I Am A Conservative

I am a conservative.

By definition that means a person who supports an emphasis on traditions and relies on the individual to maintain society.

A conservative is someone who supports a woman’s right to choose what to do with their own bodies without government interference, but because like or not the right to an abortion is a traditional value as it has been settle law for over fifty years.

A conservative would never force a ten-year-old rape victim maintain a pregnancy that would destroy her life and likely kill her nor prosecute a Dr. for assisting in the termination of that pregnancy. That is, the definition of governmental overreach.

A conservative is someone who supports a person’s right to love whom they choose. Government should not entangle themselves in people’s emotional lives. That is private and no one’s business but their own. It is also a traditional value. Homosexuality, queerness, bi-sexuality, interracial and inter-religious  (to name just a few brands of love) relationships have been around since Homo Sapiens first encountered Cro Magnon. The government should not tell us who we can love.

A conservative supports the constitution of the United States. They believe in country over party. They don’t believe lies never had any basis in truth and were rejected by sixty courts of law. A conservative would never support a person or group of persons who attempt to overthrow the government or interfere with the constitutionally mandated duties of congress.

A conservative does not believe that the United States has a national religion. They believe in the constitutionally mandated and traditional value of “make no law respecting an establishment of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” A conservative would never say that we are a Judeo-Christian, Christian, or any other sort of religious country. We are by tradition and law a country that embraces all religions and eschews anything that does not separate church/synagogue/mosque/temple/pagan alter from state.

A conservative understands that the second amendment in its originalist form gives the right of gun ownership only for maintaining a “well regulated militia.” It is not so anyone, mentally undone, untrained, and not competent can legally buy a weapon of war and enough ammunition to keep at bay an entire police force while innocent children are being slaughtered on a wholesale basis. A conservative understands the hypocrisy of crying the right to life for a fetus yet not respecting the right to life of those faced with gun violence.

A conservative understands that there is a difference between an enterprise and an individual. Enterprises are run based on the needs of the few for profit. A country is based on the needs of the individual. Respecting the individual over corporations means a respect for privacy and the environment. That if corporations appropriate these rights, they not respecting traditional values or individual rights and should be sanctioned.

Winston Churchill once famously said “If You Are Not a Liberal When You Are Young, You Have No Heart, and If You Are Not a Conservative When Old, You Have No Brain.” (He was likely not the first to say this)  He was right. At least by my contemporary definition of conservative.

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Lowenzahn Wein

It is 11:45 and we are in hotel room in Baden.

It is an unremarkable room in that it resembles most mid priced hotel rooms in Europe: It has very simple modern wood furniture, two twin beds that are placed directly adjacent to each other, a small table with chairs for writing postcards, a euro styled television and a frigio bar. There are no pieces of art on the wall. The door is open to a small balcony that overlooks a typically beautiful Austrian park with its well manicured lawns that you can not walk on and immaculately planted flower beds that seem always to be in season. This afternoon an ompah band entertained us with an hour and a half concert of Austrian classics and Broadway show tunes and this evening we had dinner at the Grand Casino that directly abuts the park.

It is quiet. The only sound coming through the open door is the sound of a passing car its tires crackling against the wet pavement. The smell of hydrangea’s and lilacs are wafting in through the open door. My father is restless in his bed. Instead of the steady stream of snoring that I normally would hear I hear nothing except the occasional rustle of his duvet as he tries to find a comfortable position. Sleep is eluding me as well. My stomach is still shaky, my mind still buzzing with the events of the day.

I was very happy to leave Sopron this morning. It was a perfect morning for drive with soft sunlight, a feint breeze and mild temperatures and I knew the Austrian countryside would be beautiful. But it is more than that.  My father has been very sick in this hotel. Whatever the gastrointestinal illness that first manifested itself in Vienna really took root here. He spent most of his time here asleep or in the toilet. The room despites its open windows has taken on the smell of a sick room and the bathroom lacking any ventilation whatsoever has a fetid evil smell somewhere between third world slit trench and an unclean litter box. I am convinced that the nausea and uncomfortable feeling that I have in my gut are from this place and that as soon as this place is in my rear view mirror the sooner that I will begin to feel better.

After I load our Opel Astra with our luggage I go in search of my father. I find him in the most unlikely of places doing the most unlikely of things. He is in the dining room eating breakfast.  I am not eager for breakfast this morning and for some reason I decide to watch him for a little while as he makes his way through the breakfast buffet. He is wearing a decidedly dad clothes, a light blue shirt of which he has so many and that he has worn for so many years that I secretly call it Ernie blue, twill pants that he has in a variety of khaki colors including the brown that he is wearing today, and dark brown half boots that he has had in some variety for as long as I can remember. It is an outfit that is neither in style nor out of style, practical and I decide that is as good a metaphor for my father as I can think of.

He is also not moving well this morning. His shoulders are stooped and he is bending forward at the hips. Instead of lifting his feet he is shuffling them a little bit more than normal. He is walking old today and I don’t like it. My pops shouldn’t be walking old. He should be standing straight up and walking tall like he is in my memories. These are things that we can fix through better exercise and stretching that he finds boring but will give him a better quality of life and I vow silently when we get back to the states that I will work with him on stomach exercises, and back exercises that should help him to regain his posture.  I know that the likelihood of my father doing these exercises in the way that they are supposed to be done and in the numbers required to really help straighten him out are slim but I also know that I have to try. I don’t want my Pops looking or feeling old. It implies too many things that I would prefer not to think about.

When I finally make it to the table I find my father fully engaged in breakfast. Not only has he picked up some picked some yogurt, cheese and breads from the buffet but he has ordered some scrambled eggs from the waiter. I am impressed but not surprised.  Impressed that my father’s recovery from this bug that had laid him low just a couple of days ago had progressed to the point where he would eat a substantial breakfast before getting into a car with no assurances on when the next rest stop would be. Not surprised because my father has always been a big eater. In fact, the thing that made him seek out medical help when he developed lymphoma was that he could not eat an entire sausage so I am happy that he is eating.

The waiter comes and asks me in Hungarian what I would like for breakfast. At least that is what I think that he has said as I don’t understand a word he is saying. I reply in the only words in Hungarian that I can speak with any sort of confidence “Coca Cola.” My father looks at me and asks “Don’t you feel well?” knowing that drinking soda, let alone Coke is not something that I regularly engage in.

I respond “No, no I am fine. I am just not that hungry and my stomach is a little queasy so I don’t want to push it. I don’t want to tell him that this morning that I was forced to take two Immodium and had nearly thrown up for the first time in nearly 20 years. I don’t want to tell him given my druthers I would be in bed asleep.  I don’t want our trip together to be about me being sick. I don’t want my father to feel like he has to take care of me. This is our chance to explore together and I don’t want to be the one who, excuse the expression, craps it up.

We leave Sopron on a route that takes us directly past the house my grandmother was born in. As we pass it I am filled with memories of her. How she always made me feel loved and complete. I thought about her hugs and how they made me feel safe. I think about how she smelled. I could picture her smiling at me and shaking her head in the way that she did sometimes. I think about that this is where it began for her and as a consequence for both my Dad and me. So as I drive by I wave and say “Good-bye Grandma.” I looked over and see my father staring at the red house as we drive by and I wonder what he is thinking. My memories of her are when she was older and life had taken its toll… From when she was a stranger in a strange land.  His memories of her are from this place and from a time where life had not extracted so much. And even though my grandmother has been dead almost 30 years I miss her and I wonder what it must be like for him to be without his mother for so long. Her funeral is the only time in my life I have ever heard him sob.

I know better than to ask him about his thoughts. He will only crack wise or make a joke. So instead I concentrate on my driving and leave him to his thoughts and for a while we drive on in silence.

We cross the Hungarian/Austrian border with barely an acknowledgement from the Guards of either country. Apparently, we do not look worthy of them wasting their time on and just like I do when I clear customs or enter a country anywhere, I feel like I have gotten away with something. It is a nice feeling and soon the car is speeding down A2 at 140km hours.

As on the trip to Sopron, my father is the navigator. He is blessed with a great sense of direction and the map reading skills the army teaches its officers. He has also been to this part of the world many times. So I have faith that he will get us to our destination of Fahrafeld. Still I think that our decision to take B and C roads instead of just the A’s has more to do with happenstance than planning just as I have no doubts that more than a couple of times we made decisions that took us farther away from our destination rather than closer.

It is sunny and warm and our windows are open and the smell of flowers and freshly cultivated fields fill the compartment of the car. Whether it is because of our stomach problems or the fact that my father and I have spoken more in the last three days than we have in years we are not talking very much. Instead we pass the time looking beyond our windows. We pass through vineyards with their meticulously kept vines greening and in bloom. .There are small farms that look dainty by American standards, with freshly cultivated tracks and farmers atop green tractors often wearing brightly covered overalls.  There are fields densly packed with yellow bright yellow flowers.  We pass through small towns that look like they belong more in n gauge train set than in real life.

At one point I comment to my father that everything looks familiar enough to be comforting but just different enough that we could be in an episode of the Outer Limits. But he is lost in some thoughts beyond the reaches of the car and does not respond so I drive on.  

We are in the hills now and the scenery has changed from farms and fields to meadows and trees. Not to far from Pottenstein which is the nearest town of any size close to Fahrafeld my father yells at  me “Turn right, turn right here” in the same tone he used to use when he was teaching me to drive. I do my best not to let his tone of  voice get the better of me but for a few minutes I am one pissed off 17 year old whose father is doing him no favor by teaching him how to drive. I slam on the breaks and still manage to make the turn a little faster than I probably should have.

My father realizes that the tone of voice that he used is not appropriate and as he has done so often in the past when this is the case, changes the subject. He says “ I know where we are now. You see that building up there on the hill, that is horticultural research station for the University of Vienna. I remember it from the last time we were here.”

He says this with satisfaction and there is also an element of excitement that I have not heard in his voice on this trip. So I ask him “Are you excited about going to Fahrafeld and he replies in a manner that is typical of him “I don’t know if you would exactly call it excited….”

I can tell that what is to follow is a discourse on the appropriate word for how he feels and I turn down the volume. I realize that this discussion is just a way for my father to mask his feelings. For whatever reason traveling to this place has brought more emotion to the surface than all of the other things we have done on this trip. More than seeing his best friend in the hospital; more than visiting the graveyards of his relatives; more than visiting the house his mother was born in. As he talks in the background I wonder why he feels so emotionally connected to this place. All I can remember him telling me about Fahrafeld  is that he used to go there to visit his Aunt in summer and it is the place he learned to love buttermilk a beverage that to this day he claims is the best drink in the world to relieve the heat of a summer day.

So after he has finished talking I say in my best smart ass way “You know I didn’t listen a lot to you as a kid, tell me about you and this place.”

So he reminds me that when my grandmother was very young her mother died. That her father who already had 12 children had a hard time running a household with that many kids and no wife so that some of the kids were parceled out to other relatives as was the custom at the time. Little Jeni, age 4, was sent to Fahrafeld to live with her Aunt Pepi her mothers sister. She lived their until she was 14 when she sent away to a technical school so that she could learn how to be a seamstress. My grandmother always thought of her Aunt as her mother so it was natural that when my father got too old to spend summer’s in the city that she would take him to her to spend the summer. He said that he would arrive by train in the early summer and not leave again until school was about to begin.  . He tells me that his Aunt Pepi was the only grandmother he ever knew and says this is a such a wistful voice and I know that I can not press further so once again we drive in silence for a while.

We come to a T-intersection and my father tells me to take a right. I look at the sign and it says Rt 212. When I suggest the irony of the Rt, 212 being the NYC area code, to my father and he just nods his full attention on the road ahead and trying to find Pepi’s house. The road is of the type that German performance cars were made for. It is narrow, winding, and well maintained. It is also quite picturesque. Along the drivers side of the road is a fast moving stream about 5 meters wide that you can see the occasional fly fisherman and fields full of wildflowers and what appear to be Dandelions. On the right side are small cottages, the Austrian version of a cape, in brightly colored hues and a mountain dense with trees.

After about 5 minutes we pass a white rectangular sign with the word Fahrafeld written on it.  Almost immediately upon passing into the town the road becomes canopied by trees on either side. The houses become more frequent and my father, who is normally calm to the point of stoic, is visibly agigtated and keeps telling me to slow down. I look in my rear view mirror and see that a long line of traffic has built up behind us and tell my father that I really can’t slow down much more. This news is greeted with a harrumph and visible annoyance. The town itself is beautiful with small cottages and what can only be described as chalet’s in various bright colors densely populating the right hand side of the road. On the stream side it appears that they have created a small park with paved paths and flower beds. The town does not last long. A couple of minutes at most and before too long we see the same white rectangular sign with Fahrafeld written on it only this time there is a red slash going through it.

My father who was agitated before is now quite upset and  I can tell by the way he tells me to “turn the car around” that he is royally pissed off. I see a picnic area on the right hand side of the road and I pull into it hoping to use it as a jug handle to turn around. I don’t want to drive with my father this annoyed. I don’t want to have an argument with him and I know that in his current state the 17 year old in me could come out at any moment so I pull the car over and park. He barks “What are you doing?” and I respond that the scene in front of us….a grassy meadow dotted with dandelions, a farmhouse with a red roof surrounded by trees, framed by a mountain in the background…is lovely and I want to take a photograph. I take my time and probably more photographs than I should but the result is what I had hoped for as my father is visibly calmer when I re-enter the car.

I try to go slower as we go back through town but the road is a very busy one and before too long there is once again a long line of traffic behind us. When I see in the middle of this village a place to pull over I seize the opportunity.  My father is looking around and tells me in a very disappointed tone that he thinks that we may have come all this way for nothing as he can’t spot his Aunts house and that he is afraid that it might have been torn down. I can tell that he’s upset and wish that I could find the words to comfort him but I can’t so I remain silent.

He says you see that over there. I nod. He says that is a war memorial and lists the names of the dead from this town. One of the kids I use to play with as a kids name is listed there. As I pull back onto the road, I think about how bizarre a world we live in. How two childhood friends could end up on either side of a war and one makes it and the other does not. It reminds me of how random life is and as always I am disturbed by this.

I am broken out of my thoughts by my father yelling at me to pull over. Luckily, just beyond a small bridge passing over the stream,  I spot a place to pull the car off the road and park.. My father points at a light blue house with a red tile roof and only windows facing the street and says “That is your Aunt Pepi’s house….they have clearly renovated it but that is clearly her house.” His tone of voice which just minutes earlier had been harsh and upset is now that of relief and delight and I can tell that seeing this house has transformed him in a way that I can’t imagine.

We both get out of the car and study the house from the distance. My father is wearing his signature Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses so it is hard to figure out what is going on inside of him but there is a whisper of a smile on his face so whatever is going on I suspect is a good thing.  As I pull my camera from the backseat so that I can take photographs of the house my father turns and walks towards the bridge. My fathers steps are small and deliberate, probably  the result of the long drive, and it upsets me to realize that he is walking just like the octogenarian he is.  I snap a few photos and when I finish my father  is turning the corner onto the bridge and disappears from sight.

I hurry to catch up with him but when I turn the corner my father is no where to be found. Instead I see a 10 year old boy standing in the middle of the bridge, surveying the scenery, as if he were a Prince and this was his own private kingdom.

The boy finished with surveying his property walked over to the rail and scoops up a hand full of small rocks that lay near by and begins to toss them one by one into the rushing stream below. I stare at the boy not quite sure of what to make of this transformation. He is wearing a dark blue polo shirt with khaki shorts and brown ankle height shoes that laced all the way up. Not too different from what my father was wearing this morning but dated as if you would see the clothes in a black and white photographs whose edges were curled and worn.

I walk up to him and lean across the rail. Below the water is running rapidly over smooth rocks and the babble of the water is loud but soothing. For some reason I am nervous to speak, as if by saying something aloud will make this apparition disappear. So for a while the boy and I just stand, our faces warm in the spring sun, and watch the water disappear under the bridge. Finally, the desire to talk to this boy who will be my father is greater than my fear of his disappearance and I ask “What is the name of this river.”

He replies “It called the Triesting” and then points and says “Look over there by the rock in the center of the stream. Do you see the trout?” I look to where he is pointing and I see what appear to be two golden trout, nearly camouflaged by their background and the glint of the sun off the water. We watch as they make their way upstream and out of sight. Eventually I ask him “Do you ever go fishing here?”

He replies, in the gushing way that 10 years old speak when they are particularly excited about something, “I don’t have a fishing poll and neither do my friends so we can’t really fish here but” he says pointing to place just beyond a field of tall grass and dandelions “over there is another smaller stream. My buddies and I sometimes go over there where the water doesn’t move so fast and you can straddle the brook, and we make a noose out of wire. We wait until we see a fish and then we dip the lasso in the water and just at the right moment  we pull on the noose and we catch ourselves a fish.” He looks up at me his chin sticking in the air and proudly adds “You don’t think it can be done, but it can.”

I have no doubt that it can be done because if this little boy says it can, it can. Instead I think about how tempting those fish must of have been to him and his friends. I imagine the serious conversations and the plotting he and his buddies must have had to devise a plan to catch the fish and the arguments and eureka moments that must of occurred while they perfected their device and how to use it. I can only imagine how proud they must have been when they caught their first fish and I wonder who they showed first and what they said to them.

And then I too am struck by a memory. I am very young and my father, brother and I are going for a walk through the woods together. It is very green and the forest so lush that it blocks out most of the sunlight but the path is clear and we eventually make our way to a wide but very narrow stream. My father helps my brother and I take our shoes and socks off and we wade into the cold water. Picking up some stones my father begins to make a small U shaped structure with the open end in the direction of the oncoming water. He tells my brother and I that these are minnow traps and says that the fish come with the flow of water and can’t make it back out due to the current.

I am broken out of my reverie by the ten year old asking “Do you want to go for a walk?” I nod and we begin down to walk a dirt path that I would have sworn was paved just a few minutes ago. He points ahead of us and says “That’s the canal.” And sure enough just a head of is a slow moving span of water that I don’t recall seeing on our drive into town. Nonetheless we walk along it for a short while until we reach a wooden dock. The boy takes off his shoes and then unwraps a piece of cloth that is wrapped around his foot like a bandage, and dips his feet into the water.

I ask, pointing to what was wrapped around his feet, “What are those?” He replies unabashedly that his Aunt Pepi made them for him. That he didn’t have any socks so this is what he put around his feet to protect them from rubbing against the leather of his shoes. I nod not quite comprehending what it must have been like to grow up without socks. When I was a kid they always seem to be disappearing into my shoes.

I take my off my sneakers and we both dangle our feet in the cold water of the canal, and we bask in the sun like two turtles on a log. Accoss the canal the breeze slowly moves the grass in the meadow. I ask him “What do you all day?”

He tells me that sometimes he helps the local shepherd take the animals from the village up to the meadow. I must of looked confused because he explains that “His Aunt Pepi had an arrangement with the local shepherd to take him along when he would take the animals of the town up to the pasture  . In the morning the shepherd, who was some young guy from the village, would  pick up the local livestock and take them up to a place where they could graze. Then sometime in the late afternoon they would walk back into town with the animals and drop them off one by one at people’s houses.

I think about what a practical solution this was for everyone. How folks around there were not farmers but they had livestock to supply the with basics like milk, meat and fabric but none of them had enough to warrant having a shepherd of their own so theirs was communal. How practical too for my father’s aunt. She must of have been in her 70’s back then and having a 10 year old running around and underfoot must have been quite a challenge so she invented a day camp for him…very different from my day camp experience…but camp none the less.

Thinking about my own favorite experiences at camp I asked him “What did you do for lunch.” He tells me that his Aunt would put together what ever she had in her larder for him. Perhaps a hunk of cheese, maybe a piece of salami and some bread and if was really lucky a piece of hard candy and she would wrap it all in a handkerchief for him to carry. The idea of lunch wrapped in a handkerchief seems so foreign to me but this was time and a place before lunch boxes or paper bags and I think about the mountain of little conveniences that separate the past from the present.

I ask him what he does when they get to the pasture and the little boy tells me proudly that a lot of the time he helps the shepherd take care of the animals. I imagine this little boy herding cows, sheep, and goats….running after them, keeping them from wandering off  and from harm, watching for predators, making friends with the animals. I think about how different that this must have been from his life in a fourth floor walk up in Vienna, where he slept in the kitchen, and the bathroom was not in the apartment but down the hall. How different it must have been walking the peaceful paths of Fahrafeld from the streets of Vienna ever more dangerous with burgeoning anti-Semitism. I  know longer wondered why my father, the city kid, ever considered becoming a Zoologist, or is so kind to animals or when he is a jovial mood says in his retirement he would to raise goats.

I remark that even with all the things that he  helps the shepherd with that there must be a lot time that there is nothing for him to do and I ask him what he does  then. He tells me that he goes off exploring in the woods. That he goes and finds new paths and new places to see in the forest. That he goes looking for birds and animals and that sometimes if his friends have come with them they play the cowboys and Indians that  he has no doubt read about in books he loves. I smile at him and ask “Do you ever get lost?” He replies with the confidence of every ten year old “Never!”

And I think about the countless hours I have spent with my father in the woods. The hikes we have taken…the animals, birds and plants that he has pointed out for me. I remembered  when I was ten and my father, brother and I were hiking in Humboldt National Forest and we had gone far from camp and I told my Dad that I thought we were lost and he had told me in absolute confidence not to worry. I believed him then but now know where that confidence has come from.

I also remember the father’s day five years previous at Skilak Lake when I left my father behind to climb a trail. I wonder what the ten year old I am now sitting with now thought then. I realize how painful  it must have been for him not to be able to take that walk and the funk I felt in the Alaskan woods return for a moment.

The boy says “You want to walk over to the train station.” I nod in agreement and walk down the dusty path our shoes dangling from our hands. I ask “ Do you come here by train.”

“Yes. When it gets warm in the city my mother brings me out. We sit in the back of the train, in third class and it is not so bad unless its really hot and gets really stuffy back there.”

“Can’t you open a window?”

“No, Muti won’t let me. She is frightened that the sparks from coal fire in the engine will light her hair on fire.”

I smile at him and say “Does she stay here all summer with you?”

He shakes his head and says “No. She has to work so she just comes sometimes for a few days. And you want to know a secret? I think I may have some psychic abilities! Sometimes when I hear the train whistle blowing in the distance I try to concentrate really hard on whether or not she is on the train and if I think that she is I will run down to the station to greet her and I almost never wrong!”

I think about the first summer I spent at camp and how I missed my mother and have no trouble imagining how tender and sweet those reunions must have been. How it must have been pretty lonely for both mother and child to be without each other without phone or perhaps even mail to comfort them. I also wonder about this boy’s talk of psychic ability. My father, the scientist, has never talked this way yet I find it very believable.

It is February 1979 and I am in Syracuse, New York.  The night before a snow storm had rattled my windows all evening but it isn’t the storm that has gotten me up so early. It was quiet now a thick layer of white snow lay every where silencing the normally busy apartment complex where I live. I am up because during the night I have an amazingly realistice dream that  has disturbed me. My grandmother Jenny visited me in my sleep and told me that the art deco garnet ring that was my grandfather’s,  and was given to me my dad,  which had been lost since my return from Christmas break, is underneath the front seat of my car. In a stupor and still in my pajamas I walk through the snow drifts to where my orange VW bug is parked and proceed to look where my grandmother has told me to despite the fact that I have looked there before. The ring is exactly where she said it would be. I am surprised and stunned but most delighted that I will not have to tell my father that I have lost my grandfahers ring. I put it on and walk back into the house.

I am sitting on my couch, drinking my first cup of coffee and admiring my ring finger when the phone rings. It is my brother. He is calling to tells me that sometime during the night my grandmother has passed away.

We stop just shy of the train station. It is a simple structure of dark hewn wood with a small home next to it. I have no troubles imagining a steam engine pulling into the station  nor the warm embraces of a mother and son.

We turn around and walk back the way we came and I ask the little boy what he does at night. He tells me that because of the mountains in the west it gets dark pretty early around here so that he usually just goes home and has a simple meal with Aunt Pepi and goes to sleep on a horsehair mattress that she has set up for him. Knowing the curiosity of the boy and of his love of books, I ask him if he reads before he goes to sleep. He says he sometimes does but it is hard becomes his Aunt’s house is without electricity and is only lit by oil lamps.

In the distance I hear the sound of bicycle bell ringing. “Tring Tring Tring Tring”. The ten year old looks up at me and says “It is the ice cream man! Aunt Pepi gave me a some money in case he came today. Would you hold these for me” and with that he hands me his shoes and goes tearing down the path and over the bridge to main road. I watch as a man riding a rickety bicycle with a brown wood case hanging in front of the handle bars  comes to stop in front of the boy. They talk for a little bit and then the man opens up the case and after a few seconds his hand emerges with an ice cream cone that he hands to the boy. The boy walks slowly back constantly licking at the cone so by the time he reaches me it is almost gone. He offers me a bite and when I decline he pops the rest of the cone into his mouth and I hand him back his shoes.

We walk slowly towards the bridge. Along the way I stop and turn around. I want to take a photograph of the train station, as the light is hitting it well. I begin to frame the picture in my lens when I hear from behind me “Bastards!” I spin and look and the ten year old is no where to be found. Instead my father has returned. He points to a telephone poll and shuffles away. I approach where Dad was pointing, and see scrawled on the side of the pole a freshly drawn swastika.

We are back in the car on the outskits of Baden. We have not talked much in the 45 minutes since we left Fahrafeld, both of us lost in our thoughts and reflections. Finally my father says “I hope you don’t mind but I don’t feel like visiting cemeteries today.” I reply that I don’t much feel like visiting cemeteries either but that I can’t remember who is  buried here. He tells me that Pepi’s husband is interred here.  I pause before I ask him the next question not knowing if this is a question to far, and then I say quietly “What happened to Pepi?

He replies “By the time we left in 1939 Pepi was too old to take care of herself anymore so she moved to an old age home in Vienna”his  voice trails off a little bit and finishes with “We had to leave her there.” I say nothing more. I know what the Nazi’s did to old and infirm jews. They were the first to go into the ovens. 

Outside our hotel windows we can hear the sounds of a group of people walking along the street. They are a little drunk and speaking too loudly and although I can not understand a word they are saying I can tell that they have had a good time this evening. I roll over and turn off the light and for a while just lay on back and hear the party goes recede into the distance.

I hear my father roll over and he says ““You know Paul, it really got to me today at Fahrafeld. It is gone for good….never to come back.” I can think of nothing to say to comfort him or the ten year old boy I had met early that day so I just rub his back until we both fall asleep.

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The Green Flash

Five years previously, I was in my car driving my mother to a radiation treatment for her lung cancer when my phone rang. As you can imagine the mood in my car was less than light. I guess some people put on a false front when facing treatment for a disease that has a huge chance in causing your demise, but Mom was not one of them. It is not like she was overly morose or weepy. She was tense and brittle  anticipating her treatment and when I saw that it was Delilah on the phone I thought speaking with her would be a good way to ease the tension. To move Mom’s and my thoughts from disease and death to something lighter and distracting. I answered the phone on speaker. I had barely gotten out “Hi D “ and had not warned that my mother was in the car when she laid into me. Apparently, she had just gotten off the phone with Conor Jr.,  then a sophomore at MIT,  with whom she had just had a knock down drag out fight and for a reason I could not fathom at the time, blamed me for argument.  He had, she said told her that her listening to Fox News was rotting her brain and that her political opinion was racist and woefully ignorant. That her view of Christianity, steeped in the megachurch evangelical community in which she had immersed herself were both heretical to the true precepts of Jesus and hypocritical. That she preached love and understanding but practiced hate and intolerance. She screamed into the phone “You did this to him. You and your New York point of view have stolen his values from him.”

On my back heals from a verbal assault I didn’t see coming and knowing full well what New York point of view meant when dealt by a viewer of Fox News I elegantly responded, “What the fuck do you mean by that.”

“You and your liberal ideas that you put into his head. All those Jewish ideas he gets from the New York Times and other anti-Christian media. It has turned my son against me. I never should have left him into our house.”

I guess I could have been a good Christian and turned the other cheek. But as she pointed out I am Jewish, a son of a holocaust survivor and someone who has had to fight against insipient antisemitism most of my life. (They called me matzoh king of the Jews in High School) her triggered nothing but anger and rage.

“Who the fuck do you think you are calling me on  the phone and accusing me of corrupting your son and blaming Jews for corrupting his values. Are you insane? You spent every day with him for twenty years and suddenly I am the problem and Jews are to blame. You talk to him every day and I maybe speak with him once the month and his opinions and thoughts are my fault. Perhaps it would be more useful for you to take a look in the mirror than call and yelling at me while I am taking my mother to radiation therapy.”

“I don’t need to look in a mirror. I know where he got these anti-Christian ideas from. Whenever you would come to visit I would spend weeks trying to deprogram him and Finn from your ideas. I told Conor I never liked having you in our home.”

I flashed red. Not necessarily a great thing to have happen when you are driving a car. But this was too much. I always thought I was the welcome addition to their house. Uncle Daniel. The guy who took care of Delilah when she couldn’t get out of bed for fear of losing her baby. The Uncle who bought the kids their first hot fudge Sundae. The man who got took them to Yankee Stadium with tickets behind home plate on the rail. The guy who whenever he came to visit would take the family to Morton’s or Chops or some other fancy restaurant for an opulent meal not just for fun but to teach them what to do when they went to fine restaurants. The link to their roots who reveled in telling the boys stories about their grandfather because they needed to know, and I wanted them to know, about their legacy. Now this woman, whom I had introduced to her husband is telling me that I was never welcome in her home.?”

“You know what Delilah. You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I will never set foot in you home again. “ And then  I had the good sense to hang up. There was silence in the car for a few miles and then my sweet, Ferragamo wearing loafer, never leave the house without putting on lipstick mother said “What a cunt.”

I called Conor later that day and told him what had happened. I said “This is all kind of fucked up. I don’t need to tell you why. You get it. And she can be as mad as me she wants even if it is stupid and fucked up. But man, I can never stay in your house again. Never. Not because of animosity or anger. But because if she has been harboring all this hate for me for years, and saying nothing, how can I feel welcome when I know somewhere lurking beneath the surface is this hostility. Can’t do it.”

He replied, “I will take care of it.”

Later that day, I got a call from Delilah. I didn’t answer it. I let it go to voicemail. Her message was a tnon apologies,  apologies.  She said that she was sorry for the tenor of the conversation but that she meant what she had said. As she didn’t ask for forgiveness, I saw no reason to speak with her. My relationship with Conor didn’t change except I never set foot in his house again. My relationship with his boys Conor Jr (Con) and Finn continued through emails, texts, and the occasional visit I never saw Delilah again.

That is until four years ago at my wedding.  

In 2012, I was in desperate need of a break. I had spent most of my free time over the previous two years being a caregiver for my father. In 2010, he had fallen and injured himself so badly that he could no longer walk. A pattern of hospital, rehab center, home had developed where I became the child that helped both parents cope driving them to Dr’s appointments, or taking Mom to the hospitals and rehabilitation centers, or just sitting with my father and talking. It was traumatic. Not only dealing with the inevitability of your parent’s mortality on a daily basis but dealing with the indignities that they were forced to deal with wiping your old man’s ass or changing his catheter. And even though Dad’s constant refrain was “Don’t break your ass over me” and my always reply “Don’t worry it is already cracked” It ground me down like a knife that had been sharpened too many times and could no longer keep an edge.

Then the Costa Concordia hit a rock and sank off the cost of Italy killing 34 passengers. It made great video footage and all the news outlets covered it extensively. I had never been on a cruise before. Never had any desire but for some reason I decided to check the Costa website. I thought that due to the tragedy that their cruises might be bargained price and afford me a champagne vacation for beer prices. I was right. An 18 day cruise from Santos, Brazil to Savona Italy all inclusive with a balcony stateroom was less that $1,500. I booked it on the spot hoping that it would restore me and give me the opportunity to find a little bit of the joy that had been knocked from me over the last couple of years.

I was not expecting to find a wife. But I did. On the third night of the cruise I was seated next to a stunning Brazilian lawyer named Nadine and by the time we said our farewells at the end of our cruise I knew that I had found my great love. An intercontinental romance had commenced punctuated by the deaths of both of our fathers and long flights between Rio and New York City and culminated 9 months later in a proposal of and acceptance of marriage.

We decided to get married that summer, in my parents’ backyard,  among a select group of family and friends. I asked  Conor to be my best man and for the boys to be there for their “Uncle’s” big day. I knew, of course, that this meant that Delilah would have to attend. At that point it had been almost five years since we had talked. I figured the scar tissue over the wound had healed enough at that point those whatever uncomfortable feelings we had for each other had faded into whisper. And by and large I was correct. She, besides being a little bossy with Nadine, she was helpful and thoughtful. And the good will produced by that wedding allowed was enough to allow me to be here in their new home.

I am not saying that the animosity had subsided. A bell once wrong cannot be un-rung. But it was enough to reduce it to a minor case of tinnitus.

“Nothing Del” I said “Your husband and I were just discussing whether or not the green flash exists or whether or not it is myth invented by hippies and drug dealers to get us to stare at the setting sun. What do you think?”

She made no move to embrace me. Perhaps it was the oversized glass of red wine in her hand. Or perhaps some other unspoken reason. It didn’t really matter but it made for an awkward moment that was only relieved when she took a seat on one of the deck chairs on the side of Conor farthest from me. Her welcome, or lack thereof, made me realize that Conor’s insistence that I stay with them, was his idea and not embraced by Delilah. I was thinking how awkward this was going to be over the next few days when she said “People around here talk about the Green Flash all the time. You always see people walking out to the pier at sunset to watch it. Our neighbor Phyllis, she and her husband sit have cocktails every night on their deck and watch for it. “

“But have you ever seen it?”

“Well, no but….”

“That is what I was telling Conor. It is hooh-hah designed by some chamber of commerce to get people to come to the beach and spend money at their stores and restaurant” I said with what I hoped was more than a touch of snark to my voice.

I could tell from the nearly invisible smile on my buddies face that he had heard my comments the way they were intended. I was throwing a verbal hand grenade into the room and seeing what would happen. Or said another way, just adding a little spice to the conversation to make it more lively and fun. It was an element of my sense of humor. An element I might add that was shared by Conor and had been honed in us by Conor’s Dad who loved to inject a bit of contrarianism or fit of fantasy in a conversation for fun. I had forgotten than in this regard (and dare I say many others) Delilah lacked a sense of humor.

She replied with earnestness “Well, it just has to be true. Phyllis would not make it up. She has lived here all her life and she says she had seen it. So I believe her.”

Conor chuckled. I may have too. Which I could see instantly was a very bad idea as Delilah’s face turned stormy. Rule one should be “never tease your hostess.” Especially if she doesn’t particularly like you, has little or no sense of humor, and you get her husband to join in. Her voice tinged with ice said “Well, why don’t we just sit and watch and perhaps then  you will see that you have been wrong.”

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The Green Flash

Chapter 1:

“The green flash should happen at any moment.”

The speaker of that line was my best friend, if people still use that phrase,  for the past 45 years, Conor Sean Kennedy. We were on the deck of his apartment in Manhattan Beach watching the sun make its terminal plunge into the Pacific. This view, the nightly reverence for the final moments of the day was still new to him and in he was showing it off in the proud way a friend might show off a new car. The intention was not to rub your nose in how wonderful his life was but to share delight (excuse the pun) in where his life had taken him. He had reached a new pinnacle in his life and he was savoring it.

I understood. After all isn’t that what best friends are for. To share in and celebrate each other’s successes. I also knew that it was all new to him. This view, the apartment, the city and state still had a new car smell to it. They were all just weeks old.  A month before he and his wife had been empty nesters in a McMansion in a suburb of Atlanta. Running a second phase start up in the tech sector (I was never quite sure of what they did) that was struggling to find traction when out of the blue a former colleague had invited him to join Lloyds of London and head up their west coast business. The job carried with it the stink of prestige,  a huge salary and overall package that could make him a wealthy man in just a few years

When he had first told me about the job, I knew he would take it even though that decision was less obvious to him. He had invested so much time in his startup that he was reluctant to leave despite the business having seriously drained his bank balances. He had a streak of stubborn in him, always had, that made him believe that given a little more runway, a little more money, his foray into entrepreneurship would make him wealth as Mark Cuban. But the boy loved prestige. It was baked into him from our days of growing up in a tory suburb of New York City. His father had been a President of a small securities firm and the life he had was that of entitlement and privilege, two things that don’t necessarily greenhouse entrepreneurs. Working for the most well-known company in his industry was something that appealed to his ego. I am not criticizing. All of us have egos and while Finn’s was more developed than most, I think most would of us would feel boosted by landing one of the top jobs in our profession.

I also so knew from our near daily phone calls that he missed the perks that came with corporate life:  big salary, ridiculous expense account and worldwide first-class travel. All things he used to have and had lost when after a series corporate merger he had lost in the adult version of musical chairs and was forced out of his company of 20 years. He had received a great package and ventured out to set the world on fire with his business and investing acumen. Not only because he felt he had the skillset for it but also, as he once put it “to prove something to those motherfuckers.” He had not failed in that goal. He had survived. But he hadn’t succeeded either. In addition to the inner sense of failure you get when you don’t achieve as much as you had hoped  to.

If our high school yearbook had a category “most likely to move to California” Conor would have won in a runaway. He was blonde, handsome, glib, charming and with a near constant horniness that sabotaged any effort he would make towards more serious relationships. He also worshipped the sun, the beach and the water in the way an acolyte would a deity. He loved nothing more than going to the beach,  slathering on Coppertone dark tanning oil (despite his Irish pale skin) and spend his days body surfing, and admiring bikini upholstery.

The chance to live in California, by the beach, and live the life he always dreamed of I knew would be irresistible.

I felt, like he did, that it was his destiny to be here.

“Bullshit”

“What is bullshit.”

“The green flash is bullshit. It is in the same category as green sparks from wintergreen lifesavers chewed in the dark. A modern fairytale. Doesn’t exist. A myth created so people feel justified in watching the sunset into the ocean.”

“I have seen it.”

“Sure you have…show me a picture.”

“I am sure I can find one on the internet.”

“Yeah, and everything on the internet is certainly true.”

At this point, we were both chuckling. He with the deep belly laugh that he had inherited from his father and my own laugh come from that deep inside place where real amusement grows. Our exchange was a summation of our relationship where neither one of us took each other so seriously that we would accept without question what the other said. In fact, it was more likely to be the contrary, where we would find a way to poke a hole in the balloon of our pretension. Not of meanness, but to remind us that we each knew each other to well to try to bullshit each other. Or at least that is what I thought.

Besides busting balls is what men  do to show affection.

“What are you two boys laughing at?” Conor and I both turned to see Delilah standing at the sliding glass doors that separated their apartment for the deck. I immediately stood up to greet her. She had not been at home when I arrived an hour ago, which if I were to be honest, I was grateful for despite the fact that she and I had once been great friends.

I had met Delilah shortly after I had graduated from Syracuse. We had both been accepted in IBM’s legendary sales training program. The program and job were everything that I could have hoped for back then. A salary that was way above what my peers were receiving in their first jobs, training that would be useful regardless of what path I took in life….the ability to sell people on  ideas and concepts is useful whether you’re a rabbi or a lawyer and at the time, the largest part of the job was sitting in a classroom learning the IBM selling technique and memorizing the FAB (features-advantages-benefits) of the product. It provided a lot of time to daydream which I was particularly adept at especially when it came to contemplating the few women who were my class. By the nature of the selection process, which while enlightened for the day, still had a long way to go as far as rooting out sexism, the females in our class were selected not only for their businessmen acumen, they were aggressive and smart, but for their looks. In both areas, Del was top of the class. Tall and slim with the Nordic features and flouncy shag cut hair that seem to define that era’s “it” girls, I thought I could sense a “wildness” underneath the modestly cut, shoulder padded, business suit with matching Pirate blouse with built in oversized bow tie.

 I made it a mini mission to take her out a date. I was not particularly slick in my attempts. That was not my most developed skill set. But what I lacked in style I made it with sincerity which is why I was almost always thrown in the friend zone.  I kept asking her stupid questions about material we had in class or ridiculous questions about the future of the technology we were using (Fax machines were in their infancy and the first home PC’s were still a few years away.)  Delilah knew  what I was up to or at least that is what she told me later and eventually we agreed to go out for drinks after work.  Thinking back on  it after all these years, I can still recall the exact moment that I knew that there was not going to be a love or for that matter a lust connection. We were talking about where we grew up and our backgrounds when she brought up the subject of “how she had been saved” and how here “personal relationship” with Christ was the single most important thing in her life.  I am not against religion. I am not against Christianity, per se. However, I am the son of a Holocaust survivor and had a strong defense against any who proselytized too fervent a belief in God. In this case with Delilah, it poured ice water  on any lusty notions I was erecting. Eliminating the sexual tension allowed for a relaxed evening of conversation and backgammon (we still played board games back then). At some point it struck me that this woman was just Conor’s cup of tea. This was more an intellectual leap of faith than some magical check list. I thought, instead of knowing that the two of them would click.

Turned out my hunch was correct. I introduced the two of them and soon they were a couple, and we were often a troika. No not that way, not my thing, but in most other things. Barbara became a regular at the beach house Rich and I had rented in Spring Lake New Jersey, and we would spend weekends as sun worshippers and party hounds.  When Rich’s father died of lung cancer, and he fell apart, she and  helped him up. When he developed a taste for cocaine that he could not control she led him it was she and I that helped him confront his addiction and move beyond it. When they fought or hurt each other’s feelings I was the one each turned to as mediator and confidant. While likely not the healthiest of ways to manage relationships it worked as in relatively short order they were engaged and married.

When Conor’s job transferred him to Saudi Arabia our relationship did not weaken. It just changed. I would send them the latest videotapes ( pre streaming technology that required an advance degree to master recording the correct shows) and exchanged frequent letters (things people used to send each other before email, Zoom and texts) When they would get leave I and whomever I was dating at the time would meet them. We had raucous and    which at its conclusion l uttered words I had a o introduced the two of them and been there for every major point in their relationships from their wedding to the birth of children. At one point where I had even taken two weeks off from work to come live with them when she was confined to bed in the last few months of her pregnancy with their second son, Liam. I became an honorary Uncle to the boys with frequent visits and sharing with them experiences that I hoped would sweeten their lives like taken them for their first hot fudges sundaes or arranging for front row seats at Yankee Stadium.

It was all good until it went bad.

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Daniel’s River

Dawn was breaking over the Hudson. The giant grey brown snake that slithers between the Upper West Side of Manhattan and the Palisades of New Jersey was shedding its night skin and transforming itself into the golden beast of opportunity and new hope each dawn offered.  Off in the distance he could see the palisades being framed in the startling yellow of the new day, revealing a mosaic of houses, cars and trees on the far shore. In the foreground, were the twisted girders of the old ferry docks where trains from New Jersey used to be transferred to New York before the tunnels had been built.  The original owners had left them to rot and the city when it had decided to rehab the waterfront many years later had left them as their wreckage had become a landmark and at this hour of morning a beautiful piece of modern art. Other than the clink clank sound of the occasional car running across a seam in the nearby West Side Highway it was quiet enough to hear the lapping of the river against the shore.

Daniel sat on a bench that was on a small bluff just above the river. It was surrounded by freshly planted indigenous grasses that the Parks Department thought more beautiful and easier to maintain than a traditional lawn. He could not agree more. When he had discovered the place almost a year before he had been drawn to it because of its dichotomy of being both in the city and of nature at the same time. It is where he went when he was seeking refuge from the city he both loved and hated. It is where he went when he was seeking refuge from himself.

This morning he had come for both reasons.

Last night he had only been asleep for a short time when a recurring nightmare had awakened him screaming in a terror that was just beyond his grasp. Mia, his girlfriend of many years had barely stirred in the bed next to him yet he was breathless and his heart was pounding. Knowing that he would not fall asleep soon he got him from the bed, put on the sweats he just taken off and made his way to the living room and the comfortable chair he liked to work in. But instead of writing as he often did at times likes these he just gazed in the darkness and tried to make sense of why this dream that had been dormant for so long had suddenly reawakened.

In the dream his father and he were walking along a pathway made of yellow white rock that he knew to be Jerusalem Stone. The day was bright and the reflection off the white stone made him squint in spite of the dark sunglasses he was wearing. The path was leading them to what looked like the entrance to a cave underneath a grassy hillock. The opening in the hill was surrounded by small pillars made of the same stone that lined the pathway. Daniel knew where they were.  They were at Yad Vashem, the hand of god, the holocaust museum in Jerusalem and were walking up to memorial that been created to honor and commemorate the 1.5 innocent children who were murdered by the Nazi’s. Daniel froze in his tracks. He did not want to enter the structure. He was afraid. But his father called to him urging him on telling him they had to go in. They needed to honor the children who would never know a future. He told his father to go on ahead of him but he would have none of that.  Instead his father grabbed his hand and pulled him inside the mouth of the cave.

It took his eyes awhile to adjust to the sudden darkness of the room after the blinding light of the Jerusalem afternoon. When his vision had adjusted enough to see it appeared that he was standing in the middle of the firmament surrounded by a universe of stars. As he could see more clearly he realized that they were not stars at all, but memorial candles, the traditional way Jews honor the dead, reflected infinitely in a series of mirror that had been cleverly placed by the designers. His father pulled at his arm and began to walk him through the memorial. In the background he could hear a voice slowly calling out the name of the dead. “Uziel Spiegel, Age 2.5, Auschwitz, Yitzah Diamansky, Age 1, Treblinka,  Rachel Hess, Age 4, Bergen Belsen.”

They had paused for a second to listen to the names and to stare at the infinite candles when they heard “Baby Boy Damroche, never born, Lenox Hill Hospital.” Daniel’s heart stopped. How had they known? He turned to explain but his father dropped his hand and pushed his way past people to get to the exit. Daniel ran after him. The light blinded him when he got outside but he could see that his father had made his way over to a stone bench that overlooked the memorial. He was hunched over, head in hands and Daniel could tell by the convulsions of his back that he was crying. Daniel walked over to him and knelt in front of him and said “Pops, I can explain….”

When his father looked up his face was flush and there were tear tracks his cheeks.  “How could you Daniel…how could you dishonor those who died…how could you deny our family its legacy…how could you have forgotten….how could my son do this to his family.”

Daniel got up from the big chair and made his way to the kitchen. He knew that he wasn’t going back to sleep tonight. He was far too restless and did not want to re-experience the dream again so coffee seemed to be the right answer for now. Cup in hand he returned to his chair and his thoughts.

It was hard to believe that it had been over 15 years

It is a bright August day and Daniel and his wife are at an apartment that they have rented at the Jersey Shore for the summer. The window was open to catch the breeze coming off the ocean. The sounds of the beach is coming through the window: Waves breaking, radios playing, people laughing, airplanes flying overhead towing signs. They are arguing which is not unusual. They have known each other a long time and they have turned into one of those couples who communicate via sparring. However this is not like the arguments they normally have. It is far more heated. Both of them are doing their best imitations of heavyweight fighters and are literally going toe to toe.

Daniel’s wife has just told him that she is pregnant. They have been married for less than a year practicing birth control and she is with child. He is freaking out not only because it is too soon but because he has realized almost from the beginning that their marriage was a mistake. Daniel is not behaving well. He is feeling very betrayed as if this pregnancy was something that she had planned secretly behind his back. He demands that she tell  him how this could have happened.  She responds by lying to him  and saying that these things sometimes  just happen knowing full well that she had stopped taking the pill months before.

Daniel paces around the room. He tells her that he doesn’t feel ready to have a family yet. That they don’t have enough money in the bank, that they are too much debt, they have not been married long enough. He doesn’t tell her, because he lacks the intestinal fortitude, that he knows this marriage is not going to last and that the last thing he really wants to do is bring a child into a marriage that will not survive.

She tells him that she wants to have this child. That she is ready for the burden. That money doesn’t matter. That debt does not matter. That our marriage may be young but we have known each other forever. This child will make our marriage stronger.

Daniel continues to pace and preach sturm and drang. He tells her that he doesn’t think that having a child will help their relationship. The stress that this child would produce would blow them apart. He repeats over and over again his feeling of  betrayal and how he feels that she had decided this whole thing on her own and is presenting it to him as if it were a fait d’acompli. Daniel feels that his world is about to get very small and he is scared.

She counter punches with what Daniel has reminded her all too often. How much he wants to make his father a grandfather. How he wants to have a son for him to begin to rebuild our family all but wiped out in the camps. How he has often imagined what it would be like to place a baby in his father’s arms and tell him his name: Marcus….his fathers fathers name. It would be the greatest gift that he could give his father and this child would be the beginning of that dream.

Daniel says he knows what she has said is true but still he doesn’t know if it is enough.  He lets her know that he worries that if he brings a child into this world this way the resentment he would feel would last a lifetime. That he fears that those feelings would affect how he feel about the child and about her. Daniel argues with passion about this even though he has a feeling in the pit of his stomach that they may be making a decision he will regret. She senses his fear and asks “Do you think that you will ever get over the resentment.” Daniel tell her no, he doesn’t think he will.

It is September and Daniel is walking down E 76th St. in Manhattan. The air is crisp and you can sense that before too long the trees will begin to turn color. The summer seems far away.

No one except Daniels wife knows where he is. His boss believes that he is having a medical procedure done today and will not be in. His parents believe he is traveling for business. He is on my way to Lenox Hill Hospital to meet his wife.  Daniel has bullied his wife into having an abortion.

When they meet at the front entrance they go inside and take the elevator up the clinic. They hold hands and wait for their name to be called. Eventually, a nurse comes to take her down the hall for the procedure and they hug before he watches her disappear behind the double doors that lead to the surgery.

The waiting room is mostly empty. Those who are there do their best to avoid looking at each other. There is no doubt in Daniels mind that no one here feels good at about what we are doing. He does his best to try and convince himself that they are doing the right thing. They are not ready for children. They don’t have enough money. They don’t own a home…They don’t whether the marriage will last…..He goes through the litany of reasons over and over again….But as he sits in the quiet of the waiting room where no one looks at each other he is beset with doubts as well…Are they taking a life…Is this a sin against God…Is this his only chance to have a child… is she okay…Will she ever be able to have baby…Can they find any happiness after this.

The nurse calls Daniels and takes him to his wife. She is lying in a bed in the recovery room, her face pale, her eyes closed. She looks uncomfortable. He strokes her cheek with the back of palm and says “Hey, how are you?” She says she is fine but wants to sleep a while and so he sits next to her while she dozes. He leans over to kiss her on the cheek. She holds him next to her and whispers in his ear “It was a boy.”

Outside the windows of his apartment the streets begin to stir. He can hear the bass notes of the bus passing by and the whine and crash of a garbage truck collecting its stock and trade. Pretty soon it will be dawn and the new day begun. Daniel knows that he needs to write down the emotions that he is feeling. That he needs to examine what he is feeling so that do not force themselves out in other ways that would be far more destructive. He needs to figure out these feelings so that he could move on.

He picks up the computer and lets it power on. As it is in perpetual stand-by mode it boots quickly. Daniel opens the file named bbbanks for baby boy Banks. It contains photographs that have been taken of the newest addition to the Damroche clan,  Zachary Arron Banks born just a week ago. BZ Bee, as Daniel has taken to calling him is the first male born into the family in nearly 50 years and the look on his fathers face when he held his grandson for the first time –a look of love combined with awe shaped with the satisfaction of finally fulfilling a long held goal- almost drove him from the room. He stayed and watched as his big bear of father was turned into a cooing machine by this 7lb 1oz miracle. It brought back to him all the things that could have been and never were but then again those thoughts were never farther away than the sounds of children playing. But he was pretty sure that the birth of his nephew alone would cause his nightmare to reappear after an absence of so many years.

The first picture in the file was a close up of the baby’s face while being held by his sister. The baby’s cap was a little askance but you could clearly see the Damroche family features on his face, the serious brow, the strong nose, and cupid like lips. In other baby Zack was a pre-shrunk version of his father. He smiled but the picture also brought back memories of yet another time in his life.

It was early February 2002 and Daniel had been watching the sun set over lower Manhattan and New Jersey from his offices his 27th Floor office at Sports.com. The sky was alight in pink, purples and grays and he could tell by the thin white strips of clouds in the sky that it was both cold and windy outside. He looked south and saw the empty sky where the towers used to be. Just a few months before he had watched as that nightmare had unfolded. He had heard the first jet as it flew over head. He had seen the second jet slam into the south tower. He had watched with unbelieving eyes the collapse of the first and then the second tower. Then the nightmare of a walk home in a city so quiet you could hear your fellow refugees’ foot steps. He remembered walking through Central Park and seeing clusters of people sitting on the grass in a circle around a radio while fighter jets screamed across the sky. He recalled that someone had placed a single rose on the “Imagine” mosaic in Strawberry Fields.

Like most New Yorkers let alone most Americans that day had really rocked him. Ground that was once solid now quivered. Values once closely held were now re-examined more closely and the conviction that tomorrow was another day replaced with the certainty that none of us is owed anything beyond the present.

It was not unusual for Daniel to awaken at 3AM and be unable to fall asleep as his mind raced. “What was he doing with his life? What thing of value had he contributed to anyone but himself? What would be left of him after he was gone? Would he die alone? Is there something after this?  Would anyone ever care he existed? What is it we truly leave behind when we go? Aren’t children the only real contribution most of make to society? Would Mia ever relent and have children…..” These sessions of self doubt, insignificance, and fear would usually result with him climbing out of bed at 5:30 in the morning and heading for the gym for a run before work. His eyes had developed deep circles and the feeling of warmth and safety that he usually felt at home had morphed into a sense of being shut in and trapped.

Tonight those emotions were front and center. Daniel could not bear the thoughts of walking through the dark, cold and brownstone lined streets of the upper west side. They seemed so noir and foreboding. The idea of an evening in his apartment alone eating take out food and watching the Discovery Channel made him feel like a character in a Dickens’s or an O’Henry story….a person who had no life and no legacy…An individual in every worse sense of that word. It made him yearn for a family of his own.

Daniel sat down at his desk and picked up the phone and dialed his sister Marisol’s phone number. 10 years his junior she was the sibling that he never knew that he wanted and while he was a kid he had done almost everything in the world that he could to do to torment her. But that had all changed when he had returned home from college. The baby 8 year old he had left behind had been transformed in a wonderful and charming young lady. Their relationship changed. She became one his best friends and he tried to do all that he could to spoil her and make up for the years that he had tormented her.

Luckily she was home and even more fortunate she had no dinner plans. Oliver, her husband, was away on a business trip and the plans she had made had fallen through. The hard part was picking a place to eat. She was a foodie in the truest sense of the word while he was jaded after many years of expense account meals. The good news is that they were both in the mood for the same time of place. They wanted a restaurant that had both warmth and style, where the food tended to be simple and real not precious. They want a place that had a conviviality that was palpable from the moment you walked in the door. They eventually decided on a restaurant called Tonic. Located on a side street in Chelsea, it was a converted turn of the century saloon that had two distinct areas. The dining room which offered elegant dining in 19th century style including, high ceilings,  gas lamps and huge sprays of flowers and the lovingly restored saloon with brass fixtures, dark wood banquets, and a white tile floor. The food served was best described as comfort food. It was the only place Daniel had ever ordered Pot Roast from the menu.

His glasses fogged the minute he walked into the restaurant. After he had wiped them off he could see that he and Marisol were not the only ones who didn’t want to be at home tonight. The bar was tightly packed with a mixture of neighborhood people and business folk. As he searched for his sister he could hear people laughing and see men and women conduct the mating dance that was quite particular to bars in New York City. He was happy to see it. For months after 9-11 people had hunkered down and nested and while that might be good for other parts of the country it was oddly unsettling in the city that never sleeps. He thought “Pretty soon people will stop being so nice to each other and the city can get back to normal.”  The thought made him smile. Only in New York would someone wish for a return to what some people might mistake for rudeness but he had always thought of as being the direct and honest expression of feelings.

He made his way through the crowd at the bar and saw that Marisol was waiting for him at Maitre Ds Podium. She was chatting up the hostess, no doubt trying to get them a choice table. He walked up to her and they hugged and it was all he could do to keep himself from crying. The emotion had snuck up on him but he was not completely surprised by it. The last few months had made him reexamine his life and as a consequence his emotions were never too far from the surface. But it was also more than that. It was seeing his sister and realizing not for the first time how well she lived up to the meaning of her name “sunlit sea.” She made him feel like he was a part of something bigger than himself and that he was valued and loved and no matter what road he decided to follow with his life she would be with him unconditionally.

Marisol’s work on the hostess paid off. They were given one of the few old style dark wood banquets that lined one wall of the tavern part of the restaurant. The table of the banquet was rough hewn wood that you used to see in bars in college towns with initials scratched in them. These had no messages scrawled into them but the texture and look of the wood brought him back to far more innocent and simple time in his life and he was grateful for it.

“Danny, you are the beverage maven. What should we be drinking this evening.”

“Are you thinking of having wine?”

“Doesn’t go with the Mac and Cheese I am planning on having tonight.”

“Ok. Hmmm. It’s cold out. This place makes me feel like we are back in the days of Tammany Hall and we are going to have food that is solidly all American so it has to be Bourbon.”

“Mamma  bourbon” replied Marisol doing her best impression of Homer Simpson. “Now what kind?”

This made Daniel smile. He knew when he was being played. Marisol had been adept at manipulating the men of her family practically from the time she sprung from the womb. He could remember observing her interact with their father after he had returned from college and saw how she wrapped him around her finger by just always asking him questions and listening as if he was the anointed one. She was doing that to him now and he really didn’t care. He loved the fact that she sensed that he needed tender loving care and was providing it to him without him having to ask.

“Why don’t we have some Bookers Noe. It is bottled at full strength, 120 proof, so you have to be careful to mix in a decent amount of water, but it is a single cask whiskey and the distiller is the great grandson of Jack Daniels himself so it is wonderfully warm and chewey.”

When their drinks arrived Daniel toasted his sister “To my sister, and my friend, thanks for coming out with me tonight. I needed to be with someone and I can’t think of a person that I would rather be with than you.”

They clinked glasses, sipped their bourbon, and made small talk as the brown liquid slowly worked its magic. They ordered dinner and another round of drinks when Danny saw that Marisol was looking at him a little oddly. “What.”

“You are my brother and I love you and I am a little drunk so I can say this.”

“What.”

“You look like shit. You have been circles under your eyes. You are slouching. You look grey and you don’t have any spark. You look like shit and I want to know why.”

So Daniel explained about the sleepless nights. The questions that had been plaguing him since the Twin Towers had fallen. How each night he lay in bed tossing and turning trying to figure how to navigate this river of life…that he was looking for meaning and finding little and how lost that made him feel. Worse than that he thought he knew at least some of the answers to the questions but felt powerless to reach them.

“Like what…”

“Like having a family. Like having children. These late night sessions have reminded me that all I have wanted all my life is a home…a wife to adore and be adored by…children to love and cherish. I am 44 fucking years old and the only thing of value in life just seems beyond my reach.”

“What about Mia?”

“What about her?”

“Does she want a family…does she want to have children.”

“That is such a complicated answer I don’t know even know where to begin. A good part of the time I don’t even know is she wants to have a relationship. Not because she doesn’t love me. I know that she does but because she has so many walls that she puts up and every time I think that I have scaled the last one she seems to erect another that is higher and more difficult to climb. It is as if I have to constantly prove my devotion and love even though I provide mine unconditionally.”

“But does she want to have a family?

“I don’t know. It is hard enough to get her to commit to the relationship….she says that she is open to anything but that she has serious reservations about having children. She says that she is probably too old to have them….probably too old to change her life style around to accommodate children.”

“What did you say to her when she said that to you?”

“I asked her if she didn’t feel like there was something missing from her life because she didn’t have children. And she replied that she had lots of nieces and nephews, that she was godmother to more, and that she felt that was enough. And then I asked doesn’t it feel like something is missing from her life and she no.”

“So she really did give you an answer then didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did but she also held the door open for me to change her mind.”

“Do you think that you will.”

“What?”

“Change her mind?”

Daniel thought for a second, then took a sip of his Bourbon, looked Marisol in the eyes and said “No.” They were quiet for a while… Daniel trying to figure out what to do with the understandings that this conversation had produced, and Marisol trying to figure out what to say to both comfort and guide her brother.

“Marisol can I ask you a question that I have never asked because I thought it was rude and intrusive but I have always wondered about it and I need to know the answer tonight more than ever.”

When she nodded her head he asked “Are you and Oliver going to have Babies.”

She smiled and replied “We are trying Danny. You never know what is going to happen but we are trying.”

Daniel looked down at the the table trying to hide the emotions that were just under the surface.  “Can I be there favorite Uncle….the one who takes them to cool places and spoils them rotten. The one they call when they are getting on with Mom and Dad. The one whose Christmas present they always want to open up first but save for last because they know it is going to be so much fun. If I never have babies, and even I do can I treat yours like they are my own?”

Marisol watched the tears rolling his face and said “Danny my children will your children.”

Daniel blinked back the tears that the recollection of that evening had produced. Marisol had proven good to her word. When his niece Emily had been born she had made sure that Daniel was a part of her life and a very special bond had been created between them. Anyone who had heard  him speak of his niece, or saw them together, knew that their relationship was special. He wondered what shape his relationship with baby Zach would take. He knew it would be good but would it be as special as it was Emily?

He heard the sound of a comforter rustling in the other room. It was followed by the pad of footsteps out of the bedroom and into bathroom. After a flush the foot steps returned, followed by the sound of the bed creaking and the comforter being moved again. Mia had not even noticed that he wasn’t in bed and that made him both sad and angry.  Angry because it hurt his ego and pride that not being in bed would go without notice. He knew that if the shoe had been on the other foot that he would have gone looking for her. People had different styles and personalities and that was fine but he really thought of it as being more symbolic of a bigger truth.

It was the bigger truth that made him sad. Would she miss him if he wasn’t around any longer? His suspicion for sometime had been that he was not really her partner. Partners are missed and there loss mourned. But he wasn’t her partner and despite his efforts to create the relationship of equals he sought he was beginning to see that this would never be. He had often mused that he was more like an accessory.  One that generally spiced up the outfit, made it complete, and presented a good image to the outside world but an accessory none the less.  And what happened to accessories when they are lost or lose their charm? They are either put into a drawer never to be seen again or there loss mourned until a ready replacement found.

He had no desire to live a sad, angry, and replaceable life. It was not in his nature. He was determined to find a path that led him to peace and happiness, no matter how fleeting they may be. No matter if that path to them was lined with loneliness and heartbreak. He felt he owed to himself. He also felt he owed to his relatives who not had a chance at a life, whose life had been cut short because of anger and hate to live a life of joy and renewal.

He thought he owed himself and his family love. Did he love Mia? He knew that on many levels he did. She was a kind decent woman moreover she had a heart that was generally in the right place. But was that enough? Her desire to live a life without the burden of children had demonstrated certain selfishness about her that he had not seen before. Not the petty type of egocentricity that children demonstrate when they don’t want to share their toys but a self centeredness that resided far closer to the soul and while not evil was insidious none the less.

The blare of a fire engine’s siren broke his concentration. He put the computer on the table next to him and went to the window to see if he could see what was happening. The fire engine had stopped in front of the building across the street, its flashing red lights reflecting off the windows in the pre-dawn light. The firemen were rushing off the truck into the apartment house. His first thought was that he hoped that everyone was okay. That there were no injuries and the firefighters could leave this place without harm. His second thought was that his three year old niece would think this as neat as can be and he would have to remember her all about it when he called her later that day.

As he sat back down in his chair, he ruminated on the thought that the first person that he wanted to tell about the excitement outside his window was Emily. It reminded him of a conversation that he had with mother many years before

.

It was just after lunch and he was in office. The door was closed and Daniel had been quietly crying for a few moments. Normally he did not indulge in feeling sorry for himself. To him it was a waste of time. What was, was. Your job in life was to press on, to find a way out of whatever mess you happen to be in, and run and catch happiness if you could. He also knew that he was human. He realized that there were times that no matter how disciplined one was in searching for the bright side that one found darkness instead. When those moments happened he knew that the best way to get beyond it was to experience it for a while and then use the anger and frustration that these feeling are sure to generate to climb above it.

This day had been one of those days where no matter how hard he had tried he could not seem to find the sunlight.  He had a conversation with his soon to be ex-wife over their property settlement. They did not really have a lot of things to split but he thought he had taken great care to be fair to divide up their possessions in a way that gave them both what they had wanted. However she had not seen that way.  She had wanted a number of items that she had loved but were keepsakes from his family. He knew that she was really negotiating for something else that she really wanted but had lost his temper anyway. Not as much because of what she had said but more because of what they had become. They were once a couple who had cared if not loved each other immensely. Now they were arguing over petty things and doing so in petty ways.

What frustrated him more and scared him more was the fact that he had no idea how he gotten here. How could something like love that seemed so simple to other people be so difficult to him? Why he couldn’t find the one thing in life that he really wanted: a soul mate? What was it about him that kept him from finding the dreams he was looking for? Did he even understand what love was? Was he somehow missing the point?

Each question, each piece of self doubt seemed to drive him deeper and deeper into despair. He knew that this could not continue. That this darkness would take him to places he did not want to visit and more immediately he needed to get back to work unless he wanted to turn his life into a true nightmare. Daniel wondered who he could talk to help him through to the other side. He picked up the phone and dialed the only number he could think to dial at the time.

“Hello.”

“Hi Mom.”

“Hey baby, how are you?”

“I am having a bad day Mom. I feel like some one has unscrewed the top of my skull and poured dirt inside my head and started stirring it was a dirty stick. I am just so frustrated that everything I seem to touch right now is turning to shit.”

“What do you think set you off.”

“Well, Abby and I are trying to figure out the property settlement. It turns out she wants one of Aunt Helene’s paintings and she also wants some of Grandma’s furniture. She claims that she needs them to start a new life but I think she is really trying for something else even though I can’t figure out quite what she wants.”

“So why is that so frustrating to you Danny. You have never been that into things per se.”

“It is not the things. Even though those our families things if it was just them I would let her have them in an instant. It’s really more what has become of her and me. I mean for Christ sakes we used to love each other and now we are finding over things that are just not that important to either one of us. “

“So what is frustrating you.”

“I am frustrated because I never want to get myself in this mess again and this whole incident just serves as a reminder of that. I am frustrated because I have no idea what love is and I am frightened that if I don’t find out that I will just keep reliving this nightmare.”

Danny started to cry and his mother waited for his sobbing to stop. When he caught his breath he said “Mom, do you know what love is. I mean can you help me figure out what it is”

There is a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Danny I don’t know if I can help you much. I don’t really know any really good definitions of love. What I can tell you is something’s my father once said to me that while not defining love at least allows you to know when you are in the right ball park”

“Okay”

“The first test of love he said was if you were walking down the street and you saw something that caught your eye, not even something big, but just something that amused you, who would be the first person you would want to tell? The person that you most often want to share these things with is the person whom you love. The second test of love, is who makes you smile on the inside…like you have a secret that no one else knows…who whenever you think of them you can help but smile. The third test is who are the first person you think of in the morning, and the last person at night. Whoever that person is that is the person you love. And the final test is this. Imagine yourself with only a few minutes left in life, whose hand you want to be holding because that is the person whom you love.”

“Didn’t Grandpa die holding Grandma’s hand?”

“Yes….he did…

“So he lived what he preached.”

“Yes. And you don’t have to ask the next question. You know the answer….

“So with two such fine examples how did I manage to fuck it up so badly.”

“You didn’t fuck up Daniel. You just made a mistake and now are the time to accept it and move on.”

“I know but sometimes the mountain just seems so steep and the mountain top is no where in sight…

“You will find your way Daniel. You will find the energy to get to the mountaintop.”

“Thanks Mom…”

“That is why I am here. I love you…”

Daniel sat in the big chair in his living room the memory of the conversation lingering like the morning mist over water. That conversation had been a turn around point for him and the tests that his mother had given him that day had at least helped him to build a framework.   He thought about the checklists and then he thought about Mia  and suddenly the apartment seemed too small. He grabbed his keys and was out the door.

There was a light breeze coming off the river. The air smelled sweet today with only hint of brine. Birds still clattered in the trees near his bench and the clump-clump of the cars on the Westside Highway had become more frequent.  On the path near his bench a woman elegantly attired in a Puma jogging suit and  wearing in-line skates flew by  being pulled by her German Shepherd Dog. He smiled to himself, amused by sight but amazed about how effortlessly some people seem to live their lives.

The deep bass tones of a ships horn came from the river. He turned to see a black and blue tug pushing a barge downstream, its progress slowed by the incoming tide. He stared at the boat and the slow but steady progress on its path downriver. Daniel smirked. He knew that boat. It was not the fastest ship on the river and even though it was headed in the right direction, he suspected that it spent a lot of its time pushing against the current. He was pretty sure that the boat had sounded its horn not out of warning but out of frustration about not making as much progress as he ought to and he knew that the ship would eventually make port no matter what its struggle.

Daniel got up to leave just as the woman on her blades and her dog came flying by. There was a look of fear on her face and he realized that as together as this woman’s life had seemed from a distance she was not in control. The dog was running her and she absolutely no idea where she was going.  He looked out at the river and could see while it hadn’t gotten far at least the tug had made some progress and he knew that despite the struggles that lay ahead for him, he too would make it to port.

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September 11, 2021

That morning twenty years ago began like so many others had for me.  I rose early, conducted my morning ablutions, walked the dog and was in a cab heading to my office at the Sporting News before 7AM.

You could not help but notice that it was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The heat and humidity of summer had been replaced by clear blue skies and crisp fall like weather. The type of day my mother used to describe as being “positively Swiss.” It was so beautiful that I hesitated for a moment entering my building so I could enjoy it before putting my nose to the grindstone.

At 8:15 I was convinced that the most exceptional thing that was going to happen to me that day was that my assistant, Michelle Koruda, had actually arrived at the office on time and had kindly brought me my second cup of coffee. I thought it was going to be a good day even when I heard an airplane flying low and fast over our heads and casually remarked to Michelle that the FAA didn’t take kindly to aircraft flying so low over the city.

That plane turned out to be the first plane which had lined itself up with the neighboring Empire State building and was flying down 5th Avenue at five hundred miles per hour. We found that out when someone came running in to my office to let us know that the Towers were on fire. We ran to the southern windows of our 27th floor office tower. It was from those windows that we watched in horror the moments that changed us forever.

We saw the second plane hit with a burst of orange flame. We watched first tower crumble and fall. And the second.  We had no way of knowing or comprehending what we had just happened:

  • 246 people who had bordered their flights minutes before had cruelly died when their planes had been converted to missiles.
  • 2,606 innocently working at their desks had lost their lives in cloud of flame and dust.
  • 343 firefighters ran into the Towers and never emerged.
  • 60 police officers disappeared into the buildings never to be seen again.
  • 8 paramedics went to save lives and lost theirs instead.

I had no way of knowing that my childhood friend and neighbor Todd Rancke , the first boy I had met when I  moved to Summit was among the victims.

After making sure that my staff had a plan to get home, and my address in case they couldn’t I began my walk home. I remember seeing dust covered people, heads down, no doubt in shock, mechanically walking up town.

On Madison Avenue cars were lined up bumper to bumper but there were no horns indicating impatience of perceived slights, just the tramp of feet as pedestrians made their way home.

Cutting across the park, I saw groups of people huddled around boom boxes listening to broadcasts of the grim news of the day. Overhead, unbelievably, I heard the buzz of fighter jets patrolling the skies of my city. At the Imagine mosaic someone had already laid flowers. I remember thinking that the world of  Lennon’s lyrics

.

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too

Imagine all the people
Livin’ life in peace
You

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

Never seemed so far away.

I got money from an ATM because cash comes in handy in a disaster. I shopped at an empty Fairway knowing the city could be cut off from food for days as they shut down all access to the city. I went home and turned-on CNN and waited for the waylaid and the dispossessed to arrive. They came. They went. And we watched endless loops of the Towers crumbling.

I remember the frustration trying to reach my parents on the phone. The collapse of the towers had knocked out a major switching station for AT&T and the cell phone lines were jammed. Only my Blackberry worked.

I will never forget how good it felt when I finally got hold of them hours later and tell them I loved them.  

The next morning, I rose early and went for a long run as I was training for the Chicago Marathon which was only weeks away. I ran south along the West Side Greenway. As I approached the Chelsea Piers, I could see the smoke rising from the pile and seeing the nearly mile long line up of Ambulances waiting to assist those who were beyond assistance. I felt I had to do something.

After my run was complete, I went to the American Red Cross HQ near my home and waited for 16 hours to give blood that we hoped would be needed. When I emerged, the wind had shifted and the smell from ground zero now engulfed the city. It was like no other odor I had ever encountered. It was of death, fire and concrete dust and I wondered if this is the smell of hell.

I won’t lie. I didn’t go to bed that night thinking about the lessons we had learned in the last couple of days. At that point I was just grateful for the fact that most of those I loved and cared for were safe and sound. However, in the twenty years that have passed I have thought a lot about that day and what it has taught me.

  • Be grateful for everything. Every day is a precious day and that I need to do all I can do to savor it.
  • You don’t own a day you only rent it so you need to do your best and accept the stuff you cannot change.
  • I have learned to open my heart bigger, to love all, and to accept all for their gifts.
  • I have learned not to denigrate when I don’t understand someone or how they manifest themselves but instead to try to understand their journey.
  • Hold all those that I love close to me. They are hot house flowers and could disappear in a moment…love now.
  • Opportunities come in all forms. Be ready when the butterfly lands on your shoulder.
  • Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. And if the worst happens to look for the best in people even if they have not earned that trust.
  • My family, my wife, my sister, brother, brother-in-law  nieces and nephews are my most precious gift. I do what I can everyday to make sure they know they are cherished.
  • Learn to love better every day. It is a skill that will never let you down.

I know we have not learned enough. This has been especially true in these days of Covid.

I think about how together we felt as a country in the days that followed 9/11 and how it good felt when everyone had each other’s back. Covid has separated us. Not brought us together. I lay much of the blame for that on our former President and his political allies who rallied to divide not to include. And to be blunt, I have grown intolerant of their bullshit.

To them I say September 11th should have taught you that we are all in this together. That you need to look out for your family, friends, and neighbors. That facts are facts. Cut the crap.  Masks and vaccines save lives. Get vaccinated. Wear your masks. Do your part and get over yourself. Every person who died on that horrible day twenty years ago would do anything to be in your shoes.

Don’t besmirch their memory by being so wrapped up in your own nonsense that you don’t do whatever is necessary to save as many lives as you can.  

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Gonzo Goodbye

The sub-title of Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is “A Savage Journey To The Heart of The American Dream.”

I was thinking about this yesterday for two reasons. First, I was wearing my “Fear and Loathing” t-shirt which, in an addition to the famous Ralph Steadman drawing has the sub title blazed across the front. All I need do is look in the mirror and be reminded.

But that was of intention. I had put the t-shirt on because I was flying to Hawaii. You may say, that makes sense. Going to Hawaii “American Dream” etc. But Hunter Thompson covered that in “The Curse of Lono.” No, the reason I had put the t-shirt on was because the purpose of this trip was to live out the last part of my best friend’s savage American dream and toss his ashes, along with his sons, into the depths off of his Hawaii.

Richard has been dead over a year now. His son, Patrick, a little less than a year. I cannot say with any honesty that I have managed to move beyond the grief over their deaths. I doubt that I will ever be over their loss as both left unfillable voids in me and the desire to speak with them happens daily and occasionally hourly. What I can say, is the time since their deaths have given me enough time to imagine what how they would like their life celebrated.

In passing, and certainly not in any maudlin way, Rich and I talked about what kind of funeral he would want. He told me wanted to be eulogized with people spouting all of his faults and telling stories horrible horrible stories about him. It would forces you to be less sentimental. You say, ‘That guy was a rat,’ and I’m a rat too, and I’d better do something about it rather than weep my life away.”

My buddy Rich was not a perfect person. In fact like most of us he had glaring flaws. If I were giving the  eulogy for him he wanted, what would I say? The first thing I would mention is that he was way too charming, and he knew it. No doubt his charisma was  rooted in his Irish heritage and perhaps a pinch from the time we kissed the Blarney Stone. He would use his charm to his advantage despite the consequences to the person he was charming. Such as the night he convinced me to steal an industrial size jar of pickled onions from my employer, the Beacon Hill Club, because he liked eating them so much.  The end result of this episode was that I got fired and he got the pickled onions he wanted. (Although to be completely forthcoming the jar eventually broke in the back seat of his father’s car which caused problems for both of us.)

Please do not get me wrong. I have free will. I could have said no, and over time it was something that I became adept at with him. But I mention it because there is not a single person I know who loved Rich who hasn’t felt the backside of his charm.  Where they have done something that should not have done because Rich convinced them that it would be a good idea to head down that path.

The amazing part of his gift, if amazing is the correct word, was even when RP had used his charm and lied to us or betrayed us in some way, we most often forgave him.  So complete is that gift that now a little more than a year after his death I struggle to remember any of the bullshit that he managed to foist on me or on others.

Far easier to remember, are the good times we had together. Suffice it to say, that wherever Rich was a party or a good time was to follow. As a disciple of the great Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson he insisted on it. For years, whether it be in Stockholm where he got a party started by telling a group of Swedes gathered for a wedding how fucked up their country was or in Key West the night Ronald Regan was elected President and he kept pouring “Hurricanes” down my throat to ease the pain brought about by that victory, he insisted on calling himself the Dr. (as in Hunter S.) and me his attorney based on characters from Rich’s favorite books Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. .

I never asked Rich why he loved the Dr. so much. I did not have to because I knew. It was the Gonzo writers code for life. He believed that “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body , but rather skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What A Ride!” And, “the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived  rather or he who who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed.”

Richard would have wanted a funeral like Thompson’s. His carbonized remains were shot from a canon placed upon a 150 foot tower accompanied by red, white, blue and green fireworks while accompanied by Norman Greenbaum’s” Spirit in the Sky” and  Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man.” I believe that is the type of finale my buddy would have loved only he probably would have substituted Bruce Springsteen’s “Growing Up” for Tamborine Man. Unfortunately, Thompson’s funeral cost an estimated $3M and that was just not in our budget. Which is why we will let his carbonized remains will be placed in the placid Pacific from a boat in the middle of the Pacific. Not quite as spectacular but I have no doubt that Rich would have approved.

I do not want to leave you with the impression my buddy was a complete hedonist. He wasn’t. That was only the part that showed above the surface. For as long as I knew him Rich was a seeker of a bigger truth. Whether that was embracing transcendental meditation and the teachings of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi when we were in high school or reading the poetry of Kahlil Gibran (his high school year book quote was “In on drop of water were found the secrets of the oceans.” To becoming “born again” and his embrace of evangelical Christianity he sought deeper meaning for his purpose on earth.

The bigger meaning and what came next was very much on his mind after he received his diagnosis. Shortly after he began his first round of chemo, I flew out to Manhattan Beach to hang out with him. To cheer him up I took to Blue Star Donuts because while donuts are not a cure all I have found that while eating them you often forget your problems. Sitting out in the SoCal sunshine,  chowing down on Blueberry Bourbon and Meyer Lemon and Key Lime donuts, he confessed to me while he was saying to everyone else that he was going to lick this thing “even that had to give him a new brain”, he knew the score. The clock was ticking down and getting louder by the second. He was staring into the abyss we all will face and he was scared about what came next.  He asked me if I thought there was something that came after our life here was done.

I told him that I was the last person in the world he should be asking that question. I was  a heathen: a non-practicing Jew. But he insisted. After a moment’s hesitation I shared with him that since my mother’s death the previous month I had spent a good amount of time thinking about what came next. I told him that it made no sense to me that the essence of who we are would not be preserved in some form. Didn’t Newton’s law of the conservation of energy state “ energy can neither be created nor destroyed; rather, it can only be transformed or transferred from one form to another.” Aren’t we, or the parts that make us, us, energy?

I said that, unremarkably, I spent a lot of time seeking solace in books because that is something Mom and I both loved.  The book that made the biggest impression was the Razor’s Edge by Somerset Maugham, a book he and I had read in a Humanities class we had taken in high school.  It was about a man’s search for the purpose and meaning of life after living through the slaughter of the first World War as told by an urbane and witty British dilettante. I told him the protagonist in the book reminded me of him at least in the sense he was an American whose experiences in life had made him go in search of a higher truth.

I shared there was one passage in the book that had resonated with me. “Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it. … “

I told him none of us knew when we would die. For all we knew I could pass away before he did. Our sacred obligation to ourselves and to those around us is to delight in our life while we have it. That he, had the greatest capacity for delight in life of anyone I knew. He should not abandon that just because of a cancer diagnosis.

I am not sure what effect my words had on Rich that day. I know that when his son and daughter in law  took over as his primary care givers, he found joy every day because they were there every day for him. Perhaps it was in the comfort of his care that he found the true meaning of his existence. To paraphrase Maugham

“The man I am speaking about is not famous. He never will be. When his life came to a close, he left no more trace of his sojourn on earth than a stone thrown into a river leaves on the surface of the water. But it may be that the way of life that he has chosen for himself and the peculiar strength and sweetness of his character may have an ever-growing influence over those who knew and loved him so that, long after his death perhaps, it may be realized that there lived in this age a very remarkable creature.”

Rich you were a remarkable creature. You left your mark on everyone who knew you and loved you. And even though your time with us has ended, who you were and what you shared with us, carries on.

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Tomahawk and Crown: Epilogue: Part Three

We were quiet for a few moments and he said “Lets go for a walk. “

Crossing the street we headed down Weyprechtstrasse and after a block or so we paused and he said “This used to be a park where me and my friends would play football.”

I asked “Was it grass?”

“No, gravel. It used to cut it us pretty good.”

“I can imagine.”

We resumed our walk after a short walk my father paused and pointed to a plaque on the side of a building. It read “Hier stand eine um 1885/86 nach planen des archiiteten Ludwig Tischler Erbautes Synaggoge. Zerstort in der Reichskristallnacht am 10.November 1938” (Translation: Here was a synagogue building built around 1885/86 after the plan of the architect Ludwig Tischler. Destroyed in the Reichskristallnacht on 10 November 1938.)

My father says, in a voice that is supposed to convey nonchalance but sends the exact opposite message “This is where my synagogue was before the bastards burned it down.” He paused and said something to me that he had said many times before “I didn’t even get a fountain pen” referring to a once traditional present for a young Jewish boy when he became Bar Mitzvah.  This time, though, it struck me full force how hard he must have studied to become a bar mitzvah, how heartbroken, horrified, disappointed and devastated to see his temple be burn to the ground by a mob just weeks before fulfilling that dream. How that night changed his life forever. That every time he mentioned not getting that fountain pen, it meant more than not getting a gift, it meant the death of a dream and the end of whole period in his life.

It broke me and I started to weep and noticed my father was doing the same. I swore to myself there and then that I would get him his fountain pen and kept that promise later that year as a present for his 81st birthday. It must have meant something to him because after his death I found the card and the pen in his top desk drawer. The card read: “To Zaki ben Mordecai: Abba…a little late, but better late than never…Love Daniel Ben Zaki.”

We turned the corner and after a few more blocks came across another belle epoque building but this one had a huge gold coat of arms, a shield boarded by angels on its sides and a bust of Hermes above, on its façade. He pointed and said “That is where Litzi, Aunt Leni and Uncle Benno lived.”

“Litzi emigrated (alone) to Belgium, how or why I don’t remember,  where a family named Weening became her foster parents.  When the Germans invaded she fled with them to unoccupied France.  They then made their way (on foot) across the Pyrenees, and then somehow  Mrs. Weening, Lizzi, and her foster sister got themselves to Jamaica, where they were interned.  Mr. Weening was gravely wounded while serving with Dutch Forces in the Normandy Invasion.

“Walked?”

“Yes. In fact Litzi says the woman who was taking care of things walked over the Pyranees wearing high heels”

“What about Benno and Lenni?”

“He was arrested in 1938 and sent first to Dachau and then transferred to Weimar-Buchenwald.  Sometime in mid-1939 he was released on the condition that he leave Germany within 72 hours.  He got a visa to Italy (Milan) where we saw him as we passed through in November 1939.  Because his visa was no longer valid, he managed our meeting by leaping on our train while it was in the switching yard and then rode into the Milan station with us, where he managed to disappear immediately on the platform.  The Italians finally interned him in a camp in  Southern Italy (Alberobello and Ferramonte in Bari)  .  The British liberated the camp and he attached himself to the Jewish Brigade, whom he served as a laundry worker and later worked for American troops in Naples.

“Wow. The guy always scared me a little but he must have been some tough son of a bitch to survive all that. And Linni?”

“She stayed in Vienna, living underground what they called a u-boater.” One of her life savers was her gentile sister’s baptismal certificate.  She never left. She hid with people all over the city. I think a good part of it in the red light district. “

“Unbelievable story. I can’t even imagine what they must have gone through” I replied and then mentally chastised myself because for years I had remembered them as the horrible couple who had babysat my brother and who hadn’t allowed me to have potato chips when I wanted them.

We walked a little farther down the road until we came across a white multiple story building with Schule Der Stadt Wien or School of the City of Vienna in red letters across the front of the building. He said “this is where I went to primary school.”

Deciding that we had been too serious for too long, I tried a little humor on him. I said “Is there a plaque somewhere.”

He smiled and replied “Smart ass.” And we walked on until we reached a very imposing, very federal looking building that said “Bundesfaschule fur wirschatliche Frauberlufe” which I in my very bad German roughly translated as “Federal School for Women.” Pops said “This is where I would have gone to High School.”

“But it says that it’s a woman school.”

“It wasn’t then.”

Then something occurred to me. “What do you mean would have gone to high school. I thought you started high school here.”

“No. I was about to but after Krystalnacht Jews weren’t allowed to attend secondary school.”

“Krystalnacht was in November of 1938 and you didn’t immigrate until a year later….What did you do with your days.”

His reply, slow coming as if he didn’t want to open up a can of worms said “I hung out with my friends. Lets get a cab. Were late.”

What we were late for was a visit my father’s boyhood friend Paul Gross. For the last several years he had been suffering with Parkinson’s disease.  Recently, his symptoms of body tremors and stiffness, confusion, and an inability to communicate clearly had forced a hospitalization. His wife Henni had invited us to their home and we would take her to the Hospital where we would all have a visit with Pop’s oldest friend.

Despite being named for him, and being my father’s oldest if not best friend, I had only Paul twice in my life. The first time was on my only previous trip to Vienna when I was seven. My memories of that trip are few but I have a vivid memory of visiting the Furrier shop Paul owned. He gave me a mouse that was made out of mink that I adored. That is until I lost him. The other memory I had of him was when he had visited the United States shortly after I had become a Bar Mitzvah. He had given me a beautiful Seiko chronograph with an orange face that I wore for years and still cherish. Other than those two meetings, that he had been the leader of the Jewish Community in Vienna for decades, and the rare stories from my father’s childhood, I knew little.

As the cab maneuvered in traffic I asked, “When you returned to Vienna did you look for Paul?”

“Of course.”

“How did you find him.”

“I went to the grocery store his mother owned. But it had closed so I went to the apartment they used to live in and was told they had moved but the folks there had a forwarding address. I made my way over there and I found his mother. Paul was not there but she, in the best Viennese tradition and despite the shortages the war, invited me in for coffee and cake.  While we were having coffee with her Paul  arrived. ”

“That must have been one hell of a reunion? I mean you had done it. Survived. And then to just show up on his doorstep wearing the uniform of an officer in the American Army? That is a whole new definition of the term shock in awe!”

He paused and replied. “He just acted, as did I, like we had just seen other the week before. Hi Paul. Hi Sam” He grinned, a self-satisfied smile  and said “We didn’t need to say anything more. We knew what it meant.”

“What did it mean?”

He took a beat before answering. As if there was a lot to unpack. Then said, “We survived.”

I nodded, knowing that while I understood the words, I had no comprehension of how that moment must have felt for them.  I don’t think anyone who is not a survivor can understand the jumbled emotions that go along with that status.  I asked, “Why didn’t they leave?”

“That is complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

 “It wasn’t that easy. You had to get permission to leave.  And for a variety of reasons Paul couldn’t”

“How did they manage to make it through?”

“Paul’s mother’s family hid them and I think they spent some time living in the sewers. U-boaters.”

We fell into silence. I knew from a life of living with my father and how he told stories of those years during and surrounding the war that what happened was more complicated than the responses my father was giving me . I knew, for example,  that at the beginning of the war nearly 200,000 Jews were living in Vienna and that many, up to 130,000 had managed to find other places to live including places like Singapore. But those who left, left almost all their wealth and belongings. Where ever they went they had to begin their new life with little but the sentimental items like photographs and other family ephemera they managed to carry with them.

Of the 60,000 Jews left in Vienna when they closed the border only 2,000 survived the war. Paul had managed to win one of the most horrific lotteries of all time.

When we walk up the front steps, to Paul’s home we are met by Henni. She greets my father with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. I get the same treatment even though I have not seen her since I was a small boy. She then steps back and taking us both in while commenting on how much we looked alike. We were ushered into her parlor because in proper Viennese fashion as she has prepared us a little cake and coffee so we would not go to the hospital with any hunger.

Over the coffee and cake she explains that Paul had been admitted to the hospital because his Parkinson’s had progressed to the point where he was no longer able to take care of himself, that his ability to speak had become limited and that the Dr’s had thought that a change in medication would help him with his tremors and communication. This had been going on for the past two weeks. She is , in the gentlest of ways, trying to prepare my father to see his oldest friend now altered by this horrible disease.

Vienna’s General Hospital is different than any hospital I had ever visited. It is a high rise. Twenty-two stories tall with a motor lobby for cabs and cars drop offs and a mini mall that contains everything from flower shops to McDonalds. It was more like visiting an apartment complex in Miami Beach than a hospital that had originally been established in 17th century.

A high-speed elevator takes us to the 21st floor where Paul’s room is located. Hennie leads the way to Paul’s room with my father and me in her wake. He is not there. She suggests that my father go to the nurse’s station and see if they have seen Paul. Apparently, despite his currently being confined to a  wheelchair and troubles speaking, he liked to socialize. While Henny and I remained guard outside Paul’s room my father makes his way down the hall. We see an old man in a wheelchair emerge from a room. It is Paul.  Pop walks up to him and when Paul recognizes him, he slowly extricates himself from the wheelchair and despite tremors stands at attention for my father and salutes him. My father returns the tribute with a crisp salute of his own. No words are spoken. 70 years of friendship encapsulated without a word. The silence a part of their code. Why speak of things that are not capable of being understood or where words are inadequate.

We decide that all of us trying to sit in Paul’s hospital room would be too uncomfortable and an inconvenience to his roommate. Instead, after straightening Paul up a little bit and gathering up his caregiver, we ahead downstairs to the Hospitals coffee house. I should have known that in this city that invented the coffee house, where patisseries and pastries were part of their birthright, a hospital coffee shop would be far superior to its American counterpart.  It was decorated in browns and brasses, the tables of real wood, no Formica. The menu had everything from Schnitzel to Sachertorte. And apparently smoking was on the menu as well  because everyone in the restaurant seemed to be smoking and a blue haze hangs just below the ceiling.

We arranged ourselves around a square table. My father and Henny on side. Paul and I on the other with the caretaker sitting on the end closest to Paul. Dad could tell that this was a difficult situation for Paul. His verbal skills had deteriorated to the point where getting a word out was painfully labored. This was made even more tortuous by the fact he wanted to speak English so that I would feel a part of the conversation. As a consequence, a pattern emerged pretty quickly at our table. I would ask a question and Paul would try to answer. If he got hung up or frustrated in finding the words my father would help him complete his thoughts.  Paul would react and try to expand a little a to me.

After we had ordered coffee and some Austrian pastries my father told Paul that the reason, we had come to visit was because I was interested in writing a story about what it must have been like for him, to return to the Vienna at the end of the War… a Jewish boy forced to flee his homeland only to return a few later, a man and an officer in the conquering army.

This embarrassed me a bit. I am not a professional writer, and I didn’t know if I could even write something worth reading.  Leaning into my discomfiture , I ask Paul “What was your reaction, when you saw your old friend in your mother’s living room, wearing an US Army officer’s uniform?”

Paul glanced over at my father, and then back at me, his large eyes gleaming with a sense mischief and says in a halting voice. “It was good to see him.”

“Were you surprised?”

“No. I was pretty sure that he would turn up sometime.”

I could tell that he was going to be every bit as difficult to get information out him as my father so I decided to change tack a bit. I had heard stories for years of how my father had a group of friends who roamed the streets of Vienna after the I said to Paul “Who was the leader of the gang you two were in.” I knew that as close as my father and Paul were that part of what defined their relationship was a fierce competitiveness and I was not above tossing a grenade to see if I could some details beyond single sentences from them.

They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds and then my father replied, “He was.” but in such a way to make sure the listener knew he was just being gracious. And Paul smiled back and said in a halting way but with the same inflection as my father, “He was.” And then they both laughed knowing that had both outsmarted me.

Frustrated, but somewhat undaunted I persisted. I asked Paul “What was the name of you “gang.” He smiled and responded stuttering a little bit “The Wolf…wolf pack “and smiled eyes gleaming as if the thought of this band of miscreants brought back every good childhood memories from schools.

“How many people were in this gang.”

Paul held up his hand and said “Four.”

“Who were the other two?”

Paul began “Walter…” and seemed to get hung up and my father added “Eduard…Eddie.”

There was a pause as if the thoughts of these childhood gang blocked out the present for these old friends. As if their friends were now seated at the table with us. Enjoying a smoke and a coffee with their old comrades. I knew how special this gang was to my father. He had been telling us about them since we were small children asking for bedtime stories. He would tell of the adventures of Tad and Huge and their desire to escape Vienna in a makeshift submarine they were creating in a fishing shack on the flood plain of the Danube and the adventures they had along the way.

Wondering whether these bedtime stories were based in fact I asked “What this gang of your do?”

Again, my father exchanged a look with Paul and said “Mostly, we tried to find a way to get out of Vienna. There was always some rumor of Singapore, Palestine or some other country opening up for visas’ or a Kindertransport to England or anywhere safe.  We tracked these down and let our friends know.  Or when people needed someone for an odd job. We needed the money. It cost money to leave and we…..”

Paul nudged my elbow and signaled that he wanted to have something to write with him. My father obliged him by handing him the pen that was perennially in his pocket. Paul then took a napkin on it drew what appeared to be a stick with five branches growing out of its top. He said “The wolfs paw.” He then drew a line through the second branch sticking up from the stick and said “Me.”

My father jumped in and said “That is how we used to leave messages to each other. If we had been some place and wanted to tell the other we had been there we would draw the wolf’s paw and depending on what digit was crossed we could tell who it was. I was the first, Paul was the second and so on. “

“But what kind of messages would you leave each other.”

Exchanging a glance with Paul he said “Nothing really important. Just kid stuff.”

I asked, reluctantly “What happened to them…the other members of the Wolfpack?”

Paul replied “Walter I used to see around for a while and then he disappeared one day. One day he was there and the next gone and no record as to what happens I thought he had managed to escape. After the war I found out he died at Mauthausen.”

“And Eddie”

My father replied “Eddie….” and sighed and then said “He got out before all of us. A Kindertransport to England where he lived with in Lancashire with two school teachers. When he turned 18 he enlisted in the RAF and on the very last day of the war his plane crashed and he was killed. Poor bastard.” A silence fell over the table.  I didn’t realize it at the time but my Dad had been in touch with Eddie from the time he left Europe until shortly before he was drafted. After my father’s death we discovered he had saved the letters for over 70 years and had even written a short story about being in England and searching for some trace of his old friend and Wolfpack member.

There was a pause in the conversation. The memory of Eddie and Walter of the memory of the adventures of the Wolfpack hovering over the table like the cigarette smoke at the tables adjacent to us. It made me realize that the salute Paul had given my father by getting out of his wheelchair and standing like a soldier at parade rest  was more than courtesy afforded to any old friend. It was a salute to their old comrades and friends. Paul’s and my Dad’s survival and a tribute to Edi and Walter there fallen comrades.

Paul looked at my father and said in his halting way “Does he know about Tomahawk?

Pops gave a half shake of his head but before he could answer I said incredulously “The Hugi and Tad stories are true?”

Dad looking extremely uncomfortable replied. Well let’s just say there was some fact in the fiction.”

The stories of Tomahawk were my favorite bedtime stories, but I thought them the gifts of Pop’s vivid imagination to his children. Stunned and curious I decided I need to pull this thread. I asked “What is the real story?”

“Its too long a story to tell.”

I rollmy eyes. This whole trip I had been trying to find out more about his life and what happened to him before and after the war only to run into brick walls like “its too complicated” or “Can we talk about something else” or him just changing the subject.

Paul must have sensed my frustration. Directing his gaze at Dad he said, and considering his condition a very insistent tone “You need to tell him the story.”

My father’s response was a raised eyebrow and a shake of the head.

The conversation proved exhausting to Paul. His nurse signaled that it was time to leave, and our coffee klatch broke up. We said our goodbyes in the lobby They were more matter of fact than emotional. Sometimes silence says more than words. Kisses on the cheek for Hennie, a shoulder squeeze for Paul and we were out the door on our way to cab stand. We were silent as we waited for a cab. Each of us lost in the dissection of the day and adrift in our memories. I, for one, was wondering what Paul meant when he said “You need to tell him the story.” What story? And why was the old man so reluctant to tell me. I was confused. I thought he wanted me to write a story and this whole trip getting information out of him was tougher than finding the truth at a liars convention. A cab finally arrived and as the it pulled away from the hospital Pops says  “I need a drink.”

I heartily concur. His reasons for imbibing are no doubt different than mine. Watching your best friend slowly fade away is not for the feint of heart. It is what he told me when my best friend was dying of brain cancer the year before.  He was right. It forces you to think about things that are best left in the dark recesses of your consciousness most of your life. Dark questions. Questions without answers combined with deep sorrow and now bittersweet memories often requires a distiller’s skill to allow you to muddle through.

My reasons are, in part, a reflection of his. I love my old man. He is my friend and my hero. He has been, and always will be, my great protector but now I have taken on that role for him. It is what sons do for aging parents. Seeing him in so much pain is painful for me and I do not know what I can do to mitigate his pain, and this frustrates me. But this is not the only thing that is frustrating me. Dad has always chosen his own way in life often to the confoundment and exasperation of others. Once he adopted a point of view it was almost impossible to get him to change his mind. Clearly, there was a story he was hiding. A story that I traveled all this way to find and for reasons that I could not understand he was keeping it to himself.

The cab ride back to the Sacher was in silence. Both of us lost in our own thoughts. When we arrive at the Hotel we go directly to the bar and finding a table in the corner promptly order drinks. Doubles. Scotch for him. Bourbon for me. Please don’t think us drunks. Doubles in Europe is a light pour at home and we need extra strength medicine after the experiences of the day. When the waitress returns with our drinks and a few peanuts we silently toast each other and maintain our silence. Neither of us are being rude. It is a comfortable silence. We are old travel companions. We can sense when the other needs time to be with our own thoughts. This just happens to be one of these times.

Finally, when we have finished our first drink and have ordered our second, Dad still grim faced asks “Do you remember the coin I gave your brother, sister and you during the Holidays last year?”

I am surprised by his question because it seems so out of context to our conversation and because the gift of the coin had confounded my siblings and I. They had arrived by mail, unaccompanied by a note of explanation, and were it not for the return address on the package we would not have known who had sent them to us. That was not even the strange part. The gold coin wasn’t really a coin at all it was more of a religious medal. A Catholic religious medal with an image a crown with a cross tilted at an angle at its peak and the word “Stephanskrone” underneath. On the flip side was an image a medieval man king wearing that crown underneath which was written “St. Stephan.”

The present of the coin had baffled my brother, sister, and me. Why had our Jewish by birth, agnostic by practice, father, given us a religious coin? We all asked him about it. He told my brother “A little gold is good to have in case of emergency.” When my sister inquired, she was told my sister that it was “St. Stephan was the patron saint of people who help others, and you guys have been good at taking care of me…” He told me it was “for luck.” We all knew from his nonresponse responses that there was a deeper meaning for the gift than the reasons he was giving and each of us in turn had pushed him on it. Much to our collective chagrin we were unsuccessful in unearthing those reasons.

I reply to my old man “Sure.” And, then pull out my wallet and from a compartment inside it I pull out the gold medallion and place it on the table between us. He looks surprised. I say “You said it was for luck. So I carry it around with me.”

Getting over his surprise he asks “Can I trust you to keep a secret?
I can sense the seriousness of his question and for some reason it activates the snark in me and I reply “Well, I have managed to keep the world from knowing what a good guy you are?”

He doesn’t smile and says “Don’t be an asshole. I am being serious.”

I smile. In our family being called an asshole is often an honorific but not in this case. “Sure Dad. What is up.”

“I am serious. What I am thinking about telling you is classified and I am breaking about a dozen laws just thinking about telling you about it.”

“Is this about the war?” thinking back to Paul’s veiled references.

“Yes.”

“Then how can it still be classified. The war ended nearly seventy years ago.”

“It is. I checked.”

“But that makes no sense.”

Frustrated he responds “Trust me. What I am going to tell you could still ruin people’s lives. Hurt reputations and worse.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

He pauses and after taking a sip of scotch he begins “There was a man named Anton Skoda who worked at Winter’s department store…”

Five years after our visit to Vienna. Pops passed away. He died like he lived.  On his own terms. Unable to walk at the end, and faced with three time a week dialysis, that involved lengthy ambulance rides and being stretchered in and out of his home, he chose to end his treatment and slip quietly into the goodnight. It was not easy to see him go but I would like to think for him it was just a transition to the next great adventure. He made that easy to believe because even as uremia took him away from this reality. His positive outlook never wavered. Even blessing us from time to time with recitations of Kubla Khan by Coleridge, “ In Xanadu did Kubla Khan. A stately pleasure-dome decree, Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.”

Just weeks after Pops died the Federal Government,  in an effort to streamline and codify how we classify documents ordered the declassification of millions of top secret documents. Among the documents released were those on the Crown of Stephan and how it came into American hands at the end of the 2nd World War.

Dad’s story could finally be told.

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Tomahawk and Crown: Epilogue: Part 2

In the end, it had not been difficult to convince my father to go to Austria with me. While I am sure that my desire to understand his war experience and write a story about it was a part of the decision-making process, I am pretty sure that it not take a lot unction to get him to go. One factor was no doubt to see his oldest friend in the world, my namesake, Paul Gross. He had been suffering from Parkinson disease and the chances were if my father didn’t visit him soon, he would miss the chance to have one last talk with him.

Another reason it had been relatively easy to convince to embark on this trip with me was that despite all the pain and suffering he had experienced in Vienna as a child,  and the heartbreak he discovered on his return as a young man, he still loved the city. It contained the memories of his childhood. Those memories most of us hold most fondly. And knowing my father’s optimistic attitude and perhaps sharing some of the same brain chemistry, I know that the tough times had faded to the background while the memories of families, of his friends, and the good times had been burnished over time and visiting the city added to the polish the remembrances of a long ago childhood.

What made this trip even remotely possible is that he and I were good travel companions. Over the course of my adult life we had been on a number of adventures together. In 1988 he and I spent 10 days in Israel exploring the country and both living out childhood dreams of visiting the Jewish homeland. In 2001 we had gone to Alaska, another bucket list trip for both of us, in celebration of my father’s recovery from Lymphoma. We knew how to be together. When to chat and when to be silent and when to give each other room to be by ourselves. We saw humor in many of the same things and could point out things to each other that we would relish. He knew, as did I, that no matter what happened on our journey, it would be enjoyable because we would be together.

A little more than two months later on a crisp and sunny May afternoon, we arrived in Vienna. I had arranged for a driver to meet us at baggage claim and were soon speeding our way into Vienna in his spotless Mercedes. The cab was warm, so I cracked the window and gazed out, mesmerized. Not because the scenery was spectacular, mainly open fields intermingled with a few industrial parks that had a far neater, more elegant look than their American counterparts. But because that is what I always did when taking a cab from the airport into a new city. It was a city’s overture I wanted to hear it.

I looked over at my father. He was wearing an outfit so common for him it should have been trademarked. He wore khaki pants with a light blue shirt, safari jacket and Ray-Ban Outdoorsman aviator style sunglasses. He was lost in thought and I wondered if he was remembering what this part of Vienna looked like before and when he had returned at the beginning of the occupation.

I asked, “When you returned to Vienna at the end of the War what time of year was it?”

He looked thoughtful, like he was thinking about what he should say, and replied “I really can’t remember.”

“What do you mean you can’t remember? You remember everything!”

“I just don’t remember.”

“Well, can you remember what the weather was like.”

“No, not really except it was not too cold nor hot.”

“So, it was likely Spring or Fall?”

“I guess.”

At this point I was getting pretty frustrated with my father’s non-response responses. I asked, no doubt in an irritated tone,  “Can you remember what year it was?”

“I think it was 1946.”

“But you were in Europe since early 1945. Why did it take you so long to go the 300 miles from where you were stationed in Italy to here?”

“It was not that simple.”

“Why”

“Because…

“But you can’t remember when that was.”

“No. Now will shut up so I can enjoy the ride into the city?”

I shut up. I did not think it strange for him to ask me to shut up. I tend to chat and ask questions when I am in new situations. I think his asking me to pipe down had more to do with the fact that we were on the outskirts of the city proper and the “real Vienna” was revealing itself.  No doubt he was caught up in the thoughts we all get when we return to a place that is full of memories.  What I did think strange is my father’s equivocation on the details of his return to Vienna. How could he not remember the time of year? Not only had he had the months in which we had planned the trip to contemplate that but I didn’t think it was a detail that I was likely to forget and his memory was every bit as good, if not better, than mine. But instead of questioning this further I too got lost in the sights and sounds of Vienna.

My father insisted that we stay at the Hotel Sacher. When he had told me of this request, I was more than just a little surprised. In the past when we traveled, the hotels we stayed in were more of the three star or, on a good day, four-star hotels. For him to insist on a five star, let alone an iconic was completely out of character. But I did not challenge him. If that is where he wanted to stay, it is where we were staying but I sensed there was a deeper meaning that perhaps I some point I could coax out of him. If you have ever been to the Hotel Sacher you know the lobby is impressive. All dark woods, velvet couches and overstuffed chintz chairs. It is an echo to the past when Vienna was a capital of empire. Dad seemed to breathe in the history of the place as we entered and was transformed from Sam Floessel, American to the Viennese Hugi Floessel. (How I discovered his birth name is another story) This was reinforced as he lapsed into Viennese German (there were many ah-so and naturlichs)  when speaking to the front desk clerk and securing our room.

Our room was not ready which was just as well. We were both anxious to go for a walkabout. My father wanted to rekindle old memories and I wanted to get a sense of city that I had not seen since I was seven. After dumping our bags at the bell desk, left the hotel and headed down Kartner Strasse towards St. Stephen’s Cathedral.. As we walked Dad’s morphing into a Viennese continued. Instead of walking with hands by his side, as most Americans do, his hands were clasped behind his back. His chin tilted just a little higher. We strolled rather than walked.

At the time, I didn’t question the reason my father wanted to walk to St. Stephens. It is the city’s landmark and seemed a natural destination. It was one of the few clear memories I had from my only trip to the city over forty years before. But later I would wonder whether these first steps in Vienna were really a pilgrimage, of a sort, for him. Eventually, we found our way to a café and ordered an afternoon pick me up, which in Vienna is an exquisite pastry accompanied by an espresso. As my father ordered for us, I remember thinking natural it was for me to hear him speaking German.  This was the language he learned to think in. I wondered how speaking the language of his childhood would stir ancient memories.

When the coffee arrived I asked “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your Army career. I want to make sure that I have the timeline correct.”

“Sure. If you must.”

“Well if I am going to write this story, I would love to get the facts straight.”

“Go ahead.”

“You entered the army in the summer of 1944.”

“Yes, my draft board had issued me a deferment so that I could complete my sophomore year.”

“How long was basic training.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Two months, 3 months?”

“Probably closer to 3 months.”

“So, if you entered the Army in the Summer of 1944 you probably finished basic training in September or October.”

“I guess so.”

“And you went to basic in Texas.”

“Yes. Fort Wolters.”

“So, did you go to OCS immediately after you finished basic”

“Pretty much”

“Did you have to take a test to be any officer, or did they have some other way of selecting you?”

“No, you had to submit a request and then the Army decided whether you were selected. And I didn’t know whether I wanted to become an officer or not.”

“Didn’t you want to become an officer?”

“I don’t know. I had a friend in basic and he thought it was a good deal. So, I applied and was accepted.”

“Is that why you became a citizen in Texas…so you could go to OCS?”

“Yes.”

“Where was OCS?”

“Fort Sill, Oklahoma.”

“When did get there…. I mean what month.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it right after basic?”

“Pretty much.”

“So, if you finished basic in October. Then November would have been the earliest you entered OCS.”

“I guess so.”

“And OCS took 8 weeks, right? That is why 2nd Lieutenants were called 8-week wonders.”

“I think the Artillery school took a little longer. Probably 12 weeks or so but I really can’t remember.”

“Well if it took 12 weeks the earliest you could have been shipped overseas would have been February. Right.”

“Then if you were in theatre before the end of the War then you probably got there sometime in late February or early March of 1945, right?”

“I guess. To be honest Paul the dates I really do not remember. I just remember thinking it was cold. But can we end for this right now and head back to the hotel.”

The next morning is when my father took me to the Danube and gave me his little speech. It was another beautiful mild spring day but we decided to take a cab as the walk would have been a little too far for my eighty-one year old father. We didn’t dawdle there. It was too windy and there was a distinct chill coming off the Danube We grabbed another cab headed to the Kunsthistoriches Museum which contains the amazing art collection of the Hapsburgs and was the one place my mother insisted I visited.

Arriving at the museum Pops chose to sit on a bench opposite the statue of Empress Marie Theresa while I gave the museum the once over. It was not that he did not like the museum, but the standing and the stairs would be a challenge for him. And moreover, despite the sophisticate he was, he had a low tolerance for museums. 30 minutes to an hour and he was done.  Add to that the fact he had been there before, sitting in a garden, soaking in the Viennese spring seemed ideal choice for Dad.

The collection of paintings and antiques were amazing in their depth and scope. But what struck me most of all was the realization that this had been an Empire, for five centuries a leading power in Europe and Vienna its capital. And for a time, it was the center of the Universe. And then, after World War 1 they were suddenly an insignificant capital, in an insignificant country. It helped me understand the Anschluss and why most Austrians accepted annexation by Germany and becoming part of the Reich. They wanted their empire back.

Gaining an understanding of Austria’s vainglory did not diminish my contempt and anger at what they had done in their misguided attempt to reclaim empire. It was said while Germans were successful anti Semites, Austrian’s were pros.  Worse, the Austrians had never fully accepted their role in the Holocaust.

My tour did not take long as, like my old man, I have a limited tolerance for museums. I love the art. I love the history but if I take any longer than an hour in a museum, I get cranky. I found my father sitting on his bench, enjoying the spring sunshine and it looked as if he might have even managed to slip a quick nap in while he waited for me.  I asked him if he was tired and told him if he wanted, we go back to the hotel. What was to come next would require a huge reservoir of emotional energy that would be a challenge for anyone let alone an octogenarian.   He told me, in no uncertain terms, to stop coddling him. To prove himself ready, he set off at a brisk pace to the Karlsplatz, a light rail station, a few blocks away. When we arrived my father without seeking guidance from anyone picked the #44 trolley and jumped on board.

Our destination was #48 Ottakringer Strasse, the apartment where my father was born and lived his entire life until he left Vienna in 1939. It was a central part of our family mythology about my father’s childhood. My grandparents were extremely poor. My grandfather worked in abattoir, cleaning hides and getting them ready to be tanned. A job that was brutal on the body and crushed the soul for little money. My grandmother worked as a seamstress making handmade ties at home. All they could afford was a two-room apartment that had a kitchen, where my father slept, and a living room where my grandparents slept. The bathrooms were shared privies at the end of the hallway and the refrigerator was, weather permitting, the ledge outside their window. It is this apartment that the Nazi’s invaded on Kristallnacht and arrested my grandfather and terrified my father.

I asked my father “We’re Jews allowed to take the trolley after Kristallnacht?”

He pursed his lips into a pucker, as if he was sucking on a sour memory, and said “No.” I wanted to ask him how he got around but I could tell he was far away and no doubt my questions would annoy him so I got lost in my own thoughts instead.

My father, who never talked to us about that night, wrote to us what he called a “minor memorandum” on the 50th Anniversary of that awful night.

A MINOR MEMORANDUM TO MY CHILDREN

ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF KRYSTALLNACHT,

        NOVEMBER 9 AND 10, 1938

I don’t intend to make this a big deal literary effort or a weepy emotional debauch.  I simply want to tell you what I remember about Krystallnacht. So, you should remember as well. And if there are to be others like us, so you can tell them. Nothing big! Just a small and portable lesson about the planet we live on and the hazards of being a little different.

Krystallnacht did not start for me until November 10, 1938. I knew that von Rath had been shot by Gruenspan, but I knew nothing about what was happening all over Germany during the night of the ninth.  I was 12 years (12 10/12 ths) old and I was asleep.

I was still lying in my bed, at about seven on the morning of November 10, when there was loud knocking on our door. I heard my father and mother (your grandparents) talking to some people. Several stormtroopers (SA) had come to arrest Jewish men.  The entrance to our apartment was through the kitchen and all this was taking place in the kitchen.  After a few minutes I heard one of the Brownshirts ask whether there were any other male Jews in the apartment. Grandma said only my little boy.  I dont think they believed her because they came into our main room, where my bed was.  I closed my eyes and pretended I was asleep.  They came to my bed and they looked at me and they must have decided either that I was too young, or that I looked too fierce to mess around with since there were only six of them. So, they took just grandpa with them and they left.

As we later found out, they took grandpa to the local police station.  From there they marched him and others to the Rossauer Kaserne, a military barracks.  He was lucky because he had a roof over his head.  Many other Jewish men were taken to a large soccer stadium and did not have a roof over their head.

Grandpa had been fired from his regular job as a bristle processor a couple months before.  He was earning some money by helping a carter hauling the furniture of Jews that had been kicked out of their apartments. The cart was pulled by one brown horse.  Grandpa had a job scheduled for that morning.

Grandma sent me to help the carter in grandpa’s place. May- be grandma was a tough Hungarian cookie who did not want the Rothkopf’s reputation as men of their word sullied, or maybe we needed the money, or perhaps she wanted me out of her hair so that she and Aunt Mitzi ( who lived in the next apartment and whose son Walter and friend Albert were already on the way to Dachau) could weep in peace.  

I don’t remember exactly where I met the carter but it was at his client’s apartment near the Jewish section of Vienna. We loaded the wagon with furniture.   I sat next to the driver on the high bench behind the horse.  Then the brown horse slowly pulled us through the streets towards the place where we had to make our delivery.

Groups of people were standing in front of the broken windows of Jewish stores, gawking while Brownshirts were putting their owners through their paces — handing over business papers, washing the sidewalk with lye, licking Aryan employees’ shoes clean. Anything that would keep the cultured Viennese crowds amused.  We passed a narrow street that led to one of Vienna’s larger synagogue.  The alley was jammed with jeering onlookers.  Stormtroopers were throwing furniture and Torah scrolls through the big main door into the street.  One side of the roof (I couldn’t see the other and you know what a sceptic I am) was afire.  I remember very vividly the twists of whitish-yellow smoke that were curling up the slope of blue tiles.

Farther on we passed another synagogue that was fully ablaze.  The police had made people stand back from it.  I suppose they feared for their safety.  A fire truck was parked down the street. The firemen were leaning against their equipment, talking and smoking cigarettes. Everywhere there were clusters of people, in a holiday mood, gathering around smashed Jewish stores. Little groups of Jews, both men and women, were being led along the sidewalk flanked by squads of SA men.  The Jews were made to do all sorts of menial chores.  Someone told me later, that one elderly Jew asked to go to the toilet.  They made him go in a bucket and then forced him to eat his feces.

By now I was beginning to figure out what was going on. I sat high on my horsey throne (just like the Duke of Edinburgh when he drives his high-stepping pair, except that I didn’t wear an apron).  Whenever we passed a sidewalk event or other happening, I pulled down the wings of my nostrils (I thought I looked more Christian that way), staring straight ahead, but watching the Nazi street theatre out of the corners of my eyes. The driver, who was also Jewish, was a hard-old soul.  I don’t remember him saying a single word to me, all day, about what was going on.  Maybe he thought I was too young to hear about such things.

I don’t remember much more detail.  I got paid.  The trolley I went home on was crowded.  I kept staring out the window so that people wouldn’t notice the handsome Jewishness of my face.  Beyond the rattling trolley panes, the peculiar happenings of November 10, 1938 were still in progress here and there, even as the day’s light was fading.

When I got home, grandma and Mitzi were still weeping.  They had just come back from the police station, but grandpa and the other Jews were no longer there.

Grandpa came home ten days later.  He had spent that time in a room with 500 other people and one water faucet.  They did a lot of military drill (was this the beginning of the Hagganah ?) and exercises — push-ups, deep knee bends, and the like.  Some who didn’t do so well got beaten up. He never told me whether they did anything to him.  But then I wouldn’t tell you either.  Grandpa was lucky.  A lot of the Jewish men who were arrested on the 9th and 10th of November were sent to the concentration camp at Dachau.

Not one single synagogue was left intact in all of Vienna.  That really screwed me up because I was nearly thirteen. You need to have a Torah to become a Bar Mitzvah and you need to have a table on which to lay the scroll while you read. And how was I to get a fountain pen now?

The dead, of course, are dead.  They are mourned by those who remember. Tears dry. Bruises heal. Razed synagogues become parking lots.  Injured dignity heals although slowly.  What hurts most to this day is impotent compassion for those who were swept away.

In order to have faith in our quality as human beings, we need to remember! And that’s why I am writing you this note.

As the trolley made its way I recalled the words my father had written nearly 20 years before and I tried to imagine what it must have been like as a 12 year old boy to have to have your house broken into the middle of the night, have your father taken from you, perhaps never to return and then being forced to go and do your fathers job, while atrocities were happening all around you, because you needed the money so badly that you didn’t have a choice. What must have it been like to see your neighbors making your co-religionists lick their boots and clean their sidewalks with toothbrushes. To see your synagogue, burn to the ground just days before you were to become a bar mitzvah after studying for years to achieve this milestone rite of passage.

I could not imagine what he had gone through.

My father jostled my arm to get my attention and said, “We’re here.”

There, astride the corner of Ottakringer Strasse and Bergsteggasse was a 4 story V shaped Belle Epoque building, the color of ripe hay, with a mansard roof.  The main entrance to the building was at the end of the V on Ottrakringrer Strasse above which a blue and white sign with “48” printed on it. Embracing the outside of the building was a small café with a blue awning that looked as if it was the place where the neighborhood sippeds its coffee and guzzled its beer.

Pops pointed at the building and said, “See the third floor, 2nd window over, that was our apartment.” A feeling of déjà vu rippled through me as I realized my father and I had this very same conversation over 40 years previously on my first and only trip to Vienna. It was so long ago that fragments of the trip are all that remain in my consciousness. My parents cutting me off after my third hot chocolate. Seeing a Tom and Jerry cartoon in German.

I had, when I thought about this moment in preparation for the trip, realized that coming back to his childhood must evoke powerful memories and emotions for my father. More than just the Holocaust and all it wrought. But of motherly hugs, and family gatherings. Of fatherly love and the complicated man Marcus had been both loving and angry and the occasional beatings these unexercised emotions would generate. A childhood of happiness and deprivation that would help create the man that would one day be the father that his children adored.

Now we were here at the site of those sweet and sour memories and for a moment was so overcome with the emotion of the moment I needed to turn my back on Dad so he would not see my tears. Eventually, the light changed, and I followed him across the street.

We walked up the front steps and into the dark foyer of the building. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the lighting and when they did, I saw a set of broad stairs that led up into the building. I turned to my father and asked “What are you thinking about?”

He paused, reluctant to share his thoughts and replied “I was thinking about the wife of the superintendent of the building. She was a nasty piece of work. She hated having Jews in the building and would scream at us kids every chance she could get. She would say vile things and scared the shit out of us.”

“Didn’t your mother say anything to her.”

“What could she say without getting us thrown out of the building or worse.”

I decided to change the subject. “Really, no bathrooms in your apartments.”

He smiled and said “Yes. If you had to go the bathroom you had go down the hall. Except when I small and we kept a honey pot in the kitchen so I would not have to go outside…. The Super’s wife always yelled that we were fouling the bathrooms and making her life miserable.” He paused and said, “You should go up and look.”

I replied “No. I have seen enough, and I don’t want to have explain myself to the current tenants. Let’s go outside and get a beer.”

Once seated, and beer ordered. I asked “When you got to Vienna at the end of the War how did you find a place to stay.”

“You have to remember that Vienna, at the time was an occupied city. The Army found something for me. I seem to remember being put up with the Brits… and eventually assigned me a room that I had to share with another officer.”

“Did you two get along.”

“No. Not at all. My recollection is that he was a real asshole. But I met someone other folks there and they were thrilled that I spoke the language and knew the town. He took a long sip of beer and I could tell he was struggling with the idea of telling me something and said ‘Yeah, they even tried to recruit me. “

“Recruit you how.”

“He wanted me to stay in Vienna and help them with intelligence work. He thought that I might be an asset.”

“Really!” I said honestly surprised. “What unit was he in?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Come on”

“I remember that his shoulder patch had was gold and black and had a spear on it.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

He smiled at me, into a benevolent way that suggested that there was no way that I would understand him and replied “I wanted to get back to school.”

He was right to think that I wouldn’t understand because to me it sounded like he could have been James Bond if he wanted. Even at 50 I could not understand giving that up. But thinking about this years later, knowing what I know now, I realize that my father had already lived too exciting a life. That what he craved was a less interesting, not more interesting, life. All things considered I could appreciate that.

I said “I didn’t mean to go down the sidetrack. What I wanted to get to is what was required of visiting officers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what did you wear. You didn’t wear fatigues or civilian clothes. You wore your class A’s right?”

“Yes.”

“So did you come here when you came back looking for your relatives.”

“Yes.”

“And did you see your landlady.”

“Yes.”

“And did she recognize you despite the fact you were 4 years older and had grown a foot since last you seen her and were now an officer in the US Army?”

“Yes.”

“How did she react?”

He looked away from me and I could see on his face that he was retrieving a very specific moment, likely in full 1040p resolution and Dolby sound and said “ She was scared.”

I smiled at his simple response and asked “How did that make you feel?”

He paused,  as if a little ashamed of his emotion,  and said “Great. ” I was not ashamed of the smile I had my face at the thought of a tormentor of my old man being scared shitless. The thought of it made my day.

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Tomahawk and Crown: Epilogue: Part 1

 Epilogue

Epilogue:

“We learned in school that millions of years ago, the Vienna Woods, now stand was the shore of a vast ocean. The scene must have been fantastic, with monster waves crashing into the hills, and huge fish cruising the depths where I am standing now. On the shore, dinosaurs, hunting and grazing in jungles of gigantic conifers, ferns and palms. But a new ice age made the Ocean levels drop and the shores moved towards the East, leaving only fossils from all the weird animals that had been swimming in it. The Danube, a byproduct of the glacial age, ate a hole in the hills that used to be the shore and started flowing eastward, as if searching for  the ancient mother sea that had given it life . Eventually came the time of the great wanderings and the place where the river spilled out into the great plain    became a crossroads of cultures and civilization.  Celtic salt traders stopped here. The Tenth Roman Legion and  the Gemini, marched   through. The  Emperor Marcus Aurelius    died in   Vindobona of Malaria. The Amber Road passed through the plain with long blonde haired Germanic Theones  peddling the fossilized remnant of the ancient jungle to the Romans. The hight cheek boned, fur clad, Asiatic warriors came next. Bow legged and reeking from a diet rich in mare’s milk the Alans, Penchenegs, and Hun camped in the delta their ponies drinking from the Danube. s. Dr. Braunschweiger said they were bow-legged and constantly stank of fermented mare’s milk. Norman knights came through here on the way to the Holy Land, pillaging, and killing, and maybe raping. My history teacher in the Realgymnasium didn’t say much about that, but he was a very devout Catholic. You probably know about all this anyway, and of course you know about the centuries when Christian and Turkish armies were chasing each other around here, killing and bleeding.”

It was the second day of our trip to Vienna and my old man, the Westfield J. Clark professor of Psychology at Columbia University, Sam Floessel was lecturing me from a sidewalk overlooking the flood plain of the Danube. “No Pops.” I said with a chuckle “ They didn’t teach much Viennese history in the New Jersey public schools. But it’s good to know.” We were here at my request. Here meaning Vienna, not looking at the Danube, that had been his choice. This trip was, in fact, a 50th birthday present that I requested from him.  Over the last few years, I had become intrigued about what it must been like for a 13 year old to flee from Nazi, Austria only to return as an officer in the conquering Army. Part of my curiosity was that of a storyteller, I tell stories for a living and the story of the return of the prodigal son is ageless, but it was mostly driven by an oddity. Pops loved to tell stories, but he had never told us his family this one.

While my fascination with his return to Vienna was a recent, my interest in his Army service was not. I grew up at a time when World War 2 was a recent memory. I am a boomer. Born only 12 years after the last shots of the war was fought and America was still taking its victory lap for saving the world and the war was a part of the collective zeitgeist.

The war was real to me. Not in a history book sort of way. It was real because I could walk into my friends’ home and see souvenirs that their fathers and family proudly showed off. I recall a friend proudly showing me a German helmet with a bullet hole in the temple. Another buddy proudly showed the deactivated pineapple grenade his father used as a paperweight. Or the German luger that another’s father had liberated from a dead “kraut” and now kept in a locked trophy case. My beloved grandmother, Pop’s Mama proudly carried around a fragment from a hand grenade in her change purse that my father had sent her claiming that it had just missed him.

It was real when relatives told of their escape from the Nazi’s. They told tales of hiding, degradation and deprivation that were scary but so captivating I hung on every word.  Relatives, including my grandparents would tell tales of lost parents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, and cousins who were never heard from after the war.  Their sadness and sense of loss was conveyed through spirit more than words for they rarely gave details of their experiences or showed their grief other than a sense of sadness even a child could perceive.

It was a part of my childhood library. My father had a book called “Up Front” a collection of cartoons drawn by Bill Mauldin for Stars and Stripes. It depicted two grizzled GI’s, Willie and Joe, citizen soldiers, as they made their way from Normandy to Germany and their experiences with battle, Army bureaucracy, and life in a war zone. We didn’t understand much of it on a deeper level than a puddle, but it made us laugh. One such cartoon, indelible to this day, depicted a US Calvary soldier next to his jeep whose axel is broken pointing his pistol at the Jeeps hood and covering his eyes as if he was putting down a horse. We earned that GIs spent a lot of time in mud, did not shave often, and the beverage of choice was something called Cognac.

We would beg Dad about his exploits during the war. He, like many of that greatest of generations, was reluctant to discuss his service. However, at bedtime when he asked what story we wanted him to tell us, he would, from time to time, share little blurbs of his life in the service. He would tell us about Cookie the pilot of the piper cub observation aircraft that was assigned to his artillery unit. Or was Cookie his driver? Time has a way of eroding childhood stories. In any case Cookie was always doing something interesting like placing sandbags underneath his seat in case they ran over a mine so should the run over a mine it would not blow his nuts off. (The word nuts would always make my brother and I giggle.) Or the story of my he told of crossing a bridge in a jeep to see if it could support the weight of 105 mm howitzers when the span collapsed and being saved from drowning when his trench coat, inflated with air due to the fall, had served as a life preserver.

Even our bedtime stories had to do with the war. The one I loved and asked for most often was of two boys who were walking along the banks of the Danube one afternoon when they happen upon a broken-down old rowboat. They are desperate to leave Vienna because of the Nazi’s, so they scheme to convert the rowboat into a submarine. They could then float past the Nazi’s patrols to the Black Sea and escape to Israel. The stories were episodic, recounting the adventures the boys had trying to get the materials they needed for their ship and avoiding detection by the Germans and those who wished them harm.  Similar to old time movie serials they often left us hanging just before we would go to sleep.

As we grew older, more of my father’s life, the World War and his life in the service became known to us and incorporated in our family’s mythology.

My grandparents, through the intercession of my grandfather’s brother Max, has managed to get visas to enter the United States three months after the war began and a year after Kristallnacht. A night in which my grandfather was arrested and jailed for a week. The night the synagogue my father and his parents belonged was burned to the ground denying my father the opportunity to become a bar mitzvah. A sadness he carried with him for the rest of his life.

Part of the story of his arrival here was his first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty and how it made him feel like he was finally safe and how the darkness of the past years had been shed.  He bestowed on her the honorific “ladily”, perhaps a bastardization of the little English he knew at the time, which he would call out to her whenever he saw her. Even 70 years later he could tell you the make and model of the car his Uncle had picked them up (1939 Buick Roadmaster)  in and how on that first meal on American soil he ate a pound of butter because he was hungry and he thought it cheese.  America was a land of plenty.

When I first heard this story as a child, I had no concept of hunger. What real deprivation was all about. We were not a rich family but I had never missed a meal or lacked anything I really needed. I had no real understanding of what it meant to escape and find safety; to know deprivation and hunger and suddenly have your fill. But what I knew was the emotion my father poured into these stories. I knew what they meant to him. I knew what it meant to him. Not because he was melodramatic or overtly sentimental about it but because of the joy in which he told this story. It was a hallmark of the optimistic spirit that defined my old man.

We were told that we he entered the Danbury Ct school system at the age of 14 they initially placed him elementary school because of his lack of English skills. He found this humiliating so he focused on learning English. He claimed he learned much of his English by going to Ronald Coleman movies and reading a dictionary,  facts borne out by a slight English accent when he spoke and the fact that he often used words so obscure that most native speakers would never  have uttered them. And once the English hurdle was overcome he moved through the grades quickly because of his intelligence and excellent Viennese schooling. (This is even more impressive when you consider that he had not attended school since shortly after Kristallnacht as the Nazi’s were denying Jews access to a secondary education.) Remarkably, perhaps incredibly, he graduated at 17 and entered Syracuse University as a Freshman just three and half years after his first glimpse of “ladily.”

We were told that my father was desperate for an education and to get a college degree. As a consequence, instead of waiting until the fall semester and enter with the majority of the class of 1947 he matriculated that summer. So by the time he appeared before his draft board in December of 1943 he had already completed his Freshman year of college. Drafted into the US Army. He served basic at Ft. Wolters Texas where he was naturalized and went on to Ft. Sill Oklahoma for OCS and Artillery school. On completion of his training he was shipped to Italy where he became a member of the 88th Infantry Division, The Blue Devils, who fighting their way up the boot of and ultimately being stationed in Gorizia, north of Trieste, a little less than 300 miles from Vienna where his adventure began.

When I was in High School I had been given an assignment in my AP American History Class to research and write about some element of our family’s personal history. After a lot of consideration, I had decided to write about my father’s return to Vienna. I thought it was an interesting topic and was certain that Pops would be more than happy to share with me his recollections. I could not have been more mistaken. When I broached the idea to him one late night in his study his response had been “Why do you want to write about that? Its boring. Why don’t you talk to Grandma about what was like growing up in Sopron?” I don’t recall what I wrote about but my bafflement about Dad’s response never went away. It was like an injury that never healed properly and every so often would reassert itself.

In February of 2007 it did just that. I was at Syracuse University. My alma mater as well as the old mans.  I had to come to the campus, as I had most winters since my graduation in 1979, to see a basketball game with a group of “boys” with whom I had attended the University. It was our annual trip into the way back machine where we could relive much of our college behavior such as eating slices of pizza at the Varsity or late night donut runs to satisfy the munchies brought about by other behavior we had enjoyed in college. Just previous to the trip, Pops had made a request of me. He told me that when he returned to Syracuse after the war he had a poem published in the campus literary magazine, The Tabard, and if I had time would I get a copy for him. It was an unusual request from him. He rarely asked favors of his children but one in which I was to do for him. So between slices of pizza, shots, and juvenile hijinks I went to Byrd Library and with the help of a librarian, I managed to track down the poem.

Bar Danubia by Sam Floessel

Their Streets are narrow, dark, and full of people.

Strange people,

Saying what I used to understand.

Their Virgin Prostitutes, their children dirty,

Full of strange deals, crying to me:

HEY JOE, CIGARETTES TO SELL, JOE?

And in the shadows of their great cathedral,

On the side streets , in the parks,

Their misery bears fruit for me.

In a night’s entertainment,

SEHR SCON GOOD JOE, SLEEP WITH ME.

The day is coming to a close.

The sentry watches

As soldiers streaming to the city

Pass by his lonely post,

The chilly, windswept road is endless.

And lined only with facades.

NOT AT ALL LIKE AMERICA

Where are going, Joe

The passing soldier hails me,

And, not knowing the reply, I answered “The Bar Danubia”

And so we joined in our Journey…

TO FORGET.

On the outskirts of the town is a tavern,

Full of lights and a band blaring.

The Cognac good

The women pretty

Not a bad place to forget,

Here on the edge.

Now out I look from the Tavern’s window

And see,

That the streets are filled with howling angry people,

Crying for what might bring

What they have not,

And hating all which is not them.

You, crowd, jamming the Main Street,

Austrians and Hungarians

You have tilled your poor, ungrateful soil.

Education is the privilege of your rich,

The burden of your Poor.

Your hunger and your cry for self-respect

Need Something,

And across the border they will say:

Comrade, let us be your guide.

All others hate you, dwell under our star and cry:

Plato and Aristotle lived on more fertile plains.

Ignorance is a horrible disease.

And yet without pain.

And through the ruins of the world are shivering

with memories and balconies,

Your own soil soaked with blood.

Vienna Youth in the Side Street,

Laugh not,

Your hunger weaves a different, equally horrid pattern

You have a marble God that does no wrong,

A marble God, a State

Gone Wrong

Glorious regiments, Queens of Battle,

Colors bright and waving

The mutilated dead are but monuments,

The ruined villages, crossed swords on History-maps

DEATH TO BOLSHEVISM!

They meet on the corner,

Insult each other,

Lie, then shout, then stones hurl through the air,

Clubs, Tear-gars, Pain and Screams

The scene, familiar as a summer-storm approaching

Brings all the long-forgotten sorrows to my ear.

And behind THIS window the band plays,

A WALTZ.

When the Librarian found out why I was searching for this information she agreed happily to make copies for me. She returned after a rather long absence and told me that the University had extra copies of that issue of the Tabard and presented me with one to give Pops. I was more than grateful.

On my snowy, hungover, painfully slow drive home to New York City I could not get the poem out of my head. Unlike my father, who loves epic poetry and at the least provocation will recite “Kubla Khan” by Cooleridge (In Xandu, did Kubla Khan…) I do not like poetry. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand and appreciate it. But Bar Danubia was undecipherable to me. It had no bearing on anything I knew of my father’s history and the emotions expressed were none that I had ever heard from him. Was this poem about his return to Vienna? Was it him trying to express the emotions he felt on returning to the city of his birth?   that one of the things I had never done enough of with my father is ask him enough questions about his time in the army. The 2nd World War had been a central theme of my childhood. My father’s service and his history had been a source of pride and even wonder all my life yet other than a story or two I knew nothing deeper than a very few times, and places. I had no idea of his feelings and his emotions. For reasons I can’t explain except for perhaps the sense of storytelling that I possess I fixated on the return of my father to Vienna. I wondered what it must have been like for a boy of 14 who had fled his home fleeing from religious persecution, personal violence and war, to return a foot taller and officer in the conquering army. It was beyond anything that I could comprehend, and it was a story that I not only wanted to know but one that I would love to share.

It was a week before I could make it out to my parents’ home to give my father the items I had retrieved from Syracuse. Sitting in his office I watched as he unwrapped and stared in disbelief at the copy of the Tabard  that I brought to him.  I watched as the emotion streamed across his face like a creeper on at the bottom of all news channel. I could see pleasure on his face akin to finding a five-dollar bill in a pair of pants you have not worn in a while. I saw in his face the reflection of an 82 year old man looking back on 60 years…the roads taken, and the paths not followed.  The opportunities lost and memories found. I wanted to tell him what the poem had meant to me but sensed that the timing was not right. The moment belonged to him, so I said nothing.

Eventually, he took my gift to him and replaced it in the envelope it had come and it one of the cubby holes on his desk. There were no words of thanks. I didn’t expect any. With my father, silence often said far more than words. Back downstairs in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of coffee with both parents the conversation turned to my upcoming 50th birthday. I told them that turning 50 was not necessarily a milestone that I wished to dwell on. However, there was something that I did wish for.  I looked at my Dad and told him that I wanted to go to Vienna with him. He said “Why the fuck would you want to do that? “

I told him that his poem had made think about a lot of things. How despite what I knew of his army service I really knew little because he didn’t talk about it very much. That while I knew about his arrival in this country, I knew very little of his departure from Vienna nor his return 6 years later.  That the poem had inspired in me the desire to understand what it was like to flee a city as a boy, a refugee from hate and terror,  and then return a young man, and officer of the conquering army and that I didn’t think it was something that I could understand by just talking about it at the kitchen table or his office.For me to utterly understand what that experience must have been like I needed to go there with him.

His response was pretty typical for him. “So what? A lot of people experienced the same sort of thing. What I did was not that special.”

I said “We can agree to disagree on whether your experience is unique. No matter what it is unique to you and to our family. But are you asking what the point is?”

“Yes. What’s the purpose? What are you going to do with it other than have some kind voyeuristic understanding of what I went through?”

He was being difficult, but I knew what he was driving at. My father always wanted me to write. He thought that I had a gift and he thought I was wasting it by trying to earn a living in the advertising business. I replied “I want to write a story about it. I want to understand what it must have been like because I think it is more universal than just your experience. I think that what you went through and how it ended up for you is something that people not only can relate to and I do think it is special but I also think that is a story that is fading fast with time and deserves at least the chance to be told.“

He shook his head, a Mona Lisa like half smile on his face, untranslatable but I took as him feeling complimented by my desire and a wish to make my desire a reality but a reluctance to relive those experiences again. For a few moments he was silent and said, “Let me think about it.”

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