My Friend
Despite popular opinion, my best childhood friend was not Ronald. Though he was a good friend of mine and we did things together, some of which you may have heard about, he was only one of my friends growing up. My best friend when I was young was Jude.
Jude, whose real name was Juda, entered my world in third grade. He arrived in my third-grade class mid-year when his family moved to America from Israel.
Though Jude knew some English, the first language I heard him speak was Hebrew. It occurred when he came into our class for the first time with his mother. Most of the conversation heard was between him and his mother. His mother was basically trying to tell him that he had to stay in the class, or he had to do what she said, or he had to speak English or something of the sort. As I said, Jude did know how to speak some English; in fact, he could speak some words particularly well. Especially in this conversation with his mother. He was perfect at pronouncing the word “NO!”
You could hear a jumble of words spoken in Hebrew to him by his mother, followed by some words in Hebrew and a very loud pronounce “NO!” This continued back and forth for a few minutes until Mrs. Reggel, our third-grade teacher, must have said something, his mom left, and Jude reluctantly found a seat in the classroom.
As the days went on, Jude and I became friends. Since he lived a couple of blocks from my house, we played often. Even though he wasn’t in my class after 4th grade, we continued to do things together outside of school. It helped that his apartment building was right over the garage court where we used to play stickball.
I don’t believe our parents ever got together, but he and I frequented each other’s houses. I don’t think he ever had a meal at our house, but I certainly ate at his house several times. His mom always seemed to have a pot of homemade stuffed cabbage that I loved to eat.
After high school, when we graduated, we drifted apart. I was asked to be an usher for his wedding. It was my first time having to rent and wear a tuxedo. We rarely got in touch with each other following college. He lived in Westchester and became a postal worker, and I moved out to Long Island to pursue my teaching career.
About 15 years ago, I received a phone call, and the person on the other end of the phone asked if they were speaking to “Harvey Heilbrun from Waldo Avenue.” I immediately recognized his voice, even after 50+ years. We shared some memories about our youth and families and talked about Stony Brook University, where I had gone to school, and his daughter was applying. That was the last I heard from him.
As friends come and friends go, Jude was definitely a memorable one.
