A Russian Jewish History part one...

Irving Shulak & Dorothy Meltzer Shulak 194?

The only mistake that could be made in attempting to obtain a family history from my father would be asking him a question. To hear the old man tell it, he was born in Ykatranaslove, Russia, but no one could pronounce it so they changed the name to Dneiperpotrovisky. I grew up with this story but even as a youth doubted it's validity. The truth is I don't think my father knew where he was born. Most of what you read will not be true, because according to Izzy, life was absurd. The truth could make you cry and a story would always make you feel better. I come from a long line of storytellers.

Dneiperpotrovisky was a small Russian fishing village somewhere near (note: not ON)  the Black Sea. Neither my father, Izzy, nor his father Jacob, was a fisherman; however, both of them did enjoy a good piece of herring. Fishing was a time-consuming process and being a Jew in Russia one did not have a lot of time, not if he wanted to stay one step ahead of the Cossacks. Although persecution uprooted many branches of my family tree, most of them managed to out wit the horseback marauders. I can honestly say they were never raped or pillaged, but for being a Jew, Izzy once had his nose broken by a guy named Guido. Here we have our first conflicting story. One day the broken nose will be caused by a strong wind blowing off his hat. He chased it down, bent to grab it and broke the nose on the bumper of a car. The next time it would be from a fistfight.

Jacob avoided Cossacks but he could not avoid the call of the Russian Army. Jacob was a true patriot and he did what was expected-he gathered his family and jumped on the first freighter to Ellis Island, America. My Grandpa Jacob was a deserter from the Russian Army before he ever served a day.

Grandpa Jacob arrived in America with his family in 1915. He had a wife, two sons, and a daughter. When he got to this country he said, "Now we are free of Jewish persecution, we will live like Americans." After many years of running Jacob wanted to blend in, so rather than use his last name, Shulakovsky, he called himself Shulak. The name change was always a story source for my father. Izzy would not get around to changing his name legally until some years after my oldest brother was born. Dad would say since his oldest son was born with the name Shulak but was still legally Shulakovsky, his first born son was a bastard.. It is interesting that my Grandfather tried to become more American by changing his surname name, and yet, when his first grandson was born he was named Boris, a nice American name.

Grandpa Jacob and his family moved to Detroit, Michigan, and began to live the life of Americans. This was more than a little difficult since none of them spoke English. My father told me many stories of those early years, like how he would protect his younger brother Bill from bullies. They would get picked on because they did not speak English, were Jewish, or both. In most every old photograph I have ever seen, my father's brother Bill wore a funny beanie hat. Now, I think they were picked on because Bill looked silly in that hat but that's not very romantic, is it?

Jewish people have a very strong family bond and Dad and his brother developed that bond way back on Ellis Island. Izzy told me that to gain entry into this country one of the several tests was one for intestinal parasites. The only way to have this test was to supply a (this is a little disgusting) stool sample. My father was unable to produce any for the test so he "borrowed" (I doubt he was going to repay this) some from Bill. Dad said "if my brother Bill wasn't full of shit I would never have been let in the country." My pop never forgot that and always took care of his younger brother.

By this time Izzy became Irving. He was beginning to display a pretty good right hook and left jab. He tells me he was asked to represent the neighborhood, entered, and won the 1917 Detroit Golden Gloves Boxing Competition. Somehow, every newspaper in the greater Detroit area must have been busy covering other sporting events during this competition. As much as I looked I never found the name Izzy, or Irving Shulak listed with any winners. Whatever the truth, my old man was in America, he was tough, and he would make the best of it.

Jacob, who fled Russia to avoid the Red Army, now found himself in a Russian Jewish neighborhood in Detroit fleeing the bill collector. It was time to earn a living and in those days that meant everyone. Jacob, who was now, Jack, was a barber. My father would eventually go to barber school and apprentice with his father. They both figured as long as they could find heads they would make a buck. Also, cutting hair did not require any heavy lifting.

Well before he did become a barber my dad and his brother would sell newspapers. This is where the lack of (or exaggerated lack of) English paid off. By this time both of the brothers were fluent in the language. Dad and Bill would sell their newspapers on a streetcar line. They would position themselves on a corner with a traffic signal. Often times people would lean out of the streetcar windows and wave for a newspaper. If the customer would hand over a dime (papers were two cents) my old man would keep one eye on the traffic signal while he muttered in Russian and fumbled for change. Just when the signal would go green, the streetcar would start to move, he would magically come up with the eight cents change, always just a little too late. This was a very successful money making operation according to my father. I remember asking him why no one ever got off at the next block and came back to get their change. He told me it was because the streetcar didn't stop at the next block. Like many of his answers that didn't make sense I never questioned him more and just accepted them. It was always easier that way.

To be continued................