A Book of Great Worth by Dave Margoshes Page A

write than the concocted letters, but, though he had felt ambivalent about writing those letters, when they were no longer necessary, he missed them.
    Many of the real letters were considerably more mundane, dealing with disputes with landlords, employers and bureaucrats, like the man who wrote to com plain about the barking of a dog in the night. My father’s replies were instructive (“What is more important, the good will of a neighbour or a few extra minutes of sleep?” he inquired rhetorically), and thus played an important role, as Heshberg frequently reminded him, but they took no imagination or creative powers. To the question from a woman about the proper handling of garbage being put out for collection, for example, he merely telephoned the appropriate clerk at City Hall and quickly had the answer, just as the letter writer her self could have done, except that, perhaps, her command of English was not up to it.
    “You are the reader’s agent,” Heshberg had instructed.
    There were also questions relating to child rearing, education, career choices, immigration, housing and a variety of other issues as well as, always, those of a romantic nature. There was never any telling what the day’s mail would bring, and my father was often hard pressed in producing answers that were both informative and entertaining, which was what his editor expected of him.
    Despite the ordinariness of the majority of the letters the column received, there were always some letters, “gems,” my father called them, that echoed those of his own creation during the first week.
    “Most worthy editor,” one man, who signed himself “Tormented and Torn,” wrote, “I have been unfaithful to my beloved wife. Should I kill myself? Confess all and suffer the consequences? Or keep my own counsel and let God deal with me as He will?”
    My father was delighted. “My dear Tormented, By all means, put thoughts of suicide far from your mind. But at the same time, mend your ways. Being unfaithful once does not give you licence to be unfaithful again,” he replied in a column that quickly became known and was often quoted. “Bad enough the unfaithfulness to your wife. Do not compound the sin by being unfaithful to God.”
    He wrote more, jabbing furiously at the typewriter keys with the index fingers of both hands, but, on consideration, crossed the rest out. He was learning that the best answers were brief. To matter-of-fact questions, factual answers were required, of course. But with questions of the heart, my father was realizing, it was best to be a bit enigmatic.
    •••
    In matters of the heart, my father already had some experience of his own. He had been involved in a love affair or two, and his heart had been broken. He had observed envy and jealousies cause rifts within his own family. He himself had been the victim of betrayal by a friend. He was no Solomon, he knew, but he felt confident and stimulated. And he felt the first stirrings of what soon would become a new novel moving within him.
    •••
    The envelope immediately announced itself as different from most of the others that crossed my father’s desk. For one thing, it was neatly typed – whereas most he re ceived were handwritten, often crudely so, and in a mixture of English and Yiddish – and addressed fully to Yenta Schmegge/The Wisdom of Solomon, The Jewish World and the complete address. Of even more interest was the return address: Prof. M. E. Bell, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, University of Ohio, Columbus, Ohio. Columbus, my father knew, was some one hundred and fifty miles away. He examined the envelope front and back and slit it open with interest.
    The letter was addressed not to “esteemed editor” or “worthy Yenta Schmegge,” but to “My dear Mrs. Schmegge (or is it Miss?).” Now my father really was interested.
    Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Made laine Bell. I’m an assistant professor of anthropology here at the