The Legend of Roiteh Bendel

In response to all the cards and letters, here's how the whole "roiteh bendel" thing got started. It all began in a small town in Poland. In 1922 the Bendel family was bless with twin boys. The were fraternal and looked nothing alike; Henoch was smaller, with wisps of jet black hair and muddy brown eyes. Shmiel, however, was a stunning baby: a shock of bright orange hair, piercing pale blue eyes and a scream to match. Because of his intense carrot-top, he was immediately dubbed "Roiteh," or "Redhead". The two were inseparable. They were the only boys in a family of eight. Their six sisters fawned over them and sometimes dressed them up in girl's clothing, seeing as how that's all they had. By age eighteen they had developed into strapping young men. Shmiel (Roiteh) still had his flaming red hair, and Henoch was just...flaming. it was 1940 and things were about to go terribly wrong in their little town. The Nazis had invaded Poland in September the year before and they had heard rumors of massacres in other Jewish villages. Papa Bendel had a relative in Albany, New York, who agreed to accept one of his boys. Because Henoch was considered the frail brother, he was selected to go to the "goldeneh medina*". Believe it or not, Roiteh was glad he was staying; he wanted to kill Nazis! And so it was. The family (now there were nine: Momma, Papa, Shprintzeh, Golda, Yentel, Genendel, Hentcheh, Chynka and, of course Roiteh) eventually were able to hook up with the renowned Bielski Brothers. The Bielskis had set up camp in the dense Polish forest with just a handful of resourceful, but terrified Jews. The brothers vowed to protect their brethren, and also promised not to turn anyone away. They knew the forest like the back of their hands, and, by constantly moving, they were able to stay one step ahead of the Nazis, who knew they were there and could not manage to eradicate them. The Bendels joined the group and Roiteh was immediately drafted by the Bielskis to fight the Nazis along side with them. They had guns, rifles and even hand grenades, looted from Nazi armories and taken off fallen Nazi soldiers. The Bielski brothers had seen their parents and sister shot dead with their own eyes, so they were especially ruthless when capturing a Nazi. But their brutality was nothing compared to Roiteh's. When the partisans he was fighting with came upon a unit of hapless Germans, he would emasculate, disembowel and dismember them, and that was when he was in a good mood. But he always left one Nazi alive. This soldier, usually an officer, was the lucky one. Roiteh would cut off his ear and send him packing, with the instructions to tell his superiors in Berlin what had been done to his unit, and by whom. Eventually Roiteh developed a little calling card: he would tie a red string around the soldier's wrist; "red string" in Yiddish is "roiteh bendel"! The high command in Berlin knew exactly who he was, and couldn't touch him. Somehow the Bielskis and Company managed to make it through the war. In 1945 Papa Bendel called his cousin to seen how Henoch was doing. The man explained that Henoch had moved downstate to New York City and had become a fashion designer. He had also changed his name: French designers being all the rage, he had taken to calling himself Henri. Papa was heartbroken, but what could he do? Well, he thought, at least he still had his Roiteh. Roiteh, however, had other plans. Jealous that his brother was becoming more and more famous, he moved to Krakow and started a fashion line of his own. The story of the Red String had circulated among the survivors and Roiteh had become a legend within the borders of Poland. To capitalize on his local fame, Roiteh tied a red string around the wrist of all his models, and started wearing one as well. He figured that if it was lucky for the Nazi, it would be lucky for him, too. And indeed it was. Just a few months after opening his shop, his warehouse was gutted by a fire that had started in one of the electrical sockets. Although devastated, Roiteh consoled himself with the insurance money he collected, which totalled well over 50,000 American dollars, a princely sum indeed. Truth be told, his fashion line was going nowhere: although highly motivated by his jealousy of his brother, the fact remained that he lacked Henoch's flair and he knew it. So his business went up in smoke, but the legend of the lucky Red String remained and spread throughout Eastern Europe like wildfire. Eventually it made its way across the Atlantic, and was pounced upon by two enterprising Jewish businessmen on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They began selling little, 7" pieces of red string for 3 cents apiece. Word got around among the newly arrived refugees and soon the shrewd partners had made a small fortune.
And the rest, as they say, is history.

PS There is actually a part of this fanciful tale that is true; there were, indeed, three Bielski brothers who amazingly rescued about 1,200 people during the war and never told anyone about it. If you're interested (and you should be), here's a link: http://www.holocaustresearchproject.org/revolt/bielski.html

* Goldeneh Medina = Literally, "Golden Land"; a reference to America.

Bendel Bonding



This one kinda looks like mine.



Not my Russian lady.
Just a generic Russian lady.

So got all my stuff together, my oxygen, my cane and my brace and walked to the Homecrest Health Center on Avenue S.  It's literally three blocks from my apartment.  I put the oxygen tank in my highly fashionable, vintage messenger bag, and then stuck the cannula up my nostrils.  It's been a long time since I used oxygen, thank G-d.  It was hard for me to imagine that I used to walk around with this thing in my nose 24/7.  It is sooooo uncomfortable.  I guess you can get used to anything.  After all, I got used to breathing through a hole in my neck, too.  When I got to the place, my breathing was free and easy.  Damn!  I figured I'd have to really channel my inner Lawrence Olivier and give the performance of a lifetime.  I thought I'd walk through the door and right into the Doctor's office.  Right.  I should have realized that city bureaucracy doesn't work that way.  There was a waiting room full of people in various stages of handicapped-ness.  Virtually everyone in the room had a cane.  There was a neck brace or two.  There was a guy with a very wierd contraption on his arm and hand, with pullies and rubber bands and stuff.  I was the only one with oxygen...nah nah nah nah nah!  I had to sign in and I asked the guy hat the desk if there would be a long wait.  That's like asking a dentist if the root canal is gonna hurt.  "You'll be outta here by 3:45", he said.  I looked at my watch.  It was 2:15.  An hour and a half.  Actually, not as bad as I thought.  But it was a typical city agency waiting area: No magazines (unless you count the various pamphlets about AIDS awareness and gonorrhea).  There was TV right in front of me that was turned off.  I figured I'd have to use my old standby whenever I'm in situations like this: go through Shas by heart.  I was right at the beginning of Brachos when Eddie* walked in.  I've known Eddie forever.  We went to elementary school together and there was a time that we were really good friends.  Eddie is enormous.  He looks like a walking mountain.  He's gotta be 6'2" and I can't even imagine how much he weighs.  I happened to notice his sneakers, maybe because they were just a hair smaller than those cute little Smart Cars you see zipping around these days.  I asked him what size they were.  Eighteen.  Eighteen!  You can't get 'em in a shoe store, Eddie said, you have to order them from a catalog.  He's so big that he's had trouble walking for a long time, but the last year or two he's had heart problems as well.  He has a pacemaker.  OMG...I have a friend with a pacemaker!  Boy, am I getting old!  So at least with Eddie there I had someone to talk to, and before I knew it they were calling Mr. Zweeg.  Yes Zweeg, not Zweig.  I get that a lot.  I limped my way into the Doctor's office.  At least I thought it was a doctor's office.  Sitting before me was a Russian lady.  A very nice Russian lady as it turned out, but a Russian lady nonetheless.  She had one of those official looking ID cards dangling from her neck.  No white coat.  No stethoscope.  Nothing to indicate that she knew any more about the practice of medicine than I did.  In short, I don't think she was a doctor.  Maybe a nurse of some kind, but definitely not a doctor.  She looked over my paperwork while I sucked hard on my cannula.  If it were a movie, I would surely** have been nominated for an Oscar.  She didn't even bother looking at me; she was too enthralled with my medical history, and, I might add, rightly so.  Finally she looked up and said, "boy, you've had a wery rough year."  No, it's not a typo...she said "wery".  As if to confirm her rather obvious observation, I handed her my list of meds.  She looked it over and stopped at the Imuran.  Imuran is generally prescribed as an anti-rejection drug for kidney transplant patients, or for patients suffering from severe rheumatoid arthritis or other auto-immuse diseases.  She wanted to know why I was taking it.  I didn't know.  His Majesty Dr. DePalo had prescribed it.  So you have an auto-immune disease, she said.  Hell, I wasn't gonna argue.  I guess so, I said.  So according to her I had lung problems (my breathing), heart problems, (my A-fib episode) and an auto-immune disease (she made that one up).  She probably thought it was amazing that I was even walking around.  She looked up from the papers and said, "you'll get the permit in the mail in about four weeks".  That was it.  No cold stethoscope, no rubber-gloved examination, nothing.  I could have kissed her.  Then on my way out, she made it a point to show me her "roiteh bendel".  It's a red string that Jews wear, usually around their wrist, to ward off the Evil Eye.  She obviously had seen mine.  She gave me this knowing, "we're from the same tribe" kind of smile.  "It's from Israel", she said proudly.  I was going to say "big deal, mine is from an even holier place: Eichler's!", but I thought better of it. Hers was a simple red string.  Mine is a little fancier, it has a Chamsa, a Sephardic Jewish good luck thingy dangling from it.  But it didn't matter.  I think I could have strode in there like a triathlete and I would have gotten the permit.  After all...I was a Lantzman***.

* Not his real name.
** And don't call me Shirley.
*** Lantzman = a fellow countryman or friend; same idea as "Paisan" in Italian. 

It's Showtime!

Way back in August I applied for a Handicapped Parking Permit from both New York City and New York State. At the time I was still totally oxygen dependent 24/7. I got the State permit almost immediately. It allows you to park in those ubiquitous blue parking spots with the wheelchair logo that you see in parking lots in malls, movie theaters, etcetera. It's a handy thing to have to be sure, but it pales in comparison to the city permit. A "Handicapped Person Permit" from NYC is a huge perk for someone who has trouble walking. I guess that means I actually qualify. You can park almost anywhere, except in "No Standing" zones or in front of a hydrant. You laugh at "No Parking" signs and forget about alternate side parking. You sneer at parking meters; you are exempt from feeding them. It's the Holy Grail of parking permits. There's only one eensy-beensy catch: you have to be examined by a New York City doctor. I have an appointment tomorrow. The only problem is that I'm much, much better now than I was in August. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining; I'm thrilled that B"H I'm feeling okay. But in this context, a little wheeze couldn't hurt. So I've decided to pull out all stops: I'll bring my oxygen and my cane, and I'll wear my brace. I've already skipped my Lasix for today, so maybe I'll be a little winded when I get there. It turns out that the office I need to report to is about three blocks from my apartment. If I walk there, I should be legitimately out of breath. I hope all this stuff works. I have this picture in my mind of a bored, underpaid, white-coated bureaucrat grumbling his way through his day, with a big rubber stamp in his hand that says "APPLICATION REJECTED". He'll put the stethoscope that he keeps in the freezer on my chest, listen to my lungs and pronounce them clear. Which they are, B"H. "But I can't breathe!" I'll whisper, perhaps throwing in a cough or a throat clearing for good measure. Maybe if I hack a loogie on his desk...nah, too gross. It reminds me of the time I went to fight a traffic ticket and put my hat and newspaper on the judge's desk. Not smart. I think if the guy could have raised the fine, he would have. So I'll have to stop short of the loogie and take my chances with all my paraphernalia and my incredible acting skills, painstakingly honed by scores of terrible plays in camp. It won't be that different; I had to ad-lib then, and I'll certainly have to ad-lib tomorrow, too. But camp was forty years ago (yikes!). But you know what they say

about riding a bike. Wait a second...what do they say about riding a bike?

My Visit With Bob

Bob (left) and a fat guy.

I finally got to see Bob! I had trekked up to Columbia Presbyterian once before, only to discover that he was off that day. And when I say trekked, I mean trekked! I really loathe driving in the city and I loathe trying to park there even more. And I'm waaaaaay to cheap to put the car in a lot. So I shlepped up to Columbia by subway. I think I could have gone up to the Catskills quicker. Remember, too, that climbing stairs is not my favorite thing in the world. My lungs don't much care for it, either. And the subway has lots and lots of stairs. So I made up my mind that if I ever decide to try and see Bob again, I'm gonna make darn sure that he'll be there! So on October 25th, I called Columbia and asked for Bob. Um...that's all I knew, Bob. No last name. The operator was very professional and very courteous, considering she had a moron on the line. "I can't page someone named Bob only, sir", she informed me. Like I didn't already know that. "He's a nurse" I replied, rather sheepishly. "Sir," the exasperated lady said, "I'm sorry, but I need Bob's last name in order to page him." Sheesh! How many nurses named Bob could they possibly have? Then I had a brainstorm. Actually in retrospect, it wasn't much of a storm; it was pretty obvious. Okay...I had a brainshower. I told her he worked in the ICU! Before you could say "Beth Israel Sucks", Bob was on the line! I gotta tell you; it was sooooooo good to hear his voice. If you recall, this man was literally a life-saver while I was in the ICU. He did things for me way above and beyond the call of duty. We decided I would come visit him the next day. I went by subway again (apparently frugality dies hard) but I didn't really mind because I knew he would be there. I had looked online for hours the week before I came to see him to try and find a gift that was appropriate. Nothing. 99% of all "nurse" presents were specifically for women. My last hope was the gift shop in the lobby, and lo and behold, there it was! A very pretty picture frame with "World's Best Nurse" or some such nonsense engraved on it. No women! I took my treasure into the elevator, the doors opened, and there he was. I cannot adequately describe to you how happy I was to see him, and I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual. I know Bob has hundreds of patients under his care in the course of a year, but I felt that he and I had a special bond. He was great with the whole gang: my kids, my siblings, my mom. G-d only knows what he did for them while I was sedated. The man is a tzaddik*. We hugged and reminisced. About falling SATs**. About feeding tubes. Even about enemas. He even remembered my kids' names. He asked if Bonnie (Blimie) had had her baby yet. I tried to convince him that he had saved my life and he had a very sweet "aw, shucks, I was just doing my job" attitude. Then suddenly a bonus appeared: Dr. Natalie Yip was making rounds! The same Dr. Yip I had harassed every day I spent in the ICU, trying to get her to tell me when I could go home. I had done this even when I couldn't speak. Our reunion was more subdued than it was with Bob, and that was as it should be, especially in front of the gaggle of freshly scrubbed young interns she was leading on rounds. She had been pregnant the same time as Blimie, and she had had a little girl, too. Before I left, Bob asked if I would write a letter to his supervisor. When I got home I sent her a glowing report. He deserved it.

*Tzaddik = Literally, it means a righteous man. In this context, however, "saint" comes closer.
**SATs: Refers to the oxygen saturation in one's blood.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Did you know that it's harder for asthmatics to breath when it's cold out? Well, it is. I've known about this for years; Kalman supposedly had asthma as a kid. I say supposedly because the only time it bothered him was when he was playing basketball in the backyard and it was freezing out. I might add parenthetically that the aforementioned basket that we put up in the backyard was way more trouble than it was worth. Kids started showing up on their own to play, whether Kalman was there or not. In fact, they came whether we were home or not. It didn't really bother me that much; after all, what harm could come from a bunch of kids playing in the backyard, right? The biggest problem was my neighbors. Our house was right across the street from a public school, so eventually the group playing included kids from there as well. As long as it was just yeshiva boys, my enlightened neighbors never said a word. As soon as students from PS 99 started showing up, the proverbial excrement hit the proverbial fan. I remember like it was yesterday when a black kid, who had come to play uninvited, used the spigot on my next-door neighbor's house (that she used to water her lawn) to quench his thirst. She went totally ballistic. She enlisted the help of some others on the block and confronted me about what was going on. Prejudice on parade. I thought they were going to tar-and-feather me and ride me out of town on a rail. Of course being the reasonable young man that I was, the more they complained, the more I dug in my heels and refused to do anything. I'd like to think I'd be more receptive to other people's concerns today, but way back then I really was not a very cooperative fellow. Perhaps a lot of my attitude had to do with being stuck in a pretty bad marriage, but that's a pretty lame excuse. I didn't do a thing until the situation got completely out of hand and there were kids playing ball all hours of the day and disturbing me. I put up a sign stating that no one could use the basket without permission. Yeah, right...that'll work. When they just kept coming, I must say I came up with a rather ingenious solution. I took the front grill of one of those big, oscillating fans and fit it on the basket, and secured it with two locks. It fit perfectly. The kids drifted away immediately; it was like spraying Raid. Of course I had to climb up and unlock the darn thing every time Kalman and his friends wanted to play, but considering the basket was only about seven feet high, it wasn't too bad. So getting back to cold weather; Kalman found it harder to breathe cold air, and so do I. I first noticed it the Friday I performed at the Sephardic Nursing Home for the first (and last) time (see "Breathless in January, Part Two", July 30th). It was during an extreme cold snap, and my breathing issues were on their way to landing me in the ICU of Columbia Presbyterian. I shlepped my equipment back and forth in maybe 15 or 18 degree weather. To make matters worse, Babby had come along to shep nachas* from her favorite middle child. She sat in the car with me while I tried, for about five minutes, to catch my breath. Five minutes may not sound like much, but when you're gasping for air, it seems like five hours. So here we are again, on the cusp of winter. There have been some genuinely cold days, and my lungs have responded predictably. Walking any substantial distance has me huffing and puffing, and anything the least bit strenuous (e.g. taking out the garbage) has the same result. In keeping with my new policy of always looking for the silver lining in any given situation, I've decided that my new pulmonary woes have arrived just in time for my appointment with a New York City doctor who will examine me and determine whether or not I'm eligible for a Handicapped Parking Permit. My appointment is this Wednesday, and I intend to post about it soon. Meawhile, I think I'll just stay home a lot and drink Hot Chocolate while watching Judge Judy. Definitely sounds like a plan.

* Shep nachas = very loosely translated, it means to be proud of one's progeny. Or spouse. Or french poodle. Or whatever.

Where Are They Now?

Ever since I updated you on the wherabouts and condition of Chef Boyardee and Uncle Ben in a post, I have been innundated with mail! Also, emails, text messages and faxes. Hoards of people stop me in the street. Everyone wants to know what has happened to their favorite food character. Well, it took some time, but I managed to do some research and I now report faithfully back to you, my loyal readers:

1. Ronald McDonald. As spry as ever, Ronald continues to work ardently for McDonald's. He has the weekends off and usually spends them at the world famous farm of his uncle, Olde.

3. Frito Bandito. The bandito (real name Pedro Gonzales) has long since retired from the food
character business. He operates a covert bus service based in Guadalajara, Mexico, shuttling illegals over the border into Arizona.

4. Mr. Peanut. Unfortunately, Mr. Peanut was the victim of an apparent hate crime several years ago.  He was accosted on the street in his hometown of Boise, Idaho, by a group of young hooligans who cracked his shell and broke his monocle, all the while screaming, "we hate nuts!".  Yes, my friends, that's right: Mr. Peanut was assaulted!  The experience was traumatic to say the least, but the resilient Mr. P. has long since recovered.  The dapper fellow now lives in Greenwich Village with his partner, Mr. Cashew, whom he met several years ago at a soiree' at "Oh, Nuts!", a nut emporium on Avenue J in Brooklyn. Mr. Cashew was never in show business. Mr. P. and Mr. C. own a laundromat on Bleeker Street and seem to be quite happy.

5. Mrs. Butterworth. As sweet as ever, Mrs. Butterworth (incidently, her first name is Evelyn) came out of retirement several years ago and landed a job at Hallmark, writing copy for greeting cards. Anytime you pick up a card and find it to be extremely syrupy, chances are that it's Mrs. B's work!

6. Cap'n Crunch. Captain Ebeneezer Crunch was a hero in during Korean War. He commanded a ship that torpedoed a vital port in North Korea and thereby knocked out the enemy's ability to ship sushi to Brooklyn, which ruined them financially, forcing them to surrender. For his courageous actions he was awarded the Cereal Star, the highest honor bestowed on a food character. He now operates a fishing, the General Mills, out of Sheepshead Bay. They go out for blackfish every morning at 7:00, leaving from slip #7. Why not spend a Sunday afternoon with one of your childhood favorites!

7. The Green Giant. The Giant has been quite lonely of late. Although he has never married, he dated Uma Thurman for a while before the romance fizzled. Apparently Uma is a steak-and-potatoes girl while The Giant ("Jolly" to his friends) is a vegetarian, and this put a tremendous strain on the relationship. Also Uma was not keen on the idea of having green babies. His best friend, however, has always been the Giant from "Jack and the Beanstalk". The two have more in common than just their size. They also share their interest in agriculture. There seems to have been some sort of falling out recently, and the guys have not been in touch of late. Rumor has it that Jack's giant accused Jolly of selling Jack some new magic seeds, and of course he was livid! Jolly has asked his buddy Andre' the Giant to intercede, and perhaps he'll be able to patch things up between the old pals; stay tuned!




8. Betty Crocker.  Betty is a lifelong bachelorette.  She has wanted to marry since she was a teenager but inexplicably has never been able to find that special someone.  It's certainly not for lack of trying; she's dated myriad celebrities, from Sean Connery and Tom Selleck to Ben Stiller and George Clooney, all of whom were intrigued at the prospect of finally meeting the woman behind the ubiqitous "red spoon" logo, but oddly upon meeting her, all of the relationships were short-lived.  Now all her prospective beaus understand why the spoon appears on all the cake mix boxes, rather than good ol' Betty's kisser.

PS  Watch for our future updates on Speedy Alka-Seltzer, Tony the Tiger and the Vlasic Pickle Stork!

Brace Yourself

Remember I told you about my Drop Foot? Or Foot Drop? I never remember which one is correct. Anyway, I never posted about my brace. Leg braces are notoriously uncomfortable. If I were Bambi (left) for example, I'd shoot myself. I've had Drop Foot once before and it cleared up by itself. This time it hasn't. It's better than it was, but it's still there. When I was in Silver Lake, the Physical Therapy department dug up a brace for me. Braces are usually custom made so that they'll fit the patient perfectly. This one was some dusty old thing that was probably made for a dusty old patient who had long since gone to that big gym in the sky. When I tried it on, it cut into my leg. And my foot. And my calf. In fact there were very few places it didn't cut into. Maybe my head. I actually wore it a day or two before I realized that if wearing this monstrosity was the only way I was going to able to walk well again, I'd rather stay home, sit on the couch and eat Dipsy Doodles for the rest of my life. Maybe I could hire a nice woman named Olga to bring me my Dipsy Doodles. And my bedpan. Oops, I forgot about that. Okay, never mind. But it really was ridiculously uncomfortable. After a week or two the Drop Foot improved on its own, so I didn't wear the thing anymore. When I got home, I was pretty much a shut-in at Chayie's house for the first few weeks, so walking wasn't all that important. At the very beginning I used a walker and that helped. Once I got out into the real world, however, my left foot (starring Daniel Day Lewis) would drag slightly, but that was enough for it to catch on the cracks in the sidewalk occasionally. Seeing as how I was quite averse to falling and cracking my head open, I decided it was time to do something. A friend of mine has a nephew who manufactures braces and prostheses, so I went to see him. When I showed him the brace I had from Silver Lake, he found it quite amusing; it was so antiquated, he said, that he wouldn't be caught dead making one like that for a patient. It was made out of hard, white plastic and was quite heavy (see picture on the right). The one he made for me (see above) is made of a carbon-graphite material and is extremely light. Furthermore, the shaft that runs from the top to the foot is twisted. This design is called "energy return", meaning it literally puts a bounce in your step. Ingenious! I wore it out of his office and it felt great. I had been wearing my brown Rockports when I went to the guy's office, and they have a nice, thick, removable insole. The bottom of the brace goes under the insole. The thing is, you can't wear the same shoes every day. It gets embarassing after a while. Also smelly. So after a year or two, I switched to my black Rockports. Their insole is much thinner. Ouch! The brace cut into my sole almost immediately. Nothing worse than something messing with your sole, I always say. Then Shabbos came and I wore my dress Rockports (I like Rockports). Their insole is even thinner. Ouch, ouch! Even worse. I went back to the guy and he made some kind of adjustment and said now they'd be comfortable no matter which Rockports I wore. Uh-huh. In your dreams. So now I've pretty much stopped wearing the darn thing altogether. I figure if I fall and kill myself, my kids can always sue the city over the sidewalk crack that did me in. Or the bracemaker.

Or both. I think I'll end this post with a little ditty...

(with apologies to Sheldon Harnick):

Bracemaker, bracemaker, make me a brace,

Please make it fit, or I'll fall on my face.

Bracemaker, bracemaker, I'm warning you,

You won't want my kids to sue.