Every day he walked along famed Telegraph Avenue to the campus, settling himself on a bench located a few yards inside the Sather Gate entry. There, with a newspaper or book in hand, he would read, enjoy the weather, and chat with the students. 

As the oldest child in a large, poor family in Poland, Papa’s own formal schooling had ended with his Bar Mitzvah when he was 13. At age 21, with the collusion of his mother, he escaped army service because, he said, "Being a soldier in the Czar’s army was not a good thing for a nice Jewish boy." Hiding by day and walking at night, he made his way to France where he joined a group of fellow escapees working in a factory owned by another Jewish refugee. 

Then, with a loan of $10.00 from a friend, he became part of the early 1900s mass immigration to the Goldeneh Medina (the Golden State) where he worked in a sweatshop on the Lower East Side — and where he met his future bride, my mother. It did not take long before they accepted the $25.00 offered by HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) to those who would leave the crowded Lower East Side, and they moved to San Francisco. 

Learning was Papa’s passion. He spoke five languages and read everything he could get his hands on, including the dictionary, the encyclopedia, the Yiddish newspaper, and always, always books. He and my mother impressed on my three brothers and me the love of learning and the need for education. In the early 1920s the family moved to Berkeley, "to be in walking distance of the college when the ‘kinder’ are ready." (All four of us became college graduates). 

From 1925 until 1948 my parents owned a "Mom and Pop" grocery store on the north side of the Berkeley campus. I still remember how annoyed my mother would be when the store  was full of waiting customers and Papa would be off in a corner discussing history or arguing politics with a professor. 

During the depression, when more than one professor became unemployed, their grocery "charge accounts" were carried on the books until financial conditions improved. The store was open seven days a week, 363 days a year, closing only on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

How Papa loved the Cal students! He felt invigorated by their enthusiasm, inspired by their eagerness to learn, and warmed by their compassion toward him. He envied their youth and the opportunities ahead of them. Papa had great faith in the younger generation. 

His faith was not misplaced. Once, Papa was approached while enjoying the sunshine on "his" bench, by a gentleman identifying himself as a "delivery boy" who had worked in the folks’ store in the 1940s, driving the truck and delivering groceries that customers had ordered by telephone. 

He said, "You may not remember me, Mr. Rubin, but I have never forgotten you. You gave me a job when I desperately needed one, and you paid me 60 cents an hour when the accepted ‘Fair Bear’ wage in those days was 40 cents an hour. I’m now the vice president of an international company and I travel all over the world, but I doubt that I would have gotten where I am without your kindness and your encouragement to stay in school." 

When Papa retired in 1948 there was no provision for the self-employed under Social Security. Later, when he became eligible under a category providing for very old people who had never had a chance to work under the Social Security system, he refused to apply — as a matter of principle. 

It took some persuasion by a family member before he finally signed the necessary papers (although other family members still question whether Papa knew what he was signing). In due course a check for $9,000 arrived — for all the back payments he had earlier refused. He still balked at keeping the money so he gave it away, to his beloved Boys Town of Israel. He said,"It’s the best investment I can make. It is the young, not the old, who build a country, and we must help them." 

Shortly after my parents retired they made plans to visit Israel. "We never thought we would live to see the day when Israel became a state," they happily exclaimed over and over, and they were among the early tourists to make that wonderful journey. 

Unfortunately, during the first week of their trip, following a visit to relatives (Holocaust survivors who were living in the refugee tent city of Tel Aviv where conditions were very primitive), Papa became ill with amoebic dysentery. It was only after his return home that I learned about his serious illness and that his life had been saved by heroic care at the newly re-opened Hadassah Hospital. 

After Mama’s death, Papa returned to Israel in 1963, "To see all the things I missed last time." And at the age of 100 in 1981, in a last trip that included his children and grandchildren, he was honored by Jerusalem’s Mayor Teddy Kollek, interviewed on television, and feted as the oldest tourist ever to visit the country. 

His picture appeared on the front pages of The Jerusalem Post and The Los Angeles Times, the latter with a headline reading, "For his 100th birthday they gave him Jerusalem." On his return home the student newspaper, The Daily Cal, printed a picture and story about him on the front page. When the inquiring reporter asked the secret of his long life Papa pointed a hand to the sky and said, "He’s lost my computer card." 

Papa didn’t attend synagogue services very often, and as a child I asked my mother about that. She said, "He’s seen too many pogroms," and said no more. But in my eyes he was the very model of what a Jew should be. He understood compassion and tzedakah and morality and he knew Torah, and all those were a part of his everyday life. 

Papa lived to be 102 years old. I remember him and I smile. 

Martha Loeffler is a retired social worker living in Modesto, California, where she is the author of three books (two dealing with Jewish subjects), the first published when she was 79. She writes a column for her local newspaper and also gives talks to high school students and organizations about the Holocaust. She is 84.You can reach Martha online at Martwrite@ aol.com. Papa with the former mayor of Jerusalem, Teddy Kollek.  

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