Introduction
Uncle Toby showed up at the base of the house in the old shtetl. Fiddler, who, of course had been fiddling, gestured for him to climb up to the rooftop.
"Oh, Uncle Toby," I said enthusiastically. "I see you brought along your maps."
Uncle Toby nodded.
"Thanks for making the trip, Uncle Toby," I called out to him as he climbed up the ladder. "Hopefully you'll be able to settle the argument between Fiddler and me. Fiddler's a stubborn old cuss. I know I'm right, but he needs actual evidence of what the borders were like back in the day."
Again, he nodded and grabbed his maps tighter.
Uncle Toby is a very skilled map reader. Since he could show people where he had received his war wounds with the greatest accuracy, I figure he could show Fiddler how the shtetl had been a part of Lithuania at the time that my grandpa and his brothers departed for Ellis Island. Fiddler insisted that since the house was now a part of Belarus, that that made me Belarusian. I argued that I was really a Litvak. I figured that Uncle Toby could resolve this matter once and for all. That is, until someone picks the border up again in the middle of the night, the sneak. There is an old saying: So falls the roof, so falls the rest of the house.
While Uncle Toby pores over his maps, Fiddler once again takes me over to the edge of the roof to overlook the tiny town spread out in front of us. He stands there, perching on one foot. Once again I ask him why he insists on standing that way. He says he has to in order to balance me out. That way he will keep me from toppling over. I will remain grounded, and he will forever lean, fiddle under his chin, whether he's playing or not.
Fiddler claims I lack perspective in regards to history. I insistently tell him I am well versed in history. While he concedes that I may know a lot about the world at large, but when it comes to my own personal history, I leave a lot to be desired.
He points at the town below. I am puzzled as to what I am looking at. All I see is a tiny town with horse drawn carts. A synagogue in disrepair. Some houses. On the outskirts, I see a monument. He repeatedly shakes his bow at it. "What's so important about that," I ask. He mutters to himself in Yiddish. Something about me being a damned fool. Perhaps I am a fool, but perhaps I really am in denial about what that monument is about. I suspect it has something to do with family members who chose to stay in this God forsaken place.
Loud voices startle me. I turn towards the middle of the roof and hear my grandpa's brothers arguing with one another. I recognize Julius and Nathan, but the rest are unknown to me. They all look enough like my Grandpa Abe for me to surmise that they are all brothers.
"Poland," one exclaims. "Russia," one insists. "Poland and Russia," a third one proclaims. "One or the other," states a fourth. "I'm the eldest. If I say it's Russia, then it's Russia!" Fiddler shakes his head and fiddles.
Uncle Toby views them all with disdain. "Foreigners," he thinks to himself, forgetting that he himself is the foreigner. Uncle Toby wonders if the brothers no longer lived there, did the house still belong to them? Did they sell the house first or did they just abandon it, as, one by one they headed to America? Uncle Toby smiles smugly. Since they were long gone ghosts, maybe he could claim ownership. Fiddler, as if reading his mind, fiddles furiously as if disabusing him of all schemes. Deep down Uncle Toby knows Fiddler is right, but he doesn't want Fiddler to know that.
Fiddler motions me over. With his bow, he gestures towards Uncle Toby. "Yes, I know, Fiddler. Don't worry. He will not make away with the house while I'm around." Fiddler plays a few bars of Rue Britannia.
"Actually, Fiddler, I believe Uncle Toby is Irish, so I doubt he wants to acquire property in the name of the queen." Fiddler places fiddle and bow over one shoulder and mimics a soldier's drill exercise.
I nod. "Yeah, I know. Once a soldier always a soldier. But I don't think Uncle Toby is the least bit mercenary. I think he wants to help me solve my mysteries. I invited him up on the roof to begin with, remember?"
Fiddler plays an old love song about regrets. In response I belt out "Regrets, I've had a few..." He covers his ears.
I relent. "I appreciate you looking out for me, Fiddler, but I think Uncle Toby could be an asset to me." He looks at me quizzically. "On finding out the facts about my family."
Fiddler looks skeptical.
"Because he's not not family, he can be objective," I explain.
Fiddler shrugs and walks away. What a dear man. Too much of a romantic for his own good, I muse. Will Uncle Toby be of help? Maybe his map reading skills will give me a way to navigate my family history. I shrug. At the very least I will learn some history and some geography.
Uncle Toby showed up at the base of the house in the old shtetl. Fiddler, who, of course had been fiddling, gestured for him to climb up to the rooftop.
"Oh, Uncle Toby," I said enthusiastically. "I see you brought along your maps."
Uncle Toby nodded.
"Thanks for making the trip, Uncle Toby," I called out to him as he climbed up the ladder. "Hopefully you'll be able to settle the argument between Fiddler and me. Fiddler's a stubborn old cuss. I know I'm right, but he needs actual evidence of what the borders were like back in the day."
Again, he nodded and grabbed his maps tighter.
Uncle Toby is a very skilled map reader. Since he could show people where he had received his war wounds with the greatest accuracy, I figure he could show Fiddler how the shtetl had been a part of Lithuania at the time that my grandpa and his brothers departed for Ellis Island. Fiddler insisted that since the house was now a part of Belarus, that that made me Belarusian. I argued that I was really a Litvak. I figured that Uncle Toby could resolve this matter once and for all. That is, until someone picks the border up again in the middle of the night, the sneak. There is an old saying: So falls the roof, so falls the rest of the house.
While Uncle Toby pores over his maps, Fiddler once again takes me over to the edge of the roof to overlook the tiny town spread out in front of us. He stands there, perching on one foot. Once again I ask him why he insists on standing that way. He says he has to in order to balance me out. That way he will keep me from toppling over. I will remain grounded, and he will forever lean, fiddle under his chin, whether he's playing or not.
Fiddler claims I lack perspective in regards to history. I insistently tell him I am well versed in history. While he concedes that I may know a lot about the world at large, but when it comes to my own personal history, I leave a lot to be desired.
He points at the town below. I am puzzled as to what I am looking at. All I see is a tiny town with horse drawn carts. A synagogue in disrepair. Some houses. On the outskirts, I see a monument. He repeatedly shakes his bow at it. "What's so important about that," I ask. He mutters to himself in Yiddish. Something about me being a damned fool. Perhaps I am a fool, but perhaps I really am in denial about what that monument is about. I suspect it has something to do with family members who chose to stay in this God forsaken place.
Loud voices startle me. I turn towards the middle of the roof and hear my grandpa's brothers arguing with one another. I recognize Julius and Nathan, but the rest are unknown to me. They all look enough like my Grandpa Abe for me to surmise that they are all brothers.
"Poland," one exclaims. "Russia," one insists. "Poland and Russia," a third one proclaims. "One or the other," states a fourth. "I'm the eldest. If I say it's Russia, then it's Russia!" Fiddler shakes his head and fiddles.
Uncle Toby views them all with disdain. "Foreigners," he thinks to himself, forgetting that he himself is the foreigner. Uncle Toby wonders if the brothers no longer lived there, did the house still belong to them? Did they sell the house first or did they just abandon it, as, one by one they headed to America? Uncle Toby smiles smugly. Since they were long gone ghosts, maybe he could claim ownership. Fiddler, as if reading his mind, fiddles furiously as if disabusing him of all schemes. Deep down Uncle Toby knows Fiddler is right, but he doesn't want Fiddler to know that.
Fiddler motions me over. With his bow, he gestures towards Uncle Toby. "Yes, I know, Fiddler. Don't worry. He will not make away with the house while I'm around." Fiddler plays a few bars of Rue Britannia.
"Actually, Fiddler, I believe Uncle Toby is Irish, so I doubt he wants to acquire property in the name of the queen." Fiddler places fiddle and bow over one shoulder and mimics a soldier's drill exercise.
I nod. "Yeah, I know. Once a soldier always a soldier. But I don't think Uncle Toby is the least bit mercenary. I think he wants to help me solve my mysteries. I invited him up on the roof to begin with, remember?"
Fiddler plays an old love song about regrets. In response I belt out "Regrets, I've had a few..." He covers his ears.
I relent. "I appreciate you looking out for me, Fiddler, but I think Uncle Toby could be an asset to me." He looks at me quizzically. "On finding out the facts about my family."
Fiddler looks skeptical.
"Because he's not not family, he can be objective," I explain.
Fiddler shrugs and walks away. What a dear man. Too much of a romantic for his own good, I muse. Will Uncle Toby be of help? Maybe his map reading skills will give me a way to navigate my family history. I shrug. At the very least I will learn some history and some geography.
