no?
--No. I mean, yes, it is custom, and thank you, but no, do not come. I vill not there be.
--Sol...?
--I must go... Preparations be vaiting.
--Sol, please let me ask, forgive me, I don't know. Flowers? Are they appropriate?
--Anything from the heart is appropriate, but ve do not use flowers.
--I want to do something for you, for your family... As a friend.
--Sam, you are a mensch, othervise, I could not say this to you. I must leave. I am in pain so terrible alone I must be.
There you go, shutting me out. I'm only a near-twenty-year employee, you and I working together in this crummy crumbling room, together all those years, our sweat stinking the air! doesn't qualify me to be a two-second friend! --Family? Yes. There is family vaiting. Friend? For Belaya and me all these years ve have just one friend. You, Sam. Only friend ve ever have. Belaya knows what you have done for us, every day I tell her how you vork.
What? I wasn't even sure you were married! I never met your wife! I had no idea bout your family. It was your secret, and you kept it. It never troubled me because that was as I kept my world, and I assumed you shut me out because we were not two people, but one a boss, the other an employee! Lord Jesus! You kept me at such a distance! You never confided in me! Never asked about me, or my life. You don't even know the day I was born. Today, Sol! Today's my birthday. I'm 30! On a day such as this can I ask you to wish me a happy birthday? Never offered nor sought advice! Now I find I'm the only friend you and your wife have ever had! Didn't you FEEL how badly I needed some small personal relationship to infulgurate my tenebrous world? Why was I separated from such a treasure for so long? Something I was exactly in search of all these years! Why didn't I know? Oh! Scalding, thoracic-torquing irony! May I fill your silence with my scream of mourning!
--I vant tell you, then, something. Yes. For me, I tell you.
The two men, their eyes crossing an Eolithic bridge, standing only a few feet apart, both wearing hats, both wearing coats, both wearing the air of a mortal wound.
Sol spoke with the do of the March of Time:
Sol and Belaya came to the Bronx in 1945, right after the war. From just before that day, she was confined to a wheelchair to this very day. An emotional guillotine had severed the cables to her legs. Sol took care of her every need. She took care of only one of his, his need to be needed. Every day he lifted her into the tub in the morning, bathed her; sat her on the toilet, helped dress her, prepared her breakfast, then left for work. He would go home at three-hour intervals to tend her. She took only tea or soup during the day, otherwise ate very little. Frail. Fragile. She smoked cigarettes. Luckies. Unfiltered. Four packs a day. Once a week he went to the library for books. She read, listened to the radio, then television when it came along. It was on Friday nights they had their own holy day. They lit the candles to make Temple, had a simple supper, then Sol would read to her for hours, as he did other nights, the longest of the time on sad Russian poetry, but on this night, accompanying himself on the balalaika he would sing songs they'd known when they were sweethearts in a disappeared time, a disappeared world. Except for the worst weather, on Sunday afternoons, Sol took her for long hours of trips pushing her on paths around Bronx Park, sometimes through fallen leaves, sometimes through snow. They saw no one socially, though they were a recognized pair in the neighborhood. The phone she wouldn't answer never rang. Now, Belaya was gone, and she would be cremated, at last! and God! Thatâs the way it would be.
Sol would take her to Germany, to Hamburg. To Aviva and Nina.
Relatives?
Yes. Daughters. Two little girls. Belaya's wish. She would be with them. He would find a way to put her ashes there with their two little ones, aged 5 and 7. About fifteen miles out of town. Where
--No. I mean, yes, it is custom, and thank you, but no, do not come. I vill not there be.
--Sol...?
--I must go... Preparations be vaiting.
--Sol, please let me ask, forgive me, I don't know. Flowers? Are they appropriate?
--Anything from the heart is appropriate, but ve do not use flowers.
--I want to do something for you, for your family... As a friend.
--Sam, you are a mensch, othervise, I could not say this to you. I must leave. I am in pain so terrible alone I must be.
There you go, shutting me out. I'm only a near-twenty-year employee, you and I working together in this crummy crumbling room, together all those years, our sweat stinking the air! doesn't qualify me to be a two-second friend! --Family? Yes. There is family vaiting. Friend? For Belaya and me all these years ve have just one friend. You, Sam. Only friend ve ever have. Belaya knows what you have done for us, every day I tell her how you vork.
What? I wasn't even sure you were married! I never met your wife! I had no idea bout your family. It was your secret, and you kept it. It never troubled me because that was as I kept my world, and I assumed you shut me out because we were not two people, but one a boss, the other an employee! Lord Jesus! You kept me at such a distance! You never confided in me! Never asked about me, or my life. You don't even know the day I was born. Today, Sol! Today's my birthday. I'm 30! On a day such as this can I ask you to wish me a happy birthday? Never offered nor sought advice! Now I find I'm the only friend you and your wife have ever had! Didn't you FEEL how badly I needed some small personal relationship to infulgurate my tenebrous world? Why was I separated from such a treasure for so long? Something I was exactly in search of all these years! Why didn't I know? Oh! Scalding, thoracic-torquing irony! May I fill your silence with my scream of mourning!
--I vant tell you, then, something. Yes. For me, I tell you.
The two men, their eyes crossing an Eolithic bridge, standing only a few feet apart, both wearing hats, both wearing coats, both wearing the air of a mortal wound.
Sol spoke with the do of the March of Time:
Sol and Belaya came to the Bronx in 1945, right after the war. From just before that day, she was confined to a wheelchair to this very day. An emotional guillotine had severed the cables to her legs. Sol took care of her every need. She took care of only one of his, his need to be needed. Every day he lifted her into the tub in the morning, bathed her; sat her on the toilet, helped dress her, prepared her breakfast, then left for work. He would go home at three-hour intervals to tend her. She took only tea or soup during the day, otherwise ate very little. Frail. Fragile. She smoked cigarettes. Luckies. Unfiltered. Four packs a day. Once a week he went to the library for books. She read, listened to the radio, then television when it came along. It was on Friday nights they had their own holy day. They lit the candles to make Temple, had a simple supper, then Sol would read to her for hours, as he did other nights, the longest of the time on sad Russian poetry, but on this night, accompanying himself on the balalaika he would sing songs they'd known when they were sweethearts in a disappeared time, a disappeared world. Except for the worst weather, on Sunday afternoons, Sol took her for long hours of trips pushing her on paths around Bronx Park, sometimes through fallen leaves, sometimes through snow. They saw no one socially, though they were a recognized pair in the neighborhood. The phone she wouldn't answer never rang. Now, Belaya was gone, and she would be cremated, at last! and God! Thatâs the way it would be.
Sol would take her to Germany, to Hamburg. To Aviva and Nina.
Relatives?
Yes. Daughters. Two little girls. Belaya's wish. She would be with them. He would find a way to put her ashes there with their two little ones, aged 5 and 7. About fifteen miles out of town. Where
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