Whenever elections buzz, I recall my father’s 1944 Election Day adventure, when FDR ran for his fourth term.

Spurred on by a Polish autocracy that restricted the Jew’s opportunity, limited his rights and threatened his life, my father left Partsevah, Poland, and knew to appreciate democracy when he reached the U.S. His framed citizenship papers occupied a place of honor in the room where he studied Talmud.

A self-made man who established a respected business on New York’s East Broadway, my father worked long hours, with only one exception: He came home early on the first Tuesday in November. Voting to him was a sacred act, requiring careful preparation. He changed to the clothing my mother laid out - clean garments, a snow-white shirt with gold cufflinks, the holiday suit he wore to synagogue and his best tie.

We lived in a two-family house; my grandparents occupied the ground level. On Election Day, grandfather would shine my father's dress shoes to a high gloss, brushing my father's hat, and his own Homburg. My mother and her parents also dressed up for the two-block expedition to the polls. I ran ahead to P.S. 209 to open the side door, full of my own importance.

A police officer, his shield glittering with authority, stood next to the flag and watched the voters file in. My English teacher, thin Mrs. Cunningham noticed me and smiled. "This is the little girl who wrote the poem about the flag, Pat," she told the officer, pointing to my poem displayed on the wall.

He smiled, but then noticed my father preparing to sign the ledger. "Gentleman," he said, "you'll have to remove your hat."

My father looked at him in bewilderment. "Why should I remove my hat?" he asked.

"It's a sign of respect to the flag," the officer stated.
Father's face flushed. His eyes grew bright behind his thick glasses. He was a reticent man, but his voice was firm, with conviction. "As a Jew, I wear my hat to show respect to G-d," he said in his accented English.

Grandmother trembled; uniforms frightened her. My mother turned to the officer with her flawless English. "My husband is a religious man. He traveled over a year from Europe to reach this country and never once did he break the laws of our religion."

"I'm not asking him to eat pork,” said the officer. “I just asked him to remove his hat. He's American." Father smiled as he sometimes did when he played chess with an opponent who just made a crucial but unwise move.

"It is because I am an American that I do not have to take off my hat," he explained. "This is a free country. The flag tells us that we are free," he continued. "In a free country a Jew can wear his hat. That shows respect to the flag of freedom. And now I sign the book. And now I vote."

The officer stared at him, and then, ruefully, smiled, as did Mrs. Cunningham.

My mother, grandmother and grandfather stepped forward to sign the registry, their faces bright with pride, and then disappeared into the voting booths. I heard the click of the levers. I watched my father exit and hold his hand out to the officer, who shook it vigorously.

Whenever I wait in line to vote, I think of my father, the policeman and Mrs. Cunningham. I don’t dress up, but never do I miss an election. My father's legacy remains intact.

Courtesy of Hadassah Magazine