Hyman Bobrof
Hyman Bobrof was my grandfather’s name. He was so important to me that when I started writing many years ago, I used the name “Vailia Bobrof” to honor him. I wrote about his sensitivity and strength in a previous Reflection. Today I will write about his death.
My beloved grandfather committed suicide.
I have to travel far back in time to explain his suicide. Back to when he escaped from Russia and fled to America. That was the era of the Czars and the decrees that caused terror in the hearts of Russian Jews. One of the Czar’s decrees was that Jewish families were only permitted to keep one son. All the other male children were to be taken away to the Russian army where they were cruelly treated. I don’t recall at what age they became eligible, but it was during their young teens. What eventually happened was that many boys, upon reaching that age, would try to escape the country by running away through forests and bitter cold temperatures. Hyman, like so many others, adopted a different last name. The boys did that to protect their families. In the event that they were captured, severe penalties would befall both the boys and their families. Hyman took the name of the city in which he lived. Sadly to this day we do not really know our actual family name.
After arriving in America, Hyman eventually settled in Canton, Ohio. I’m unsure why he decided to settle there. Perhaps a Russian friend or a family member persuaded him. As a small and wiry man he earned money as a wrestler and eventually was able to open a Saloon. (That is another story that I will write about soon).
It was in Canton that he married and with his wife, Anna, raised four sons and two daughters. He alone brought to the United States his mother and father, his sisters and their husbands, his brother and several cousins. A beautiful safe and close family structure was formed around him.
In time Hyman became a peddler to support his family. He owned a truck that he drove to the Steubenville Pottery Company in Steubenville, Ohio. He would purchase seconds in dinner and glassware there and would then travel throughout the countryside peddling his wares. Indications are that he did well. I’m not certain why he moved to Los Angeles in 1928. My immediate family followed him in 1929, shortly after the Wall Street crash.
In Los Angeles, Hyman bought used cable and resold it. The bottom dropped out of the industry following the stock market crash. Used cable was in plentiful supply, but there was no place to sell it. As a result, my grandfather lost the ability to support his family. He was in his early fifties and uneducated. He had no skills that could offer him work. Even with training, jobs were not readily available. The once strong, independent and very proud head of his household found himself being supported by the income earned by my mother and father. Without anyone realizing it, he started to become depressed. He became another helpless product of the Great Depression.
Then an opportunity appeared for Hyman to be productive again. I wasn’t told the nature of the opportunity. That was a subject for discussion among the older members of the family. However, my mother explained to me that he needed to go to Canton, Ohio to ask his family if they would be willing to loan him some money to get started on this new venture. He left and I waited anxiously for his return.
He returned from Canton a totally broken man. No one in Canton remembered that without him they might still be in Russia. No one seemed to care enough to support him. The fact may be that they were truly unable to offer him anything, but his dream was gone and his severe depression became more pronounced. Did anyone recognize it? I don’t think so. But I do recall Hyman’s two older sons arriving home and the hysteria that followed while they tried to open the garage door to rescue him from a carbon monoxide suicide attempt. That happened shortly after his return from Ohio.
Once again we all lived together and once again I sat close to my best friend and dear love, my Grandfather. One morning I awoke to find him missing. That was unusual. He was always there the minute I opened my eyes. I suddenly had a terrifying thought. I don’t understand now why I knew to run into his bedroom to look for the gun he kept hidden under his bed. I didn’t even think about what that might mean, but when I reached for the box, it was empty. I hurried outside and looked up at the roof. There stood a motionless white dove. It just stood and remained there until the phone call. My Uncle Marvin answered the phone and began to utter, “Oh! No, Oh! God No,” and I screamed, “Papa is dead.”
We didn’t know that he had bought a burial plot in the orthodox cemetery. Apparently he had taken a bus to the cemetery that morning with his gun in his pocket. He went to the plot he had purchased and shot himself. I know how he must have felt. We were really that close. He believed that it would make life easier for his family if he killed himself at the cemetery. Unfortunately, however, Jewish law forbids a suicide victim from being buried on holy cemetery ground. Following a long struggle, his daughter, Myrtle, was finally able to have him laid to rest as he desired.
Some members of the family thought Hyman committed suicide because he feared he would become a burden to the family if he became ill. He had developed Bell’s palsy some years earlier and he thought it might be returning. The palsy left him with a tearing right eye. I recall that shortly before his death, Hyman said that he had been sitting in the car and felt the side of his face get stiff. It wasn’t stiff by the time he returned home however. As I look back on it now, I realize that the palsy might have contributed to his depression. At least it sounded better to say that he committed suicide because of his illness. But what really happened is that Hyman Bobrof died due to a sense of hopelessness and a deepening depression. His was a terrible loss.
Our whole world changed at Hyman’s death. For me it could again be the same.
My beloved grandfather committed suicide.
I have to travel far back in time to explain his suicide. Back to when he escaped from Russia and fled to America. That was the era of the Czars and the decrees that caused terror in the hearts of Russian Jews. One of the Czar’s decrees was that Jewish families were only permitted to keep one son. All the other male children were to be taken away to the Russian army where they were cruelly treated. I don’t recall at what age they became eligible, but it was during their young teens. What eventually happened was that many boys, upon reaching that age, would try to escape the country by running away through forests and bitter cold temperatures. Hyman, like so many others, adopted a different last name. The boys did that to protect their families. In the event that they were captured, severe penalties would befall both the boys and their families. Hyman took the name of the city in which he lived. Sadly to this day we do not really know our actual family name.
After arriving in America, Hyman eventually settled in Canton, Ohio. I’m unsure why he decided to settle there. Perhaps a Russian friend or a family member persuaded him. As a small and wiry man he earned money as a wrestler and eventually was able to open a Saloon. (That is another story that I will write about soon).
It was in Canton that he married and with his wife, Anna, raised four sons and two daughters. He alone brought to the United States his mother and father, his sisters and their husbands, his brother and several cousins. A beautiful safe and close family structure was formed around him.
In time Hyman became a peddler to support his family. He owned a truck that he drove to the Steubenville Pottery Company in Steubenville, Ohio. He would purchase seconds in dinner and glassware there and would then travel throughout the countryside peddling his wares. Indications are that he did well. I’m not certain why he moved to Los Angeles in 1928. My immediate family followed him in 1929, shortly after the Wall Street crash.
In Los Angeles, Hyman bought used cable and resold it. The bottom dropped out of the industry following the stock market crash. Used cable was in plentiful supply, but there was no place to sell it. As a result, my grandfather lost the ability to support his family. He was in his early fifties and uneducated. He had no skills that could offer him work. Even with training, jobs were not readily available. The once strong, independent and very proud head of his household found himself being supported by the income earned by my mother and father. Without anyone realizing it, he started to become depressed. He became another helpless product of the Great Depression.
Then an opportunity appeared for Hyman to be productive again. I wasn’t told the nature of the opportunity. That was a subject for discussion among the older members of the family. However, my mother explained to me that he needed to go to Canton, Ohio to ask his family if they would be willing to loan him some money to get started on this new venture. He left and I waited anxiously for his return.
He returned from Canton a totally broken man. No one in Canton remembered that without him they might still be in Russia. No one seemed to care enough to support him. The fact may be that they were truly unable to offer him anything, but his dream was gone and his severe depression became more pronounced. Did anyone recognize it? I don’t think so. But I do recall Hyman’s two older sons arriving home and the hysteria that followed while they tried to open the garage door to rescue him from a carbon monoxide suicide attempt. That happened shortly after his return from Ohio.
Once again we all lived together and once again I sat close to my best friend and dear love, my Grandfather. One morning I awoke to find him missing. That was unusual. He was always there the minute I opened my eyes. I suddenly had a terrifying thought. I don’t understand now why I knew to run into his bedroom to look for the gun he kept hidden under his bed. I didn’t even think about what that might mean, but when I reached for the box, it was empty. I hurried outside and looked up at the roof. There stood a motionless white dove. It just stood and remained there until the phone call. My Uncle Marvin answered the phone and began to utter, “Oh! No, Oh! God No,” and I screamed, “Papa is dead.”
We didn’t know that he had bought a burial plot in the orthodox cemetery. Apparently he had taken a bus to the cemetery that morning with his gun in his pocket. He went to the plot he had purchased and shot himself. I know how he must have felt. We were really that close. He believed that it would make life easier for his family if he killed himself at the cemetery. Unfortunately, however, Jewish law forbids a suicide victim from being buried on holy cemetery ground. Following a long struggle, his daughter, Myrtle, was finally able to have him laid to rest as he desired.
Some members of the family thought Hyman committed suicide because he feared he would become a burden to the family if he became ill. He had developed Bell’s palsy some years earlier and he thought it might be returning. The palsy left him with a tearing right eye. I recall that shortly before his death, Hyman said that he had been sitting in the car and felt the side of his face get stiff. It wasn’t stiff by the time he returned home however. As I look back on it now, I realize that the palsy might have contributed to his depression. At least it sounded better to say that he committed suicide because of his illness. But what really happened is that Hyman Bobrof died due to a sense of hopelessness and a deepening depression. His was a terrible loss.
Our whole world changed at Hyman’s death. For me it could again be the same.
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