Extraordinary Stories in Ordinary Places (Part 1) - or A Holocaust Survivor's Story

Sometimes the most interesting stories are passed on in the most ordinary places. They sneak up on you when you least expect them, quietly whisper in your ear. Often you don't even realize the importance of what you heard or seen until afterwards. This happened to me on a sunny spring afternoon in a dentist's waiting room.

I sat in a waiting room, waiting for a scrubs clad assistant to call my name. I was perusing a fashion magazine propped in my lap when a tall redhead walked in. She held the door for another, much older woman. Judging by the older woman's lined face and stooped shoulders, she was at least in her late 80's or early 90's. Her white hair was cropped into a fluffy helmet. She trudged slowly, leaning heavily on an ornate cane.

The redhead lead the older woman to a shady spot a few seats down from me. "Wait here, grandma, " she said, pointing to a chair. "I'll be back in a little bit."

I was reading about Beyonce's latest fashion triumph and deep analysis of whether brunettes should wear yellow, when I felt the unmistakable crawly sensation one gets while being watched. Sure enough the old lady was staring at me. I gave her a polite smile, ducking back into my magazine.

"You look like my granddaughter," she said before I could feign total absorption in the magazine. A slight accent colored her words. It was familiar, but not exactly what I heard on a regular basis from my Russian born parents. Eastern European for sure.

I pasted another polite smile on my face. "Really?" I asked looking in the direction the tall redhead had gone. For some inexplicable reason people always thought I resembled their cousin, next door neighbor, vet's assistant or anyone else they ever knew who had dark hair. I always attributed this phenomenon to living in Minnesota, land of blondes, where the black haired, brown eyed people like myself weren't as common as in other parts of the country or the world, and thus it was believed we all resembled each other.

"Oh, not her," the old lady said, waving at the door. "That's Julie. I mean Rachel, her younger sister. Here, I'll show you."

She reached into her large, flowery purse. I expected her to pull out a small photo album or a stack of photographs, instead she pulled out an iPhone.

"Here we go," she expertly navigated the phone with slightly shaky fingers. "The one on the right." She pointed to a dark haired woman surrounded by what must have been the rest of the family. I moved over a chair to get a better look.

"Hmm, ok" I nodded noncommittedly. I suppose there was a minor resemblance.

She pointed to each family member, naming each one. "And this is my Sam. He passed in 2005." She pointed to a paunchy elderly man. "I met him here."

"Here? In Minnesota?" I asked, giving up on my magazine.

"In Chicago. I came there after the war." She paused, studying me with her watery eyes. "I was at (she said a name here I didn't catch. I later tried searching for it, but couldn't figure it out.) It was my mother, my sister and I. We lived in Poland until we were taken away. My father and brother were taken somewhere else. I never found them. Of course they died. My sister died early on. It was hard. The brutality." She paused. I nodded, surprised where this conversation was going. "A nightmare. Then my mother passed. I thought that was the end because I was all alone. Then they said they were going to kill everyone and they tried to do it. People were screaming. All that screaming. Everyone else was dead, but I wasn't, so I pretended to be dead too. They threw me into a big hole with the rest of the bodies. I don't know how long I laid there. For days for sure. It blends all together. You know?"

Ummm, no, I didn't know. Luckily, no one has ever murdered my entire family and then attempted to kill me or throw me into a pile of bodies. I've never laid in a pit surrounded by decomposing corpses of people I knew. I didn't know. I was speechless, but nodded again, encouraging her to go on.

"After days passed, I heard voices. It was the good soldiers. Someone was yelling in Polish - Anyone alive?" Ahh, so she was Polish. "I tried to answer, but I wasn't sure if I was alive. But then I thought if I was hearing them I must be alive. If they didn't hear me, they'd move on and I'd be dead for sure. So, I yelled with all my strength. As loud as I could, I yelled. Someone heard me then. They found me and I lived."

With jerky movements she pulled up the sleeve of her pink sweater, revealing faded bluish numbers etched into her loose, translucent skin. "See?" she said, bringing her arm closer. "Doctors have offered to remove it for me. For free even. Good people. But I always say no. I keep it as a reminder for myself and everyone else. We shouldn't forget. Can't let evil to come back. You understand?"

I realized I was holding my breath. "Yes," I nodded.

At that moment we both heard a sound, a quiet shuffle. We looked up to see the redhead had returned and was waiting a few feet away. "Ready, grandma?" she asked.

The old woman patted my hand. "You're a good girl. I must have talked your ear off." She pushed herself up, leaning on her cane.

The redhead gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry for leaving her with you," it seemed to say. I smiled back and slightly shook my head, meaning it's no problem. The two of them made their way out the door.

This happened four years ago. I never learned the old woman's name and I've never seen her since, but I've always wanted to share her amazing story and the message within it. I wrote it down shortly after I met her. I hope if she ever reads this, she'll approve.

A Modest Proposal for the Upcoming Election

This is an election year. Not just any election, but the Presidential election. The big one. Thought I’d tell you in case you haven’t noticed the media circus swirling around us daily.  

As always on such an election year, I find myself surprised by the voters. People rarely seem to care about the issues a candidate represents. Voting for a specific candidate, for many, isn’t an intellectual choice. They don’t examine the issues, check the candidate’s political record and align their choice with the person who will most likely carry out their agenda. Politicians and their advisors know people vote with their gut and not with their brain. Often, when a Joe or Jane voter is asked why he or she will not be voting for a certain candidate, his or her response is, “He doesn’t seem like the type of person you can have a beer with.” What?! I don’t want a president with whom I can sit idly for an hour and drink beer in local bar, chatting casually about the weather and our children’s soccer games. I want a president with knowledge and experience. I want a person who is brilliant and capable. I want him or her to use big words that I don’t know and later have to Google. I want to be convinced this person is worthy of leading this country I call home.

But unfortunately, issues, voting records etc. are rarely considered. Instead we’re faced with a three ring act of each candidate trying to prove they are beer worthy. Millions of dollars are spent pressing flesh, kissing babies, pretending to bowl and flinging proverbial feces until one sound bite sodden candidate is deemed The One. He (yes, always a he) then proceeds to the White House where he is able to carry out the agenda of all the billionaires who’ve contributed to his campaign.

So, since our current election system seems to be in need of a bit of repair, I’d like to make a modest proposal of how we can, maybe not improve it per se, but at least make it more interesting. During the presidential election we should gather all the candidates and make them fight it out to the death Hunger Games style. Two weeks prior to the election we would have a “reaping” where all presidential candidate volunteers would be taken to a specially designed bio-dome staged with various traps and perils. They would be given a weapon of choice, given some training and expected to survive the deathly challenges found in the dome along with fighting the other candidates to the finish. Corporations, lobbies, special interests and bored billionaires can pay exorbitant amount of money to help their candidate of choice by having food, water, weapons, medications and other necessities delivered to them in the dome. In the end, the lone victor would become our president. Of course, the general population wouldn’t be any better off, but we’d sure be interested. And is it really that different than what we have now?    

Sometimes being a doctor isn't enough. Sometimes you need to invest in pornography.

People tend to say the craziest things around me. Not everyone of course, but there are definitely a select few who let it all hang out. I’ve often wondered if this is a unique experience, if there’s something about me that inspires that internal editor to go to sleep, or if this is a universal phenomenon where as an entire population we all walk around scratching our heads and going WTF?!

The following conversation is all true. I can’t make this stuff up even if you paid me. Some time has gone by since it occurred and I still can’t believe it.

Background: Because I don’t eat red meat and have a hard time holding on to B vitamins I have to occasionally go in to the doctor’s office to have my B vitamin levels tested or else I will explode into tiny puddles of oozing green goo, or whatever happens with low vitamin B levels. My doctor is normally a very competent, caring physician whom I’ve been going to for 22 years.

Doc: Hello. How are you?

Me: Hi. I’m good. Thanks.

Doc: So you’re here today…

Me: To check my B levels

Doc: Right. How is your son?

Me: He’s doing well.

Doctor scowls at something in my file.

Me: Is everything ok? (Meaning, is there something in my file that’s a problem. After all I am the patient and all.)

Doc: Have you seen the new XYZ building? (The building was recently remodeled and renamed after a prominent Minnesota family after they contributed several truckloads of cash. Since I don’t know how much of this story is true, I will call them the XYZ family).

Me: I’ve driven by it.

Doc: Do you know how they got their money?

Me: Uhhh, no, I don’t know them.

Doc: They own (insert name of a Minneapolis strip club here). They have other business they use to cover it, but that’s where the bulk of their money comes from.

Me: Oh

Doc continues, absent-mindedly staring out the window: They don’t talk about it. They’re silent partners. I really missed the opportunity. I should have gotten into porn when I was younger.

Me, unsure if he is joking: Would you have wanted to be behind the camera or in front of it?

Doc, now looking startled: No, no, I should have invested in it.

Me: You know my last test was normal and I’ve been taking supplements. I bet this one will be normal too.

Doc: I could have been a silent partner too. Could have had my name on a building.

Me: What would you say at dinner parties when people asked you what you do?

Doc: Well, I’m a doctor. I would tell them that. We’d put the business in my wife’s name.

Me: Right

Doc: Right. Now your test…

Don't call me ma'am!

Tomorrow I will be 40. A bit hard to believe. Like many others, I've wondered in the past if I would actually reach this age. I'd had my share of challenges (chronic illnesses, tough choices). I've walked down a yellow carpeted aisle and said "I do." There's a short person who runs around the house and refers to me as "Mom." I have a mortgage and my car is not a hand-me-down. It appears I am now a full-fledged, card carrying adult.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like being an adult. Yes, there's extra responsibility and I can no longer fit into that slinky little skirt in the back of my closet (Who am I kidding? I could never fit into it), but, there's also a freedom, confidence and respect that comes with age. People can try to tell me what to do, how to think, what to feel...but I don't have to listen to them. I can stay up all night if I want to and have nothing but popcorn and wine for dinner - well, only when my son is at a sleepover, and preferably on the weekend when I don't have to get up for anything - can't function on 3 hours of sleep anymore.

I think I'm going to like being 40. I'd rather be 40 than 30 or 20. And yet...and yet...I was at a grocery store not too long ago, after I signed for my purchases, the check out lady said to me, "May I see your card ma'am?" That startled me. Ma'am? Ma'am! When did I become ma'am? I showed her my card and went home mildly perturbed. Why did it bother me to be called ma'am? Wasn't it a legitimate term for an adult female? And isn't this what I was?

Yes, but...A ma'am in my mind has always been someone's grandmother. She's an older woman wearing a long skirt, with a beginnings of a stoop in her shoulders and a few stray hairs on her chin. I sometimes find myself calling a few of those difficult women ma'am. You know, those whom you'd rather call "bitch"? As in, "If you'd only stop yelling ma'am, I'm sure we can get this figured out." Convenient, isn't it?

Men don't have a counterpart to this term. They're not designated into categories of young and old. Unfair? Completely! Perhaps we should devise a new title for the seasoned gentleman. Something to even out the playing field. "Old fart" maybe?

A few days after the "ma'am incident," I went to have the oil changed in my car. Once the job was done and my keys were returned to me, I set out to find my silver car in their vast parking lot full of silver cars. I must have looked perplexed because an employee approached me and asked, "Miss, can I help you find your car?" Miss!!! I was "Miss" once again. Granted he looked about 18 and I was old enough to be his mother, but it was nice to not have to answer politely to a word that to me always meant "old."

So what to do? How nice it would be if there was one title we could use for all women. "Ms" works beautifully. Unfortunately, it is used so rarely. Some day we'll have that word. I believe we're headed in that direction. Until then, I'm going enjoy being an adult, I'm going revel in my acquired wisdom, I'm going to trust my decisions and my instincts, I'm going to chase happiness and make the most of every day. But if you don't know my name and you see me out and about and want me to move out of your way or tell you the time or give you a bigger tip, please...don't call me ma'am!