Born February 19, 1931, Berlin, Germany
Died August 27, 2006
Sardines »
A Marker for Uncle Paul »
Lunch Trade »
Now You Live in Paris »
Teapot in a Tempest »
“We have to eat the sardines,” my mother said. She always bought those canned in tomato sauce. I did not like the combination, I preferred oil.
“Why can’t you get the ones in olive oil?” I asked.
“No, oil is not good for you. Tomatoes are much better -- they are a vegetable,” she answered with a stern look at me. It was no use to argue. I knew she would never buy the sardines I liked.
We had sardines every few weeks from the stock of a dozen cans stacked in the linen closet. The idea was simple. The canned sardines served as the “escape” provisions for the family.
My father had put it this way: “In case we have to run, small cans of sardines are easy to slip into one’s pockets, or pack in a bag. They do not spoil and provide a meal that is nourishing.”
To keep them edible, even though they were canned, this emergency food was opened and eaten periodically, and then replenished with “fresh” cans of sardines.
This was 1960. World War II was long over. Our wartime experiences were a memory, but to my parents they were a lesson never forgotten.
©2002, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
I saw before me at my feet a patch of disheveled plants whose long and narrow green leaves drooped as if beaten down by wind and age. Vines of wild ivy had twisted themselves into knots among the plants and dozens of thin, wheat-colored stems, probably lazy and dried verdure, had risen through breathing holes in the ground thatch.
“Ja, the tomb,” Herr Forster said in his quite fluent, but literal German. “One more measurement to be sure, all right?” The question was superfluous. Of course it was all right. The man, wearing a surplus green German Army fatigue shirt—the German flag still sewn on the left sleeve—had been pacing off distances for the past half hour. Once in a while he carefully studied the map in his hand. The paper was fragile, obviously quite old and yellowed, with brown edges and a few tears that had been taped. I won- dered why the cemetery administration had not bothered to enclose it in plastic. But, well, that was not my business, certainly not at this moment.
I lifted my eyes and took in the surroundings. There, ten yards away was a gravestone apparently only recently set. The name, in large gold-leaf letters, and a date of death: March 28, 1942. It would be my orientation marker. The staggered rows of gravestones to my right had been worn almost bare by the elements over all the intervening years, the names no longer legible. No, their descendants probably had not survived the Holocaust to care for these final resting places. Herr Forster was standing beside me once more. “So, now I am quite sure this is the tomb.” Strange how he had not learned the word “grave.” It did not really matter because I had finally found Uncle Paul.
Paul Rossinger lived in the Weissensee district of Berlin. Before the Nazis came to power, the area bustled with activity as its largely working-class residents went about their daily business. The shops and open markets catered to the needs of the people and the lovely lake, the Weissensee, with its swans and adjacent park served as a place for rest and recreation. Uncle Paul, as the whole family called him, lived in four rooms of a small apartment house not far from the largest Jewish cemetery in Berlin. A bachelor, he employed a housekeeper and carried out his chosen vocation of leather-goods dealer. He loved to play cards and weekend evenings saw him with his friends in the neighborhood having a good time accompanied by food and beer. He was not a wealthy man, but tended to be generous when it came to his nephews and nieces at whose homes he was always welcomed. He told wonderful stories.
Uncle Paul had been in the Great War and would reminisce with his four brothers and the husbands of his three sisters, all of whom had served the Kaiser—with honor. The Iron Crosses and other decorations were sometimes shown to the younger generation. In fact, Uncle Paul had been an officer in a cavalry regiment fighting in France and he was slightly wounded during the battle of Verdun. He did not willingly talk about it, but once in a while he came out with a few vignettes like the one about hunting for boar during a time when rations were short and the troops hungered for fresh meat. He would describe how the troops had to soak the boar’s carcass in a vat of vinegar to tenderize it—and how, even after days of immersion, it was still too tough to eat.
After the Nazis came to power, the family did not socialize as much as they had done before. Uncle Paul lived in the eastern part of Berlin and the rest mostly in the western districts. Fear of arrest kept everybody on edge and those with young children hoped to emigrate or escape. Whenever a family member went to see Uncle Paul and asked what he would do, his answer was always the same. “I’m an old man now. No children, no one depending on me. And what can they do to me anyway?”
Compared to their own situations—children, parents, and other close relatives—Uncle Paul seemed so at peace with himself in the ever deteriorating situation. The younger relatives were also preoccupied. They had parents whose age was an additional barrier to immigration into those few countries willing to accept Jews threatened by the Nazis. And then the turmoil of the Holocaust threw the families asunder—some were able to flee; most perished. The surviving family members tried to find out what happened to their immediate relatives—the parents, brothers, and sisters left behind. The news was almost universally bad. And what happened to Uncle Paul? East Berlin was occupied by the Russian Army. Would he turn up one day with a grin on his face and a story to tell? The surviving family dearly hoped so, but deep inside they knew the odds were stacked against jolly Uncle Paul.
Many years passed, the few that had survived reached their retirement years, and now all of a sudden the need to put closure on the past seemed to take on a new importance. They knew what had happened to their immediate relatives. The lists of transports to Theresienstadt, Riga, Auschwitz, and Dachau had become available. But the name of Paul Rossinger was never among them. What had happened to him? The remaining few, and aging, relatives wanted now desperately to know.
That is how the search for Uncle Paul became my, for want of a better word, “assignment.” I was in the process of exploring the return of family property in East Berlin after the Wall had come down. On a trip to Prague, I stopped off in Berlin to discuss matters with a lawyer the family had retained and to look at the property which according to the records had survived the war. It was duly listed as having been managed by the Berlin housing authority under the East German Communist regime. The “property” was the apartment house where Uncle Paul had lived.
The three-story building must have survived the bombing in World War II or been repaired because, while somewhat dilapidated, it was in good enough shape for people to live in. I did not know which apartment had been Uncle Paul’s and neither did the concierge, as most tenants were immigrants from Turkey. Nobody had heard of Paul Rossinger. I was disappointed.
The Weissensee cemetery was only a few blocks away and I wanted to visit my paternal grandfather’s grave, not certain if I could find it. An inquiry at the administration office brought forth an old card catalog and the clerk pulled a record out and showed it to me. Hand-lettered in black ink was the full record of my grandfather’s burial plot and the clerk directed me to the site. The cemetery was almost fully restored, a forested park with large and small monuments which was maintained by gardeners who could be seen pushing wheelbarrows of turf and plants. I found my grandfather’s grave with a small headstone that must have been put there by my uncle and grandmother, both of whom later perished in the Łódż ghetto.
In 1993 I became a volunteer at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum and one day chanced upon a set of memorial books in the library. They listed German Jews who had perished, and I found the names of my relatives, whose final destinies the family had long known. Then on an impulse I turned the pages to the names beginning with R. I could hardly believe it as the name, Rossinger, Paul, appeared on one of the lines. Was it Uncle Paul or someone else with the same name? I copied everything down and checked the date of birth. Yes, it was Uncle Paul. There was no place of death, only the German word for “suicide,” and a date—January 14, 1942. Where would he have committed suicide, I wondered, or was that only a cover for his murder?
The next day, on a hunch, I telephoned the Weissensee cemetery. The clerk there asked that I hold the phone for a moment. He soon came back and read from the file card. Yes, Uncle Paul was buried at Weissensee. A fax of the card would be on its way in a few minutes. Once I had that information I telephoned the Weissensee district registry office and they too had a record of his death and the arrangements that followed. They would send copies.
Uncle Paul had indeed committed suicide—by hanging—to avoid being taken alive to a concentration camp. One of his sisters and her husband had made burial arrangements, but by the time a gravestone could be set, the couple had been deported to Theresienstadt. Both perished. “So, ja, maybe I leave you here at the tomb, alone for a while...,” Herr Forster said in a voice that tried to convey sympathy but that did not quite make it. “We can talk about the stone later, OK?”
I just nodded, still staring down at the tumble of wild vegetation near my feet. I had finally found Uncle Paul. I silently pledged that a gravestone would stand here in this quiet forested Jewish cemetery to honor this man who in his own way had sacrificed his life in an act of resistance. He would remain on German soil forever, for all the world to see that he had stood his ground against the Nazi onslaught. In the year 2001, a gravestone for Uncle Paul was set in Weissensee Cemetery.
©2011, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
I like to have a destination in my daily walk that serves as exercise, but I suspect it is also a subconscious attempt to get away from my frustration with writing. Today, for the umpteenth time, I chose the trail near my house that would lead me to the local Barnes and Noble bookstore in Bethesda. Dressed for my walk, I wore blue jeans, a sweatshirt, a visored cap, and running shoes. Once inside the store I planned, as usual, to give the new books a quick look to see if a promising spy thriller had been published in paperback. World War II espionage is my favorite genre.
The shelves at the front of the bookstore had little to offer me, so I stepped on the escalator to browse among the books displayed on tables on the second floor. There was nothing inspiring there today and I began to scan books on the long rows of shelves. I stopped at the Holocaust section and started to read the titles.
I did not notice him right away, but as he inched closer I turned my head. The man was elderly, wearing a dark blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a tie with a fleur-de-lis pattern. A white silk handkerchief protruded neatly from his coat pocket. Wearing heavy, black-rimmed eyeglasses, he seemed to concentrate on the books just to my left. Then he pulled one out to examine it, opening the volume to read the back flap.
I continued my own search, fully expecting to soon give up and leave the bookstore for my return trek. That is when the well-dressed man began to speak to me. The accent was strong, and by his appear- ance, I guessed middle European.
“Yes, those were brutal times,” he said. He had, of course, noticed my interest in the books about the Holocaust. “One can never forget and, believe me, I have tried.” I immediately knew he was a survivor, but all I could say was, “Yes, I can imagine.” How trite that sounded to me. He did not seem annoyed and continued. “I come to this bookstore as often as my busy schedule allows to see if anyone has written about my camp.” He must have expected me to ask what camp that was, and so I did.
“Entlingen?” I had never heard of it, but then most camps were unknown to me, except for places like Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and a few other infamous names. “Not many survivors, probably all dead now anyway,” he said, looking at his watch. “Still time for a cup of coffee.” I do not, to this day, know why I asked him if he would like to join me in a cup at the Starbucks coffee bar located in the back near the magazines. “Delighted,” he said, not seeming to notice or care about my very casual outfit next to his business attire. Still, I felt uncomfortable and crossed my arms as if to hide behind them.
We ordered café lattes and scones and sat down at a small table. He introduced himself as Lucas Pen. He laughed as he explained his name had been Perlstein and to Americanize he had decided to just pick three letters to construct his new name. For the next 30 minutes he mesmerized me with the story of his experiences. My insignificant attempts to write fiction over the past few years might now lead to a true story if I could only scribble notes fast enough. “Perhaps I can write your story,” I interjected quickly. Was it stupid of me to think I could do justice to such a powerful chronicle? But then, I was really desperate because nothing had worked for me so far. Frowning as he looked at his watch, he muttered something and said his chauffeur was waiting for him outside and that he had to leave for an important meeting. As he reached for his wallet I quickly held up a hand and said I would take care of the check and bade him hurry to his appointment.
“Please give me your telephone number,” he said. “I would really like to continue our conversation, and maybe you will write my book.” Not expecting ever to hear from him, I wrote my name and number on a napkin and he grabbed it as he hurriedly walked away. It seemed less than two weeks later when the phone rang and Lucas Pen was on the line. “How are you, young man?” he said. I was not that much younger than he was, but compared to me he had lived several centuries’ worth of adventure. Just back from a business trip to China, Pen wanted to have lunch the next day. “Fine,” I said and suggested I make reservations at the Alsatian Village in Chevy Chase. I did not feel right lunching with so important—and interesting—a man at one of the noisy eateries usually crammed with office workers.
After talking about his trip and mentioning that next week he would be in New York for negotiations on a deal to open three supermarkets in Nairobi, Pen returned to his story. I was armed with my notebook because I told myself that this was going to be the beginning of “serious” writing. Over dessert I brought up the subject of audio taping and asked Lucas—he had insisted on first names—if I might interview him at his home. “Of course, of course,” he cheerfully replied. “But not at my house. My wife, you know, is very sensitive. She does not want to talk about the past.” “All right,” I said, “let’s just meet for lunch or coffee at a quiet place until I have enough material to work on.”
Since it was to my benefit, I felt I should pick up the check, and signaled the waiter, but knew Pen would probably object, as he was, after all, a successful businessman. Pen raised his eyes as he slowly said, “No, on me.” I quickly grabbed the bill and slipped my Visa card into the leather folder, as Pen shook his head smil- ing at my insistence. I liked the man.
We met for lunch once a month for almost a year, trying to accommodate Pen’s absences from town and working around his frequent business conferences. Then I did not hear from him for a couple of months. Attributing his failure to phone me to his busy schedule, or perhaps to illness, I concentrated on the material I had recorded and transcribed, using my daily walks to think about how Pen’s story would unfold. I was not prepared for what happened next. My phone rang and the woman on the other end of the line spoke in a sad, accented voice. She had obtained my phone number from her husband’s address book and knew all about our lunches, she said, and apologized for her husband. “No need,” I said. “Lucas has resuscitated my limp writer’s life with his story, and I looked forward to continuing our relationship.” “That will not be possible,” she replied. “Lucas died two days ago. He had been very ill. I am sorry.”
I was shocked despite the fact he was not a youngster and was still pursuing a busy life. I wanted at least to attend the funeral, but she seemed reluctant to provide any information. I insisted on coming and she gave me the time and place for “graveside services.” The burial was a simple ceremony with just five people attending. This surprised me as I had expected Lucas to have a sizable circle of business contacts. Walking back to my car, Lucas’s widow approached me. “Excuse me,” she began. “I must talk to you.” I started to ask if perhaps another time would be better since I did not want to intrude at this moment of bereavement. “No,” she said. “Here is just fine.” And we stopped near my car.
“Lucas could never get used to America. He tried so many things, drifting from job to job without success. His one good suit was a hand-me-down, a gift from one of his last employers, and I shortened the pants. But Lucas liked bookstores and would meet people there—strangers—whom, like you, he befriended. He could never have afforded those lunches without the generosity of people he met, because my small pension and the social security barely kept us going.” I was sure my face showed surprise, but Mrs. Pen seemed not to notice. She continued.
“I heard all about you and your writing. That’s why I called you when he died, I don’t like it when things are left hanging. Anyway, I am glad you came and I was able to tell you about Lucas.”
©2011, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
Now you live in Paris. Yes, the city of light and romance. The broad avenues, the gentle river Seine, the bookstalls, the little bistros on the Left Bank, the Louvre, and the hordes of tourists.
You can walk the boulevards and the old narrow streets with their smells—garlic, flowers, and fresh bread. Gone now are the foul odors of the sidewalk urinals. Even the pervasive aroma of Gauloises, the ubiquitous French cigarettes, has subsided since the 1950s.
Your thoughts, however, are far from all these things. You have walked from your two rooms in Clichy, along streets with names not known by tourists. Another two kilometers on these old feet. Down to a shuffle now, and who knows how much longer you will be able to do even that. There is no choice but to walk. You’ve got to eat—and pay the rent.
There it is, finally, the Gare du Nord. The blackened gray stone of the railroad station is somber at this early hour. You mingle with the hurried masses as they enter the bustling station—up from the Metro, from buses and taxis. Each has his or her own thoughts, eyes fixed on a destination.
You carry the small black suitcase, packed as always by Marta. Marta is your wife. A white shirt, cuffs and collar beginning to fray, black socks, a handkerchief, and the toiletries. And in your small satchel, smoked whitefish fillets thinly sliced, and white bread. Enough for the train ride to Antwerp. There will be nothing for the return the next evening, Friday, the Sabbath, until you get home again.
The train. Yes, still on the same track all these years. Such routine, such regularity, as you begin the weekly journey. Well, not to Antwerp each time, of course. You would have long exhausted your chances. No, you have varied your appearances. Once a month to Amsterdam, Brussels, and a visit to other cities from time to time.
Perhaps you will be lucky. Sometimes the French housewives on a trip to visit relatives can be engaged in conversation. They tend to be shy, but an old man speaking French with a heavy Polish accent? Well, he cannot be threatening. You try to fill the time and they giggle merrily as your arm reaches around their shoulders.
You will disengage, swing back to your seat by the window and reach for your satchel from the rack above. The bread and the fish, all wrapped in wax paper, will come out. A necessary repast and then back to the women.
Antwerp. A young man will help with your suitcase. The women will laugh and wave. Careful, the railway coach’s steps will be slippery as you descend onto the platform.
The hat. Black with a raised crown. You will wear it square and slightly tipped back. You will have to fit in. But first a stop at the synagogue—a stranger in town will need a place to sleep. Someone will help and the family home for the night will surely provide a meal. Tomorrow is Friday, and generosity before the Sabbath is a tradition.
By now you know the streets very well in the religious section of Antwerp. Almost as well as you once knew the distant streets of Warsaw. It is no use to think of that anymore. Yet you have never forgotten the horrors, even if the images are blurred now. Oh, but your pride! It suffered almost complete annihila- tion just like everything else there. But you had determination after you survived it. You thought that there would be a kind of life, when you returned to the old country. You were wrong. The Poles hated you and you were too old, with no useful skill, so you had to eke out an existence somewhere else.
In Paris you became more brazen. You call it enterprising. And tomorrow morning you will approach each bearded man on the street asking for help—to buy a meal, to buy a pair of shoes, and to buy a train ticket home. Because now, you live in Paris.
©2011, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
I was uncomfortable in my box. Sure, there I lay wrapped in soft tissue, but the cardboard lid pressed against me so that I felt completely confined, unable to move. I was hoping the rowdy party would soon subside so that the bride could start opening her presents. The noise was deafening. People were laughing and shouting, and I could hear the clink of glasses as one drunken toast after another resounded through what must have been a large room.
I was packed with loving care as a gift from the bride’s aunt. She selected me from among dozens of other teapots in the little specialty shop. I was so proud, so satisfied with myself, as the shop clerk lifted me off the display shelf and let the refined lady touch me. Her smooth fingers stroked across my pear- shaped, scalloped body, with one finger tracing the curve of my spout. It was no ordinary spout with an abrupt end. No, it was a florid spout that culminated in the shape of rose petals. The lady peered straight into the spout, curious, I suppose, at what the inner walls might offer. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the dark, slightly rough pewter inside of me. With a thumb and forefinger she gently held the ornamental nob on top of the artful, sculpted lid. She lifted the lid slowly, getting the feel of the hinge, and swung it wide open to reveal my gaping neck. By her expression I knew I was her choice. A shudder went through my spine—actually my ornate handle, which was wrapped with an intricate rattan pattern to protect against burns.
Anyway, all that was in the past. Here I was, waiting patiently to be unpacked and admired. It took a while, as I was only one of the many presents, and I began to get impatient. Finally I must have just dozed off, because a sudden movement jarred me awake, and the next thing I sensed was the scratching noise of paper being ripped. It was my turn. “A metal teapot?” It was not a happy voice. “A funny looking metal, not shiny. Maybe it needs polish,” a male speaker exclaimed. “Well, at least somebody gave us a good coffee pot.” It was the woman again. Was I, the charming pewter teapot, playing second fiddle? I should have known. Who in Germany, in 1928, drank tea? Coffee, coffee, that arrogant black brew, was king. Tea, yes I know, was for the more genteel, or if you were sick.
I shared the narrow kitchen cabinet shelf with that damn coffeepot. The cabinet door opened every morning and out it came. I just sat, and sat. I must have sat for several months before my debut. Of course, I should have guessed. The lady who selected me at the little shop came to visit—to have tea—and I was displayed, fussed over in that phony patronizing way people drooled over small children of people they despised. Then it was over. A quick rinse with soapy water and dried with a damp kitchen towel, I was back next to the coffee pot.
As the years went by, I could sense changes. There was less talk. The words became harsher, and fewer people came to visit. I do not know the exact year, but one cold night the cabinet door opened and I was yanked from the shelf. Tea was made and the couple drank two cups—in the dark—without uttering a word. It was terrifying. Then the woman began to weep. I hoped it was not because of a bad brew of tea, making this my fault. Then it was back into the cabinet, in silence and gloom. One morning I heard the thud of furniture being moved about and some heavy object was dragged over the bare floor. What happened to the carpets? The cabinet door next to mine was opened and dishes were removed, accompanied by the sound of newspaper being crunched. Suddenly the door of my cabinet opened and the woman’s anxious face appeared. “Should we take the coffee pot?” I sensed my neighbor’s anticipation. “No, better not, porcelain can break on the trip.” It was the husky voice of the man. “Let’s pack the teapot. Sturdy pewter and it will be good to boil water, which you have to do in the tropics, I hear.” Trip? Tropics? What is going on?
The woman took me from the shelf and for the first time examined me from lid to base. “It may even be valuable. If we need money the pot could fetch some.” That came as a mixed message. Finally some recognition of my worth, but then only as an object of exchange. Well, one cannot have it all, and besides, I began to feel a little guilty. The once popular coffee pot was to be left behind to an uncertain fate. I, instead, was going to travel. The old newspapers cushioned me in a heavy cardboard box, and it was not long before I felt myself being lifted up and put into a large case. The voices became faint and soon new sounds penetrated my dark abode. Coarse commands, scraping noises, and the motion of a heavy vehicle over roadways gave me many frightening moments. Where was my journey taking me and when would it end?
I did not feel it, but the case I was in must have been lifted high in the air, because I landed with a jarring thump that reverberated within a large space. The voices had a different lilt, sea folk I guessed. A ship no doubt. They did say the tropics, and I knew it would be a long time before I could be of service again. The heave and roll were almost unbearable. Some days were worse than others. I do not know how long I suffered, but one day the ride was very smooth and then I felt the ship bump against something. Were we there, or was this just another stop along the way? What a relief it was when I heard voices again. They sounded softer and very different from those at the beginning of the voyage. The voices came closer and I sensed hands moving the case, and not long thereafter I felt my case being deposited somewhere, but I was not upright. With the greatest joy my box was lifted out of the case and opened by the woman. “Look, undamaged and ready to use,” she said. A cold water bath greeted me instantly as I was washed to clear debris and dirt from my elegant pear-shaped body. They boiled water for tea and the man lifted his cup to the woman. “To our escape, and to our new life in Manila,” he exclaimed. Manila? Where on earth was that? Oh well, it did not matter to me. I looked forward to my new status as a vital household object.
The years seemed to flit along. I saw heavy duty and ever more loving care devoted to my well-being. I in turn gave my body—and, yes, soul—to the couple, who worked in the oppressive heat to make a living. They bought another coffee pot, which, I heard them say, was cheap and made in Japan. Things changed again. The woman often cried and there was talk about war and her family back in Germany. Then the man lost his job and they were struggling. The coffee pot, poor thing, had less and less to do. I was again the primary utility vessel, and was by now like part of the family. Something else was going on that I did not understand for a long time. Visitors kept talking about Japanese. Was I to know that this war thing had brought soldiers from Japan to occupy Manila? Of course not. I did not read newspapers, and the voices all sounded alike, until the man talked about news he had heard on the “radio.” He used the word “bombing.” The word meant nothing to me until one morning when both the man and the woman were out. Loud intermittent sounds penetrated the walls of the little house. Soon explosions shook the floor and went on for a long time. Then they stopped and I heard first the woman, and a little later the man, burst through the door. They sounded frightened but sighed with relief to find each other safe. It was again my turn to shine as the woman took me from the shelf to make tea. They both drank deeply. It seemed to calm their nerves and I was proud to be of service. The man talked endlessly about “bombing.” Now I grasped the connection between the earth-shattering explosions and the word. There was no let-up in the bombing. The man and woman crawled under a table every time the bombing began.
It was weeks later that I was snatched from my post and unceremoniously dumped into a small cart. I joined bottles of water boiled by me, some canned food, and a tiny sack of rice. The man hurriedly wheeled the cart out of the house and the woman followed with a blanket, two pillows, and a large straw bag filled with clothes and shoes. It was a nightmare. Walls of fire soon surrounded our encampment as hundreds of people scurried about, their children screaming. Artillery shells fell, ripping people and their belongings asunder. The man and woman scurried away from the blanket that they had laid down and over which they had pitched a bed sheet for protection from the sun. I sat on the blanket in one corner.
I barely remember what happened next. I was tossed up in the air and struck hard by an object I could not identify. The blow sent me rolling as I crashed on the rubble-strewn ground. My lid was gone, leaving a rough edge where the hinge had been. My poor pear-shaped body had been bashed in, leaving a large, gaping and ragged hole. My graceful curved spout was sliced off and there were dozens of jagged holes throughout my body. I would never hold water again. Night fell and still the bombs kept coming. I was alone; the man and woman were gone. I was left with desperate screams and flying debris. Day brought no relief. The sun cast its hot rays over the desolate scene. I do not know how long I lay in my agony.
It rained early one morning, adding more misery. The bombs no longer fell and I lost track of time. Then one day I heard voices. I was filled with anticipation as I heard the woman speaking. “Not much left except shreds and shards,” she said. “I do not know why we came back here.” “Ah, there is where our shelter must have been,” the man said. “I recognize remnants of our blanket.” They were coming closer; I could sense they were just steps away. “Look,” the woman exclaimed, as she pointed down at me, “the teapot.” She leaned down and picked up what was left of me. “Look, it is ruined. Oh, the teapot—ruined.” The man reached out to hold me. Both cradled my ravaged body in their hands. “Over there,” the woman said, pointing, “the lid.” So my top had rolled farther after separating from my body. She went to pick it up. Please take me away with you, I pined. “To think what this teapot has gone through. I feel it has been like a trusted friend, always there when needed, but now gravely ill. We cannot leave the teapot here, at least it will be a souvenir of our past life,” said the man. “It survived, let us take it along.” Had I a set of hands I would have clasped them in a thanksgiving prayer.
For me, life was changed forever. The couple wrapped me in old rags and took me with them wherever they went. It was not until we arrived in the United States that my role became clear. When newly won friends visited the home, I was unwrapped—they now bundled me in something called plastic. Held by the handle I was put on display for all guests to see. Once they focused on my bashed and riven body, the man said: “This is what the battle of Manila was like.” He did not have to say more.
©2011, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
