Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
The rich and the poor have this in common: the LORD is the maker of them all. ~ Proverbs 22:2
The offerings given for the sake of God are [meant] only for the poor and the needy, and those who are in charge thereof, and those whose hearts are to be won over, and for the freeing of human beings from bondage, and [for] those who are over burdened with debts, and [for every struggle] in God's cause, and [for] the wayfarer: [this is] an ordinance from God - and God is all-knowing, wise. ~ Quran, 9:60
Baahir sat on the low plaster wall and let his heels bounce gently on the warm beige stucco. He had a game of it, bouncing each foot a set amount of times to match the resonant and uniform thuds caused by the strange hand-cranked machine that was here to dig a new well. The seismic shocks rippled out from the site, rolling along the ground and racing up the wall. Baahir smiled and felt the well’s birth pangs in his chest (for that’s what he thought they were.)
“Water muddy water, up from bottom deep, lapping over bucket, and I drink so no sleep,” he chanted. He licked his bottom lip and then quickly regretted it; the machine was kicking up dust and the winds had placed a fine layer of powder on his face.
Tiny feet slapped upon the warm stone, and a shock of kinky brown hair heralded his sister’s arrival as she lifted her head and peered at the workmen from her hidden vantage point behind the wall.
“They done?” she asked as she tugged her rainbow colored shirt back into place.
“No, Alia,” Baahir replied. He reached over and tried to pat her hair down, but gave up after a while. Nothing could tame her hair. Not even their mother. Baahir felt a sharp pang of remorse. How much time had passed since the Bad Day?
Baahir helped his sister up so that she could sit next to him. “Do you remember mama?”
“Some,” Alia said. “I remember her laugh but her face is going away.”
The boy put an arm around his sister and pulled her snug against his side. He remembered mama’s face. He remembered the morning she tried to braid Alia’s hair. Mama had said, I will have strength or I will perish trying. Mama always said that when trying to get Alia’s hair into place. Who knew mama would finally be right? Who knew mama would run with each of them uncomfortably pressed into her ribs as she fled towards the scrubby bushes behind the house?
Her heart beat fast. Baahir remembered that, and he could even smell her sweet sweat as it spread across the fabric between his body and hers. She had no air for prayers. She panted and he watched the ground speeding under him, marveling at her feet as they propelled her forward. The jostling hurt badly but neither he nor his sister would protest. They sensed that something was wrong. He felt her wrappings billowing out behind them, around him, his world a prism of mama’s favorite reds and golds mixed with the lighter oranges of her hijab. Their father always pampered mama with beautiful things that he found on his business travels.
The brush was right before them, prickly and sticky. Baahir was afraid mama would run right through it and he tried to hitch himself a little higher up to avoid the nasty leaves and twigs. Mama’s breath left her in a puffed oof then, the same silly sound his sister made when he shoved her between her shoulder blades. Mama didn’t sprawl forward like Alia would do; she staggered a few steps into the scrub and then he felt something impact again. He was dimply aware of a loud crack rending the air. Then they fell, he and mama and Alia, and the scrub swallowed him painfully. He was smothered and frightened. He instinctively curled against mama and pushed his face into her body. He heard her heart beat slowly and then become still. He knew no more.
“Water muddy water, up from bottom deep, lapping over bucket, and I drink so no sleep,” he chanted. He licked his bottom lip and then quickly regretted it; the machine was kicking up dust and the winds had placed a fine layer of powder on his face.
Tiny feet slapped upon the warm stone, and a shock of kinky brown hair heralded his sister’s arrival as she lifted her head and peered at the workmen from her hidden vantage point behind the wall.
“They done?” she asked as she tugged her rainbow colored shirt back into place.
“No, Alia,” Baahir replied. He reached over and tried to pat her hair down, but gave up after a while. Nothing could tame her hair. Not even their mother. Baahir felt a sharp pang of remorse. How much time had passed since the Bad Day?
Baahir helped his sister up so that she could sit next to him. “Do you remember mama?”
“Some,” Alia said. “I remember her laugh but her face is going away.”
The boy put an arm around his sister and pulled her snug against his side. He remembered mama’s face. He remembered the morning she tried to braid Alia’s hair. Mama had said, I will have strength or I will perish trying. Mama always said that when trying to get Alia’s hair into place. Who knew mama would finally be right? Who knew mama would run with each of them uncomfortably pressed into her ribs as she fled towards the scrubby bushes behind the house?
Her heart beat fast. Baahir remembered that, and he could even smell her sweet sweat as it spread across the fabric between his body and hers. She had no air for prayers. She panted and he watched the ground speeding under him, marveling at her feet as they propelled her forward. The jostling hurt badly but neither he nor his sister would protest. They sensed that something was wrong. He felt her wrappings billowing out behind them, around him, his world a prism of mama’s favorite reds and golds mixed with the lighter oranges of her hijab. Their father always pampered mama with beautiful things that he found on his business travels.
The brush was right before them, prickly and sticky. Baahir was afraid mama would run right through it and he tried to hitch himself a little higher up to avoid the nasty leaves and twigs. Mama’s breath left her in a puffed oof then, the same silly sound his sister made when he shoved her between her shoulder blades. Mama didn’t sprawl forward like Alia would do; she staggered a few steps into the scrub and then he felt something impact again. He was dimply aware of a loud crack rending the air. Then they fell, he and mama and Alia, and the scrub swallowed him painfully. He was smothered and frightened. He instinctively curled against mama and pushed his face into her body. He heard her heart beat slowly and then become still. He knew no more.
“Baahir? Baahir!” Alia protested, squirming next to him in the hot sunshine. Her brother was practically squeezing the air out of her. “Ow Baahir!” She pushed his arm off and he slid off the wall.
“Is it the dream, Baahir? The sleeping one where mama doesn’t wake?”
The boy rubbed his face with his arm, the angry tears mixing with the dust to form gritty streaks. This was their life now. He was powerless to change it, just as he’d been powerless to save mama. His sister would forever have wild hair because mama had said she would die if she couldn’t tame it.
Loud voices shouted in a foreign language. Alia skittered back over the wall and snaked her way toward the front of the building. Baahir followed, protectively pushing her closer towards the cooler shade provided by a wall. They peered around the corner.The Ewni’ceph man was there and he was talking loudly to the well digging supervisor. They spoke in the foreign language, bantering back and forth while pointing in the direction of the well.
Alia tapped Baahir on his shoulder. “They give us the shots and some extra mash?” That’s what usually happened when these people showed up at the refugee camp.
“No, I don’t think he’s here for that. No women or doctors with the Ewni’ceph man.”
“He's here to make them dig faster,” she said, and offered her brother a smug grin.
Baahir gazed at the man. He didn’t like the way the man’s eyes looked. They were dark and tired, resigned and sad.
A third figure, a girl much better cared for than Baahir and his sister, carefully picked her way through the loose rubble.
“He speaks English and says ‘I’m sorry, but we’re pulling out of this area. There’s nothing more we can do. I’m so sorry.’ The Ewni’ceph peoples will leave now.” She made eye contact with Baahir; the look spoke volumes.
“What do we do?” Baahir said. “We can’t follow them and we can’t remain here.”
“We do what’s expected of us,” the girl said flatly. “We do what they wanted us to do all along, because it’s why they took our homes and families. We do as they want because all that we have, all the riches of life, are gone.”
“What do we do?” Baahir questioned again.
The girl shrugged. “We die. It’s not as if anyone cares about the rich or the poor of our peoples.”
Baahir shook his head. “We walk to the next camp.”
“The road is paved with the dead,” the girl replied. Alia began to cry.
More than four years have passed since the start of the genocide in Darfur, Sudan. As many as 300,000 innocent people have been killed and more than 2.7 million more have been driven from their homes. These refugees now face starvation, disease, and rape, while those who remain in Darfur risk torture, death, and displacement.
UNICEF - Sudan - UNICEF in action Please, help them help the children.
Although Darfur remains the worst complex emergency in the world, UN agencies and partners working in the region have reported a dramatic decline in donor support. Sadly, as media coverage has dwindled over the past two years, security has further deteriorated, the caseload of conflict-affected persons has risen and the dependency of communities on humanitarian aid has increased—meaning that funding cuts will make a direct and unfortunate impact on children and families, likely eroding the progress made. Due to the lack of funding, UNICEF is currently in the process of planning scale-back measures and strategies for handing over lifesustaining and life-saving programmes to the government, despite its limited capacity to fund and manage activities. With rationalization of costs and scaling-back of programes, UNICEF’s remaining funding will carry its operations in Darfur through until mid-May. If UNICEF does not secure funding in the next three months major cuts will be made with serious consequences for children. UNICEF urgently requires US$ 87 million to continue its life-sustaining and lifesaving programmes.
She sat quietly in the playground and watched the other girls playing with their Strawberry Shortcake dolls. They laughed and combed the pink plastic hair, pausing to sniff the chemically infused scent of each doll. The boys raced around the blacktop in an impromptu game of tag, sweat making their faces glisten in the California sunshine.
There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.
The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.
None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)
Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.
The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.
I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?
She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.
There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.
The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.
None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)
Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.
The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.
I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?
She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.
The girl would shed silent tears later that day and act as if she were holding one of those envelopes. She would imagine choosing an outfit to wear for the party and then arriving at the party and allowing the girls to pull her over to the piñata or cake. It was all futility. An extremely dreadful knowledge held her heart captive; she was not wanted. It was a bit of emotional baggage that she would carry with her for a very long time.
In the yard next door, a winsome giggle floats alongside birdsong as a small body tumbles down a grassy slope. The child, a girl no older than five, rolls along with eyes squeezed shut. Pink shorts and a yellow tee-shirt, already streaked with grass stains, flashes in perfect alternating colors as she somersaults like a rolly polly bug. Messy braids whip about her angelic face; somewhere in the grass is her glittery star barrette and the shiny quarter grandma gave her only that morning. She reaches bottom with an audible “hoof!” of air, then sucks in healthy lungful before allowing herself to explode into a fit of laughter.
She pauses to watch Mrs. Next Door picking tomatoes before racing back up the hill again. Another somersault pass ends and she scores herself well for her efforts, just like those real Olympic gymnasts on the television last night, then catches sight of her neighbor again.
“Tomatoes are good, especially when they are still warm from the sun,” Grandpa always says. She reflects on her Grandpa’s favorite tomato recipe, remembering how he loves sitting on the porch, eating them after Grandma marinates them in some salt and balsamic vinegar. This has always been her special time with Grandpa.
Her small hands reach out to the chain link fence and she pulls herself upright. Mrs. Next Door has picked nearly all of the bright red tomatoes by now, filling a large pot to the brim. Mrs. Next Door’s dog, an old mutt with late summer shed fur sticking out at odd angles, ambles over and licks her face through the links.
“Good dog,” she says. Her hand fits neatly through the fence and, as is their custom, dog and girl engage in a little bit of fur plucking, distributing a soft flurry of hair into the summer breeze.
The dog seems to almost smile, turning from side to side as the loose tufts slide out of the coat. The fur seems to take on a life of its own, drifting in the air or slinking along the ground. The girl hopes that Mrs. Next Door doesn’t mind the fur that’s come to rest on the squash plant leaves close by.
Her neighbor makes her way up the slope of the yard and waves. “My, but you’ve all but picked off every last clump of hair,” Mrs. Next Door smiles. “That deserves a reward!”
The girl’s eyes grow larger as Mrs. Next Door lowers the large pot to within her reach. This, too, is a summer ritual. She is permitted to choose as many tomatoes as she can carry. It isn’t much, considering her size, but it is just enough to make Grandpa smile. She selects five very juicy ones, and thanks her neighbor before racing back up the slope.
The last bit of sun begins to fade as the woman climbs the back porch steps. A lightening bug casts off from a tomato bush, lazily dancing in-flight as it prepares for the evening. The garden is bathed in an amber glow, birdsong still rippling upon the humid air.
See more observant scribblings at Sunday Scribblings
The picture below is in answer to one of my friend's questions. She asked, "Exactly what does an Italian refrigerator look like?" Both pictures are of our current crop.
A QUESTION:
Darfur
Darfur
(starving mother and child awaiting treatment at an aid station.)
and the Republic of Georgia
and the Republic of Georgia
(wounded Georgian woman lies in front of apartments
post Russian air strike on the northern town of Gori.
She was later taken to a safe area.)
vs.
a vegetarian
Olympic swimmer
in the buff
(Amanda Beard and PETA.)
Which cause
deserves more press time?
Gertrude fidgeted a tad, her arthritic hands folded in her lap. I could tell that she had put on her best summer dress. Soft white curls framed her thin face, giving her head the appearance of a dandelion tuft. It was the archetypical old lady style.
I was here to write about her ordeal although I really did not want to be. My editor and I had a heated discussion about it last week. I absolutely loathe these sorts of interviews. I stood my ground, I threatened and I cajoled. I even stooped to pleading, offering a drawn out “Jim, do I have to?”
She thanked me for coming. Her voice was warm and the German accent endearing. I could almost picture her as perky Fraulein somewhere in Germany, eating sauerbraten and laughing with her friends.
I took out my recorder and asked her to begin.
_____________________________________
The apartment building was ominously quiet. Philip, a lover of men in more than just one sense of the word, cracked his door and locked fearful eyes onto mine. We both stepped into the hall, ears pricked in anticipation of the noise of the beautiful entry door downstairs being kicked from its old iron hinges.
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
I bit my bottom lip as I mustered up my courage. “Do I have to do this? No. I choose to. You can’t complain. They are at the door. Philip, help me tuck her under my bed. NOW!” I hissed these brave words even though my knees knocked together.
We heard shouts below as the soldiers began to spread down the hallways. Heavy boots began to stomp up the stairs. Phillip pushed both of us into my apartment and secured the bolt.
“This way, hurry!” I said, and Philip practically carried Mrs. Rosenbaum’s fragile body into my bedroom. He eased her down and she rolled herself under the bed. We pulled my favorite quilts from the closet to seal her in and make my bed look festive.
As we stood back to survey our work, we heard solders knocking on doors. It was not a polite sort of knock; it was two or three loud raps followed by the crunch sound of a boot kicking in the door itself.
“I suppose this is it for me,” Philip sighed. I gave him a confused look. “Liebling, I’m homosexual. They know where the Jews live. They know where the gays live. It’s the camps for us.”
The absolute harshness of that reality struck me. “How would they know?”
“They know. I am sure of it. They somehow know.”
“But, you are German!”
“I’m a fag. Most of us have gone into hiding. I stayed. I had nowhere to go,” he said, and then added in a thick voice, “They took Wilhelm last week.”
There was silence between us then. His lover. I had known all along, but polite girls wouldn’t discuss such things.
Two doors down, a frightened family screamed in unison as their door shattered off its hinges. The husband shouted that he was a loyal German, loyal to Hitler, loyal to the ideology. I knew that he had his papers in order. He might have been the bastard who turned in Rosenbaum and Philip. Who can say in these troubled times?
I would protect Mrs. Rosenbaum and Philip. My mind began to work furiously. I knew that there might be a chance, if my plan worked. It would mean that I would be humiliated. I am a virgin, a good girl. I would never bed a man without the blessing of a priest. Yet… I asked myself, “Do I have to?” The answer was “yes”. If I failed… I did not want to think of such things.
I turned to Philip and said, “Strip.”
He looked horrorstruck. I said it again, even as I pulled off my blouse and unhooked my bra. “Strip. You are not gay if they catch you in bed with a woman. Perhaps the ruse will work. Hurry. We will pretend!” I pulled off my skirt. We must have looked like naughty young lovers frantically trying to join each other for the first time. The knock came to the neighbor next door even as we hurried onto the bed.
When the knock came to us, we were kissing and rolling about like fish trying to find air on a dock. When the door shattered open, we sat bolt upright, a tangle of body parts, and I offered a scream for good measure. The soldier was rather embarrassed for us and lowered his gun.
I rose from the bed and allowed him to see my nakedness as a form of distraction. Philip slid on his pants and then grabbed the sheet and offered it to me.
The commanding officer joined the soldier and the young man quickly explained what he had walked in on, offering a bawdy laugh to cover his embarrassment. Philip and I produced our papers. The officer questioned Philip closely, but Philip and I both grew indignant at the implication that he was anything other than heterosexual. After all, we had dated since I was eighteen and we were engaged to be married. Yes, he still worked at the paper mill. Yes, his bad knees prevented him from serving in the military. The officer gave us a dubious look.
_____________________________________
She stated that her apartment smelled of stew that day. She remembered it so well. She could recall the young soldier’s face as he leered at her. She recalled Philip pushing the door back into place, then propping it shut with the couch. She could clearly remember Mrs. Rosenbaum’s hand waving at them from underneath the bed; her face wet with tears as they pulled her from her sanctuary, the old woman’s sobs wracking her body as Gertrude sat on the floor and rocked her. She remembered Philip kneeling next to her, thanking God and every saint that he had ever heard of. She found that so odd. Philip was an atheist.
They stayed in the apartment that night, huddled together. They saw the glow of buildings on fire, and they feared theirs would ignite. They were afraid to look out the window but they could hear the occasional burst of bullets riddling some poor undeserving person.
These are her memories. What would it be like to forget what she told me, to sweep it under the rug, to pretend it never happened?
Philip evaded the concentration camps; so many of his friends did not.
Mrs. Rosenbaum was later captured and taken to a camp. She accidentally tripped while carrying water, and was deemed too frail to be of use. They lead her to a communal shower (along with 49 other men and women) and as they sat shivering in the gloom, lethal gas belched from the fixtures. Eighty years on this earth were ended in such a brutal fashion.
Who will remember these things when all the survivors are gone? Who will care? I ask myself, Do I have to? I hear my mind reply, No, but I choose to do this. I choose to remember.
For further reading: Gay Holocaust - Lagers
Other "Do I have to?" posts can be found at: Sunday Scribblings
Rain-drenched trees bow politely at me, their branches shivering under the weight of a nocturnal torrent. Dark green forms somewhat veiled by substantial fog tease my imagination as I gaze into the early morning paleness.
Foul weather is the fuel of my imagination. What is an inconvenience to some is pure bliss to me. I see the fog as my security blanket, the rain as my lullaby. The wet smell of the earth soothes me as I trudge along.
I imagine myself to be a ghost, as pale as the fog around me. I swoop down the lane and slip through the cracks of an abandoned barn. I pause in the middle of the empty space and then sway to music only I can hear, oblivious to the dust and decay, recalling the barn dance nearly one hundred years ago. I asked my wife for her hand in marriage then, and we lived so happily.
I am the hawk gliding upon a thermal. My feathers are impervious to the moisture of the low cloud cover as I circle a mile from the ground. I fill my lungs with the air, relishing the clammy feeling in my nares.
I’m a molecule tossed into the air in the form of steam.
I am a vampire, prowling for my next meal. I see a house in the distance and feel my hunger rising. The fog deadens the sound of my tread on their porch. I enter and find the inhabitants to be an easy meal.
I am looking out my window and my mind returns from daydreams. Neither vampire or ghoul, nor hawk or molecule, I am simply me. I smile at the trees and roll over, content.
Foul weather is the fuel of my imagination. What is an inconvenience to some is pure bliss to me. I see the fog as my security blanket, the rain as my lullaby. The wet smell of the earth soothes me as I trudge along.
I imagine myself to be a ghost, as pale as the fog around me. I swoop down the lane and slip through the cracks of an abandoned barn. I pause in the middle of the empty space and then sway to music only I can hear, oblivious to the dust and decay, recalling the barn dance nearly one hundred years ago. I asked my wife for her hand in marriage then, and we lived so happily.
I am the hawk gliding upon a thermal. My feathers are impervious to the moisture of the low cloud cover as I circle a mile from the ground. I fill my lungs with the air, relishing the clammy feeling in my nares.
I’m a molecule tossed into the air in the form of steam.
I am a vampire, prowling for my next meal. I see a house in the distance and feel my hunger rising. The fog deadens the sound of my tread on their porch. I enter and find the inhabitants to be an easy meal.
I am looking out my window and my mind returns from daydreams. Neither vampire or ghoul, nor hawk or molecule, I am simply me. I smile at the trees and roll over, content.
To read more on this topic, visit Sunday Scribblings
