An Excerpt from:
GYPSY TEARS, LOVING A HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR

A book by Cora Schwartz

 

Chapter 1

 

Rudy insisted on calling our rented basement apartment his bunker even though I

complained it was depressing me. Except for the little, ground-level window over our

bed, we were cut off from the outside world. He said that was what he liked the most,

that and the hard cotton mattress propped up on cinder blocks in the corner. I cannot

remember how he convinced me to rent the dismal place, but I do remember the first

night the nightmares came. The tortured sounds he made were like the escalating howl

of a wolf.

“Tell me.” I shook him with trembling hands. “Tell me what you just dreamed.”

Rudy mumbled, “I don’t remember” and rolled over.

“You must remember. It just happened.”

“Please, I don’t remember. Just let me go back to sleep.”

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me. You just woke me out of a deep sleep. I want to

know.”

“There is nothing to know. Believe me.”

“Why do you say that? You think because I can’t see your face I don’t know you’re lying.”

Rudy groaned and went back to sleep.

Most nights, the resentment of being jolted out of my sleep, with my heart pounding

in my ears, kept me awake for hours. I’d crawl out of our bed, fix a cup of tea on the hot

plate, and watch the morning light slip under the curtain and settle on the top of his head.

I did not struggle all that much, any more than I struggled with his other eccentricities.

I knew Rudy needed to be down there, and for some reason I did too.

On those nights, I thought a lot about our first meeting that day in the Catskills. I was

visiting my mother at the Shady Nook Senior Citizen Hotel when the handsome stranger in

the black bathing suit walked up to me. He gestured with his head toward the men behind

him.

“But you know there is a Romania, don’t you? Tell them there is a Romania.”

“But of course!” I raised my voice so they could hear. “Everyone knows there’s a Romania.”

“Thank you.” The stranger winked at me. “They didn’t believe me.”

“Oh.” I brought my finger to my lips and leaned over. He bent down to meet me. I realized

by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the wisps of gray hair around his temples that

he was older than I thought.

    “Actually,” I whispered, “I don’t know that I do either. Isn’t Romania just a song?”

“Well, then,” he whispered back, “I’ll take you there. I’ll take you home.” He lowered my

hand to the table.

“We will find the best gypsy music. You can help me find the ring! Would you like that?”

I stared at him. “The ring?”

“Yes, of course. This is the moment that could change everything. It was meant to be.”

He raised one eyebrow and waited.

I remember thinking he was just another crazy man. I was thirty-two years old and divorced.

God knows I’d met plenty of crazies. I glanced at the book in my lap and considered

moving my chair, but instead I looked up and smiled. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

“Good. Meet me tonight. We can plan our trip.”

He walked back to the men in a slow, deliberate way with hips that seemed to rotate

effortlessly. He placed one long foot before the other as though he had invented walking.

He stopped and lit a cigarette, resting his weight on one leg, bending the other at the

knee. I wondered if he knew I was studying him. I was fascinated with the delicate

manner with which his fingers held the cigarette, the way he threw his head back with

narrowed eyes to avoid the smoke, dragging as though anxious to get it over with.

That he wasn’t an American seemed to be in the air around him. His brief bathing suit

certainly looked European.

I imagined his touch and how his leg would feel against mine.

He talked with the other men for a minute, placed his lit cigarette in an ashtray, and

walked toward the pool. It was a blistering afternoon. He splashed around with some

youngsters at the shallow end, then waded deeper where the water was up to his chest.

His arms were up close to his body. He looked scared, like he was holding his breath.

In another minute he was out.

“Afraid of the water?” I called out.

“I’m just not what you call a swimmer.” His body was golden in the light. He smiled and

the sun glinted off his white teeth.

He moved back to his chair in that same deliberate way, collected his things, and walked

across the hotel lawn without looking back. The strange melody he whistled trailed behind

him.

My mother came up behind me. She swatted me lightly on the shoulder. “You see, I told

you.”

“Told me what, Mama?”

“I told you to come up here and visit me. Look, look at that nice man you were talking to.

I told you.”

“Yes, Mama, he does seem nice, doesn’t he? But he is a little old.”

“Old, shmold. He’s handsome, that’s all that counts. So, did he ask you for your number in

the city? Did he?”

“Mama, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Sure it does. You have to show a little interest, that’s all. Just show a little interest for God’s

sake.”

“Mama, please, why don’t you understand? I’m not interested.”

“There’s no such thing. Look at you. You’re still young. You need more makeup. That’s

what it is.”

My mother started to wear makeup after my father died. Suddenly she looked like her

mother, Grandma Bessie. It was strange too how easily I now called her Mama after all the

years of not wanting to even call her Mother. I even tolerated her pestering me about how I

was wasting my life without a man. I accepted that she was incapable of understanding what

it was like to survive the kind of marriage I’d had and that now I was happy alone. But last

night, her phone call from the Catskills hotel made me feel guilty. I tossed some clothes in

my bag and drove up to Shady Nook.

Her friends plucked at me. They patted my hair, pinched my cheek, and called me a maidala,

a girl. Mama had tears in her eyes. They were all watching me from their benches under the

trees when the Romanian stranger walked over to me.

“Maybe you want to know why he’s here with all these old farts,” Mama added.

“Who?”

“That man. The one you just talked to. His name is Rudy. Maybe you want to know. Weren’t

you wondering what he is doing here?”

“Well, yes. At least he’s younger than most of the people here.”

“He came to see the owner, Mr. Hirsch. They were in the camps together.”

“You mean concentration camps?”

“What else?”

“I never met anyone who’s been in the camps.”

“So now maybe you’ll pay him a little attention?”

Rudy did most of the talking that night. The faint scent of wine on his breath pleased me

as we walked down the country road. The sun played games from behind the mountain. He

took my hand after only a few minutes, and when the evening air turned cool, and without

asking, he took off his blazer and put it around me. I turned my head to smell the cologne

on its shoulder. His stride was much longer than mine. I had to take two steps to his one.

I sat on a bench on a wooden bridge. He stood off to the side behind me looking out at the

lake. He was in the middle of a sentence when a series of distant explosions cut through the

silence. I turned in time to see him jump.

I laughed. “They’re only firecrackers.”

“Yes. I know. But they bring back memories.”

“You used to set off firecrackers when you were a boy?”

Rudy lit another cigarette before answering. “I was never a boy.”

“You have an accent. Where are you really from?”

“You have one too, but I know where you are from. The Bronx.”

“And you?”

“Oh, here and there.”

“Like where?”

“I come from nowhere. I have no country, no home. Nobody wants me. I’m a Gypsy.”

“What about Romania? Remember, you’re taking me to Romania. Isn’t that where you’re

from?”

Another firecracker went off. Rudy moved so close to me I couldn’t help thinking he was

frightened.

“So where were you in March 1944?” he asked. “Were you nice and safe in the Bronx with

your mommy bringing you orange juice in the morning?”

“Huh, well yes, you might say that. Yes. What about it? I was just a little girl then, you

know. Why? Where were you?”

“I can tell you I wasn’t in a bed.” Rudy sat down next to me. “And my mommy wasn’t

bringing me orange juice either. I can tell you that much. I was busy surviving.”

“Why are you so angry?” I pretended to fix my skirt as I put more space between us.

“We all struggle to survive.”

“You’re sure about that?” Rudy looked at me. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“Well, imagine this.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the railing. He pointed out

over the lake.

“Imagine that a boy has to swim across that water down there. The moon is out just like

this. Only it is March. He is swimming to meet an older boy from the other side. The older

boy is bringing him a can of salt. Salt. Only it’s not a lake.” Rudy’s hand tightened around

mine. “It’s a river with a current. The boy is a good swimmer with strong legs. The typhus

in the camp burned up his brain so he is not afraid. He will do anything for the salt. His

people need it. He gets to the middle and treads water. He waits. The older boy appears out

of the darkness only two meters away, the can of salt tied to his back. The boy exchanges

his gold for the can.

Neither boy says a word but the older boy smiles and nods. Each boy takes a few strokes

and waves goodbye as the spotlights go on. The younger boy turns and starts swimming

as fast as he can. The bullets hit the water with little splashes. In the darkness behind him

there is a cry.”

Rudy let go of my hand and gripped the railing.

“Do not think, the boy says to himself with each stroke. ‘Do not think.’ He hears the guards

shouting. He hears their motors whining. They are coming after him.”

Rudy seems to have told the story in one breath.

“What a story.” I was breathless as well.

His flat voice filled the air around us. “It’s not a story.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I wiped away my tears.

“Yes, I know. Everybody was sorry. They all cried Gypsy tears. Eight million people died

anyway.”

“Eight million? I thought it was six million.”

“Six million Jews. Two million Gypsies.”

“What about the Gypsy tears?”

“Real tears are dry tears, inside where you can’t see them. You see there is survival and

there is survival.”

“I understand. I’m a bit of a survivor myself. It’s just that I never heard a story like that,

never knew anyone who lived through that. I really am sorry.”

“Yes, I know.”

        Rudy led me back to the bench. He stretched his arm along the back of it, crossed his legs,

and took my hand. He turned it over and studied it the way my Grandma Bessie used to do

when she was pretending to read my palm. He rubbed his thumb across my lifeline.

“I know you are sorry.” His voice was suddenly gentle. “And I know you.”

“But we met only three hours ago.”

“Oh, but I have always known you. You can feel it. Don’t you feel it?”

I contemplated his profile in the moonlight, his broad forehead, his fine nose, and the

straight, tight line of his mouth. The air was still except for the chirping sounds of crickets.

I took a deep breath.

My serious voice surprised me. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Rudy brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. He turned it over and kissed my

palm. “Shall we?”

I didn’t know what to say. “But it’s so dark.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can see in the dark. But that’s another long story.” Rudy stood up and

pulled me with him.

“Oh, you have to tell me.”

“Someday.” Rudy was laughing again. “Someday I’ll tell you everything. But you have to

promise one thing. You will have to believe me. You will have to believe everything.

 

THE END

© Cora Schwartz
Edited by the late Sid Hall Jr.

(dedicated to my father, a victim of the 1909 polio epidemic)

He was one of the first victims of the infantile paralysis epidemic of l909.  Day after day from our stoop in the Bronx, I watched him move down the hill on East l84th Street. His body swayed from side to side. I pictured his pale left leg, inches shorter than the good one, just bone covered with skin.  His powerful right leg with its thick thigh and short black hairs was the leg I focused on when I had to dance with him.

“Dance with your father,” my mother would say and then she pushed me onto the dance floor at every Bar Mitzvah and wedding. My father wore his dark blue suit, a white shirt and a tie. He was so handsome with his curly black hair plastered back. It was the only time he smelled from cologne. My cheeks flamed. I felt everyone watching the girl in the pink organza dress from Lynne’s Discount Store on Fordham Road. I tried so hard to stay in step, to follow him. The sweat beads dotting my father’s flushed face were from drinking. I knew he waited until he’d had a few drinks before he got up to dance.

His left hand gripped my waist. The other hand probably looked like he was holding my hand up. It was the normal way everyone danced. Only I knew the pressure on my right hand as he moved his body from one position to the next. That I held him up, balanced him, was my secret. When I stumbled and straightened up, I saw the truth behind the smiles around us. I knew they were laughing at how my crippled father danced.

Daddy chose the slower music, but as he jerked his body and shifted his weight to the good leg, his shorter, skinny one was left swinging in the air.  If I tripped over his foot he would laugh. “What’s the matter kid, can’t keep up with your old man?”  The band played the Anniversary Waltz. He loved that song and always approached my mother first, but she never danced with him. Her laughter blended with the others when he turned to me instead.

Most times, my father looked like he was trying to walk as fast as he could without falling, especially when he was trying to get away from my mother.

And when he did, I wanted to call out, “Come back, Daddy. Come back. We need you.”  But the other part of me longed to shout, “Run, Daddy, run, run if you can, fast, away from here.” I wanted not to be twelve years old. I wanted to run away with him.

Almost always their fight was over money.  Mother would spit out awful words.  She seemed to savor them, waiting for just the right moment.   She would whirl around from the stove and look him straight in the eye.

“Oh,” she’d moan. “Oh, are you lucky we have these kids.  Who would stay with you otherwise? Who?” And my mother would hit herself in the chest.

One cold, windy night he came home telling us the taxi cab he drove had broken down. Once again he came home empty-handed.  There was no money for supper. I knew my mother would send me to my nasty old grandmother for money. But even I knew it wasn’t Daddy’s fault. Why didn’t my mother?  She spun around the shabby kitchen, swinging a wooden spoon in great arcs.

“I should have listened to my mother. Oh, she warned me.  They all warned me.  Now look.  How am I supposed to feed these kids? Marrying a cripple, they said, a cripple.  Oh, if only I had listened to my mother.”

We huddled in the kitchen doorway, my baby brother pressed against my side, my little sister behind me, whimpering in tiny gasps.

Mother stopped.  Her eyes moved about as though she was searching for something, as though she’d never seen the awful kitchen before.  Then she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.  Daddy’s blank face stared back. Sweat trickled down from his forehead.

Say something, my silent voice cried out to him. Tell her to shut up.  Tell her it’s not your fault.

My father didn’t say anything. He reached out for a second as though to touch her but then he dropped his hands. They hung by his sides, broad and rough.  Sometimes I complained about his rough hands. He just laughed and said he liked them that way. He said it reminded him of his other life, the one at the marina in City Island.

I loved it when he said that. It was then I could picture him smiling while he scraped the barnacles off the bottom of his little boat. I also remembered the late autumn day when he let me stay home from school to go fishing with him. My mother made an ugly face when she called me his pet.  I guess she was right in a way because I was the only one he ever took to City Island. Anyway, his hands were really okay with me, especially on that day when I had trouble cutting up a worm for bait. He patted me on my head with his heavy hand. “It’s okay kid,” he said. “You can do it.”

That night my father turned away from my mother and moved toward the front hall. I got out of his way as he shifted to his bad leg. His finger marks dotted the door frame from all the other times he’d reach out for balance. The real threat was the linoleum that curled up at the end of the kitchen floor. It was like that in every room. He tripped on it when he was upset and tried to get away too fast.

Mother seemed to love reminding us it was Daddy’s stupid pride that stopped him from wearing the braces an agency was willing to give him for free. Daddy said he didn’t need them and that the way he walked was good enough for him.  Then he’d change the subject and brag about how he could switch his good leg from the clutch to the gas pedal and back again real fast, without the taxi stalling.

“What’s wrong with Daddy being proud?” I’d ask.

“He’s not really proud. He’s selfish. He wants us to worry about him.”

As I watched my father reach out for his long gray coat and driving cap, I hated her.

I walked onto the stoop feeling the cold and the wind. My brother and sister’s crying echoed through the apartment. Mother came up behind me. Like a witch in a fairy tale she tried to push me off the step.  I wouldn’t move.

“Go after him,” she whispered in my ear.  “Go ahead, go after him.”  Her prodding finger dug into my back. “Get him. Bring him back. It’s nothing. Go ahead.  You can catch him before he turns the corner. He won’t run from you.”

I didn’t know what to do.  I needed him. We all needed him. I also knew he needed to be away from this place.   Even if I walked, I could catch up to my father.  I held my breath. I didn’t want to win this race with him.

I watched how the wind wrapped his long coat around his legs.  If only he could run to escape the cold the way the rest of us did.  He limped down the hill, his weight shifting from side to side.

I turned and looked up at my mother in her stained housedress. The smell of her perspiration made me dizzy.

“This is the last time,” I said. “Promise me.”

“Yes, yes, the last time.” She gave me a push.

“I promise. Now go. Run.”

Across the street at the tidy DeGallo’s house someone peeked from behind the curtain. The door to the Piano Man’s house was open. I was sure Danny would come out and see me running after my father. I took a deep breath and ran, finding myself at my father’s side as he reached the corner.  I always thought that if I didn’t get to him before the corner, he would make the turn and be gone forever.

We were the only people on the street. Bits of newspaper swirled around the sidewalk at our feet.

“Daddy,” I called over the wind.  “Come back, Daddy. Please. We need you.”  For a second I thought he didn’t hear me but I held back from grabbing his sleeve. I was afraid of upsetting his balance. In my nightmares I often saw his bloody face as he lifted himself from the pavement.

I was out of breath. Mother had pushed me out without a coat and I was shivering from the cold. My father stopped and looked down at me.

His ruddy cheeks were a constant reminder of how he went to check on his boat even in winter. His wavy black hair was carelessly pushed back from his good looking face.  Aunt Evelyn said you could tell by his broad shoulders that Daddy would have been much taller. She said his growth had been stunted by his polio.

I saw the plaid of his blue flannel shirt around his neck and knew that at least he was warm. I waited. Maybe this time he wouldn’t come back but I was ready to cry and beg. That had always worked.

I touched his sleeve gently.  “Come on, Daddy. It’s cold.  Let’s go home.”

He pulled his arm away. A glaring light replaced the sadness in his eyes. “Get lost, kid,” he shouted in an unfamiliar voice. He swallowed a sob.  “Leave me alone. Go home yourself.”

For three days after school I kept my vigil on the stoop waiting for my father. I watched the bottom of the hill, sometimes thinking that if I held my breath he would  turn the corner and come back to me. The sun went down, the wind blew hard and icy, but I wouldn’t go in until it was really dark. On the third night while I was asleep my father came back to the apartment. He never said where he’d been that time or any of the other times but that was okay with me.  My father was home again.

THE END

© Cora Schwartz