I first wrote this post back in 2006. It's a long story from a long time ago, but I thought I should share it again for Holocaust Remembrance Day. It's the story of the summer I spent with two survivors of Auschwitz.
I recently reconnected with a former sister-in-law, my older
brother's first wife, L. It has been many years (close to 15) since we
have seen or talked to each other. I called her back in January and
we've been emailing ever since. L was married to my brother for a couple
of years in the 70s and early 80s, but they split amicably and went
their separate ways. When she and I first reconnected, I was reminded of a
poem I had written about her father, which I shyly sent to her.
Thinking about the poem reminded me of the summer I lived with L's
parents in Long Island.
In 1978 when I was 26, I was an unsettled girl. I had done a dozen or so cross-country car trips, looking
for a place to plant myself. I had already bought ten acres of land in
southern Oregon and built a cabin on it (1974); I had waitressed at a
popular cafe in a touristy beach town in Capitola, California (1975); I had lived
in a tipi for a summer on 40 wild acres in southern Humboldt county,
living with a pot-grower. I didn't know what to do with myself, and
college was out of the question. (Have I ever told you that I was a
re-entry student at the age of 29?) So, one day I saw an ad in East West Journal
that said something about learning to become a "licensed polarity
therapist." Wow. Was that ever for me. In 1977 there were as many
shelves in bookstores devoted to spirituality and self-healing as there
are shelves devoted to computing now. It was the ambiance of the times.
So, I sent letters of inquiry to somebody in New York City, where the
program was being offered, and made a decision to go.
It
was spring 1978. I moved in with extended family in Teaneck NJ, and learned
how to navigate the buses and subways to NY. It was delightful, and very
different from the life I had led up to that point. Even though I had
grown up in New Jersey, I had been gone for seven years, and I returned a
tanned California hippie girl to learn my adult way around New York.
Well,
the Polarity Program was a bust. To make a long story short, and
suffice to say I decided that a business license wasn't the same as
becoming a licensed practitioner, and I told the director so, and left.
I also decided to leave my aunt's house and move to Long Island, where
L's parents J and M had a business and said they could use my waitressing skills
over the summer.
J and M were caterers, and they
specialized in catered weddings on Long Island. Their store front was on
a busy road, and their lovely apartment was in the back. I moved into
L's old bedroom and spent my time with J and M cutting radishes
into roses while watching the evening news. We did all the prep work there on the premises. They had a
huge walk-in refrigerator and a giant-sized black cast-iron stove with
two ovens and eight burners. We ate feasts every day. On weekends, we
catered several affairs. I mostly worked the weddings. Going to two or
three weddings a weekend was really quite revelatory for me. It was an
opportunity to watch people at one of their most cherished events.
Nearly every couple that summer chose as their song "Just the Way You
Are" by Billy Joel. I heard over and over: "Now dancing to their song
for the first time as Mr and Mrs so and so..." And then those lyrics
would come "Don't go changing, to try and please me..." Every couple
smooshed cake into each other's faces. Every bride danced with her
father. Somebody would always get drunk and stumble. Somebody always
made a sexually intimate toast. The spoons knocked the wineglasses and
the newlyweds obligingly kissed. I watched all of this, while I served
from the left and removed from the right. Unattached ushers flirted with
the wait staff. Everyone had a good time.
J and M were remarkable people. He was from Prague, and if I
remember correctly, she was from a small town in Slovakia. They were both
survivors of Auschwitz. They had each survived their devastations
differently and bore their scars in their own ways. J was almost always cheerful, while M was more reserved. She had had
her tattooed number surgically removed from her wrist. They both had
lost their entire families in the camps. What I remember feeling at
the time in their house was the way this nightmare was reflected
in their daily lives, how their house locked up at night. They had
locks on top of locks. There were safety bolts on top of the doors
that went into the upper jamb, and locks on the bottom as well that went into the floor. When we
faithfully locked up at night, we slept knowing that there was no way
there could be an intruder. But what I remember most was how their lives
revolved around food. Old hungers were never forgotten. It's what they did everyday, all day. My one
contribution to their feasts was home-baked cornbread (the Tassajara
breadbook recipe that I still use), for J who was diabetic. I left
out the honey, and he loved it. We were a fine little patchwork family
that summer. I loved them for their graciousness, their solitude, and
their resilience.
That summer I met my first husband Gregory,
and we fell in love. In the early fall I left J and M's, and Greg and I rented an
off-season beach house in Connecticut on Long Island sound, while he
studied film at the University of Bridgeport. J and M came up to
visit us that fall. It was the only time I photographed them, and the
last time I ever saw them. J died in the late 90s, and today M has Alzheimers. This is the poem I wrote about J in 1995, and
just sent to L.
Hunger
His wrist with the tattooed numbers
reached across the fine table
over delicate linens
laid with silver and crystal
for yet another serving
of his favorite: chicken paprika
He said he put Auschwitz behind him
refused reparations and inherent entanglements
joked that the indelible blue number
was merely the zipcode for Shreveport, Louisiana
a place he should maybe visit, someday...
...but certainly not before he has cracked every chicken bone
drawn the precious marrow to his tongue,
sopped up the gravy with the remaining black bread,
picked up his dinner plate
and licked it clean.
L
told me that the poem definitely captured a part of her father. She
said that after he died, she was frantic that she had not thought to
write down that number. That tattooed number. The hell writing on his
skin that had become an essential part of him. But she found it in a
photograph and wrote it down. 17710. His number.
