“When the mouth opens, the ears close,” I remember my parents admonishing me.  I’ve thought about that quite a bit lately because I have been on the speaking circuit to promote my book, Louis Rose: San Diego’s First Jewish Settler and Entrepreneur.

One of my recent appearances was before the seniors of the Lawrence Family JCC.  I told about Rose’s life, and as the comedian Jerry Seinfeld likes to say, yada, yada, on I talked.  Afterwards, over refreshments, a shy man purchasing my book pushed over a copy of his. Its title was The Blessed Yoke. “For you,” he said.

Of course, I felt guilty.  Here was a stranger giving me his book, and I sold him mine.  But, I rationalized, even I don’t get my book for free.  I have to purchase it from the publisher, albeit at an author’s discount.

After returning home, I became hooked on The Blessed Yoke, whose author I learned was Emil Nahum Grunfeld—a man with tremendous power of description, and a love of irony.

Written 22 years ago, The Blessed Yoke  tells the story of a boy from a religious family growing up in a town in which there were Jews, Rumanians, Shwabs and Hungarians to observe. With wit, Grunfeld describes the customs and idiosyncrasies of all these townspeople. He recounts stories of how a boy gave as well as he received in fistfights with the anti-Semitic youth gangs. He tells of a sexual predator in the men’s mikvah. He describes the life of a boy sent off to a yeshiva in another town, making do on one meal a day. 

I’ll take the liberty of quoting Grunfeld’s description of a havdalah ceremony at the yeshiva:  

…All extended their arms toward the burning havdoleh candle, and then ritually examined their fingernails.  The custom has an obscure origin and meaning.  Some said that the ritual was established to check on the fingernails because demons hide under dirty fingernails.  The harefem, the brainy among the boherem scoffed at such ameratzish, vulgar interpretation. According to them the custom must have mystical, kabalistic origin. When all the blessings of the havdoleh were chanted, the Rebbe poured a bit of the wine on the tablet, and extinguished the flames on it. That signaled the time to turn the electric lights on. As a closing ritual of the havdoleh, the boherem rushed toward the tablet with much of the wine poured out on it and dipped their fingertips in the pool of wine. The wet fingers touched their eyes, to behold holy things only; the fingers moved further to the forehead, for better acceptance of Torah, and then, in a rather stealthy way the wine-immersed fingers sneaked into their pockets, a discreet reminder to God, not to forget some spending money please.
 
Later, in the autobiographical novel, Grunfeld writes vividly of being homeless and hungry in Budapest during the early 1930s. Movingly. he describes the suicide of a friend, who thought by jumping into the river he could attract sympathy, perhaps a warm place to recover, and some food.  Instead he hit a concrete bridge support. 

The book's protagonist later emigrates to Mandatory Palestine in the days before World War II.  He signs up to become a T.A.C.—a Temporary Additional Constable.  Here’s how Grunfeld describes it:

Dan was sent with other recruits to the Police Academy housed temporarily in an abandoned factory in Haifa Bay. The large hall where machinery used to stand served as barracks.  The 150 TAC’s were trained by Sergeant Hunt, a very typical British non-com.  He taught them all they had to know about guerilla warfare, such as quick march, slow march, open odaaa, close odaaa, eyes right, and how to swing a stiff shoulder high when marching.  That went on for four weeks and at the conclusion came the passing out parade in front of SP Parker, the Superintendent of Haifa and District Police.  Mr. Parker, a mild-mannered Britisher was very pleased with these TAC’s because in the about turn they could raise their knees almost as high as regular British soldiers.  Thus, the TAC’s graduated deemed fit to combat Arab terrorists…

Perhaps my mouth had been open, and ears closed.  However, I comforted myself, that my eyes still had the capacity to remain open—I can read!. Mr. Grunfeld, thank you for sharing this remarkable book with me. 
                                                                                                                —Donald H. Harrison