An Unknown Hero

Varian Fry was a Harvard-educated non-Jew who went to France in 1940 to rescue people in special danger from the Nazis. In less than one year he rescued close to 2,000 people – labor leaders, politicians, writers, artists, Jews. Have you ever heard of him? Most people haven’t.

My interest in Varian Fry was sparked when I first heard about him in And The Show Went On: Cultural Life in Nazi-Occupied Paris by Alan Riding. Such an important hero and yet I had never heard of him. That led me to A Hero of Our Own by Sheila Isenberg, an informative but not very well written biography of Fry. Then I read Fry's own (but abridged) Assignment: Rescue (an abbreviated version for school children of his original Surrender on Demand which is impossible to find for a reasonable price); followed by A Quiet American: The Secret War of Varian Fry, by Andy Marino, a well written biography and the most complete of the books I had read so far.

The people Fry rescued were not all Jewish but they were all hunted for various reasons by the Nazis. They included Marc Chagall, Wanda Landowska, Hannah Arendt, and Andre Breton, among many others. He wasn't trained as and never had worked as a spy or secret agent, but when he arrived in France he found that legal means for getting these people out of France were few, and so he quickly learned what he needed to do.

The best book about Fry is Villa Air Bel by Rosemary Sullivan. This is not a biography, but a history of his work, those who worked with him, and many whom he saved. It is more detailed than any of the others, it is well written, and gives the most complete picture of the rescue work that Fry set up and led. Netflix made a film based on this book, but I didn’t watch it. When I read that they had turned Fry’s character into a gay man, I suppose to add some spice. I decided I didn’t need to. Why add spice to a true story that was so interesting, engaging, and important?

Fry was called back to the U.S. because the State Department did not want him to do his work, and they prevented him from finding any work with the government once he returned. It was very strange instance of the blacklisting of an American hero.

Shortly before Fry’s death, the French government awarded him the “Croix de Chavalier de la Legion d’Honneur,” France’s highest decoration of merit. It was the only official recognition he received in his lifetime.

In 1991, the United States Holocaust Memorial Council awarded the Eisenhower Liberation Medal to Fry. Three years later, Fry became the first American to be honored by Yad Vashem as a “Righteous Among the Nations.”

Cockeyed Optimist

 

Dolors is an older woman who lives on the next block. We met years ago when we were both trying on shoes at a shop and have been casual friends ever since. We don’t really socialize, but we always stop to chat when we meet on the street. Sometimes I need something and she helps, and sometimes she needs something and I help. But as we get older, helping becomes more difficult.

A few years ago when I still had Cupcake there was a day when I couldn’t take him out. Dolors was a big fan of Cupcake so I called her and asked if she could take him for a walk. She came a few minutes later and I buzzed her in. She huffed and puffed her way up the stairs (there is no elevator in my building). I didn’t know she had a bad heart. That’s the kind of person she is.

Today I met her a few houses down. She now goes with a walker. I had just read in the NY Times that Mitzi Gaynor had died, and reading through some of her credits really got to me: There was No Business Like Show Business (which I never saw but I’ve heard Ethel Merman belt out that song countless times), Les Girls, with Gene Kelly, and my favorite, South Pacific, among others.

I asked Dolors if she knew who Mitzi Gaynor was, but she didn’t. So I told her she had been an actress/dancer/singer in the 50s and she died yesterday. I told her that all these years later, I still sing some of her songs, in fact I sing one from time to time to my dog, and I started to sing A Hundred and One Pounds of Fun... which she knew! She knew the song and now knew the actress I was talking about. Those were the days, she said, her, Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, those were the days when people did beautiful, graceful, elegant dancing instead of looking like they were having sex on stage. We agreed that elegance isn’t a word you hear often any more. Sexy is what counts. We didn’t sing it, but we both also know another favorite, I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair.

R.I.P. Cockeyed Optimist

Photo from the NY Times (Getty Images)

The Spanish Judicial System vs. President Puigdemont

Not for the first time has Spain made itself ridiculous by searching the Barcelona Zoo to make sure that the former Catalan president doesn't enter the parliament building in a monkey suit or dressed as a lion. The Spanish congress has voted to give Puigdemont amnesty, but Spain's high court feels otherwise and has decided to ignore the law that it doesn't like. So much for separation of powers in Spain as well as the rule of law. Politics in the judicial system (as Americans are learning) is not a good thing. 

You can read more about it here.

Sweet Pea the Trooper

Little Sweet Pea, the sweetest, cutest, and funniest little dog, has been injured. It seems to have been an accident. I was with her when it happened, but I didn’t see anything until she started to limp.

This was yesterday when we were on our evening walk (still considered afternoon here, even though it was around seven o’clock). She was bouncing along, as she does, and we were crossing a street where road work has been going on and all of a sudden she started limping. It was her back left leg. I examined her paw but found nothing stuck between the pads so I put her down. But the limping continued and seemed to get worse every second. My vet closes at 8, so, with Sweet Pea in my arms, I high-tailed it over there.

Salomo felt around and told me she had a torn a ligament in her knee. Had she fallen? No. Then she must simply have made a misstep, maybe tripped without my noticing it. It wouldn’t take much. At her age, those joints are brittle. I understand; I know that something similar could happen to me.

This torn ligament is not going to heal. The only way to fix it is with surgery. But Sweetie is an old dog and although she’s practically a whole new old dog from the one I adopted a little over year ago, in her former life she had not been well taken care of.  The recent improvements in her environment have helped, but they haven’t erased her history (whatever that might have been). He legs are all bowed and crooked. The funny way she walks is one of her many endearing characteristics. The vet said initially that she had probably suffered one or more falls and had never been seen to. And her heart is much enlarged, which, together with her age, does not make her a good candidate for major surgery, which this knee operation would be.

Salomo gave her a shot for pain and gave me pain pills to give her for the next twenty days. Let’s see how this develops, he said while also talking about possible future medications. We both noticed that her front leg on the same side was also doing strange things – bowing out at an alarming angle. She’s compensating, he said, trying to keep her balance. Of course that could mean that she will end up injuring that leg too. I should keep her walks to a minimum; just take her out to the street and let her do her thing under the nearest tree out front. I am to carry her up and down the stairs (I live on the 2^nd floor, which in the U.S. would be the third floor). There is no elevator

At home I got on the internet and started reading about torn ligaments in the knees of dogs. It didn’t look good. Everyone says it’s very painful. It doesn’t heal, it can only be fixed with surgery. In an older dog, if it happens in one leg, it is likely to also happen to the other because they would both be in the same state of deterioration. Of course that might not happen. Compensating for the discomfort could mean inflicting injury on one of the other legs.

I was plagued with doubt. I don’t want to keep her drugged for the rest of her life, and I don’t want the rest of her life to be painful. She loves to walk and to sniff. If she won’t be able to walk except to go to a tree and pee, what pleasure is she going to have? I got very little sleep.

This morning when the vet clinic opened, I was there with Sweet Pea. I told Salomo I had more to understand. I needed to know what the best possible outcome could be. If it was going to be lifelong pain, I wasn’t sure there was any reason to continue. I don’t believe in just keeping a pet alive if the pet isn’t able to enjoy his life and there is no cure.

But he said no. The tear would never mend, but the pain would subside after three or four weeks so we would reassess her need for medication when the pills run out. He said that Sweet Pea was a real trooper. You could see how in her life she’s managed to successfully deal with all kinds of physical problems. If all goes well, the pain will subside, and she will learn to compensate for the leg that won’t function properly as she did with her legs before.

As for now, she’s eating, she has the desire to go out and once out she wants to walk, even though she can’t and has to stop. At home she gets all excited about going out, like before (although now she doesn’t jump up and down), and she gets excited at meal times. She still likes her treats and she still enjoys a belly rub. She’s still shows signs of being a happy camper. I’ll know when the time comes, he said. She won’t want to eat, she won’t want to walk, maybe she won’t be able to walk, she’ll be lethargic, or we just won’t be able to help her with ongoing pain. That was what happened with Cupcake.

You have no idea how relieved I am. Now it’s just a matter of taking care of her, letting nature take its course and Sweetie’s determination drive the next twenty days, and hope for the best.

I had wanted a senior dog, so when they told me at the shelter that she was at least ten years old that was fine. Two days later, when I took her to the vet and a long list of physical and health problems came to light, I thought, well, that’s okay. Maybe she only has a few weeks left, but she will spend them in comfort with me. I was more or less prepared for a short relationship. But Sweet Pea blossomed during this last year so that now, I am not at all prepared for her to leave. She’s my wonderful companion, she’s funny, she’s sweet, and she’s incredibly stubborn. I hope Salomo is right and my little trooper will get the better of this latest problem and keep on being her cute, sweet self for many more happy years.

Rooster, Tomatoes, and Death

On our morning walk the other day, I suddenly realized I was hearing a rooster crow. I don’t live in the country; the crowing was coming from an apartment building. Maybe they have a coop on the roof. Suddenly Figueres didn’t feel so grey and urban.

My first Tot Sants (All Souls) here in Figueres, back in November 2012, I did what I usually do on that holiday, I took myself to the cemetery to take photos of all the flowers people were leaving at the tombs of their loved ones. But on that Tot Sants the cemetery turned out to be not as peaceful as cemeteries usually are. When I arrived the police had it cordoned off. There had been a shooting inside and a man had been killed.

It was a drugs-related shooting. The man killed was from France, and the assailant was from Figueres. Later I heard that they had arrested the perpetrator and I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. This was because both the French man and the Figueres man were gypsies and the aggrieved clan had a score to settle. A few days later the French clan began taking revenge on the clan here in Figueres by killing some of the livestock of an uncle and wrecking some of the homes of other family members. Suddenly Figueres didn’t feel so European.

Last Sunday, on the 23^rd, the Eve of Sant Joan – midsummer night – there was a shooting in Girona where four people were shot. They were all taken to the hospital in Girona where two of them later died of their wounds. About 100 members of the clan of the victims showed up at the hospital and were kept at bay by the police.

When I heard the news and heard that the victims were from one clan and the perpetrators from another, I knew they were talking about gypsies. Everyone has families; gypsies have clans.

The victims were shot by a man called Guillermo who was using an AK-47. This is the first time I’ve heard of that kind of weapon being used here. Firearms are much less prevalent than in the U.S. and many attacks are with knives.

Guillermo disappeared immediately. And so did members of his clan who live in Figueres where he was originally from. So when 300 members of the victims’ clan, known as Los Tomates, showed up Friday night to take revenge, their three homes were vacant. The Girona clan had already destroyed Guillermo’s apartment and car in a town near Girona, now 70 of the clan went in and destroyed all three of the homes here. According to gypsy law, those three homes now belong to Los Tomates. While Los Tomates were destroying the properties, the police basically waited and kept people away. They have said that trying to confront three hundred people, many of them wielding axes and bats, would have called for an enormous police presence and would have resulted in escalating the violence. This way, at least no one was injured.

At this point, no one knows where Guillermo or the members of his clan are, and the question remains, who will find Guillermo first? Los Tomates or the police?

When I first came to see apartments in Figueres, I was shown one that bordered on Sant Joan, the gypsy neighborhood. Of course I didn’t know that at the time. Lucky me I didn’t buy it. I remember coming back from a drive a few years ago and following a sign that made my return route different than the one I used to go. All of a sudden I was in Sant Joan where the streets and small plazas were packed with people sitting on benches, chairs they had brought down, chatting, playing guitar, milling around, passing the time. It was nothing like the rest of Figueres where, except for la Rambla, the streets are meant for walking. Suddenly Figueres felt like another world.

Oh, the photo? Yesterday’s brewing storm.

In Honor of Father's Day

This is my dad the hunk.

This photo was taken in Poland in about 1932 when he would have been 20. As you can see in the photo, my dad was not the typical Eastern European Jew of his time.

You can read all about him (and see more photos) in my book Stories My Father Told Me: From Warsaw, Moscow, Algeria, Siberia, Kazakhstan, Dominican Republic. Yes, he lived in a lot of places, and this is not a complete list.

The paperback and ebook are available at Amazon, paperback is available at Barnes & Noble or your favorite bookstore (by special order). 

 

Stories My Father Told Me

 

Just Released!

Stories My Father Told Me: From Warsaw, Moscow, Algeria, Siberia, Kazakhstan, Dominican Republic

I wrote this book based on a memoir my father wrote for me late in his life and stories I had heard at the dining table over the years. These are stories from far off places, in far off and very different times. And yet they are of everyday people doing everyday things. They are the stories of my father, Rafał Feliks Buszejkin who was born in Warsaw in 1912.

In his stories he explained what he and the other children did in Russia in the 1910s to entertain themselves in the winter. He never attended cheder, but with a tutor, he memorized his speech for his Bar Mitzvah at the Great Synagogue of Warsaw. In high school there was that band of youths who played poker and got into mischief. He was one of them. He boxed, he worked out and built his muscles, he did track and field, raced bicycles. He failed his last year of high school. He was not a typical Eastern European Jew of that time.

He told stories of wolves in the forest in 1917, and bankruptcy at home in 1933. Stories of university days in France and months spent with Sephardic Jews in a small desert town in Algeria where he set up a Maccabi sports club.

There are love stories, stories of rich men who lose it all and poor ones who become rich. Because he had studied agronomy, he was employed all through the war and all through his life. His war-time stories from Siberia tell of hard work, trying to have enough to eat, and avoiding the NKVD. The Kazakh stories tell of a mix of western and eastern cultures, working for a government agency supervising the agriculture at five kolkhozes, living among the Kazakhs, sharing their food, drink, and yurts, and of spending two months in a Soviet prison for refusing Soviet citizenship.

Postwar brought him from the steppes of Kazakhstan to the French Riviera, then to the Dominican Republic where he farmed in a collective Jewish refugee settlement. And finally, the United States, where there were jobs, the possibility of making a good life, and no secret police.

The book is available as ebook or paperback on Amazon, other online retailers, and your favorite bookshop where you would probably need to order it. If you read it, please let me know what you think. And if you like it, please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or other social media if you can. Thanks!