The letters of our thoughts are the ideas present in our mind before they come to realization . . . Thoughts that are, yet not felt . . . The words of the subconscious . . . of the soul . . .


Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Wolf and Aranka -The Sky's Tears

Wolf and Aranka Z.

We recently went to a slew of old age homes in the Waterbury area . . .
The last one was a classy joint, an assisted living residence ( 'A Golden Age Resort') as opposed to the slew of drab convalescent homes we had visited earlier.

There were two apartments with Jewish residents.
The first belonged to one Ruth, a sprightly 92 year old.
We spoke of life growing up in New Haven and later her marriage to a man from Waterbury. A real fighter, she said that when she moved into the home one of the residents made an antisemitic remark to her, so she gave it to the would be bigot over the head . . . with a laugh she added, 'He's dead now anyway.'
We asked her if she lit Shabbos candles,

"No . . . I used to, but I can't light any fires here. I do smoke though -even if its against the rules." An impish smile spread across her face, "I'm not going to quit either, it's the only pleasure I have in the morning. I've been smoking since I was sixteen years old -used to sneak a smoke from my father's pocket. Would you take away the only pleasure of a ninety-two year old woman?"

She told us of the disappointment she felt over the lack of reverence her children had for their Jewish tradition . . . and the direction in which the world was heading,
'My great granddaughter is beautiful child -but she is an absolute flirt, and she's only three . . . and that scares me, with the world that we live and how things will be and all.'

We told her that her every action teaches volumes to her children.

Next we went to the apartment of Wolf and Aranka Z.
Both survivors, they made for a very cute couple . . .
What was even more interesting were their nationalities
-for Wolf was born Sosnowiec, Polska, Aranka in Hungary . . .
The icing on the cake, though was the fact that I was in Poland (or at least that's what they tell me), and Mendel was in Hugary.

Mendel leaned over to the aged Aranka,
"Megköszön I-sten"
"What?" she called out, "I can't hear you."
"I said Megköszön I-sten"
"Oh, Megköszön I-sten! You speak some Hungarian? I speak Hungarian -Wolf he speaks Hungarian from when he was in Hungary!"

Giving it a shot, I turned to Wolf,
"Dzień Dobry!"
"Oh, you speak Polish? Jak sie Pan ma?"
Dzięki B-g!"
We both broke out in laughter.
"So what are the Polak'en like? Have they changed in the past sixty years?"
"You mean they're still foolish? I remember they would curse out a Jew, but when a Jew passed away they would stand by the funeral with great reverence -they would take off their hats un mach di tzielem mit di hent! Such narunim!"
We laughed some more.

Wolf, the more vigorous of the two was very outspoken about the need to learn about the past, about the Holocaust.

As we spoke the sky began to pour -a deluge of rain, so thick that it was difficult to see out the window. The sky's tears for the past.

As our conversation ended, however, the rain stopped . . . and the sun came out.

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