Found and Lost
Page 11
I still think of us on Halloween, me as Martha to your George Washington, in our powdered wigs going door to door, gathering a sticky haul.
Lovely to hear from you after all these years,
Alison
DEAR SISTERS,
Lily’s daughter sent me this poem as a New Year’s wish:
Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain
And ’spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain
Take heart with the day and begin again.
Susan Coolidge 1835–1905
I pass it along to you both with affection.
Alison
DEAR MS. GOLD,
I’ve completed some preliminary enquiring re contents of 16B. Following, please find my comments.
I spoke with two people at the Wilhelm Reich Museum who said the museum is not interested in your parent’s Accumulator per se as they have many of them. They also said that an Accumulator (aka Orgone Box) does not have any inherent value based only on when it was built (yours, in the 1950s). The exception is if it was owned by someone of note like Jack Kerouac or Patti Smith. I’ve had no luck in finding private collectors. It seems as if there is not a big market for vintage Accumulators.
Appraiser who saw photo of foyer bureau is of the opinion that it may be pre-Civil War.
I sent ten photos to Guyette & Schmidt Inc., the country’s largest antique decoy auction firm. Estimates on those in 16B range from $40–$150.
The cast-iron Pressing Irons are tough to research. As are the Betty Lamps. The teak Danish Modern Wall Unit with Rolling Side Piece, Table and Chair Set, are very hot now. The Goose Weathervane on the terrace is an uncommon design. Yours is in fact a Snow Goose.
This, to let you know I’ve begun work. With such an accumulation of items, it will take a while to begin to get a clear estimation of values and marketability. I don’t know if you and your sisters are in a hurry to empty the apartment? More to come as soon as I obtain some concrete estimates.
Yours truly,
M. Brown
Brown & Associates, Home Inventory Services, Inc.
Again in the lobby, the unwashed neighbor with Tourette’s hissing – ‘Fucking Jews … fucking niggers …’
DEAR DENNY,
Here’s what I think of this New Year:
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Epigraph to ‘Dejection: an Ode’ by Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, taken from ‘The Ballad of Sir Patrick
Spens’
Always,
Alison
DEAR ALISON,
Thank you for the address and for setting my mind at ease.
My kids were brought up with tales of what a Halloween goldmine Jeffrey Gardens apartments were, where each door led to three floors with four apartments, and you could fill so many bags you would have to go home midway to unload. A dentist’s dream.
Best,
Nolan
On 14th Street a child crying out to its mother, ‘I don’t want to play the piano for Grandma and Grandpa!’ A warm leg pressed against mine on the C train
DEAR MOTHER TWITCHETT,
A strange winter for birds. Heard of a mass die-off on the radio – 1,000 turtle doves pelting Italy, 5,000 red-winged blackbirds raining down on Arkansas. 50,000 jackdaws drizzling onto snowy Sweden. A clever commentator christened the shower of bird corpses a ‘flockalypse’. They’re explained as natural occurrences, or bird ‘die offs’; or, as one Evangelical religious leader helpfully explained when asked, as punishment for the spread of homosexuality.
It’s starting to be too long since I’ve heard from you. Had I been pelting you with too many Shoah projects? Or, is it your mother? Even if your stick is broken and the ice has melted, do write. Or, get that frozen hockey puck out of your freezer and take a shot.
Simon of Cyrene
A long braid of bad dreams
DEAR MISS BROWN,
Thank you for your efforts with the contents of 16B these past months. I’ve reviewed your final invoice and log of showings you made to prospective buyers. Yes, it is strange how much interest there was in the high ticket items but when it came down to hands into pockets, so many hands came up empty; so many wild goose (pun intended) chases, including the swing bench, the Holmgaard of Copenhagen ‘STUB’ glassware from 1973, the wrought-iron nesting tables, the antique Singer sewing machine, the wooden bench swing … the Accumulator!
My sisters and I appreciate your optimism that, given more time, you’d sell more items, but – frankly – we’re burned out. We’ve decided that it would be foolish to pay rent on the apartment for yet another month or more, as none of us can stand the thought of dealing with 16B (where my parents lived for over forty years) any longer. So, we’ve picked a cut-off date, will each take what we want, will give away whatever other family members want, and anything remaining will be donated to the Salvation Army. We’ll box books, records, china, pots and pans, cookware, clothing, bedding, etc. There’ll probably be about fifty boxes. We’ve arranged a pick-up. Anything the SA refuses to take – like mattresses – we’ll just leave in the apartment. Our cut-off date is the last day of the month, so if you make any further sales, just make sure the buyer has picked up the item before that date. And, please, just throw the house key away when you’re finished. A check will be in the mail as soon as we receive your final invoice with hourly fee and % of sale fees.
Gratefully,
A. L. Gold
Medvedev’s cat Dorothy strayed onto 25th Street. By the time the ASPCA arrived to rescue her, she had wandered off
DEAR ALISON,
A surprise to hear from you. Forgive the delay in replying but I was visiting an old aunt in Ireland, the last one. No, I don’t plan on retiring there any more. Not that I wouldn’t want but when I planned it all those years ago, there were family and friends. Now there’s almost no one except this old auntie.
I’m responding to your query by way of a question. If you were near to a fire, could you fall over into the fire and burn to death in your present condition?
I doubt it, honestly. The disease you describe sounds like the form of epileptic psychosis found in Tanzania in the sixties or Uganda more recently. That ‘nodding disease’ causes children to wander away, to starve, fall into fires. Occasionally their small corpses are dragged back to their villages by wild dogs.
I somehow doubt you have that. The ‘African nodding disease’ I’m talking about cannot be reversed. Maybe you’re just run down, or would that be too mundane?
Be reminded that it’s easier to stay healthy than to get healthy again. Remember how close to the end drinking brought you but you didn’t go over the edge? Don’t underestimate the crippling power of grief either.
How about lunch at the Silver Spoon on Monday week?
Gerda
DEAR SIMON,
Thanks for asking after my mother. She happens to be distraught because her hair is suddenly thinning and breaking off. She blames the Portuguese maid she’s had for twenty-five years, accusing her of putting cleaning fluid into her shampoo bottle before she left 16B. She’s very angry.
When I arrived at Winchester, the Assisted Living place in NJ where she has recently moved, her new aide was making her bed. She introduced my sister, brother-in-law, and me to her. The aide looked at me and then at the blown-up college photo of my father in which he looks like a movie star, stated: ‘She looks like her father.’
Me: ‘Impossible. All my life I’ve been told I looked like my mother.’
The aide came close, looked hard at my face, walked over to Dad’s photo, scrutinized it, came back and looked at me again. ‘No. It’s your father you resemble. Look at the eyes.’
Until next time,
Alison
Men, women, and children on the C train wearing hoodies. My reflection in the window shows me wearing mine – bright red hood on an Archangel Michael
DEAR MRS. GOLD,
This simply is to inform you that after discussions with the charity that receives biggest of Tinneka’s estate, there is nothing we can do to enforce her wishes as regards leaving part of her estate to you since the papers to name you as beneficiary were not notarized.
I am sorry for this too.
Notary Public
Ivan van Haak
Drawn into Housing Works thrift shop on 17th Street. Found a large metal-grey man’s suit jacket with white speckles to replace the one given to Lily, made in Italy, Armani, $27. A red King of Diamonds in its inside pocket
DEAR ALISON,
I don’t want to worry you, but there’s a chance I’ve lost the lion’s share of my savings by stupid mismanagement. Please cross your fingers for me and, please, don’t ask for details. Suffice to say that speaking four languages along with a wall full of awards hasn’t helped me avoid this.
On a lighter note (I’m sure you’ll notice my irony when you’ve read on), your gadfly friend is writing to bite you again with news of someone who just might be the oldest living survivor of the Shoah, a Czech pianist & teacher who (almost beyond belief) was a friend of Franz Kafka’s friend and executor, Max Brod. (I can’t resist.) Her name is Alice Herz Sommer. She considers herself and her family of origin ‘Jewish without religion’. That means nonpracticing, assimilated into Czech cultural life, I guess. Her husband died in Dachau. Alice survived Terezín and so did her son Raphael, one of only 130 children in Terezín out of more than 15,000 who made it out alive. Her post-war story is buoying. She continues to live in a small room in Belsize Park, the once-Jewish neighborhood in north London near to where you gave the reading not long ago. She lives alone. Although her son and everyone else is long dead, and she no longer swims daily, she’s reputed to continue to practice the piano several hours each day, claiming, ‘I am alone but not lonely because my life is rich with music. Music saved my life.’ Yes, she played concerts in Terezín. If there’s any way you might consider writing something, I could easily arrange a meeting with her. But … don’t wait too long, she’s 108.
Simon
P.S. While waiting for the vet to see my new cat Helen (yes, I’ve given in and become a cat owner) we met a black and white rabbit. The rabbit’s name – are you sitting down? – Miep.
DEAR NANCY,
Lovely that you came to town yesterday and lovely to have a civilized meal together including your shortbreads in the garden with our take-out coffee. Was bowled over when you presented me with the rose that’s come from the clippings you took from Lily’s wild pink roses, from the time you came to Hydra – you have obviously nurtured it. I would have known the aroma anywhere. I can only imagine how Lily would have shaken her head in astonishment.
Love,
Ali
Last dabs of perfume, Chloé, gift of Tinneka. The bottle a clicking metronome
ALL
Just back from the emergency room at Overlook Hospital to see Mom. She had been experiencing shortness of breath and the nurse at Winchester called an ambulance.
She has fluid in her lungs causing her to have trouble breathing. They have put her on a diuretic and will be admitting her when a room is available. For now she is in the emergency room, sleeping peacefully and doing much better. She does NOT have pneumonia. I will go see her again later this morning and expect to speak with the doctor. Will keep you posted.
Maggie
Orange, gray, and black butterfly with Lily’s green eyes attached to my bedroom window screen. Wings flutter when I put my hand over the screen
DEAR SIMON,
Apologies for being slow to respond. I have not been much in the mood for human contact, and, being at such a low ebb, have almost nothing of interest to write about.
I’ve crossed not only my fingers, but also my toes and my eyes for you. Am glad, though you may have lost your savings, that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. As for me, I can’t get lines from the song ‘When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along’, once sung to me by an aunt, to stop repeating in my head. (Wish it were true.) An uncle of my mother told me that during World War II he was an Air Raid warden and that only one bomb fell on the United States during the war. It was dropped on New York. But – he caught it and threw it back into the sky – and saved New York. I was about five, and believed him for years.
Nor can I stop poking under my right thumbnail with a sharp plastic toothpick. However, I’m glad to report that I’ve been exploring some new ideas and have been fiddling with uncompleted projects. Mostly fiction. (Like birds’ nests in bankers’ boxes.) The major project is unrelated to the Shoah or WWII or Anne Frank. It’s a book for Middle School children relating to alcoholic intervention. A family story …
Nonetheless and regardless, please don’t stop sending your thoughts on worthy subjects and ideas. If only I could iron out wrinkles and risks from my everyday.
Alison
Dinner with Denny became a Hopper painting
NEIGHBOR/S
It is possible that Dinosaurs’ flatulence produced methane gas that induced climate change. Like cattle now but many times more. Temperatures dropped after the dinosaur die-out. For those in our Chelsea neighborhood who are interested in lively discussions leading to strategies for much needed social change, please respond. If we can gather enough interest, a group will be organized. There is a room in the basement of St. Columba’s where we can meet. Let us prove we are not – not quite – dinosaurs.
Markus Weld, 20A
DEAR LILY,
Have moved the ecru and black, pinstripe silk handkerchief you gave me under my pillow, not in its usual place with my passport. Am I a dinosaur that has outlived its usefulness?
Your Alison
DEAR SISTERS,
Just back from visiting Mom. She is still very disoriented and thinks some of her hallucinations are real and is struggling to understand they are not. In these, her friends are gossiping behind a wall.
The doctor has ordered tests, and Winchester sent in the urine and stool samples. Mom slept all day and could barely move or speak while I was there. She is on oxygen.
Not meaning to alarm, just letting you know.
Maggie
DEAR ALISON,
Accept a big thanks, indeed, for your search induced Judith Dobnarova to write again. My mother is also thankful to you for their being reconnected. Yesterday, unexpectedly, I received mail from Judith who is well but not quite healthy. Aged eighty-five, she still attends computer-courses and still works a lot, still paints. It seems she is not doing too well financially and she also complains about her sister. Luckily, she has, she says, a lot of friends and different interests.
Of course, if you could visit her and tell her that we met and how we live in Berlin, that would be wonderful, but is no longer necessary, now that we know that she is doing fairly well. In any case, thanks for your help. It would be nice if the old friends could meet but it’s not simple. Aside from that, my mother and I are surprised that someone born after the war like you writes about the war.
Warm greetings from the icy Berlin. From Bora too.
Lydia
25th Street trees have burst into blossom overnight on first day of spring. Trees up and down 26th street have not. Anonymous lips pressed against my neck
DEAR ALISON,
I thought you had maybe left already for Greece. The news from there is troubling. Did you know that Penelope Delta, the grandmother of Antonis Samaras, the conservative who just won the largest percentage in the Greek election, committed suicide because, when German tanks drove through the streets of Athens in 1941, she found it unbearable?
It seems that Greece has been exsanguinated.
Travel with care please,
Simon
DEAR SIMON,
My friend Lily Mack would say about the Greek situation that, once again, it’s the Germans who are doing the draining. You’re almost right. Am leaving for Greece next week to mull over what to do about my health, my work, my loss of ballast. If anything.
Alison
Snow Goose Weathervane propped above my postcard rack
DEAR LILY,
Arrived on Hydra. No strikes this time. No government formed from the first election; a second election to come on 17 June. A lull over the capital. In Piraeus, while I waited for the 13:30 hydrofoil, old ladies in black with covered heads selling crucifixes – dangling them in my face, cross first. I’m told they’re not nuns, just ladies dressed like nuns. And small brown men, young and old, Afghanis, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, all patiently selling the identical sunglasses, pirated DVDs, batteries, opera glasses, passing back and forth offering their wares, hardly taking no for an answer. It took me time to remember that to say ‘No’ I needed not to shake my head but to raise my chin and nod in a disapproving manner. There’s talk that a ‘slow run’ on the banks has begun. I miss you more, not less.
When I arrived on the island, after tea on your terrace with a bearded Alan, crossing the dry riverbed on my way home, I saw a bent old man approaching with the help of a walking stick. Seeing his face, I realized it was Michali the boatman who once upon a time took us to Spetses on our drinking parties, with whom I once necked while you and our kids were at a festival across the water on the Peloponnese. Granted, he was many years older than me even then, but still his advanced age was a shock.