In the late afternoon of July 29, 1963, I was talking to a retired Jewish postman named Jacob Schissel, in his brownstone house on New York City's Lower East Side. I had reached the point in the interview that dealt with serious matters, and I asked, “Were you ever in a situation where you thought you were in serious danger of being killed? Did that ever happen to you?” Schissel answered “Eh no, at no time” but then added, “Wait a second, let me contradict myself. Yes, once.” I said, “What happened?” and Schissel said, “My brother put a knife in my head.” I said, “How'd that happen?” and Schissel then told me the story.

1. This was just a few days after my father had died

2. and we were sitting shiva.

3. And the reason the fight started,

4. he saw a rat out in the yard

5. – this was out in Coney Island –

6. and he started talk about it.

7. And my mother had just sat down to have a cup of coffee

8. and I told him to cut it out.

9. 'Course kids, y'know, he don't hafta listen to me.

10. So that's when I grabbed his arm

11. and twisted it up behind him.

12. When I let go his arm,

13. there was a knife on the table,

14. he just picked it up

15. and he let me have it.

16. And . . .; I started bleeding – like a pig.

17. And naturally first thing to do, run to the doctor,

18. and the doctor just says, “Just about this much more,”

19. he says, “and you'd a been dead.”

As I was leaving, going down the stairs, I heard Mrs. Schissel say, “That's a clever young man.” I remember being puzzled. I didn't do anything clever, I thought to myself. But something important must have happened on that Monday afternoon.