My Grandfather Called My Dad “The Little Bastard”
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By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich.
My grandfather, Chiel Flasterstein, never acknowledged my dad as his legitimate son. There was no proof to justify this claim.
My dad was born in 1916, in Janowa, Poland, after my grandfather left the country to find his fortune in America. My grandmother, Minnie (Minucha) discovered she was pregnant after his departure, and wrote to Chiel once she knew his location. Combining his travel time by boat and the slow delivery of mail, Minnie’s letters eventually reached my grandfather long after my dad was born; thus, producing unfounded doubt.
Minnie and Chiel had two sons before he decided to leave his family and undertake the perilous journey to America. They had a profitable farm, but Chiel thought he could do better.
Dreams of becoming a successful businessman took hold of Chiel’s mind. He bought into the stories that promised an affluent lifestyle awaiting those who ventured to America. According to the lore at the time, the country was overflowing with wealth and the streets were said to be paved in gold.
This fantasy lured my grandfather to an unknown land, placing the responsibility for the farm, and now, three young children, squarely on my grandmother’s shoulders. It was a burden beyond comprehension, but one that she met with determination.
As it turned out, Chiel’s dreams never came to fruition. He landed in Pittsburgh, and wound up hustling dry goods for a living. It was a far cry from being a successful owner of a farm, but he was determined. My grandfather worked for 10 years in order to secure passage for his family to sail to America. My great-grandfather even accompanied them on the journey.
My dad finally met his father, when he was 10 years old. From that day on, my dad was treated like an inconvenience due to my grandfather’s relentless doubts about his legal place in the family. These thoughts lingered in my grandfather’s mind until his death. I can’t fathom the depth of the hurt and disappointment my dad endured throughout his life.
From time to time, my dad shared childhood memories about his father. He told me that my grandfather kept a small notebook and pencil in his shirt pocket to keep track of business dealings. Every time my dad asked him for a nickel or dime, my grandfather would record it and expect repayment in a timely fashion. As the mistreatment continued through the years, my dad decided to leave his family’s home. His brother and sister-in-law opened their home to him.
When my dad was in his 20s, he decided that his birth name did not reflect who he wanted to be. Having never liked it, he chose to leave behind the name Benjamin and adopted the more American-sounding Robert Foster. (His friends and his family called him Bob.) His brothers soon followed his lead, changing their surnames to Foster as well.
Shaped by the wounds of childhood, my dad grew into the exact opposite of my grandfather. As a child, whenever I asked my dad for money, he readily handed it over. In fact, he never expected me to return any leftover change after making my purchases. When I offered, he would say, “Keep it.”
My grandfather’s attitude toward my dad had a far-reaching impact, creating a ripple effect that extended to my siblings and me. My sister Gayle, my brother Alan, and I grew up without truly knowing our grandparents. Granted, they only spoke Yiddish, but language shouldn’t have been a barrier from giving an occasional hug or even a kiss.
We were kept at an arm’s length and simply didn’t realize the void they created until much later in our lives. We naturally assumed this was their usual behavior with all of their grandchildren.
But the opposite was occurring right under our unsuspecting eyes. This became abundantly clear a few years ago while at a family dinner. My cousin, Mel, was reminiscing about his Bar Mitzvah and broke out the photo album for a walk down memory lane. When a picture of our grandmother appeared, my cousin spoke about his warm relationship with our grandparents. He then confided that he was very close to our grandmother and they shared a deep and loving connection.
This revelation blew me away. I was mystified and immediately felt that the legacy of “The Little Bastard” had left its mark on us. After listening to these stories, my sister and I asked Mel if we grew up in two different families. My brother chimed in and said, “I didn’t even know those people.”
I recall the slights my mom and dad endured because of our grandfather’s attitude. One was quite pronounced; his two brothers were given money to purchase homes, and my dad received $50. It was a slap in the face. My mother never got over this hurtful act and spoke of it often. My dad, on the other hand, appeared to have compartmentalized the pain and carried on.
In retrospect, my dad was an apt pupil. He mustered through the turmoil and chaos of his own childhood and learned life lessons about family from the disfunction he witnessed and paid them forward. I recall visiting my grandparents on Sunday mornings after going shopping with my dad and bringing groceries to their house. We would visit for a short while and the only interaction I received was a brief glance in my direction.
My dad worked hard for our family and gave beyond his means. He would leave the house before 5 a.m. for work but never skipped a beat to kiss me and my sister goodbye. I always felt that peck on my cheek, even though he thought I was asleep.
And when his eight grandchildren came on the scene, my dad embraced the opportunity to share his warmth and devotion. He never stopped giving and I am proud that all of his grandchildren still talk about him and share their special memories.
My dad passed away in 2001 and left behind strong bonds. Unlike his father, my dad was present and showed up every single day for the family. Miraculously, "The Little Bastard" survived the taunts made by his father and managed to come out on the other side as a man who was respected and loved deeply by his family.
Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelfth grade and had the pleasure of having her three sons grace her classes. In addition, she taught debate, forensics, and Detroit film. Judi has four adult children and nine wonderful and energetic grandchildren. She is married to Jeffrey Markowitz, whom she met in high school. They now spend much of their time running around with their grandkids. The View from Four Foot Two is Judi’s first book.