During the Depression, if Sam saw a "kid wearing raggedy shoes or going barefoot, he'd call him into the store and give him a new pair. He said when they grew up and worked at Kennecott, they'd know where to come and buy their shoes. He gave away hundreds."
Sam Matz was born in Russia at a time when Jews were restricted to living in designated areas, forbidden to own land and victimized by violent pogroms (riots against Jews) supported by the authorities.
Wanting more for his children, the elder Matz sent his oldest son, Aaron, to South Africa, where he opened a shipping business. When Sam turned 13, his father encouraged him to join his brother. Sam did and, after several years, became smitten with travel. He sailed on cargo ships bound for China, India and Egypt. He then went to Montreal, bought a wagon and horse and peddled his way westward to Vancouver and south into Idaho. There he met Annie Fogel.
"When my dad met my mom, he must have wanted to make an impression because he arrived at her parents' house by motorcycle," said their daughter, Ruth McCrimmon. "It was around 1914. He took her for a ride in the countryside and during their trip she fell off the motorcycle. He didn't know until he turned around to talk to her. She wasn't there! Backtracking, he found her sitting by the side of the road. She must have had a good sense of humor because they married soon after."
By 1922, the couple and their three children settled in Magna, a mining boomtown brimming with ethnic diversity.
"The Papanikolas kid and I played all the time. The shoemaker, Shorty Notarianni, watched over us," Sidney said. "Many Kennecott officials were Masons. They respected my dad. If people wanted jobs in the mines, they were told, 'Go see Matz, he'll get you on.' He'd call the hiring boss, they'd get on, and trade in his store."
"Our house was welcoming," Berenice Engleberg added. "Mother made the best rye bread you ever tasted. Dad regaled everyone with stories told in his South African accent. Sidney, too, had a way with words. We had great times putting on vaudeville shows in front of the store. But it was difficult being a minority child."
"I was 6 and Berenice was 8 when my father's friend, a bishop, [invited] us to Sunday school," Ruth said. "As soon as we entered the classroom, the teacher told everyone that Jesus was the Son of God and accused us of killing him."
I whispered to Berenice, 'We didn't do it. Who did it?' She said, 'Well, Mama didn't do it. She's too nice. It must have been Dad.' I said, 'Why would Dad do a thing like that?' Berenice said, 'I don't know, but I think he did.' Out of all of us, we figured Dad was the only one who could have done it."
When Sam called the bishop, he was appalled. And when I last visited Berenice in 2008, the 92-year-old said the teacher's remark haunted her for years. "We were kids," she said. "What could a kid say to that?"
Eileen Hallet Stone, an oral historian, may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Additional sources: Stone's book, "A Homeland in the West: Utah Jews Remember."