Very Hungry People

  A Meeting of the Management Committee At The Szold Children's Home. This is excerpted from the book, A Blanket of Many Colors by Sharon Bacher. copyright 2021

We sat ranged around the table.  Next to me was Ron Segal, the chairman of our governing board, and a real rock.  His face was wrinkled with wry humor.  He called me, ‘Delia, Copelia’ and made me laugh.  Ron had been around Szold and its committees and children long enough to appreciate the funny side of life.

Every month, Edith and I met with this squabbling group of local do-gooders to negotiate deals on behalf of our kids and their parents.  Edith always worried in advance, afraid to let the children down by not representing their needs well enough.  Now she pranced daintily around in a miniskirt and high heels, flirting with the board members.  As she was fond of saying, “If you got it, you might as well use it!”

The committee was heavily weighted with men - salesmen, accountants, and lawyers - who had only a dim appreciation of our work.  They still thought social workers were middle-aged ladies who visited the poor doing good deeds, and it irritated them that we expected to be paid for services they would have been happy to give for free!

 Don’t get me wrong: they were the good guys.  Sincere and at times incredibly generous, they would move mountains to get a child something he genuinely needed.  However, they had little day-to-day contact with the children or their parents and knew hardly anything about them. Although their main contact with Szold was via our meetings, it didn’t stop them from making rules and policies that were out of touch with the realities of the residents. 

David Block, an accountant in a smart suit and sober tie, was concerned only about one thing: the “bottom line.”  In a crisp voice, he called for purchasing cuts.  "Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to have to tighten our belts.  Is it really necessary to give the parents dinner at your weekly meetings?  It's all very well that they come and eat with their children," he went on, "but do they really need a free meal?  With all due respect, Mr. Chairman, they should, in my humble opinion, contribute towards our expenses."

 Judith Tanner, who ran the food budget, nodded enthusiastically.  Tapping the figures into her calculator, she rapidly worked out the annual cost of providing the meals.  "Besides," she said in her high-pitched, grating voice, " I’ve heard that the parents aren’t even satisfied with what we serve.  I was told," she simpered, "that Mrs. Shaw actually complains about the fish!  What gall!  Maybe they expect duckling a la orange!"

Everyone laughed.  Mary, who as Matron of the Home, attended the meeting, added: "Absolutely!  The dinners are a disaster.  Tuesday evenings, the Home’s turned upside down.  And the kitchen staff can’t cope with serving so many people; it’s a tremendous amount of extra work!"

 Naomi Judes, a fellow social-worker who served on the committee in a voluntary capacity, frowned: "Their grandiose expectations are certainly annoying.  Perhaps we should rethink the purpose of their visits, Delia."

 A buxom woman named Vera Fluxman, fanned herself with the agenda.  "I hear that some of the parents bring guests for supper.  I’m told that Mrs. Shaw brought her daughter-in-law!” she said in her foghorn voice.  “Is it true?”  She turned to Ron Segal: “Mr. Chairman, for this we’re raising funds from the community?"

 I bristled: it didn’t take much effort to figure out the source of the gossip.

"Excuse me, Vera,” Ron said curtly, “what happens within Szold isn’t open for discussion at this table or anywhere else.  We’re not here to discuss the behavior of the parents or children."

 Vera gaped, but Ron continued.  "Vera, there are professional reasons for serving the parents' dinners.”  He gestured.  “I guess we need some reminding.  Who’ll explain? Edith?”

 Edith cleared her throat.  "I know that giving the parents dinner costs a lot and is a problem for the staff; and I know it isn’t easy having them here every week."  Glancing at me, she went on: "But, there are good reasons for the dinners.  For one thing, they help keep the families bonded.  Living in Szold, there is a risk that the children will tend to grow away from their parents, which is counter to our therapeutic goals.  Our aim is to rehabilitate families.  The sooner a child can go home and resume a normal life, the better.  It’s not good for them to be raised in an institution, not even a good one like Szold.  Parents’ nights contribute to rebuilding families.  Besides, feeding the parents is a way of telling them that we care, not only for their children, but that they’re also important."

"Food has enormous symbolic and emotional value.”  Edith continued in a firmer tone: “You only have to observe how greedy the children are — especially when their folks are there, to realize that eating means far more than taking in food.  We have very hungry clients!  They’re emotionally starved.  If we feed them, we care for them.”  She sighed, “I know, the complaints are dreadful.  But when parents complain about the food, it makes them feel like they’re fighting for their children’s rights.  As if they’re acting like real parents.”

I nodded at her, "Yes,” I said, “most of our parents care very deeply for their children.  It’s not because they’re neglectful or uncaring that their children are here; the problems go far deeper.  But just as every child in Szold, is a disappointed and damaged child, so are his parents.  The whole family is the client, not just the child.  And really,” I added, “is it so terrible if they complain?  Do we really want parents to eat humble pie?  We're far from perfect,”  I smiled, “and frankly, the food isn’t always that good.”

 Edith spoke again.  “When the parents come to dinner, we can observe them with heir children, watch them handling discipline, for instance.  And” she added, "after they've eaten a good meal, they’re much better with one another and with their kids.  Did Delia tell you about the Channukah party they’re organizing?  They’d never have done it a year ago!  There’s been a great improvement in their attitude since we started the parent program.  It would be a real shame to stop it.”

Suddenly Nathan Schwartz, a furniture dealer with an uncanny knack for putting his foot in his mouth, leaned forward and said gruffly: " I heard that some of the boys went to a movie last Friday evening.  Did they?"

Hilda Hotz, an elderly woman, who suffered from psychological deafness, reacted instantly.  "What's he saying?" She turned clumsily to Judith.  "What’s this? The children don't go to shul on Shabbus[1]?"

‘Here goes!’  I thought grimly.  Once they get started on religion, there’s no telling where it’ll end!” 

"I told you so," Hilda Hotz grumbled, breathing heavily.  "Mr. Chairman, I told you that when you’ve got goyim looking after the children, dey can't learn a good attitude to Judaism.  Szold is a Jewish home.  For thirty years, we’ve been bringing the children up to be good Jews.  Here comes de new staff vith 'modern' ideas, and suddenly de old vays aren’t good enough.  When I was chairwoman of this organization, ve had Jewish workers who didn't complain.  The children must learn the Yiddish way.  Dey must go to cheder.  Fartig!"

 "Calm down Hilda,” soothed Ron.  “The children do go to Hebrew school and to synagogue, as you very well know.  Nothing's changed.  We can’t control what they do when they visit their families.  For God’s sake, not all the parents are religious!  We can’t dictate how they should live!"

 "What's he saying?”  Hilda retorted, peering around the table.  "Ven the children go to deir parents, dey can go vere they like?  I don't understand. Somebody should explain dis.   If de parents are no good, vy do ve send de children home?  It's our job to show dem de way!"

 "Hilda,” Naomi said tersely, “the children are only in our care for a limited time.  In the old days, they were orphans!  But now we give them temporary care until their parents get back on their feet.  We give them therapy to help them solve their problems."

 Clutching her throat, Hilda sputtered, “Terapy-shmerapy!”

Nathan looked embarrassed.  "Okay, okay Hilda.  Don't get so excited.  It looks like we gotta move with the times, old girl!"  He rose and walked over to her and gently patted her back.  "Mary, a glass of water for Hilda.  The trouble is,” he mused, “most of the parents are hardly even Jewish."

 "Nathan, you’re out of order.”  Ron snapped: “Szold is a Jewish Home!  Nobody can say that we don't follow orthodox traditions."

Even though it wouldn’t win me brownie points, this was my big chance to question our policy on Shabbat observance!  "Excuse me, Mr. Chairman,” I said, “But I would like to know what the committee expects from the teenagers who remain in the Home over Shabbat."

 Ron saw what was ahead; we'd talked about it umpteen times.  There was an anxious hush as I went on: "It's very difficult to keep them in on Friday evenings.  They resent it, especially when their friends are out having fun."

"My dear social worker," wheezed Hilda, in an agonized voice, "Dere’s a right way and a wrong way.  Ve have a responsibility to de members of de community who provide the funds for dese children.  Who said dey have to see films on Shabbus to have a good time?  Vat's wrong with sitting around talking with friends? “She looked around.  “Did we ever turn avay somebody's friends?  I ask you…"

 "That sounds very nice, Mrs. Hotz,” I said, “but they don't want to be different from kids who get leave on weekends.  I'm not saying we shouldn't encourage them to observe Shabbat.  But the older kids should be allowed to decide how far they want to go with religious practice.  Until what age are you going to force them to go to shul?”

"You may not like it, but what Mr. Schwartz said is true: few children come from religious families.  I also want to teach them their heritage.  But the way we’re doing it …teaches them that Judaism as just one more unfair part of their lives."  My cheeks burned as I gazed at a wall of disapproving faces.

 Nathan Schwartz fidgeted like a naughty child who stirs up arguments and then bolts when the going gets tough.  For him, it wasn't a matter of what was good for the children, but with whom he should align himself.  Usually, he sided with Hilda.  To back down on the religious question would mean joining the professional staff and Ron against her.

"All right, all right, Hilda,” he muttered.  “Leave it alone.  The children should go to shul and I'm sure the staff will handle it.”  He glanced at his watch, “Goodness sakes, look at the time!  Mary, where’s the tea?  Did I see my favorite apple tart on the trolley?  Mr. Chairman,” he grinned, snapping his fingers brightly, “I propose a refreshment break.”

So they were going to sweep the issue back under the carpet!  I was torn between pushing for a resolution and succumbing to the pressure to let it go.  I wouldn’t win.  The committee wasn’t ready to change their expectations publicly.  At the most, it was willing to turn a blind eye.

After the meeting was over, I cornered Ron and said that I wanted to talk about sending Robbie to a private “cram” college. 

“Sorry Dee, we’re outta time.” He laughed.  “You cruel, cruel woman!  I thought Hilda would have an apoplexy.”

While I picked at the apple cake, I thought that all Mary had to do to be best-beloved was to feed the committee members with cakes and cookies.  Whatever the members liked about her, had nothing to do with running a good home for children!

  “I can’t stand the way they sit and pontificate.  They’re so damn self-righteous!  They don’t have to take the flak from the kids, like we do!  I’d like Nathan bloody Schwartz to come here on a Friday evening and explain his position to the kids when his son goes to the same parties they want to go to!”

Ron shrugged, “It’s got nothing to do with what’s right or just, Delia!” he said, “It’s about power.  Hilda and Co. have a mission.  This is their life's work.”  He smiled thinly.  “Lady, I’m on your side.  But you’re asking for a major change in their way of thinking.”  He waved at Mary, “You’ve done it again, Mariela!  Is this apple tart good or is it great?”  He took me by my arm and steered me into my office.  “Strategy, my dear,” he said.  “You can’t barge in to a meeting and face them with their own hypocrisy.  You’ve got to lobby ... negotiate ... deal.  Get them behind you before they ever come anywhere near the meeting.  You’re never gonna get Nathan to oppose Hilda; he doesn’t have an independent bone in his body!” 

He thought for a moment.  “The same goes for getting the committee to allocate money for Robbie to go to a private college.  Do me a favor, let’s talk about it first.  I’ll come over and we’ll work out precisely how to present the request.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know how we’re gonna swing this.  Robbie hasn’t exactly endeared himself to the committee.”  He rubbed his brow, “Oops Delia, I almost forgot.  Somebody told me they saw Ann Stein waltzing around Seapoint at eleven in the evening —by herself, dressed in a mini and heels, and wearing heavy makeup!  Do you know anything about it?” 

I shuddered.  “No, but I’ll make it my business to find out.  I’ll speak to Sandra at Jewish Welfare and get her to visit the Steins.”

Just outside the door, I heard Edith telling Hilda Hotz about her own daughter Caroline.  Friends again, the old lady tut-tutted when she heard that the child was already two.  “You must bring her one afternoon ven ve have a meeting of de catering committee.  I made her a cardigan and she should have it before she grows too big for it!”  At her most charming, Edith circulated, making an effort to say a good word to each person.  We had to keep our committee feeling good: they also needed feeding!

*                    *                    *                    *                    *

  As I left, a fourteen-year-old Louise accosted me in the hallway.  She was dressed in shortie-pajamas without a robe.  "Delia, I'm not trying to make trouble for Tammy, but I can't sleep in my room," she smirked.  "Tammy and Robbie are in bed together!"

 "Louise," I said, rubbing my fatigued eyes, "it's been a rough evening.  All I want is to go home.  You’re not just making this up, are you?"  It wouldn't have been the first time.

"I'm telling the truth.  They're in bed together in my room!" 

I stared at her skeptically.

"Okay, if you're not interested, I don't care. But it's not fair.  I can't sleep."  She stamped her foot.  "I told Tammy I’d tell.  I don't want to share with her anymore; she’s always bringing boys in.  I won’t sleep with that fuckin' whore!"

 "Okay,” I sighed, “let's go see.”  I asked Mike, who was on duty, to accompany me, and we followed Louise to her room.

"Promise you'll get her out.  Promise!"  Louise skipped ahead, her baby-doll shortie-pajama top flapping up and revealing too much flesh.  "She'll kill me for telling.”  Louise whined, “She'll hit me, I know she will!  I'm not gonna stay in the room with her!"

 Louise opened the door of the room.  Warily, I switched on the light.  Tammy lay on her bed, alone.  She squinted.  "What's wrong?" she murmured.  "What do you want?  I'm sleeping.  Go away." 

Mike and I turned to Louise. 

"He was here!  He was!" she screamed.

"Shush, you don't have to wake up everybody," I said.  "Louise, this is serious.  You can't accuse someone if it's not true.  Tammy, Louise says Robbie was in bed with you."

"You fuckin' liar!" shouted Tammy, instantly alert.  "I've been asleep all the time.”  She pointed at Louise.  “You trouble-making piece of vomit.  Delia, see how impossible it is to live with her.  She just wants to get me into trouble.  You pig!"

 I was drained.  It was almost eleven and I wanted to go home.  Hal would be waiting up for me.  I turned to Mike.  "You can take over now, can’t you?" 

Louise protested.

"Louise,” I said fiercely, "go to bed.  And when you leave your room, put your robe on!”

In the staff room, the caregivers deluged me with questions about the committee meeting.  I sat by myself, succumbed to another cup of coffee, and chatted for a while.

 On my way out, I thought I’d check on Robbie.  I tiptoed past his room.  His door was slightly ajar; the passage light shed a glow on his bed.  It was empty.

I walked back, passing the rooms of the sleeping children, and came to a halt.  Giggles and whispers emanated from Tammy’s room. I pushed open the door.

Tammy and Robbie were thrashing about on her bed.

The volunteer committee of a Children's Home is comprised of well-meaning individuals who wish to contribute to their community.  But their involvement is not without complications.  As you can see from this story, they view things from a different perspective than the professional staff, and since they hold the purse strings, they have expectations that may not be in the best interests of the children and families.  What do you think about the committee's expectations that the children attend synagogue on Shabbat and abstain from driving?

---

                  [1]Sasabbath