BECAUSE HE BECAME MY FRIEND AND I WAS OFTEN SEEN SITTING with him on his bench, the young people of Pine Hill began to regard Avrum not as a threat, but as a harmless and interesting town eccentric. They loved him for his playful, humorous stories and they fretted over him during the dark, hypnotic moods that would fall on him like a coma. Older people—villagers and guests of the resorts— still mostly avoided him, believing his odd behavior was somehow contagious, and yet, they were also fascinated by him. Avrum knew this and through Harry Burger and one or two others who enjoyed his companionship in games of chess and casual, meandering discussions, he salted his reputation with deliberately outrageous tales.

He had once owned a Stradivarius violin, he claimed. It had been purchased either from a peddler friend he knew or from a member of the New York Philharmonic or from a descendent of Stradivarius, depending on Avrum’s sense of drama during the telling.

He vowed with conviction that, as a young man, he had been a skilled boxer, a lightweight. He had won many neighborhood tournaments, he said, and once he had sparred with the great Young Stribling—a story told for my benefit since Young Stribling was from Georgia. A broken hand had ended his promising career, he insisted.

He had flown in a hot-air balloon over a New Jersey field, he revealed to Harry. He described the sensation as one of being dangled by a string as he watched the earth roll slowly beneath him. He said he met the legendary pilot Charles Lindbergh on that same day.

He had won a dance marathon in Brooklyn, he bragged, dancing with a Lithuanian girl who later appeared in the chorus line of movie musicals directed by Busby Berkeley.

When he worked as an interpreter on Ellis Island, he often gave immigrants their new American names, he proudly announced.

Those who heard Avrum’s stories, directly or indirectly, half-believed him because they wanted to believe him.

But the only truth from the stories was the truth of Amelita Galli-Curci and of the name-giving. Once, Avrum showed me age-yellowed letters from two families he had corresponded with for a shou period after their arrival in America. He had named one family Montague and the other Capulet.

“I could see, easy,” he had explained, tapping below his eye with his finger. “Two young people from the two families. Do you know? On the boat trip, they find love. Ja, Romeo and Juliet. They send me a wedding invitation.” He had begun to sort through the letters. “Somewhere, I have it.” I saw the invitation. The names were from the Montague and Capulet families.