The 21^st Century Magazine, at South Florida's www.miami-dade-online.com.

A tall, elderly, neatly dressed black man walked into the store which was called "Ben's Loan and Mercantile" and asked for "Mr. Yatkeman". We employees were startled. Every one on the street called the owner "Mr. Ben", his surname was not known by many and it was never given to customers. My father, one of the employees, called to Mr. Ben, who was behind the loan cage working on some papers.

Ben was a short, stocky man in his late sixties, always well dressed and well groomed. He had come to America as a young man and still spoke in a thick Russian-Jewish accent. He looked up and studied the visitor with a "Do I know you?" look. There was no recognition. Rather abruptly he asked the man his business. The black man answered in Yiddish, "I came to see you. Mr. Yatkeman face at first showed confusion then disbelief. He came out from behind the cage and stood near the closest jewelry counter, the visitor joined him. Still in disbelief, Mr Ben tested the stranger by speaking in Yiddish. The reply, in Yiddish, delighted Mr. Ben. He had not had a conversation in the language of his youth for some time. His wife had recently died and his cronies from "The Avenue", as this part of the "Colored" business district was called, dead or retired.

At the time this all occurred, I was fifteen and a part time stock boy at the store. I was startled not only by the man asking for Mr. Yatkeman, but I had been around colored people all my life and had never heard one of them speak Yiddish, a language in which I am not fluent. (However, I understand quite a bit and ever then could pick up the gist of a conversation.)

After a few pleasantries the visitor identified himself as a former employee in a kosher poultry store which had been located very close to Mr. Yatkeman's first retail store. That neighborhood had, by 1942, disappeared. First due to ethnic migrations and later to civic improvement.

The figured out that about forty years prior to this meeting they had both worked on the same street. They had probably never spoken to each other. Obviously the visitor knew who Mr. Yatkeman was but Mr. Yatkeman did not remember him, although he remembered the poultry store and its owner. The stores had been in an immigrant Jewish neighborhood where Yiddish was the first language of the street and of most businesses. In that small ethnic world the Black Man had learned the language. He was proud of his knowledge. It was apparent that he thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to converse with someone fluent in Yiddish. He asked about other business owners and employees from the old neighborhood. For at least fifteen minutes, like former casual acquaintances meeting at a class reunion, with nothing in common except their time in school they recalled past friends, characters and events.

"Where have you been all this time and what brought you here?" Mr. Yatkeman asked. The man explained that he had seen no future in working in a chicken store and had moved "up north" where he became very successful. He was now retired and had felt the urge to come back and see what had become of his hometown and old friends. First he had gone back to the area where he had lived, but almost everyone from his old neighborhood was gone. He then got the idea of looking up some store owners from the old business district and maybe speaking a little Yiddish. Mr. Yarkeman was the only one he had found.

They were polite to one another, maybe Mr. Yatkeman was a little cool. Then, just like that, it happened, the event that broke the ice arid makes this whole morning stick in my memory. With absolutely no provocation the Black Man told a very old, very dirty, Yiddish joke.

Ben's face showed first bewilderment, then recognition, then absolute joy. "Sumnuv a bitch" he cried, "Its thirty years since I heard that one, thirty years. Tell me another". And they began swapping dirty and off color stories, all in Yiddish, until tears were running down their cheeks, partly from laughter and partly from nostalgia. Mr. Yatkeman occasionally straightening up and slapping the counter they were by now leaning against and giving out a Sumnuv a bitch, thirty years.

It was quite a show for a sensitive teenager to watch. Here were these two old men, strangers until a few minutes before, separated by race, religion, and the social pressures of the times, united for this brief period by their memory of common past places, people and events, but most of all by their love of the Yiddish language and a good joke well told.

This had been a quiet business morning and almost an hour passed with no interruptions from the employees or from customers. When they had recalled all that they could of old times, old friends arid old jokes Mr. Yatkeman put his hand on the man's shoulder and together they walked through the door to the street, said "Shalom" as they shook hands and parted. Ben, a smile on his face, lingered by the door and watched the man walk away.

I don't know if they ever met again, or if either one was in the long-run better for the experience, but I am. That hour taught me a lesson. If we can break down the artificial barriers between and emphasize our common interests, we can move a little closer to a kinder future.

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