To Remember

I helped Agnes into my car.  She's petit, under 5 feet tall, and as usual when I drive her, I make sure she's buckled up like I would a child, though she's 84 years old.  After all she has been through, I feel like I am driving the most precious cargo when she's with me.

As we drive, we notice the beautiful buds and flowering trees everywhere we look.  It's a cool morning, so the windows stay closed, but it's a glorious-looking Spring day.  There's pink, yellow, soft green, and purple on the tree-lined streets of the towns we drive through.

"Early Spring holds so much promise," I say, "I just love it."
"Yes," agrees Agnes.  "Especially after the tough winter we just had."
"I guess yours was particularly tough," I add.

We are both quiet.  Agnes lost her beloved husband David just a month ago.

A few minutes later she says, "My mother always said, 'Wear clean underwear, because you never know what might happen.  You might get in an accident.'"
That seems a little out of the blue, and I wonder if she's commenting on my driving, or just thinking about her mother and the presentation she's about to give in about a half an hour.
"My mother always said that too!  I am just now thinking maybe it's a metaphor for always being ready, and not really about underwear?"
"You mean like keeping your paperwork in order and keeping a clean house?" says Agnes.
"Oh, gosh, I hope not!" I laugh, thinking about my office and my desk in particular.  "I was more thinking about making sure your relationships are resolved with people, you know, just in case.  I mean, I never thought about it until just this minute, but maybe clean underwear is a metaphor for a clean slate."
Agnes seems to like that, and we go back and forth a bit on this topic.

When we arrive at the school, she practically bounds out of my car, and grabs her bag from my backseat, and moves so quickly from the parking lot to the door that I have to run a little to catch up after collecting my laptop and bag so I can get the door for her.  We are at a Jewish high school program, so Agnes can tell her story to the students.  It is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.

For the past six weeks, I have been meeting with her, at her house, and looking at her photos, and working with her to encapsulate her story of survival into a half-hour speech accompanied by a power point presentation.

Agnes and I pose for a selfie.  Probably her first.

Good thing it was a small lectern!

At first, she rambles a little bit, telling the students about the rise of anti-Semitism, Hitler, Auschwitz and getting very far removed from her own personal story.  I quietly move to the front row and whisper that they are here to hear about her story, her personal story of survival.  She turns around to see the slide on the screen, and is transported back to her own childhood. It is a story so amazing and compelling, I am going to share it with you.

Agnes was born in 1930.  She led a very happy life, although she doesn't remember a time when the rules weren't at least little different for Jews than they were for Gentiles in Budapest, Hungary.  Both her parents worked, and they were very comfortable.

She attended at school for girls until the age of 14 (1944) when the Nazis came into Hungary. At that time, Jews were forced to move from their homes into the Budapest ghetto.  Agnes was an only child, and in an act of defiance, which she says was very unlike her, when her parents were getting ready to go to the ghetto, she refused to go with them.  Agnes hid in the basement of her house, behind a curtain next to the toilet, for hours, while the Nazis made a clean sweep of the house and the neighborhood.  What she remembers is that she knew it was wrong to place so many Jews in such a small, confined area.  She was right.  It turned out that there were mines under the ghetto that were never detonated.

After several hours, Agnes emerged.  It was dark. She removed the yellow star from her clothing, and made a decision to take shelter with her mother's good friend Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was a Jew, but married to a non-Jew.  She lived across the city, in the very elite part of town.  Agnes was sure that Elizabeth would hide her in her giant home and she would be safe and warm.  Unfortunately, that was not the case.  Elizabeth gave her 20 crowns, and said that the war would soon be over, and sent this poor, freezing, Jewish girl back out into the cold rainy night.

Agnes made her way back across the river toward the neighborhood she knew.  As she walked the dangerous streets, an air raid (were they Americans trying to bomb a German military stronghold?) made her find shelter wherever she could.  The rain had turned to snow.

Finally, Agnes found shelter at a little house with a garden, and an awning to protect her a bit from the elements.  She covered herself with a newspaper and used her schoolbooks as a pillow.  Completely exhausted, she fell asleep.

Agnes awoke to a stranger staring at her.  He was an older fellow, and she somehow knew it would be okay to tell him the truth.   She told him her parents were taken to the ghetto.  He asked if she was a Jew, and made her prove it by reciting the Shema. (This is the prayer every Jewish child learns first, and states that God is one.)  Although Agnes' family had never been religious, she did get Jewish studies once a week at her school, and she knew the Shema by heart.  The man was a Jewish pharmacist, whose business was forced closed.  He gave Agnes some bread, and then asked her to do something for him.  He drew a map of where his pharmacy was located, and gave her the key to the door.  He gave her money for the trolley, and told her he needed her to bring back nitroglycerin pills for his heart.  Not thinking of the dangers of such a trip, Agnes went to the pharmacy and found the medicine.  It was on the trolley back that she met the one person who is most likely responsible for saving her life.

Agnes sat next to a man who was reading a theatrical publication.  She says that from this, she intuitively knew he must not be a Nazi.  She noticed he had a tiny flag of Sweden on his lapel.  In German, she introduced herself, and he said his name was Raoul.  She asked if he was from Sweden, and he confirmed he was, and she somehow knew he was safe, and she spoke quickly, quietly and freely to him.  She explained that her parents were taken to the ghetto, and that she was alone and had nowhere to go.  He asked her age.
"14 years old," she told him. He wrote an address on a piece of paper, and handed it to her.  

Raoul Wallenberg, famous for saving thousands of Jews, from his passport photo.

"Go to this address, tell them you are an experienced baby nurse and you are 16."
Raoul Wallenberg got off the Trolley at the next exit, but in those 15 minutes, Agnes' fate was changed.  

Agnes brought the pharmacist his nitroglycerin, and he rewarded her with 10 more Hungarian crowns.  She took the money to a shop and brought a small amount of food.  As a young child, not knowing what to do to prepare for what may be ahead, she bought a 5 gallon jar of apricot preserves as well, and the shopkeeper gave her a shopping basket on wheels to drag it through the streets.

Agnes found the address given to her by the stranger on the trolley.  It was a former gymnasium, now transformed into a shelter for children orphaned by the war.  Agnes did as she was told by Raoul, and told the director that she was an experienced baby nurse.  And it turned out she was a natural with the children and worked hard tending to them until the Russian occupation of Hungary in January of 1945.  She says that the apricot jam worked wonders with the children, as it was the only sweet thing they had, and it helped quiet down the little ones as well. 

Agnes' parents did survive the ghetto, but when she found them after the ghetto was liquidated, she barely recognized them.  They tried to move back to their home, but it had been taken over by fascists who refused to leave.  The family was allowed to live in the basement of their own house.  At this time, Agnes, now 15 felt that she was a parent to her parents.  She joined a Zionist organization, and made plans to emigrate to Israel.

Agnes' story of survival continues, as she managed to get to France with the other Zionist teens, again leaving her parents behind, and boarding the Zionist ship Latrun.  With the Haifa coast IN VIEW... it was bombed by British forces and everyone on board was forced to board another ship and sent back to DP camps in Cyprus for a year. 

Fishing Boat Latrun, as it was sinking, due to grenades in the hull.

But Agnes did make it to Israel where she lived for many years, both on Kibbutz Matzubah (coincidentally where my husband volunteered many years later), and in Tel Aviv.  Her parents joined her in Israel, and later, when she got married, she and her husband David moved to the United States.

Agnes is much more than a Holocaust survivor.  She is an artist, a botanist, herbalist and a naturalist.  Just yesterday, she gave me a homemade cream for my eyes, which were looking a little puffy, in her opinion.  She concocts elixirs from natural ingredients that cure all sorts of aches and pains.  Agnes is an expert gardener and horticulturist.  And although English is not her native language, she's an excellent writer as well.  

Agnes' Hebrew name is Bracha, which means blessing, and that is what she is.
I'm proud to call her my friend.  
And I'm proud to help keep her story alive.

"I wanted the students to know that you shouldn't follow the crowd, especially if you know it's wrong.  I hope they heard that message."

Agnes, with one of her scultures, at an exhibition of her work.

April 27, 2014

Post Script... while I was finishing up this piece, Agnes called me. She wanted to know if I was caught up on my sleep, and we rehashed how well things went yesterday.  How surprised she will be when she finds out I ordered a bright blue hydrangea to be delivered tomorrow as a thank you.  She asked if she was interrupting my work, and I told her honestly I was writing about her.  She laughed and said that was good, now we can remember.

Reunion

It's here.  Tonight.  It's too late to lose those 15 pounds I meant to lose.  It was even too late to have my hair highlighted.  As a matter of fact... I had not even reached out to those long lost friends to make sure they were going to be there.  I grabbed my High School yearbook off the shelf, dusted it off and threw it in the backseat of the car. 

I always go to my reunions. Why?  Why not?  I live near where I grew up, and it's a fun thing to do, to throw myself back into the mix for a night and reminisce for a while.  I keep in touch with only  handful of friends;  it takes me a while to remember people, and incidences, but I like the experience.  The funny thing is, I usually start by feeling that everyone has stayed put, while I have changed, that we would have nothing in common.  I am no longer that person captured in the black and white picture in the yearbook.  

The pre-reunion cocktail party was at the same hotel where the reunion would be the next night, very convenient to where I live.  My husband bravely agreed to join me for this first event, so, after a dinner at my parents' house (also nearby), we ventured over.  Someone had the idea to invite teachers to the cocktail party, which was a nice idea.  I didn't happen to remember any of them, but I could see they were the ones who looked even older than the rest of us, and their names tags were preceded by Mr. and Mrs.       


Within the first five minutes, a friend I've known probably longer than anyone else opened up to me in a genuine way and we were off.  A real conversation. A great start.  I suddenly missed her.  And I wanted more of this.   Another conversation, the ice broken with truths and smiles, ancient hurts uncovered, opened up and pain allowed to escape.    

And this was just the PRE-reunion.  I realized my husband was not to be seen.  He texted me to let me know he was happily at the bar, watching the baseball game. Later, he brought me a tequila with impeccable timing.

I'm the one with the red clogs.  And the beads.  This was during the high school tour.

We didn't stay for very long, the next night was the real reunion. But I pondered my surprise at the success of the night.  Over the last, well,  I'll just say it, 35 years, I'd knew that I had changed from a kid who tried to fit in, and look and act like everyone else to the person I am now:  A very active, observant Reform Jew, who makes a living in the Jewish world.  In our high school there were very few of us "Members of the Tribe," and even fewer who stayed practicing members after we went out into the real world.  

I was also a bit reckless and of course I now see the world, and navigate my way through it, as a mother.  And and older, wiser, and more seasoned citizen of that world. But then, everyone in the room was older, hopefully wiser as well. And almost everyone in the room had been married and had children.

What else?  A Democrat.  A Deadhead.  A Cancer Survivor. Animal lover and (multiple) pet owner.  A struggling environmentalist and failed (this year) gardener.   People who knew me then do not know me at all now.  What would we talk about?  What would we have in common?   As my son put it, "Mom, these people knew you before you sewed beads onto all your clothes and wore clogs to weddings and funerals. You can go there and act normal."    

Well, I don't know if I did go and act normal, but memories came back to me like little YouTube clips, flooding my brain that weekend, and for a few days afterwards.   I started to list them here, but that seemed too personal and too boring at the same time.  (Select all, delete.) 

So, what's the take-away? 

Besides a bunch of slightly drunk 53-year-olds dancing to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights in a too-small, too-loud room? 

We don't exactly have everything in common, but a lot more than I thought.  We have all fought some battles, and have survived.  We want to show pictures of our kids or our dogs, and then we want to put them away and remember the good old days. The Beach Boys Concerts.  The times we went down the shore.  The Musicals.  The football and basketball games. Championships won and nearly won. Things we shouldn't have done and things we wish we could do one more time.   And oh yea, the classes.

And then suddenly, much too early, the DJ says it's the last dance... and the class does a group hug dance where there are no longer cool kids, or nerds, or stoners,  or jocks, or geeks, or drama queens or choir kids.  For 2  1/2 minutes, there's just a class dancing together in a way that there never was.

And that's why I go to reunions.

you can walk down memory lane...

Good-bye Dear Friend

A beloved friend, Aharon Bezalel, passed away about 3 weeks ago.  I have known him more than half my life, and have come to think of him more as family than as a friend.

I can't think when I first met him.

But I do know exactly when I last saw him.  My dad and I were spending a few days in Jerusalem this past January, and I could see that Aharon was not his usual self.  I didn't know this would be the last time I would see him.

Aharon was an Israeli, born in Afghanistan where the climate was not particularly friendly to Jews.  (Not like now!)  According to Bezalel legend, he was a little boy when he and his family walked to Eretz Yisrael (the land of Israel) so they could live in freedom as Jews.

When I really got to know Aharon, his wife, and his three daughter, Butzit, Tali and Yael, I was living in Tel Aviv for my Junior Year of college.  They were the closest thing I had to family, and Aharon insisted that I join them on many weekends.  I can remember arriving just in time for a lively family meal, where I was included at the table and enjoyed great dinners and conversations that I could barely understand at first.  Saturday, Shabbat, I was left to my own devices as the sisters all went out on their own, and Aharon disappeared into his workshop in the morning and then he and his wife would spend the afternoon napping. I'm now quite a fan of the Shabbat nap!  But back then I'd take long walks and explore Jerusalem, or sit and read in their fantastic garden.  It was here that my Hebrew got better and better, I felt at home in Jerusalem, and in their house. By the end of my semester, they had become my Israeli family.   

Yes, that's me with the short hair, making matzah with Aharon in 1980.

  Over the next 20 years, we would see each other whenever we could.  Aharon's art was famous on an international level, and he frequently travelled to New York, among other places.  He was a guest at our Passover Seder on more than one occasion, and he loved it when I told the story of making matzah in his brother's garage when I celebrated Passover with his family in 1980.  I saw his daughters less often, but we tried to stay in touch, and finally with email and then with Facebook, we started to reconnect in ways that we could not have done before.  I remember conversations with Aharon in my parents' living room that showed how deeply he understood me, and the love he had for me and my family.  It was startling sometimes to see how much could be conveyed without and beyond words.

Perhaps the most moving, emotional and uplifting time we shared as a family was when my oldest son, Daniel, became a Bar Mitzvah in 2000.  It had been his dream, and ours as well, to celebrate in Israel.  But of course, we also knew that we wanted Daniel to be called to the Torah here in the US, so that we could share this simcha with the family here.  So that is what we did.  In May of that year, Daniel became a Bar Mitzvah at our synagogue in Suffern NY, and when school ended we took a family trip to Israel with Maya, who was 10, little Jack, who was 6.  Joining us were my parents, my in-laws, my brother's family, our best friends, and a dear friend of my mother-in-law.  My mother, who has spent more than half of her life dedicated to leading trips to Israel for our local Y, sat with me and helped me to plan the trip of a lifetime for this family group.  We'd get our own bus, and we'd have the most remarkable tour-guide.

But where should we have Daniel's Bar Mitzvah ceremony?  

Since Daniel had already become a Bar Mitzvah, I had been working with him to write a short, meaningful service, which could include a few different readers. We immediately eschewed the idea of the Western Wall, as we would not be at all comfortable with separating men and women for an event like this.  Another popular option for many tourists is on top of Masada, but this did not sit right either.  And because it was July, we were not sure everyone in our group would even make it to the top of that mountain in the desert.  

My mom was researching restaurants that be big enough to accommodate our whole group, as well as the ever-growing Bezalel family.  But there was no need for her to make the phone calls.   Aharon lived in a great place just above his sculpture studio.  He invited us to bring our party to his house! Although our group would never fit inside his house, we could dine on his rooftop.  

We were thrilled with the idea and when we got there it was overwhelmingly beautiful. He had ordered wonderful  food from a Lebanese restaurant in town and his daughters had decorated his rooftop with fresh flowers, candles, and tiny little lights strung from poles across the walls.  By now his three daughters were parents as well, and their children couldn't wait to meet their American "cousins" and try out their English.  Daniel led the short service, and they all ooh'd and ahh'd at his flawless, yet American-accented, Hebrew.  Then we ate,  drank, and sang songs, while the lights of Jerusalem danced in the distance.  After a while, the kids disappeared to play inside, and the grown-ups continued to eat and drink and sing some more.  Aharon sat contentedly at the head of the table, with a huge grin, knowing he had brought his family together.  Hebrew and English were co-mingling right there at the table, and it was a truly a celebration of much more than one young man's rite of passage.  It was the joy of two families sharing a real bond that transcended beyond age and  language.

Aharon, in the center of things, has made the crowd laugh.

I couldn't resist.  Young Daniel, at 13, leading us in prayer.

Since then we have been together many more times.  

When Daniel turned 20 and took his Junior Year in Israel, he spent many weekends at Aharon's house, and spent a Passover there that was unforgettable.  Although we missed him at our Seder table, at least we knew he was with his "other family."

Tali, Yael, Me, Butzit, January 2012

And this past January, my Dad and I took a trip there.  I was so glad that I spent time, meaningful time, with Yael, Butsit, and Tali, my Israeli family.  And I saw our beloved Aharon, this patriarch, for the last time. 

May his memory be a blessing to us all of us who knew him, and may his story inspire all those who are fortunate enough to be touched by it.

In Memory of a Friend at Christmas

Click here to hear Christmas Wrapping By the Waitresses


What's a nice Jewish blogger like me doing with a Christmas opening like that?

Whenever I hear this song, I think of living in Boston in my early 20's, Christmas of course, and I think of my friend Patti.


Patti was my college roommate, randomly chosen, but deliberately kept.

Massell Quad, Brandeis University, Fall 1977, Usen Dorm is to the right.
Photo Credit: Michael Eggert

It might seem like we were opposites back then, in 1977.   We were both young, obviously, but Patti had been a bit more sheltered before she stepped foot on the Brandeis campus.  Catholic school, all girls, until then. Good clean living, right from Lowell, Massachusetts. Here comes Juliet from New Jersey with big plans for college.  I remember I got there first on move-in day, in our little third-floor dorm room double.  Mom and Dad helped shlep my stuff up all those stairs, and set up the stereo (record player and cassette deck, of course) with all my Billy Joel, Beach Boys and Beatles records, among many others, in alphabetical order in milk crates, which held up the huge speakers. The little fridge and hot pot, as Patti and I had discussed by letter, were all set up, and I went off to get my mealbook and phone.

Yes, I've saved my meal book all these years.

Hours of waiting on line, filling in forms, and getting settled. Mom and Dad left and still, no roommate.  When she finally arrived, I couldn't tell whether to be happy or not. She was with her sister, not her parents, and they appeared to have been fighting.  I offered to help her with  her stuff and there wasn't much to bring up.  The good-bye between Patti and her sister was brief and made me uncomfortable.  I remember I started to talk too much to ease the tension, and Patti was very quiet.


That night Usen dorm had a "getting to know you" event. It helped.


Two nights later they had a wine and cheese party.  That REALLY helped.  We got to know quite few of the people who are still good friends today.  Little by little, I got to know this shy, quiet person.


Classes started and I got busy and involved and met lots of other people.  I had a  boyfriend and joined the chorus.  I got connected with the people in my Hebrew class so we could practice our Hebrew at lunch.  (I just realized how lame that must have looked, but we had fun.) I made it into the Gilbert and Sullivan Society.  I joined the Waltham Group and became a "Big Sister" to a young girl in town. But there was always Patti, back at the room at the end of the day.  More often than not, we headed to dinner together.  And before I knew it, we were becoming true friends. When Christmas came around, I brought home a few scraggly branches from Faneuil Hall and made her a little Christmas tree in our dorm room.  She and I exchanged small gifts and shared stories of our family traditions. (No, Patti, that was not a latke that you had in the cafeteria.  That was a hash brown.  Wait until you taste a real latke.)  At the end of the year, we agreed to room together as sophomores.

Champagne brunch on a Sunday at the Marriott Hotel in Newton.  High Times.

Our friendship grew stronger, with only a few moments of tension here and there.  We socialized together and our group of friends grew bigger.  When Patti's mom died, we all supported her, and spent the day in Lowell, attending the funeral.  During breaks, she would visit me in New Jersey, or we'd both visit another Brandeis friend somewhere else. 


 After college, Patti and I lived together one last time, in Brighton, Massachusetts. It was just the two of us, with her cat, Sugaree , my cat Jasmine, and thousands of cockroaches.  We had a lot of adventures that year.  Most were great:  a Halloween party that couldn't be beat, a road trip to see Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park with half a million of our best friends.  Some of the times were challenging, like the break-in to our apartment that left Patti without the precious earrings that had been her mom's.  The most difficult was the death of her beloved father, Jack.  Jack spent weeks sleeping on our couch as he traveled back and forth from Lowell  to Boston for his Cancer treatments. When he died, I knew that Patti was changed.  I think she wanted to get closer to her brother and sister then, but didn't know how.   I finally broke the news to her that I was going to live with my boyfriend, Michael.  She knew that it was bound to happen.  


While I still lived in the Boston area, we spent a lot of time together.  We both worked jobs where the hours were 3 - 11pm, so sometimes we would actually go out after work.  One night we saw The Cars play a midnight show in Boston.  We really thought we were hot shit.  Another time we saw Hot Tuna at Jonathan Swifts in Cambridge and realized it was too late to take the "T" home.  I felt it would be fine to accept a ride from a couple of guys we didn't know.  The whole time she kept frowning at me and reprimanding me with her eyes.  Or  the time I picked up a hitchhiker on the way back from Martha's Vineyard because he looked cold.   Patti glared at me til he got out of the car.  (He did not stab us, you'll be happy to know.  But she was furious with me.)


Then I moved away.  Michael and I took off for Durham, NC.  And Patti continued with her life, caring for adults with developmental disabilities.  She had moved up in this field and was working 9-5 now.  She was a compassionate, caring person who was no longer shy, especially when it came to speaking up for the needs of the clients she served.


Over the years, Patti would visit me wherever I lived.  North Carolina, Portland Oregon, San Francisco, and especially New Jersey.  When my kids were born she'd be here, and when she needed a little vacation, this was where she'd pick.


In the late 90's she began to have health issues.  I brushed them off as unrelated.  Maybe she did too, or maybe she was being deliberately vague with me.


One time, though, in the summer of 1998 or 1999, she called and said she had to go to the hospital.  She had been at Cape Cod, with some friends, but had to leave due to what she referred to as "hemorrhaging," had driven herself all the way back to Boston.  It didn't make sense to me.  When I asked her questions, I didn't get answers.  When I went to visit her, she had received a transfusion and was seemingly okay, but I was alarmed.


I made several more trips up to Boston and Lowell to visit Patti, in and out of the hospital after this.  I never really understood what was wrong.  It was as if her body was just breaking down.  But at the age of 42, this didn't make sense.


Patti had moved out of her own place, and into the apartment of a dear friend who agreed to help her out. On one visit, she collapsed as we walked down the hallway.  I tried to help her up.  I could smell smoke on her skin, and another smell too.  I wondered if the friend smoked, or if Patti had started smoking.  She offered me a beer.  I took one, and asked if she were having one.  She said no, she had to stop drinking, those were just for me.  I sipped at it and started to wonder about that.


While we sat, Patti asked me to "do her funeral when she died."


Patti, a lapsed Catholic, asked me, a Jewish Educator to "do her funeral."


I said ok. I asked what she'd want.  She said I'd know.


Patti died on February 11, 2002.


I did her funeral.


I put together a playlist of music and invited everyone to get up and speak about Patti.  It was a beautiful and touching tribute to our dear friend and sister.
I think she would have liked it.


Sometimes I get mad at her for missing these great moments life has offered up since she died, nearly ten years ago.  She loved her niece and nephew deeply.   She adored my kids, how she'd kvell to see them now.  She could never understand how I could let them go away for a month to camp.  Imagine how she'd feel as I now face imminent empty nest-hood. 


How many more people could she have helped in her work?  Patti was patient, calm, and never judgmental.


Mostly, now, though, I just miss her. And I think of her with love. I think of the Beatles albums she snitched from her brother.  (Yes, Jeff, that's what happened to them.)  When I see an SNL skit that's actually funny, I think of her, or wear the jacket we bought together, or the earrings, or that leather bracelet...  When I think of Christmas, I think of Patti.


And when I hear a song by Sting (her favorite) I stop what I am doing and I remember Patti.


Fields of Gold




By the way,  I inherited Jack's guitar, and I plan to learn to play it.  That's my New Year's  Resolution.  I think she'd tell me it's about time.