Hebrew Poet Met in Rivera’s Library Surprises New Yorker

Since Diego Rivera, the great fresco painter and citizen unusual of Mexico has claimed that Jewish blood flows in his veins, many of our people have been making the artist’s native land a vacation resort. Of course, some of the desire to see Mexico may have been inspired by the propaganda of the travel bureaus, but the fact remains that many Jews are visiting the land that once had Madero, a part-Jew as its president. Some of the incidents experienced there come as a complete surprise to the New York Jews who find themselves in that pleasant country.

A friend of mine recently spent a month in Mexico City and came back amazed because he had found some kindred spirits. One afternoon he went to pay a call upon Rivera. Fortified with the proper credentials he was ushered into the artist’s library. While he was sitting there, a dark, slim, olive-complexioned Castilian – looking gentleman entered. He nodded courteously to our friend and addressed him in Spanish but, alas, the New Yorker was unable to answer. The dark gentleman then tried French but with no more of a response. The New Yorker fidgeted and timidly attempted a few words in German. The response was instant. “Ah a Jew,” said the Castilian in Yiddish and immediately began to converse in the mother tongue. In his “patois” the New Yorker was very much at home and learned that the Castilian was a Spanish Jew who not only spoke Yiddish but also Hebrew and who was, in fact, at that moment waiting to present Rivera with a copy of his latest book of poems, written in Hebrew.

What impressed our friend even more forcibly was a scene he witnessed in the interior of Mexico. He was on a bus trip and the car had rolled into a small village to take aboard a fine-looking Spanish lady who had been escorted to the bus by a party of friends. They talked with animation, but in Spanish. Just as the bus was about to pull out, a gentleman, evidently the lady’s husband, wishing to say something for her ears alone, talked to her and was answered in Yiddish. Our inquisitive friend queried the lady and found out that she was a Jewess who had been brought up in this little Mexican town.

On his way back to the United States, our New Yorker’s ship stopped at Havana. Naturally, he had to stop off and get some cigars at one of the Cuban cigar shops, famous the world over. He picked out one of the more imposing stores and entered. The clerk was typical of his country. He showed the New Yorker, who was accompanied by a Jewish ship-board mate, various brands of cigars. The New Yorker turned to his friend for advice and in Yiddish asked a few questions. The clerk’s face lit up and he joined in the conversation, saying that as long as they were fellow Jews he would sell them the “real” stuff. Flattered, the New Yorker bought twice as many cigars as he had planned. When he returned to the ship he was informed by one of the officers that the cigars were of a very inferior quality.

As you know, when a group of people gets together and decides to tell stories it is usually difficult to get the spinners started but once the ice is broken, stories come easily. I am having that trouble at this instant. The Mexican stories remind me of another I heard. Only this time the locality is north, way up north in Nome, Alaska, It is about Aben Kandel, the Jewish author.

It seems that some years back when he couldn’t decide whether he would be a great lawyer or a greater author, he got himself a job with a geographical survey party which was mapping Alaska. He had been out in the timber for some weeks and came into Nome feeling very much the big, tough prospector. He was dressed in the rough clothes of the North. Sauntering into a restaurant, he sat down and ordered. A few moments later an old man walked into the restaurant, took one look around and walked over to Kandel’s table. Sitting down he gazed at Kandel and saw that he was eating clam chowder. He sniffed a few times and then in Yiddish said, “A fine thing for a Jewish boy to be eating, and on a Friday night.”