Abraham

by Sandra Colbert

They called him The Jew, as if that was his title, my grandmother and her lady friends. Our neighborhood in the 1950’s was predominately Lithuanian and Polish and very Catholic, so a little Jewish man with the limp stood out. But oh, how they looked forward to his visits. He came every few weeks, always on a Saturday, carrying his large bulky suitcase. A suitcase of wares which included an assortment of scarves, hairnets, doilies, brushes and all other bright and lacy things, which he carefully laid out on the dining room table for Grandma and her friends to admire. Soon he had them twittering and opening their purses. He spoke just enough Lithuanian and Polish to close a sale and to flatter the ladies. But he always ignored me.

I tried to ingratiate myself by doing my share of ohhing and ahhing, but he acted like I wasn’t there. This did not go well for my 10 year old ego. I was used to adults fawning over me. They liked my blond hair, my outgoing ways, my almost adult bantering and the fact that I made an effort to speak their language. Not very well, but I tried. But this man, well, he just never saw any of my obvious charms. So I was usually shooed out of the house when he showed up. Much to my annoyance, I might add.

So on one of these Saturdays, for no other reason then I was bored, I decided to follow him. He went to a few other houses on my block. I waited patiently. Then he went on to the next block. He stopped to wipe his forehead then took out a set of keys and I knew he was going home. He headed towards a three flat and started down the few stairs to the basement apartment when he looked up and saw me. Strangely enough it didn’t bother me that I was caught following him. I smiled my most beguiling smile. He didn’t smile back.

“You Mrs. Leshinky’s granddaughter?”

“Yeah”

“What you want?” He wasn’t warming up to me.

I had to think fast. I really didn’t know what I wanted but I couldn’t tell him that.

“Um, I want to buy something.”

“You want to buy something? He frowned. “So you follow me to my house.”

“It’s a surprise.” I suddenly had a great idea. “It’s for my mother. Her birthday is next Friday and I want to get her something.”

“So what is it you want? I don’t have all day.”

“The brush. The pretty one with the jewels on the back.”

To my shock, he began to laugh, and laugh very hard.

“What’s so funny?” I didn’t appreciate being laughed at.

“Jewels, Yes, I sell brushes encrusted with precious jewels. Yes rubies, sapphires, only the best for the ladies in this neighborhood.” He wiped his eyes.

“You know what I mean. That pretty one that you showed my grandmother.” Now I was the one who was irritated.

“So Miss Fancypants, you got some money for this big purchase?”

“I don’t know. How much is it?”

“For this extraordinary brush, one dollar.”

Hmm, I had eleven cents in my piggybank at home.

“I don’t have it with me, but I could get it.”

“Well when you have it, come back and I’ll sell you this brush.”

“Fine” I said. “I’ll be back on Friday morning.”

“Yeah, yeah” he said as he turned his back on me and went into his flat.

I know I was frowning as I walked back to my house. I took an alternate route through the alley. I had to start now if I was going to get the money for this brush. It was a matter of principle now. I would show him that I was serious and not some silly neighborhood kid. And I knew my mother really would like that brush for her birthday.

So first things first - soda pop bottles. I kept my eyes open for them. At two cents for every returned bottle I could accumulate something. Then there were my two older brothers. The oldest, Tommy, worked at a gas station. I could probably get some of the money from him. And Jim delivered newspapers. He would probably pitch in. And if I ran errands for my grandmother, she was good for a couple of nickels. I was very pleased with my self as I strolled through the alley looking for pop bottles.

By Friday, I had the money. It was in nickels, dimes and one quarter, but I had it. I put it in my little plastic purse and sauntered down my block looking every bit the sophisticated shopper.

When he opened the door, he actually looked shocked to see me.

“I’m here to buy the brush.”

“So I see. Come in, Come in, such an important customer, she even has a purse.”

He had a slight smile on his face. I was hoping he wouldn’t start laughing at me again.

I walked directly into the kitchen of his small apartment. There was a cup of coffee on the

table next to an open book. If you looked out of the window, you could see the feet of the

people walking by. That fact, for some strange reason, fascinated me.

“You like my little dwelling?” he asked.

“Yes, It’s, um, charming.” Obviously a comment that I heard on television.

“Well, you just wait here. I’ll go find your brush.” He walked into what must have been the living room.

Then I noticed the picture on the table. It was in a plain silver frame. A picture of a younger version of this man, standing behind a seated woman, with dark, upswept hair and dark eyes. She was lovely. To her left stood a young girl about my age, also with dark hair, worn long and wavy. On the woman’s right was a young boy, probably about four or five, with the same dark hair and dark eyes. They all looked content, solid and content. It was a beautiful photograph of a beautiful family.

“Oye, I almost could not” his voice trailed off when he saw the picture in my hand. He went silent.

“You have kids?” I said looking around for evidence of such.

“Kids, Do I have kids?” He put the brush down and took the picture from my hands. He stared vacantly at the photo. I remained silent.

“Children. Do I have children?” He said so softly that I could hardly hear him. “Once, I did.”

I was confused. “Once?”

“Before they came. The Nazis” His voice went flat. ‘Before they came and took us. All of us, Mama and her children in one direction and me in another. And they put them on a train and took them to a prison and killed them and burned their beautiful bodies. So, do I have children? I have memories of children and a wife. My family.” He took his eyes off the picture and looked at me. I had never seen, or had seen since, the look of total anguish, of such pain.

But I was just a child. I was horrified. The words were sinking in and I couldn’t comprehend them. I remember covering my face, not breathing, and then simply running out of his flat and down the street.

I ran up to stairs to our flat and burst thought kitchen door. Thankfully my mother was there getting ready to bake cookies.

“What in God’s name?” she said when she saw me. I was breathing hard and trying not to cry.

“You know who the Jew is Mom?

“Yeah, of course, what’s going on? What happened?” she looked scared.

“Did you know? Did you know about his kids, his children and his wife”

“Wait. Just calm down and tell me what’s going on” So I sputtered out the details, in fits and starts.

“Oh Kristine, What am I going to do with you?” she said when I finished. “Can’t you just mind your own business? You should have never bothered that poor man.”

“I know.” Was all that I was able to say.

She got me a glass of water and sat down next to me.

“Horrible things happened in the war, just horrible. Did you see the numbers on his left arm?” she asked.

“No”

“Well, grandma and I and others on the block have seen them. That was his number when he was in the prison camp. So we all had a good idea, but we never asked. We knew it was horrible and what good would it do to bring it up. And so we buy from him and we are nice to him. That’s all we can do. It’s in the past.” She stood up and resumed her work on the cookies.

“Mom?”

“What”

“Do you know his name?” She looked out the window with a puzzled expression and then back at me.

“No, no I don’t.”

I knew I was committing a sin, disobeying my mother. But I would be going to confession that afternoon and would confess this sin and take whatever penance the priest dealt out. Some things just had to be done. I was sure God would understand.

It was early that Saturday morning. I had to get there before he left. When he answered the door, he did not look at all surprised to see me.

“Well, you come back. You left your brush here, you know.”

“Yes I know. I should not have run away. I’m sorry about that.”

He looked down at me and nodded his head.

“Come in” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes. You are too young. You should be left alone to be a child. So it’s me who should be sorry.”

“It’s ok. I brought you some cookies. I hope you like them. My mother makes real good cookies. Everyone says so.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that when someone in your family dies, people bring food. It just seemed to me that I just had to bring him food, even though what happened had happened a long time ago.

“Thank you. I am sure they are very good.” I saw a small smile on his worn face. “Here is your brush.”

“Thank you. Can I ask you something?”

“So ask.” He nodded.

I looked at the picture again. I hadn’t noticed it the day before, but there was a small vase in front of it with four plastic lily of the valley flowers in it.

“What are their names?”

He seemed surprised at the question. Then he slowly, reverentially picked up the picture and looked at it for what seemed like a long while. I was afraid he wouldn’t answer me.

“The pretty lady, she is Estelle, my wife. Such beautiful hair. And such dark eyes.”

 

He paused and sighed. “the little girl is Sara, is about your age in this picture, smart, pretty like her mother. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, she is very pretty” I replied. And I meant it.

“And the little boy. That is David. Always running and getting into mischief. But laughing, always laughing. You cannot stay mad at him.”

“You have a nice family.”

“Had. little one. I had a nice family.”

We were both silent for a while.

“I was wondering” I said softly, “would it be alright with you, I know you’re not a Catholic, but would it be ok, if when I go to mass tomorrow, that I say a rosary for Estelle and Sara and David.”

I saw the mist in his eyes.

“That would be good. Yes, that would be a nice thing to do. I do not pray much anymore. So your prayer, your rosary, that would be good.” He said. “Thank you”

He gave me the picture to hold. I knew I wouldn’t forget their faces. They looked so untouched and pure.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“of course”

“What is your name?”

He smiled a real smile for the first time.

“My name is Abraham Blumenthal. You may call me Abraham.”

“Like the president”

“Yes, like the president. And little one, what is your name”

“Kristine, with a K.” I smiled back.

“Kristine, with a K. So modern. A very nice name. Mrs. Leshinsky has a very nice granddaughter.”

“Thank you.” I put the picture back on the table and put the little vase in front of it. “I better go.”

“Yes and I have my ladies to visit. I’m sure they have many purchases to make. ” he said. “Don’t forget the brush. I hope your mother likes it.”

“She will. I know she will.”

“Good bye Kristine.” He smiled.

“Good bye Abraham.” I smiled back and left after glancing one more time at the picture on the table.

I saw Abraham several times after that. He always greeted me with “Hello Kristine” and I always responded with “Hello Abraham.” This always raised the eyebrows of anyone who heard this. I never let my grandmother or my mother call him anything but Abraham. And I never told them how I found out his name.

On a late September day, my grandmother came over to our apartment.

“Your friend, Abraham.” She said to me.

“Yeah, what about him.”

“He won’t be coming around anymore.”

“What! What are you talking about, Grandma?” I felt my chest tense up.

“He moved away. Sophie just told me. She talked to Joe, his landlord. He said he packed up a moved away, just yesterday.”

“No, no he didn’t.” I was shocked. It seemed like something that I should have known. He was my friend. He would have told me. He couldn’t just be gone. I ran out the flat before my grandmother or mother could stop me. I ran as fast as I could to his building.

The door to the flat was open and Joe was inside sweeping.

I stood there and stared at the bare flat, at the kitchen table with no picture.

Joe saw me. He knew who I was.

“He’s gone?” I said.

“Yeah, he left yesterday, He went to live with his brother on the north side. Didn’t give me much notice. I’m sorry to see him go. A good tenant, paid his rent on time. No problems. Quiet.”

I didn’t know what to say. But I wanted to cry. It didn’t make sense and Joe wouldn’t have understood, but I wanted to cry. He left without saying good bye.

“He said you might be around. He told me to give you this if you showed up.”

With that said, he handed me the little vase with the plastic lily of the valley flowers. I took it and walked out toward my church. It was a moment when I needed to be alone. Nobody would understand. I didn’t understand.

I still have the little vase. It’s a little chipped and a little worn. It’s been everywhere with me and every spring I fill it with live lily of the valley flowers.

And when I do I say a prayer, make a wish, entreat a higher power that somehow, some way, Abraham is with his family again.