitzruk, the Schreiber), the patriarch of our family. In those days, first names were followed by the "persuasion" of the individual. Hence, our grandfather was known in Lomza, Poland, as Isaac, the writer. His reputation was that of a leader, a tsadik, a highly talented man, and one who was especially trustworthy.

We all know that behind every good man there is a woman...and so Esther (matriarch of the Domowitz Family) comes into the picture. She bore him ten children, only one of whom was a female (my mother, Bertha (nee Toby), the ninth offspring and only daughter. As you would imagine, she was very special, particularly to her father. He called her his bossahidaleh" (his adored daughter). My Mom would tell me that when people came to their house, he would set her on a table to entertain them with songs.

His early demise from gangrene that settled in his arm left Esther a widow. Of the 10 children, 3 died during infancy and seven survived. The oldest son (Avrum) remained in Poland and was editor of the Lomza Shtimmer (he perished during the Holocaust); another son (David) left for Argentina to avoid conscription; son (Isadore) emigrated to Australia following his marriage to Neryl's grandmother; a fourth son (Tevya) left his wife Havey and daughter, Ida, in Poland, emigrated to the United States and were reunited within a year or two thereafter.

As was the custom at the height of emigration in the early 1900s, Tevya worked hard, saved his money and sent it to Havey and Ida for their passage to the United States.
My grandmother, Esther, had a brother and two sisters already living in the United States who assisted in financing passage for other members of the Domowitz Family, my Mom, Bubby, and two brothers, Benjamin and Sol.

Bubby's two sisters (Aunts Frieda and Rica) and brother, Yakker, had disassociated themselves from their Polish ancestry to become new Americans. They were dissatisfied with my Mom's name, Toby, and tried to convince her to change it to Tillie. My mother's response was that if they called her Tillie, she would not turn around. They settled on the name, Bertha, and we certainly wish they had left well enough alone; we loved the name, Toby.

I have provided the preceding information as a backdrop to the years that followed my Mom's arrival in the United States. She was a woman described as "before her time," self-educated in night school who, through her 93rd year and prior to her stroke, was so proud of the fact that she never missed an election.

Her mind was literally fed by my brother, Leon, who was a historian and in the process of writing the history of Europe from the late 1890s thru the 1940s.

My mother loved her children without reservation and was devoted to her brothers and their families. We were "poor" but rich in family life...my father's favorite admonition was "honesty is the best policy" and he would check our papers from school to see whether we had any "extra" sheets. His favorite words, I recall, were "be careful" and when I would tell him that we only learn from our mistakes, he would respond, "why should you be hurt when I can spare you." He was a most protective man who adored his children. He was determined that none of us would ever work in a factory (as he had) and continually stressed the need for education.

It was no surprise that my brother had graduated from college suma cum laude and my sister magna cum laude. He earned a scholarship to Yale University and, eventually, she her doctorate from Columbia University. Both were social workers who devoted their lives to the betterment of humanity. My brother's life is a chapter unto itself. Suffice it to say that he was an advocate for the poor, for families, for all who needed representation and a Director of Social Services in New York City for many, many years. He too had a wonderful sense of humor and adored his nieces and nephews. On occasions of their visits to New York City, he literally went wild to take them to his favorite museums, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building; nothing was too difficult, too far, or too expensive. He was the indefatigable Uncle Leon who knew no limits in reaching out to his family.

While he loved New York City, he was also able to travel to Europe extensively through accumulated vacation time. He was in love with the antiquity of Europe, literally scoured cathedrals and museums and brought them to life for all of us who were unable to travel. Through his exposure to Yale University, he gained access to libraries and private collections for cataloging. He was described as having a photographic memory and would record this information on index cards in the tiniest handwriting (we have hundreds of these stored for future use...by whom, we ask ourselves, since he is no longer with us). Upon retirement at the age of 66, he lived for perhaps a six-month period and then died of a heart attack, a loss we are strill struggling to accept.

My mother had a wonderful sense of humor, and she would respond extemporaneously to any given situation in the most remarkable way.. She was a people person. She loved life and considered herself a child of G-d. My earliest recollection is that of my Mom lighting Sabbath candles in Bubby's candlesticks and reciting the accompanying prayers. When my Mom passed away, I inherited those candlesticks and light them each Friday night with the awareness that I am the third generation to do so. I find myself lost in thought on these occasions and grateful to be able to perpetuate this meaningful rite. I am very proud of my Jewish heritage as are my children, Ellen Linda (named for Bubby), Karen, and Rick.

My wealth lies in having 10 loving grandchildren, seven of whom are directly related, and three by marriage to them. My future holds the promise of reaching great-grandmotherhood when my granddaughter, Jodi, gives birth in December 2007. What more can I possibly ask of life?

In reaching back into memory, I can hear the gratitude for both life and family expressed by my Mom. She was ever mindful of our good fortune (as we all are) in being spared the horrors of the Holocaust.

I could go on and on ad infinitum, but I know I must limit myself (and all of you as readers). I am aware that I have vacillated from one topic to another, but recall comes quickly once it escapes the retention of the human mind. I an grateful to you, Autumn, and to all family members who have taken it upon themselves to gather the thoughts and life experiences of members of our precious Domowitz Family and bring them to life through the publication of Generations.

Submitted with love,

Ilene Janchill Klass Palum Kline...will the "real Ilene" please stand up and be recognized?

(I ask this of myself because my life has gone through a series of changes, G-d made and man-made. My soul mate and love of my life, Hy Klass, passed away in 1976; may his memory be for a blessing forever.)

Sol Domowitz’s Boyhood Story of Lomza by Susan Itkin

My grandfather, Sol Domowitz told me this story when I was in grade school, about 45 years ago. It's the only time he spoke to me about his memories of Lomza. He thought it was a very funny story and shook with laughter while he told it. I thought it was a wonderful story and have remembered it ever since.

Sol was the youngest brother in the family. The Domowitzes published the Shtime, a Jewish newspaper, putting them in the public eye in the town. Secretly, the family also published Zionist literature, considered a treasonous act by the Polish government. The local officials had suspicions about the secret Zionist activity, but no proof. My grandfather explained that local officials would harass the family by jailing one brother or another from time to time because of the suspicions.

One day, when my grandfather was a little boy, he decided to visit one of his brothers who had been put in jail. He walked over to the jail on the outskirts of Lomza and called to his brother through the jail cell window, so they could talk. A jail guard heard them talking and saw my grandfather standing under the window. The jail guard began to chase my grandfather and my grandfather knew that if the guard caught him, he would beat him badly.

My grandfather took off running as fast as his legs would carry him. A cemetery was situated between the jail and the center of town. A military funeral with a brass band was in progress when my grandfather, followed by the jail guard came tearing through. My grandfather ran right along the edge of the open grave; his hat blew off his head and landed on top of the coffin!!

Sol just kept running, all the way to the home of Lomza's mayor, who knew my grandfather and liked him. My grandfather pounded on the door, which the mayor opened just before the guard caught up with him! My grandfather ran inside and stood behind the mayor, who told the guard to leave little Sol alone. My grandfather was delighted that he had out-foxed the guard, until he realized that his trouble was just beginning, because he now had to go home and tell his mother that he had lost his hat!

Neryl Simpson

Eleanor (Domowitz) Goldman: 1923 - 1997

Eleanor Goldman was known to all as Elle. She was born on 24th March 1923 and very sadly passed away on 15th July 1997.

She was born in Rochester, New York and was the only child of Sol Domowitz who was my grandfather, Isadore's, younger brother and Sarah Domowitz.

I met Elle in May 1959 (ooh that dates me!!) when Uncle Sol met me at the Greyhound Bus Station in Rochester on that Spring night in May when I had traveled from Toronto, Canada. I was just 21 years of age. I had arrived in Toronto two days earlier via Vancouver having left Sydney on 28th April 1959 by ship that took 18 days to get to Vancouver.

Uncle Sol was waving papers in his hand with tears streaming down his cheeks saying write to your mother(!!) and murmuring over and over again my brother's granddaughter.

Also at Elle and Irv's house that night was Ilene Klass Kline. Of course, Barry and Susan were just kids.

I instantly had family! I had truly 'arrived' in every sense of the word.

However, this is my tribute to Elle.

Over the years that I lived in Toronto and traveled many weekends to Rochester and shared the Jewish Holidays, Elle and I were not only family but friends. We did a lot of talking, laughed a lot and I observed and learnt so much from her. She was a wonderful daughter, wife, mother and friend. Everyone loved her. She grabbed life in every way as if she knew that she would be so cruelly taken far too soon.

I don't have to be back in Rochester to remember all the hilarious times we had. One December night I was running from the local bus to the house on Beekman Place across everyone's snow covered lawn to finally see Elle's face at her kitchen window beckoning me to run faster. The entire Goldman family was coming for Chanukah dinner any minute and the waste disposal in the kitchen sink was backing up threatening to cover the floor. Shouting instructions to me, I made potato latkes for the first time in my life as the family walked through the door. There hasn't been a time when I've made Latkes all the years since, that I haven't smiled to remember that night. I have to tell you that at that time it was hand-grating-only of the potatoes!

There are many stories.

Elle's devotion to her husband was a joy to see. When I visited, she taught me to watch out for Irv to come home and as he walked up the street the water would go on for his cup of tea to be on the table as he walked in the door.

Elle gave me that which doesn't come in a box - isn't packaged - hasn't a price tag - can't be counted. It's called simply, love and friendship.

I was living back here in Australia when Elle was ill and diagnosed with lymphoma and I took my children to Rochester. Now they too have a very special connection.

There is an even stronger connection. When I was giving birth to my daughter, Michelle, I was watching the clock nearing midnight and willing it to tick over from 23rd March to 24th March which was Elle's birthday! Michelle was born at 3.40 a.m. on 24th March which was very special indeed.

Elle's illness was with her for many years. Always threatening to catch up but I didn't ever think it would succeed. One always has this huge optimism when it comes to closeness. Through it all, she carried on her life with determination, optimism and above all, great dignity. Once again she was the teacher.

She would have loved being at the Reunions. I always feel that she is there - smiling.

I miss her dearly.

Summers in Florida by Lisa Wysocky

I’m not sure who knows this, but the Wysocky’s spent a good chunk of time with the Kamolnick’s in Hialeah. In my head, we went every summer, but I’m not sure if that’s the case or not. I know some nights, the boys would watch David and I, and some nights, my mom and dad would go out and Aunt Marion and Uncle Sid would watch us too (so I guess the boys always got stuck with us!). I can see my mother and father, and Marion and Sid going out in Miami to some nightclub (I think my dad always talks about a night where they saw Kenny Rogers perform), drinking scotch and having a good time. Real 70s nightclubbing in my head. I can just picture my dad hamming it up and trying to look Cuban.

In my head, when we were with the boys alone, those were probably the best. Back at the house, I remember playing a game where Bruce and Paul would just body slam both David and I onto their beds in their room. Over and over and over and over again. Paul is 10 years older than me, so if I was 6 and David was 8, then Paul was 16 and Bruce 14. I’m sure this was not the activity if all the adults were around.

Hanging out with them was ALL we wanted to do in Florida… going to their house is a constant good memory from being a child. There was life on Long Island, and there were summers where we went to Florida and saw Aunt Marion (ok, and the mouse…)

I remember their dog Trixie, and Bruce playing the piano and asking him to play Charlie Brown over and over again. I think Bruce got a moped, and he took both David and I for a ride. Of course, clumsy Lisa burnt her leg on the moped. I’m such a dope. I still have a scar on my leg.

I can remember the layout of the house, and the backyard. I also remember Paul being so cool, bringing his guitar to our hotel pool and singing songs to his girlfriend.

I remember meeting Herman (who my father to this day calls “Herman the German” was he even German?)

I know they came to the mobile home park we stayed in one summer and visited us in the pool!!! (come on, this was the 70s…it was cool).

I know there are many stories that are going on this website about the older generations and how they lived and the bonds that grew. I also think it’s important to document the bonds that happened in the next generation, for they are just as strong, and equally as important.

Our summers with Marion and the boys helped shape both my brother and I. Maybe Bruce was inspiration for my brother to take up the piano…maybe I can see Paul’s political views differently because of how my own mind got shaped by him when I was younger. Who knows? That’s all too deep. I guess the most important piece is how much joy they gave me and my family in those summers.

Lenny & The Bee by Lisa Wysocky

I think I was 12. The Wysocky’s traveled to Staten Island for Uncle Irving’s unveiling, and I remember wearing pants that I hated. They were like an orange rust color, with a gold stretchy belt on it. UGLY. I remember more important things about that day; the sad people, cousins I didn’t know, cousins I knew, the food back at the house, the bottles of water outside the apartment to wash your hands; the view out the windows of the apartment that housed the Domowitz’s; learning what an unveiling actually was.

We must have gone to the cemetery first. At that point in my life I was terrified of bees. And in a cemetery, there is a ton of greenery, and it may have been spring. I remember flowers, but if it was a Jewish cemetery, that may not be right. I was walking with my mother, and a big bee buzzes by…and I probably flailed a little, ok more than a little.

Uncle Lenny witnesses this, and says to me “little lisa, don’t worry, they don’t want to hurt you, they are just minding their own business. If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you”. So I forget about the bees for a little bit.

Maybe 10 minutes later, a pain shoots through my leg. I WAS STUNG BY A BEE! So there I am, crying my eyes out, and it’s in my pants leg, and I can’t get the bee out of there, and my poor mother is having to deal with me FREAKING out (I really hope I was younger than 12) because I’ve been stung. I mean, I’m FREAKING out.

All I can think today, is how awful a brat I was. Evan and Teddy are dealing with losing their father, and I’m screaming about a bee. (I really really hope I was younger than 12)

I’m not scared of bees anymore because of Uncle Lenny, despite the bee sting. They don’t like people. They like flowers. Have a done a bee dance once or twice in my life since (ok, maybe 5 times…), yes, but in the end, I’m not scared of bees. At least the big bumble looking bees.

Thank you Uncle Lenny!!!

Linda & Dave Goldstien

I am not sure how you would describe a "dynamo", but I would define the word as Ilene Janchill Klass, my mother and my friend!

Ilene is the daughter of Hymie and Bertha Janchill nee Domowitz. She was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1923, and gravitates toward anyone she finds with a Brooklyn accent, however faint it may be!

Mom loves her family above all else. She has a deep affection for the Domowitz clan and many wonderful memories, as a child in Brooklyn, of her relationships with aunts, uncles, and cousins. Married to the "love of her life", Hymen Leonard Klass, she left the family "fold" and eventually moved to Rochester, New York, via a short stint in Texas while "Hy" served in the Army Air Corps.

My Uncle Leon, Ilene's beloved brother, once described my daughter, Amy, as never being still - "There's one part moving at all times!" I think she inherited that trait from her Grandma "K", as mom is called! As a child, I remember walking home from school to find my mother hastily preparing lunch (after she dashed home on her own lunch hour from work) and then the quick drive back to school. I remember her rush to cook dinner for my father, who only had a hour to come home, eat, and head back to work. I remember her racing up and down stairs to do laundry, hurriedly hanging clothes out to dry, and just as quickly taking them down before the rain came.

My mother walked fast, talked fast, cleaned house fast (and thoroughly), drove fast, and typed fast! There was never enough time in the day to do everything she wanted or planned, but she definitely never wasted a minute.

Ilene was a very rapid typist. Her skills, her excellent writing and communication proficiency, as well as her integrity, resulted in increasing responsibilities in the jobs she held, particularly in her role as secretary to the Dean of Student Affairs at Monroe Community College. She alone was trusted to transcribe meetings at the college involving delicate personnel issues, financial matters and, in the 60's, issues involving the College's response to Vietnam War protests, etc. She "saved" her bosses and the school on many occasions from too hasty a response or too damning a letter, which would have been regretted later. Her colleagues considered her "awesome", although she didn't realize how much she was admired at the time. She was just conscious of moving swiftly up and down stairs, through corridors, and around corners, determined not to let anyone catch her in "slow motion" while she performed her many functions at the school!


Ilene is a great cook and always invited the family or anyone at loose ends to join us for sumptuous holiday meals. Desserts were the best part, and even now, in her 80's, her coffee cakes, chiffon cakes, brownies, and strudel have friends, family and neighbors alike just waiting for the next opportunity for a taste test!

She continues to have a soft spot for her nieces and nephews and is constantly sending little tokens of love for birthdays, bar and bat mitzvahs, weddings, and "just because". Many are the letters of reference that she typed in their youth as they applied to colleges and universities, usually with successful results!

As a longtime Rochesterian, my mother and father made many dear friends and were part of a couple's club that is still intact after more than 50 years. Although my father passed away in 1976, my mother continued to work at the College until January of 2000, when she moved to California to join her daughters, Linda and Karen Goldstien. It was very hard for her to leave her home, her son, Rick and family in New Jersey, and her friends, but the winters were brutal and her work schedule became increasingly difficult.

Mom's sense of humor is one of her best attributes! She has a quick retort at the ready (definitely a Domowitz trait, and one that her granddaughter, Stacey, has inherited), and has charmed most everyone she's met in her six short years as a California resident. To Mom's chagrin, she's known in the Santa Ynez Valley as that "cute" little lady (She hates being called "cute"). "Oh, is SHE your mother?" people ask. "She is soooooooo cute!"

Mom decided recently to apply as a contestant on the TV show, Deal or No Deal! She had to submit a video introducing herself, explaining what she would do if she won a million dollars, and describing her "supporters" who would be in the studio with her. The video, after a gazillion "takes", was hysterical. The funniest part, though, was when Mom suggested to the host that instead of 26 beautiful girls on stage as part of the show, 26 handsome young men be substituted, so they could meet her beautiful unmarried granddaughters, who made up her support team!

As an independent woman, who has dealt with the loss of many loved ones, yet retains her zest for life and her amazing energy (in spirit, if not in body), Ilene is a credit to the Domowitz Family Line. She is a loving, generous woman, who adores her children, grandchildren and family, and who represents a generation of honest, hard-working, and determined individuals who faced hardships that succeeding generations can only imagine. As the Matriarch of our Domowitz/Janchill/Klass/Goldstien family she is a "woman of valor" and very cherished.

The Importance of Margie by Lisa Wysocky

When we were growing up on Long Island, my mother remained close with Aunt Marion. My memories as a child of Aunt Margie aren’t as clear, I’m assuming because the Lewis’s were all in California.

As an adult, talking with her was a joy. She showed me a bohemian spirit that I felt I had and had been told that I possessed. Where sometimes I felt disconnected with my own family, I did not with her.

When we were at Split Rock, the first organized reunion, they must have taken professional photos of all of us. They were laid out neatly on a table, and everyone was taking a look at them. At one point, it was just myself and Margie at the table, and she pointed to a photo of me and said…

“Look at you!!! YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!! YOU LOOK LIKE A MOVIE STAR!!!”

I never thanked her, ever, for telling me that. So thank you Aunt Margie, for telling me that and creating words in my head that I never forgot. It’s almost a mantra in my head, her voice. Self esteem is a vicious villain, and to have a super hero like that in my head, well, I will forever be grateful.

Evan Domowitz

Irving Domowitz was a unique member of the Domowitz Clan. Irving passed away in 1978 which was a long time ago. However, his spirit still lives on through myself and my brother Ted. I miss him more as the years go on and I feel cheated that he was called home as he and my Mom, Muriel were just about to enter the best years of their lives.

As some of you may or may not know Irving was a fan of the horses. To be more specific he was a fan of betting on the horses, playing the ponies, Aqueduct, Belmont, Yonkers, OTB and the now defunct Roosevelt Raceway. He was his own handicapper and a day at the track also would mean meeting his cronies like Morris and Solly among others.

There were many Friday nights as a very young boy I recall my Dad heading out to the track and leaving Muriel to care for us. There were also many times that Irving would visit the track unknown to Muriel. I know that this does not sound cool but I need to state that Irving never remissed on his family, husbandly and fatherly duties.

It was an overcast weekday afternoon. Irving worked for the Postal Service and at that time he was either working nights, or had 2 days in the middle of the week off. Irv would take me with him on many of his adventures just to get me out of the house so Muriel could tend to Ted who was an infant. Some of those adventures included Harry the Barber for a haircut, Aunt Ida's on Ditmas which seemed to be a popular hangout for many, Canarsie Pier, or Nathan's in Coney Island where I recall walking on the boardwalk with a white bag of Nathan's fries drenched in ketchup.

On this particular day we drove from Elmhurst Queens to Linden Blvd. to a place called Coney Island Joe's. Coney Island Joe's was a shack on Linden Blvd. which served up hot dogs, hamburgers, and fries. I never knew why it was called Coney Island Joe's but as a four year old I assumed it was a place where one could go to get the same kind of food as Nathan's Famous and not have to actually go to Coney Island. I recall one time going there and watching a groups of teens lift a Volkswagen beetle up and move it several feet.

After having lunch we went to the Big A, Aqueduct Racetrack for the afternoon card. It was not crowded and we sat in the general admission grandstand. I sat next to Irv as he looked over the program. He went into a brief explanation of how each horse had a number worn around the waist and that some races were longer and some short. He then asked me which number I liked.

I don't recall what number I responded with but after I answered Irving told me to stay right in my seat and he would be right back!!!! Now you must recall that this was 1964 or 65 and the world was different then. In our present day world this kind of behavior would invoke a visit from DCF.

I followed his instructions and in a short time he was back. This went on for the rest of the day with Irving asking me what number I liked and then I assume he went to make his wager. I doubt he actually wagered on the number I gave him I think he was just trying to keep me entertained. I can still see myself in the seat at in the Grandstand next to Irving.

It is funny, I cannot recall any other details on what took place after the afternoon session ended. We obviously went home but the vivid detail of the events leading up to the track can be remembered I can't recall what happened.

It was until the late 1990's that this story surfaced again. It was a Passover at Ted and Ronnie's when they still lived in New Jersey. After the meal the conversation turned to old memories. I told my Mom Muriel some of the details of the day, which I scripted here. She never knew what took place. She was surprised, but not really surprised after all she knew her husband and her women's intuition may have tipped her off many a time. We all laughed and the stories of days gone by kept going with a new tale.

Now here it is 2007. I can still see the events clear. Somewhere up above an old man is smiling as he waits in line to make his wager. He lives on through me and I am proud to have had this man as my Father and mentor. I hope that he would be just as proud of me if he were alive today. I am confident that he knows and can see me...........

Bruce Kamolnick

Although the Jewish migration from Poland to New York to Miami is an indisputable historical and cultural fact, it seems as though only one of the Domowitz clan chose this particular route: my mother. Marion. She faithfully followed her husband Sidney Kamolnick (my dad) who, through his brother Jack, had a job waiting as a Western Union telegram delivery driver. A job he kept until his retirement.

We were the Miami Beach connection for our New York relatives. It seemed like at least a couple of times every year someone came down to broil in the southern Florida sun, attempting to turn themselves one shade darker - after that first tomato red burn and peel - so that their neighbors and co-workers in NY would jealously comment on that “tan.” Am I right?

There was Judy Simon and her family, there was Mendy Cherney, Ruth and Lenny Sten, my adopted Uncle Foxie Padnik, the Lewises (by way of Los Angeles), and of course the Wysockys: Alice, John, David and Lisa. Which brings me to my story.

Alice Wysocky went onto the Jeopardy game show and won big! For this she was not only declared an outright genius by my family, but also fortuitously became our most frequent visitor from the north. She had won a mobile home in Ft. Lauderdale and 1 year’s paid fees for the space it was on. Lisa was about 2, David was about 6, and John and Alice were about 30, I believe. They came to our house, and we went to their vacation house several times over the next couple of years. The only fixed ritual I remember was going to an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord called The Swedish House. John, although not overweight, was the undisputed champ, and we would joke about how the restaurant would lose money on him, for sure! He had a fantastic appetite. We also went to the ocean, various pools and lakes, and of course I played the piano at our house. (This was my permanent and irrefutable obligation for anyone who came by – even if it were a beggar or someone lost and asking directions or to use our toilet). But a memory I cherish was showing David (and even Lisa) how to play a little bit of blues on the piano. The trick was for them to play only the black keys, while I accompanied them more fully on the left half of the piano.

Unfortunately, it just wasn’t in the Wysocky budget to maintain the mobile home on a permanent basis, and so they sold it after a few years. And it was never in our budget to do much traveling (for example, to New York), so we didn’t see them again for a very very long time. In fact, I never saw Alice again, and still haven’t seen John since then. I only saw David and Lisa 20 years or so later at the L.A. reunion, and then again in Rochester last year.

I suppose all I can say at this point is I’m so glad Alice was a genius, so we could get to spend happy times with her and her family. That surely would not have happened otherwise.

Judy Simon

First, let me say that completely opposite of the norm, my major influences for peace, comfort and joy were men in my life and not as many women. These men were able to bring sanity and clear calm thinking, respect for older people, some semblance of honesty and integrity to an otherwise chaotic and frenzied life. They were: my grandfather Theo and poppa Dave.

They were both peacemakers who radiated home, gentleness and wisdom. They were unselfish and by their behavior, taught me how to serve others with graciousness, kindness and patience. They were not formally educated, but in my mind, they were much brighter and more creative than some Ph.D. graduates. Grandpa spoke 8 languages (French, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Hebrew, Yiddish, English and ?). They both had beautiful singing voices. Grandpa was a myriad of talents. Poppa Dave, most of all would listen to his kids, tell wonderful stories, fiction and non-fiction, and helped to see another view of life's problems. They were always ready, but not always available. They both had a bright warm smile and open arms when they saw me coming. (God only knows what they were thinking). They tried to teach me how to sit properly at the table, how to eat without looking like a cavewoman, how to wait for others to be served before digging in. They had a very positive influence on my life.

Mary Zeitler influenced me a great deal in becoming a nurse. She was our neighbor and friend. I also had a crush on Raymond, her son.

Grampa’s Seder by Carol Beam

A seder is always an amazing evening. It's a beautiful part of our religion, a major ceremony that has always been the domain of the family, not of the temple. It is a retelling of our ancient struggles, and a link we have not only to our ancestors but also to all people who have struggled and who still do struggle.

But seders can be kind of boring, especially to a kid. They go on for hours, and an incredibly long time passes before you even get to eat any of the ceremonial foods that are sitting right in front of you.

Our seders always had lots of family at them. My mother made a huge pot of chicken soup, matzoh balls that were rubbery and delicious, homemade gefilte fish and then the real dinner food. Aunts, uncles and cousins were always there. We'd work our way page by page, through the hagaddah. We'd sing the songs at the indicated places. It was pretty much the same year after year.

But one seder was very different. It was the year Grampa sat at the head of the table. The foods were the same. The bitter herbs and the lamb bone were laid out as usual. And we started out as usual, but soon Grampa put down the hagaddah and said, "I'm going to tell you what happened." That's when the magic started.

Grampa told us the story of the exodus as though it were about people he knew. He never looked at the book. This epic, which he'd read through for so many years, was his story now. And that's when it became our story for real. For the first time I really listened, and all the good smells from the kitchen didn't matter anymore.

When the time came we ate and we talked -- or the grown-ups talked while the kids shoveled in third helpings. There have been so many seders since then, but this was the one. This is how the roots got rooted, and it's the gift Grampa gave our family that year.

Jeff Kagan

I don’t have any stories of the “olden days” of the Domowitz Family, as it’s a distant branch on this enormous family tree. However, I would like to write about the wonderful experience Alex and I had at the Domowitz Family Reunion in Rochester, New York. I couldn’t imagine anything else in the world getting us to schlep up to Rochester (Manhattanites rarely leave the island…), but after meeting all of you and seeing how much love there is in this family, I’m glad we schlepped! That trip really meant something to us. We were strangers to all of you until that weekend, and now we feel like we are part of your family (though technically I was already…hehe). I think you know what I mean ☺

We’re looking forward to the next reunion!

Marion Kamolnick

I remember the good times living on Strauss St. The exact address was 1905. I played that number on the PLAY FOUR and won. The friends and neighbors that sat on the stoop. The movie "The Last Angry Man" was filmed on that street and I think my father was one of the extras.

I also remember the best of time at my sister Ida's house. They were the first to buy a TV. Marge, Me, Judy, Carol, Barbara and Alice and some neighbors lined up chairs and we were in heaven.

I remember my mother with all her wonderful cooking every night but especially Friday night. The dinners would never be forgotten. I remember going to the live fish market with my mother who chose a fish and they just blunted it until we got home and then put into the bathtub. That willl never happen again.

Saddest memories losing all my loved ones. Sid, my husband, brothers Irv and Julie. Sister Ida and my twin sister Marge --- that makes me the saddest. We planned on spending the rest of our lives together.

Passover is just around the corner and the memories of my mother making wine out of grapes. The seders lasted until midnight with all the Passover food and the story of Passover always repeated.

There are so many memories when you reach the age of 75.

I remember a little of every age in my life.

Grampa’s Sparrow by Barbara DeLeon

One weekend when as small children Judy and I were visiting Grampa and Granma, Theodore and Eva Domowitz, at their apartment on Strauss Street in Brooklyn, I can remember walking into their kitchen, which still had an icebox. I can still see the iceman entering the house carrying a huge block of ice on his shoulder for my Granma's fridge, and using big tongs to heave it into place in the box. That day, as it often was, Granma was making chicken soup, and as usual Grampa would sit down to eat it and he would pour ketchup into the soup. Granma was used to it, but I was horrified because it made the soup red. Yuk.

After our supper, the table was cleared, and off Grampa went to the cellar. He brought up an old birdcage and set it down on the metal kitchen table, and off he went again.

When he came back he was carrying in his two hands a small sparrow with some cloth wrapped around its bottom half. I saw him gently unwrap the bird, who seemed very calm in his hands, and turn it slightly to look at it's little leg. He then held the sparrow 's leg near the light bulb that was screwed into the kitchen wall, and patiently held it there for several minutes. What are you doing to the bird, Grampa, we wanted to know! Babala, he answered, I am helping to heal its leg. He broke his leg and needs to heal and I'm helping him. And so, he held the bird there and after its "treatment" wrapped it back up in the cloth and put it into the cage, and whisked it away again. To the "bird hospital" I guess.

The next time we visited we didn't see the bird, and eventually we asked where it was, and my Grampa proudly told us that the leg was healed and he had released him back to his family. The entire household said they saw it happen, and how joyful I felt and how proud of my Grampa Theodore.

Quiet Heroes by Barbara DeLeon

My father, David Friedman, became the lynchpin for his family early in life. His father had disappeared, perhaps back to England where he was from, but nobody really knew that for a fact. They just knew he was gone. His mother, whose name was Ida, struggled to keep her family together as long as she could, but she became emotionally and mentally unstable with what was called “melancholia” at that time and was unable to hold it together.

I never even knew she existed until many years later, when I was told she died. She was alive? I never even knew that. My father's family had kept this secret from us kids because at the time it was a shameful thing to have mental illness in the family and they didn't want us tainted with the knowledge. As a result of his mother's illness, his siblings, Ann and Joe and Sam (but not Harry, who was older) were put into foster homes. There are parts of this story that are still not clear for me, but that's the basic. Sam, about whom I had never known, was put into an institution by his foster family.

When my parents were newly married and in their own apartment, they were able to arrange for Ann and Joe to be released from the foster homes they were living in, where they were being abused. Harry also lived with them briefly. Sam was institutionalized, and that is where he lived his entire life. Ann visited Sam regularly until going to the institution became too horrible for her, and then my dad took over. Ann always said that Dave saved her life! All the siblings lived with David and Ida, my parents, until they could go out on their own, which they all did, and went on to live good, long lives. My parents, who were just starting out in life and who were poor, had succeeded in holding Dad's family together. They had succeeded in providing a secure and loving place from which they could take their places in the world. They were the ones who took that on, and without them, who knows what would have happened to Dad's family.

I want to take the time now to acknowledge the deep concern, the self-sacrifice, and the loyalty they had, and their spontaneous act of giving to those they loved. My parents were quiet heroes.

The Domowitz Family: GENERATIONS: Mission Statement

We are greatly excited about launching the family magazine, Generations. My hope is that everyone will read what has been written and enjoy it in the spirit in which it was written. I encourage everyone to submit at least one story about someone in the family who inspired them, motivated them and touched their heart, someone who amazed them or made them laugh until it hurt. We now have the forum and the opportunity to honor those of us who have made our lives richer, and to do it in writing.

Welcome to Generations and the opportunity for sharing that it provides.
-- Barbara DeLeon