Chapter 1 The Others

Following the divorce of my parents, my father, Zelig, permitted no one in the family to know where he was living. If pressed, he parried that questioning made him ill. His sisters, Sadie and Diana and his nieces, Ellen and Gert, and nephew "Whitey" tortured themselves with visions of him living alone in squalor with no one to care for him. His demeanor and constant allusions to secret health issues escalated their fears. I used to say, "One fine day, he will die on the D Train". They found no humor in that remark. There was speculation on every possibility from his being gay, to being a long forgotten Communist Mole, to having re-married a shiksa. None of us could have been prepared for what was to come, nor conjured up the facts that faced us on the cemetery upon his demise.

He was a physically insignificant man. A thick pitch-black mono-brow extended across his broad forehead. His forehead was high and always furrowed as though constantly immersed in deep thoughts. His stature was slight and gaunt, barely 5’6" and brittle boned. His face was skeletal, with protruding chiseled high cheekbones. A hawkish nose loomed over his thin pale lips. He always kept clean-shaven and possessed a shock of thick black hair. His overall appearance was distinctly Russian (or Eastern European) but his facial and other physical expressions were unique and often cynical. The tongue-thrust-into-cheek was the worst. It implied a myriad of thoughts: disgust, disappointment, anger, betrayal, and the pondering of "higher issues". Zelig was a self-proclaimed scholar. When he was not reading The New York Times, he sat for hours with his index finger and thumb supporting his head, listening to classical music. It is a wonder how such magnificent strains had any effect upon that soulless man. How that guise irritated me. He could love the music so much that it carried him off with its beauty and yet, he could not love me. I shall never know my crime; perhaps it was just being born.

Strangers occupy the apartment on 27^th Street where Sadie and Diana once lived. The house on 29^th Street where Ellen and Whitey lived is long gone, leveled by bulldozers years ago.

During the years while his sisters were still alive, he would often let them know, after the fact, of hospitalizations for one secret "procedure" or another. They were the family criers, imparting information to the rest of the clan. I count myself out of the group since, obviously, he did. They were his family; I was just the daughter. My communication with him, following the divorce, was limited to reaching him through a call to my aunts. Zelig was quite the dutiful brother and uncle, communicating daily with his sisters, nephew and nieces by telephone. Of course, they could never reach out to him as he kept his whereabouts secret even from the most favored. How they agonized! How they bemoaned the situation! What would become of him? How did he eat?

When he deigned to visit his sisters, a Saturday ritual that continued for all the 45 years from my birth to his demise, they made a profession of getting him to "Eat at least a little something". He would say he was limited but never explained why. He was restricted to cottage cheese, a bissle boiled chicken, and a cup or two of coffee. I recall huge fights if one or the other had neglected to buy the cottage cheese. One would think a murder had been committed. In the latter years, he would only partake of the coffee and eat nothing. How they wept! His act never changed. He arrived with the New York Times folded in a plastic bag, his eyeglasses stashed in his shirt pocket with a pen.

The nieces, nephew, and cousins flocked to his sisters’ apartment to capture even a half-hour of his precious time. Perhaps they would hear a pearl of his wisdom. The divine uncle Zelig whose advice they accepted as manna from heaven and took as though proffered by God Him/Herself. How they fawned and simpered!

One afternoon, my aunt Sadie received a telephone call from a young woman who announced herself as a friend of Zelig’s. She bore bad news; Zelig had passed away. She had found him on the floor of his apartment after recently bringing him home from the hospital. Evidently, Zelig had, for no known reason, been hospitalized and released, passing away several days thereafter.

In complete shock, it obviously did not occur to my aunt to exclaim, "You found him in his apartment? You knew where he lived; where did he live? Who are you?" ad infinitum. I only wish I had gotten that call but, of course, that was not Zelig’s wish.

This strange woman, Fern, had spoken with him only days before his passing whereupon he made a full revelation of his life to her. He announced he had a family. He instructed Fern that in case of his death she was only to notify his sister Sadie and/or his niece Gert (may the bitch rot in hell). Zelig admitted to Fern that he had a sister whom he had kept secret all the years "Because she was quite ill". Still the pathological liar, even on his deathbed! He then admitted to having an entire family, and oh yes, a daughter. However, who was Fern?

One by one, the family was receiving the news of Zelig’s death. When I returned home from work that evening, one of my second cousins who is not close with me, called to let me know. She was crying. She said, "I don’t know any other way to say this so I’m going to come straight out. Your Father is Dead! I am so sorry!" I was silent and not at all moved. My cousin was so emotional. I decided on the spot not to make any pretenses that she would have instantly seen through. My non-relationship with Zelig over the years was no secret to anyone in the family. Though my cousin would never admit it, she knew exactly how I felt about him and why. At some level, I believe she understands but, for her mother’s sake, she keeps up the bullshit.

My cousin Rachel told me about Fern and that everyone was very confused and "didn’t exactly understand who Fern was". "No Shit", I said to my cousin. "Wait, if she found him, that means she knows where he lived. Where did he live?" Rachel came back with the typical family-style illusive response; "No one knows anything". She advised me to call Brooklyn (Sadie’s apartment) and speak with her mother, Ellen. Rachel said, "Sadie is hysterical and threatening to jump off the roof if anyone tries to come into the apartment except for her two nieces, Ellen, and Trudy". What was I chopped liver? Was I not her niece too? Wasn’t Zelig my father, and only uncle to the others? I was thinking, "Let her jump, the bitch". I had taken a back seat for too many years to the entire family. That was the downfall of my mother, Ruth. She gave the family its power by not taking her own husband under control.

I called Brooklyn and Ellen told me plainly, "Stay away and no one knows anything". She told me Fern was coming later that evening to the apartment and would reveal whatever there was to know. Apparently, Fern was an attorney who would afford some professionalism in an otherwise subjective and (excuse me) fucked up situation. I said that I would call later to speak with her but that conversation never took place.

Ellen and Gert took care of all the arrangements without ever consulting me. They notified me after the fact of the logistics of the burial. There would be a graveside service, the Rabbi was already selected and I should just, "Arrive at 1:30", according to Gert (damn her eyes). Had I listened to her, the entire ritual would have passed without me and Zelig would have been buried with dignity and respect since the service actually began at 10:30 a.m. Even in the finality of death, he still denied me!

My husband, children, and I arrived at the cemetery at 10:00 a.m. The body was already there and so was the funeral director, Mr. J. When I introduced myself to him, the man paled. In his conversations with my cousins the night before, there had been no mention of a daughter. He was mortified! He instantly realized that if he knew nothing of my family, that the Rabbi was equally unaware of our existence. Confused and quite shame-faced, Mr. J. hurried off to find the Rabbi. Before taking his leave, he told us that to his shock, he had personally known Zelig for many years but never knew of me.

By the time the Rabbi arrived, most of my family were there and the "lines" quite markedly drawn. My "good" cousins were surrounding my family. The bitches were huddled together, perhaps surprised to see us there "too early" for their liking. The Rabbi approached us immediately and took aside. His face was ashen. He confessed at once his confusion and embarrassment. Only the night before, he met with Gert, Ellen, and Sadie who never told him about us. They gave him a eulogy filled with accolades about Zelig, his loving, devoted and giving nature, his familial ties, and plenty of other bullshit. The Rabbi queried us for quite a while and we were unabashed in responding.

We went on to attempt explanation of the possible reasons for my aunt’s and cousins’ lies and omissions of the previous night. What we could not explain was the presence of a rather large group of "strangers" appearing to be somehow involved in the day’s events.

The Rabbi having listened intently to all we said told us "I can not, in good conscience, deliver the eulogy I originally prepared that speaks to the loving nature, kindness, and humanity of Zelig". He recorded our names in his book and excused himself to compose his thoughts.

It was then that Fern approached me for the first time. My family sat on the bench beneath a tree where the Rabbi had left us. At first, I was cautious. Then I rose to my feet, trembling. "Are you my sister", I asked with tears springing to my eyes. "No", she replied. She pointed to an older couple standing across the lawn and identified them as her parents. Fern recounted that, for over sixty years, her parents had been close friends of Zelig’s. To her, he had been Uncle Zelig "all her life", and she was 38 years old. That meant that she, and her family, knew Zelig while he was still married to Ruth! I had only one other question for her, "Where did he live"? She declined to answer and explained that he lived with her aunt who was extremely old and ill and could brook no shocks in her life. It was evident that she was telling the truth about the aunt being ill, given her absence from the cemetery. Despite my cajoling and promises not to disturb her aunt in any way, she was steadfast. To this day, I do not know and never shall where Zelig spent his last twenty-one years, nor the name of the woman with whom he spent them. This had been his real life. It was clear that he was married to this other woman, whether by common law or otherwise. Zelig was a bigamist! Remarkable! Unspeakable!

In of a state of shock, I approached the people Fern had identified as her parents. Probably of Russian or eastern European decent, they were a nice looking older couple. Zelig was born in 1909 in Russia-Poland. Somewhere around 1916, he and his family immigrated to the U.S. According to Fern, it was while they all attended NYU that they struck up the original friendship. That leant accuracy to her assumption of the relationship dating back sixty years.

Standing before this kind looking couple, I could read the confusion and yes, sorrow in their eyes. I spoke, my voice barely audible, "I understand you knew Zelig for sixty years". It was the man who answered, "Yes, that’s right", he said. Unable to hold back the tears I blurted "Did you ever know he had a daughter? Did you know that I existed?" The woman turned her face aside to hide the grimace overwhelming her pretty chiseled features. The man grasped her hand to steady her and simultaneously replied, "No". I fainted on the spot.

Dark twisted threads weave through the blackest segments of my life. I do not necessarily view my entire life as dark and depressing. Au contraire! Given my mania and delight in high drama, the painful times often provided pure pleasure. Proof that life was not worth surviving and excellent reasons to off myself.

Seeking my fate in the proverbially fast lane, anything normal becomes mundane. Plodding along on a quiet desirable path is as loathsome to me as life itself. The unattainable beckons me as the songs of the sirens, and for that; I can always muster up energy.

Strangely, I have often attained exactly what I wanted against all odds. Some incredible coups have been won through my efforts (I prefer to think of it as magic) over the years. My utmost secret self harbors a belief that no matter what, things will work out in the end. Despite all logic, I hold to that faith. "Damaged people are dangerous because they know they can survive."

Painstakingly I weave the tattered web, which requires constant introspection and running of old tapes. Forcing myself into reflection and thereby depression the thread runs on, and runs me. Ultimately and always, it is resentment.

I queried my children about experiencing resentment. They used to respond in the negative so I knew they were full of shit. They are older now and matured. More capable of honesty they are free flowing fonts of all their resentments and anger. Well, indeed! Seems to me that they have less reason for it than I. That is of course a matter of perspective.

What in the world have I to be resentful of you ask? We have four "normal" children and three delicious adoring grandchildren. Their unconditional love and respect for me is a constant source of amazement. Having no personal frame of reference it dazes and confuses me when they actually pursue my affection and attention. I who never bonded with my own parents am clueless as to how to accept or react to their adoration.

My parents were nightmare figures whom I went lengths to avoid and eventually dismiss from my life. It would be years away from those hideous dreams of childhood before I would comprehend the depth and breadth of their dysfunctional syndromes. The instincts of children are keen and somehow I always knew that, in order to survive, I would have to do so alone. Like Topsy "I just growed".

My wonderful (as men go) husband is a highly supportive individual (except when he is not, as Dr. "S" says). His nature is highly controlling but to his extreme credit he works hard to sublimate that side of his personality. He is intuitive enough to recognize the negative effects it has on me and equally upon him. When a man relinquishes control and makes himself vulnerable, he heightens his level of stress in great measure.

I have witnessed him in a state of pure panic given a situation over which he is powerless. I pity that overwhelming fear, which puts him in constant battle with himself. He cannot control my spaced out tendencies, my quirks, absurdities, and infamous childlike qualities. He harbors expectations of me that are far beyond my emotional ability. He would like to see me more in control but that is something I abhor and relinquish all too readily. That ability is something he at once envies and despises in me. Nevertheless, he allows me enough rope to stay a child without meting out enough for me to hang us both.

Dear Doctor:

It seems I am still more concerned about my husband than myself. What a surprise, eh! We know I attach little value to my existence. I told you today that I felt happy, and I did. That does not mean I care whether I drop dead two minutes from this writing. Oh dear, I suppose I must not do that or this will not get into the mail. This is a perfect example of the miniscule benchmarks and milestones that are supposed to drive me forward. These

 

 

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Copyright © 1999 Louise Friedman
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"