No Kaddish for Weinstein
WOODY ALLEN
~VEINSTEIN LAY UNDER THE COVERS， staring at the ceiling in a depressed
to~por.Outside， sheets of humid air rose from the pavement in stifling
waves. The sound of traffic wa~ deafening at this hour， and in addition
to all this his bed was on fire~xLook at me， he thought. Fifty years
old. Half a century. Next year， I will be fifty-one. Then fifty-two.
Using this same reasoning， he could figure out his age as much as
five years in the future. So little time left， he thought， and so much
to accomplish. For one thing， he wanted to learn to drive a car.
Adelman， his friend who used to play dreidel with him on Rush
Street， had studied driving at the Sorbonne. He could handle a car
beautifully and had already driven many.places by himself. Weinstein
had made a few attempts to steer his father s;Chevy but kept winding
up on the sidewalk.
He had been a precocious child. An intellectual. At twelve， he had
translated the poems of T.S. Eliot into English， after some vandals
had broken into the library and translated them into French. And as
if his high I.Q. did not isolate him enough， he suffered untold
injustices and persecutions because of his religion， mostly from his
parents. True， the old man was a member of the synagogue， and his
mother， too， but they could never accept the fact that their son was
Jewish. How did it happen? his father asked， bewildered. My face
looks Semitic， Weinstein thought every morning as he shaved. He
had been mistaken several times for Robert Redford， but on each
occasion it was by a blind person. Then there was Feinglass， his other
boyhood friend: A Phi Beta Kappa. A labor spy， ratting on the workers.
Then a convert to Marxism. A Communist agitator. Betrayed by the
Party， he went to Hollywood and became the offscreen voice of a
famous cartoon mouse. Ironic.
Weinstein had toyed with the Communists， too. To impress a girl
at Rutgers， he had moved to Moscow and joined the Red Army.
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