| © 2003 Miriam Lipschutz Yevick | |
| www.utoronto.ca/wjudaism/ |
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GLOVES |
I live in Jugtown (Princeton, New Jersey) Ceramic dishes were manufactured here at one time It is said that shards of ornamental jugs Are buried underneath the sidewalk pavers. Artifacts of past civilizations. To be dug up By future archeologists. Oak trees tall enough to have outgrown their lifespan Line the pavement on both sides They fall one by one with the passing years Under the whip of gale winds or split by lightening, Opening a hole in the foliage above To a new patch of sky. The trunks are cut into logs and carted away Leaving a bare stump as a sad reminder of their once proud bearing. I look down the street in the early morning From my kitchen window below the oaks. See now: Professor Bodansky Taking his morning stroll By the side of his dutiful daughter. He wears a wool cap with a visor She a stove hat of felt And matching gloves in leather. She raises her knee And swings her leg forward, Then lowers her foot Toes pointed to the pavement. Her arms swing back and forth in opposite motion A gait most elegant. The elderly scholar And his devoted offspring, Are engaged in profound conversation In the Hungarian tongue The voracious gas ovens were denied these victims, As they were denied me. The gentleman tips his cap to me As I step outdoors. “You remind me of my father Gallantly lifting his hat (Straw in summer, felt in winter) To a passing acquaintance. ‘Forgive me, I am of the last century,’ (We are all of the last century now) He used to say apologetically Upon not yielding his seat to a young woman standee When riding the bus in his nineties.” “Once when I was a young man in Hungary,” Mr Bodansky replies “And the weather was hot I meant to leave my cap at home. ‘Where is your cap?’ my mother asked. ‘I do not need it today.’ ‘But how then will you greet the people?’” I extend my bare hand To the daughter in greeting. She removes her glove before returning my gesture “Never shake hands with gloved hand,” Our mothers taught us. Nostalgia invades me: For good manners, artifacts of civilization, Betrayed and buried under the savagery of our last century. “Oł sont vos gants, Miriam?” (Where are your gloves?) I hear my Principal’s hard rebuke. I left them at home. Another demerit! There is no time now To signal the girls lined up behind me in the long passageway from the school’s entrance, To stealthily pass a pair forward To be sent back in the same manner For the next student in need. Thus we must daily pass muster at the Principal’s post: Hat with the school’s logo, white blouse, navy jumper and stockings, Polished patent shoes and gloved hands As becomes well-bred young women. These are the rules One day, two years later, the loud stamping of boots Resounded in the passage way To which they had gained admittance With the Principal’s permission, According to the rules. “This one and that one They picked out my former classmates. One by one they gathered them Even the blonde, blue-eyed Berthe Perelman, whose name betrayed her. “A Jewess!” “Elles m’ont ouvert les bras pour que je les sauve,” (They opened their arms at me to save them) “Il n’y avait rien que je pouvais faire.” (There was nothing I could do) My once beloved French teacher told me After the war. The Principal stood at her post at the head of the passageway, As the girls walked by to the trucks waiting outside. Did she check to see if the girls wore their gloves? Miriam Lipschutz
Yevick |
| © 2003 Miriam Lipschutz Yevick | |
| www.utoronto.ca/wjudaism/ |
this page last updated on: |
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