My dad and I drove up to Rogers Park when I was in my mid twenties. He was picking up something from one of his railroad colleagues. When we arrived at the home I noticed several Jewish pieces displayed throughout the living room. My dad reintroduced me to his dear friend. A man that I have met a dozen times since I was a toddler. We walked back into the kitchen to find two other gentleman sitting at the cramped table and a lady serving them passionately. She welcomed my dad with a huge hug and kiss and turned to me. “I haven’t seen this handsome replica of Donald Shepley since he was in his Buster Brown's.” We all sat around the kitchen table that was stacked with pastries, bagels, bialys, smears, lox and breads. Five big men sitting in a cramped kitchen at a table that could feed fifteen big men. This was one of the first times as an adult that I sat with these old railroad guys. They made fun of each other, they told stories, they ate and they ate and they laughed. “Donald… remind me that I have soup for you to bring home.” The lady of the house pointed at a container that was a bit smaller than a fifty five gallon drum. She had a big smile on her face, “Do you think that will be enough Hun?” That little kitchen was like heaven! I was watching my dad in his element while getting fed a huge meal. One of the gentlemen reached over me to grab a plate of onions and exposed his forearm. Etched on his arm was a series of faded numbers. The numbers were sloppily tattooed on his weather beaten skin. My dad must have realized what I just saw and immediately asked me to pass the chive cream cheese. I handed it to him…. he was giving me that piercing stare to move along. After an hour and a half in the kitchen, we spent another two hours in the study. We looked at old railroad books, drawings of steam locomotives and schedules of trains that no longer existed. As the morning turned into afternoon we had to sit back down in the cramped kitchen. Lunch included deli sandwiches and more dessert. My dad and I finally got back into his Cadillac around 3:30 that afternoon. I carefully put the huge container of “Jewish Penicillin” in the backseat. My dad drove me back to my apartment in Oak Park. We listened to the old radio shows on WNIB as the Oldman mastered the Chicago Grid. The Oldman turned the radio off and told me the tattoo on his older colleagues arm was a gift from the fucking nazis. “We don’t talk about that son.” What was once a great day turned into a solemn moment. The rest of the ride home was quiet. When I got out of the car in front of my building my dad yelled, “Make sure you get your big ass over to the house tomorrow. I’ll need your help putting a dent in Mim’s chicken soup!” We never again talked about that tattoo. It haunts me to this day how a man had to live with that mark for the rest of his life. ….and it is because of that Saturday up on the northside of Chicago that I will always support Israel.
