MEMENTOES
ISSUE IV
THE LITERARY JOURNAL OF
Q U E E N S B O R O U G H
COMMUNITY COLLEGE
The City University of New York
1 9 9 1
BAYSIDE, NEW YORK
Foreword
Editorial Board
Edward Bujans
Carolyn Cohen
Seena Dictenberg
David Eisenreich
Lara Lasner
Faith Mitchell
Debra Paris
Joseph Schine
Faculty Adviser
Dr. Eli Merchant
Mementoes, now in its fourth issue, is comprised of stories and
poems submitted by students in 1990. Its objectives arc to serve
as a literary journal for the students of Queensborough Community College, to promote the cause of creative writing at the
College, and to provide a forum for the creative work of the
College's student body.
Appreciation is acknowledged to all students and members
of the Writer's Club who have made this project feasible through
their enthusiastic involvement and receptiveness. Appreciation is
particularly expressed to Jeanne Marie Parisi for contributing her
services as typist of the materials involved; to Carolyn Cohen,
Seena Dictenberg, and Faith Mitchell for acting as readers
thereof; and to the offices of Publications and Printing Services.
Mementoes
welcome
contribut ions
from
Queensborou gh Community College students. All submissions
should be typed and double-spaced bearing the student's name,
address, and social security number. These should be directed to
the Writer's Club c/o Dr. Eli Merchant, English Department
(H-423), and designated as Mementoes submissions.
PROFESSOR Ell MERCHANT
English Department
NOTICE:
Individual authors retain the copyright their
individual contributions
3
Table of Contents
"Stowaway," by Carolyn Cohen ............................................................7
"A Walk with Grandma," by Seena Dictenberg ...............................13
"Renata (Born Again)," by Electra .................................................. 22
"Future Imperfect," by Scott Grodner ............................................. 23
"The March of the Living," by Lisa Grunfeld .................................. 28
"Performance," by Debra Paris.......................................................... 30
"The Lie," by Juanita C. Pettis .........................................................31
"Moment," by Andrea Scott ............................................................... 33
"This is What You Need," by Jeff Walsh.......................................... 35
STOWAWAY
CAROLYN COHEN
Armand Fried sat beneath a heap of clean burlap rags not daring to
move his arms to check whether his eyes were open or closed. He
blinked purposely several times to feel his upper lids rub
softly against the lower ones, trying to remember which position
they remained in several moments later. No matter how many
times he repeated this exercise he could not concentrate on its
results.
The darkness was complete. Even the starless nights at the farm
were not as black as the view from underneath scraps of rags.
He imagined this must be what a live person would sec in a
closed coffin. But that person would have to be more comfortable than he. On a three-foot shelf his body was positioned in
almost an "L" shape, stationed against a thick steel wall. He was
actually sitting. But the curve of the wall did not allow the comforts
to his torso as would a straight-back chair. His legs were bent
with his knees tucked under his chin. He wanted desperately to
extend them but settled for a quick, exhilarating wiggle of his toes.
Of course there was the twice-a-day escape from under the rags to a
corner for relief of bodily functions. But he was so nervous at
these times, so fearful of discovery that he could not enjoy the
pleasure of his renewed upright position. He took care of his needs as
quickly as nature permitted and hurried back to his blackened
existence.
Armand had gone from gray to black. That was all he could
remember of his last day on dry land in London. He never did
get a good look at the vessel he boarded illegally, so thick was
London's fog. He could make out the sailors and shiphands
loading cargo and flinging heavy thick ropes as though in dreamlike unison. Yes, the fog worked in his favor. If he had trouble
seeing them, they would have trouble seeing him. 1Ic kept three
paces behind The American always. If The American could pull
this off, Armand would be in New York in ten days. And The
7
6
American would be seven hundred dollars richer. This was truly
the American way.
"Mama."
The thin, kind woman lifted her head from the stove to the
sound of her son's voice. Her eyes screamed exhaustion, but her
lips never uttered a complaint. She had delivered twelve children
in a sparse bedroom one flight up from where they presently
stood. Having slaved to build and keep a proper Jewish home for
her family, she could no longer fight against the penetrating
poverty. One by one her children would flee to America to a faraway place called New York. Two had left already. And, soon,
she and her husband would have to follow.
"Mama," Armand continued as their eyes linked, "the
letter arrived today from Rose." She set down her ladle, wiped
her bony hands on her dough-splattered apron, and sat down for
the news, admiring his strength and handsomeness. The worn
button-down flannel shirt and slightly too short trousers could
not spoil his appearance. Nothing could. Oh those bright blue
eyes were so kind and gentle, their hidden restlessness and fierce
determination visible only to her.
Armand shuffled his feet as young men often do when nervous. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact with his
mother who sat patiently awaiting the news from her eldest
daughter, Rose, now living in New York. Armand sat on a chair
and wrapped his arms around his knees to stop himself from
shuffling.
"Mama. The ransom has been arranged. I must be in
London in two weeks."
"Have you told your Papa?" She knew he hadn't. That
would be even harder. Papa would be losing one of his two
sons—and two of his four helping hands.
• ••
Armand had climbed up a ladder on the side of the ship to
get on board and followed, head dipped, three paces behind
American to stairs, many stairs, going down, down, and then
8
further down. The echo of their footsteps frightened him. The
sailors would hear them, how couldn't they? But he did not falter.
Silently, The American took the young European boy to a large
compartment, filled with shelves of rags below the surface of the
ocean where Armand felt less conspicuous and safer. As he
buried himself under the rags he caught sight of The American
slipping his hand in the pocket which held his two hundred
dollars.
"Keep still. I will bring food every two or three days. If you
are found, remember I have never seen you before." With that,
and a rustle of the crisp American bills, The American departed.
• ••
Armand stood outside the old farmhouse searching for a
glimpse of his father. The ground was worn from excessive planting. It looked sad as if it would say, "I too have reached my peak a
long time ago; 1 too have nothing more to give." Armand felt the
same. At eighteen, he had no more to give to the decrepit farm
or his large family. With high hopes and dreams he felt
determined to make up for it in the new land. Chatter from the
chicken coop aroused him. He found his father sprinkling
chicken feed in it.
"Papa."
His father, strong from years of physical labor, did not look
up from his chores. Armand was relieved not to have to face him
directly.
"Papa, Rose arranged for the ransom. An American will
contact me in London in two weeks. He will get me on board an
American ship to New York."
I (is father continued to feed the chickens for what seemed
hours.
"May God be with you, son."
• • •
Armand decided that though his eyes were closed, he was
assuredly awake. Ocean water slapped against the heavy steel
underwater compartment. The rush of water seemed to speak in
the boy's native tongue. With each and every drop of the salty
9
sea was a message that he was closer to New York and his new
life.
There were neighs from the neighboring compartment.
Two or more horses conversed freely and openly and were, no
doubt, welcome passengers. And more comfortable at that!
Armand arose abruptly from underneath the rags, opened
the door to the compartment and went next door to look at the
horses. There were two. Beautiful, proud shiny brown mares.
They were well taken care of. As he looked one over carefully, his
body stiffened. "My God," he whispered, "you are my horse, the
one Papa sold three years ago. Don't you remember me? I rode
you bareback around the countryside. How can you forget?
This is me, Armand. Arc you angry that we sold you? We had to,
for the money. Please forgive me! I will make a fortune in New
York and will buy yo u bac k. I promise. I do . ." The door
opened. A huge blonde-haired sailor marched in and stared at
the foreign boy....
Armand awoke with a start, soaked from head to toe in perspiration.
. . .
There were few times that all work came to a halt during
daylight hours on the farm. Even on the Sabbath, Mama and the
girls would fuss setting the table, putting out the special table
cloth and lest dishes. Then there was the cleaning up and Papa's
once-a-week midday nap. It was a chore keeping the younger
ones from disturbing their tired father.
Armand stood outside near the porch where his family
lined up to say goodbye. There were Mama, Papa, Theresa,
Elaine, Esther, Celia, Irene, Renee and Martin. His baby niece
Miriam lay sleeping in the carriage. His brother Herschel and
sister Margit lay in their graves not far from the chicken coop
to whom he had silently bid his last farewell at dawn.
"Yes, I will give my love to Rose and Serri."
"Yes, I will be careful."
"Yes, I will send word of my arrival as soon as I can." Armand
looked at his family, praying silently it would not
10
be for the last time. His parents and sisters could not stow away
on a ship and would need visas, visas that the U.S. had stopped
issuing for months.
With a small satchel, some Korumi, and two hundred dollars tied tightly to his ankle, Armand, tasting his salty tears
streaming down his face, departed for London.
•••
There were no days or nights. Just water, motion and darkness. Armand drifted.... I am in the womb. It feels good, so
peaceful . . . I've yet to be born
I am nobody ... Mama,
please eat, please nourish me
I am small but hungry ... Take
care of me now, Mama, as I will one day take care of you ..
The loud grumblings of his stomach brought him back,
back to his aching bones, the odor of slept-in clothing, and the
sense of having lived a lifetime.
Heavy footsteps stopped at the door to the compartment.
Keys jingled. The door opened. German lyrics rang out as hands
reached into the heap of rags revealing the illegal boarder.
Armand knew his eyes were open, staring upon the
smooth-skinned face of an Austrian sailor. Not hesitating a
moment, Armand strung together his limited German
vocabulary, trembling as he spoke, asking the sailor not to turn
him in.
"I came only for rags." The Austrian left. Time passed.
Again, the same heavy footsteps. He's turning me in, Armand
thought. Why else would he return? The Austrian did return.
Not for more rags. And not to turn him in. Wordlessly, hc left a
tray of food beside the shelf where Armand lay. They never again
met face to face.
•
•
•
Dear Mama and Papa,
I hope you, my liners and brothers, are well. I have arrived
safely in New York. Rose and Serri are quite well.
I knew we reached New York when the sounds of the water
were replaced by those of sailors unloading cargo. I ceased
hearing the horses, too. They disembarked before I did. I con
11
tinned to hide nor knowing when The American would cone
for me. It seemed like a very long time, but finall y he did
come. He gave me a mirror, razors and cream. I was an awful
sight but looked better after shaving. The American discarded
my coat and hat and would not let me take my satchel. We
walked off the vessel as though I were a shiphand and it went
okay. The American escorted me to a dark empty room not far
from the harbor, where we waited silentl y till Rose arrived
with the ransom. Then 1 was free.
Serri bought me second-hand clothing and it looks very
American. I am sleeping on her couch but hope to have my
own place soon. Next week I begin English classes.
Last night I went to a Hungarian social club. But too
many people asked me how I came over. It's too dangerous for
me to return there.
You are never forgotten. One day we will all be citizens of
this amazing land. I thank God for being here and pray to be
reunited with you soon.
Your son,
Armand
A WALK WITH GRANDMA
SEENA DICTENBERG
Although its only window was wide open, Grandma's kitchen
was warm on that spring day. I sat on one of the white painted
kitchen chairs, swinging my dangling feet and impatiently tracing with my fingertip the outlines of the almost colorless flowers
that were woven into the fabric of the oft-used tablecloth. I
knew it wasn't yet Friday, her usual baking day, but Gram had just
taken a golden-crusted apple pie from the oven and placed it on
the windowsill to cool. As she returned to the sink to finish washing
up, I stopped swinging my feet and jumped off the chair. I went
to the window to sniff the pie's cinnamony goodness.
Without turning away from the sink, Gram warned, "It's
hot! You damn touch it yet!"
"Who's coming?" I wondered to myself. A fresh pie in the
middle of the week might mean that Gram expected company.
I backed away from the window and turned to watch Gram
as she finished washing the remaining utensils. She dried her
hands, giving them a final wipe across the front of her apron. She
began now to put her bowls and spoons back in their right fill
places in the wooden cabinets.
I climbed back up onto the chair and began again to trace
the flowers. Maybe now she'd have time to do something with
me. Grandma and I did a lot of things together, especially lately
since Mommy was so busy taking care of my new baby sister.
Maybe today we'd play cards or take a walk or maybe we'd go
buy some baskets of velvety pansies and plant them in the little
front garden.
My impatience must have been obvious to her. "Go. Go
wait for me on the porch," she said as she untied her apron and
hung it on its hook. "I'll change my waist and we'll go for a
walk." (Grandma always called a blouse a "waist.") "And don't
get your dress dirty," she called after me, as I walked pm the
12
13
As we passed the Chinese Hand Laundry, Mrs. Frost, one of
Grandma's friends, was coming out of that little cubicle of a
shop that always smelled of steam and bleach. I could hear the
tinkle of the little brass bell chime as she closed the door of the
basement shop behind her. She was carrying several thin, Flat
packages all wrapped in brown paper. I knew they must be her
husband's shirts. (Grandma always washed Papa's shirts at home.
When they were hanging on our backyard clothesline and drying in the wind, they looked like the top halves of upside-down
scarecrows.)
Mrs. Frost freed one of her hands and reached down to
pinch my cheek and ask, "How are you, darling?" I mumbled
something in reply and retreated to the relative safety of the folds
of Gram's skirt. Grandma apologized for my shyness and the two
women began to speak softly in a mixture of Yiddish and
English, their words interspersed with much tongue-clicking.
"Tsk, tsk."
After a moment, bored, I came out of hiding and wandered
over to the curb to see if perhaps someone had discarded an
empty cigarette pack or maybe a gum wrapper. My tin foil ball
was growing so slowly lately; I was not having much luck finding old foil that I could peel off whatever paper to which it was
attached. Behind me, Grandma was saying goodbye to Mrs.
Frost.
"Come," Gram said to me, holding out her hand. Then,
displeased, "Fell! Put that down! It's filthy; it was in the gutter!" (She had seen me pick up a crumpled silver gum wrapper
that I'd spotted.) Reluctantly I dropped my prize. I brushed my
hands together, making a great show of how was ridding
myself of the real or imaginary germs borne by that lost-forever
piece of foil. I put my hand in Gram's and we continued our
journey.
As we passed in front of Oxman's Butcher Shop, Mrs.
Oxman was lumbering down the steps holding a pile of what
looked like fat pink worms atop a platter she had fashioned from a
folded paper bag. Something moved in my throat and I quick16
turned away. I could not bear to watch as her tail-less, one-eyed
cat jumped down from the lid of the metal garbage can preparing to devour the lunchtime treat of innards that had been
placed on the sidewalk for him. As Mrs. Oxman wiped her hands
on the blood-stained apron that covered her ample body, she
came toward us. At that moment I hoped with all my heart that
she would not venture to pinch my cheek as Mrs. Frost had
done. Luckily, she ignored my presence.
Gram placed the shopping bag on the sidewalk, reached
into her skirt pocket and drew out her little war ration book. She
opened it to a half-gone page and tore out two tiny stamps, carefully following the guidelines of t heir perforated bord ers.
"Here," she said, as she handed them to Mrs. Oxman. I heard
the word "Nisch" and knew these were the ration stamps Gram
had forgotten to bring to the sawdust-floored butcher shop the
last time we bought chopped meat. Gram replaced the precious
book in her pocket and the women began to speak in earnest.
Again I heard the clicking of the tongues. Again the goodbyes.
We continued walking and as we rounded the corner at the
fruit store we came upon a group of five or six noisy children
walking past us on their way home from school for lunch. The
girls were laughing and skipping. (I couldn't skip yet but I could
already hop on either foot.) The boys were running after each
other, playing some game of tag. One boy was carrying a notebook bound in a marbled black and white pattern. Wh y , I had
one just like that at home! Mommy wrote the whole alphabet on
the first page and every evening while she was preparing supper I
sat at our kitchen table and practiced copying all the letters
with my yellow pencil.
"Arc we almost there?" I asked Grandma. This was turning into a longer-than-remembered walk and I was beginning to
tire. I had even stopped practicing my hops.
"Soon. Sha. One more block," Gram answered. Without
further complaints from me, we finally arrived at Mrs. Axelrod's
house. Her side of the street was now shaded by the tall oak
trees that lined the block. The sudden coolness made me shiver.
17
remembered to glance up at one of her closed windows to look
at the familiar little square satin flag hanging there. This flag, like
so many others that hung in windows throughout our
neighborhood, was Mrs. Axelrod's patriotic announcement
to her adopted land that a child of hers was far away across the
ocean fighting bravely for our country. The flag was so pretty:
the center square was creamy white and it was surrounded by
a wide border of crimson. A bright blue star was appliqued in
the middle of the white field. There was a fringe of thin gold
cord sewn along the bottom of the flag. (Some flags, sadly, had
not a blue star, but rather a gold one, telling a mourning world
that somewhere, in some distant land, a mother's son had
perished.)
We climbed the few stairs that led to the tiled entry hall of
the small apartment house. Mrs. Axelrod lived in one of the two
apartments on the first floor. Today it was so quiet in that
building which was usually filled with family sounds— sounds of
soup pots being washed or put away, of songs being sung on
the radio, of mothers scolding children for bouncing balls in
the hallways. Gram knocked at the apartment door and,
without waiting, she opened it, and I followed her inside. I
think she somehow knew that Mrs. Axelrod would not come
to open the door for us that day.
I
We walked on through the white-tiled kitchen and entered
the dark and cool living room. The window shades had been
lowered to the sills and the lace curtains were closed. The windows, too, were closed, denying entry to late spring breezes. For a
moment I wondered where Mrs. Axelrod was. Then, as my
eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw her. She was seated in her customary place, on the green velvet chair near the window.
Although it was well past noon, she was not yet dressed. She sat
wrapped in a beige chenille robe and her long brown hair, usually braided and wound about her head, hung loose and wild
around her shoulders. With her chin resting on her chest, she
appeared to be asleep.
Grandma noiselessly crossed the flowered carpeting anti
reached down to touch her friend's hand. Mrs. Axelrod roused
18
herself and looked up at Grandma. I saw the two women soundlessly and knowingly speak by looking deeply into each other's
eyes. Without letting go of the wrinkled hand, Grandma reached
behind her, pulled up a footstool and sat down near her friend's
feet.
"When will she ask me to come and kiss her?" I wondered. Soon
Grandma began to speak softly, keeping her gaze fastened to that
wrinkled face whose eyelids, I noticed, were red and puffy.
Gram's voice, whose words were inaudible to me, sounded like the
soothing cooing of the pigeons that lived in the roof-top coop of
the house next to ours.
The two women seemed to have forgotten that I was there. I
took advantage of my unexpected state of invisibility to tiptoe
across the room and seat myself on the floor to pet Ginger, who
was napping underneath the big grand piano. It soon became
obvious that the cat resented being awakened by the small probing fingers of pudgy hands. She arose, arched her back and
yawned. Slowly but deliberately she padded away to some inner
recess of another room of the apartment, free to drowse with
privacy.
Ginger gone, I looked up and around the room searching
for a different source of entertainment. I got up from under the
piano and climbed up on its bench. From my new vantage point
I %vas able to look at the faces in the framed photographs that sat
atop the fringed shawl covering the piano. The faces that looked
back at me, some in family groupings, some single portraits,
were all so serious. Except for one face, they were all strangers to
me. Lenny's face, however, with his mischievous smile, shone
out at me and his eye almost seemed to wink in greeting. He was
wearing his Army uniform and cap. (Lenny was the blue star on
Mrs. Axelrod's satin flag.) Before he went away when Gram and I
would visit he would take me to the playground and we'd leave
the two women in the house. He would push me on the swing.
"Higher!" I'd shout and he would push me harder.
"Higher!" He would laugh out loud as I giggled in night
He always returned to his mother's house just in time for hcr to
give me a
19
cookie to cat as we said goodbye and I began the walk home
with Gram. I hoped Lenny would come home soon. When we
went to the park next time I would show him how I'd learned
to pump my legs so I could soar without his strong pushes.
The voices of the women hummed on. Leaving the piano
bench I walked to the china closet and pressed my face against
its glass door. With my hands cupped around my eyes I could see
all the objects on its lowest shelf: tiny porcelain figurines of a
bride and groom, dressed in stiff white netting and shiny black
paper, a stemmed silver cup with somc letters engraved on its
base, a little Chinese doll wearing a flowered red kimono and
holding a yellow paper umbrella, and, strangely out of place, a
crooked wooden fruit bowl made from popsticks glued together
and painted with a lumpy coat of glossy varnish. I longed to sec
what was on the upper shelves but I knew that I couldn't jump
One day, towards the end of August, I took a long walk
Dad d y t o t he playgro u nd . O n t h e w a y , w e pass ed by Mrs.
summer.
with
I glanced up to look for her
little square satin flag in the window. I dismissed the thought
Axelrod's house. As was my habit,
and ran on ahead of Daddy. "Look, Daddy! Look how I can
really skip now!" As I raced to show him my new talent, I suddenly stopped. I realized that Mrs. Axelrod's blue star was gone
from her flag. There was now a gold one in its place.
up to glimpse their treasures; I knew Gram would frown and tell
me gruffly that I "dasn't" jump indoors (especially in someone
else's indoors). As my eyes searched the room for something to
play with, each possible target seemed to warn "No!" "No!" said
the carved shepherdess on the base of the massive table lamp;
"No!" said the bowl of wax fruit on the end table; "No!" said
the tiny trio of ivory elephants.
Just as I began to wonder if Ginger would ever come back
to play, Grandma sighed and got up off the stool. Mrs. Axelrod
also rose. I followed the two women as they walked slowly
through the kitchen to the front door of the apartment. Again,
I felt invisible. Gram turned and after she said something softly
in Yiddish, the women embraced for a very long moment,
whereupon Gram and I stepped into the entry hall, our footsteps
producing hollow echoes on the tile. Grandma walked ahead but
as Mrs. Axelrod was closing the door, I shouted, "Wait, Gram,"
and turned back to the wrinkled face. Without even closing my
eyes, I stood on my toes and kissed her wet check. Then I ran
outside to catch up with Grandma. She held my hand as we
began the long walk home.
The days passed and soon we were enveloped in the heat of
20
21
again. Some of the crowd began to move off and continue on
their way while others waited for his next words. Seeing the size of
his audience diminish, the old man managed to shout even
louder.
"Go! Go home to your cubicles and drink your sludge and
watch your TV and ignore the truth! As you breathe this filth
and tend your vats, remember that you do so alone! Forever
alone, each of you, despite the repugnant billions that are
crushed against you! He has gone and can never return! By his
own. “A small hole appeared over the man's left eye as the wall
behind his head suddenly turned red. The crowd stood and watched
as two UNE peace enforcers walked over to the wall where the
man's body was slumped. Gradually, the crowd dispersed,
satisfied that nothing more of interest was going to happen.
No one stayed long enough to watch the enforcers bag the corpse.
• **
All the planet's resources were strained to the limit. Few
crops could tolerate the harsh, polluted atmosphere or the
intense ultraviolet radiation that rained down through the
thickgray haze now devoid of protective ozone. Vast,
multilevel farms provided meager nourishment by way of
hydroponics and "germing," a bacterial breeding process
cultivated on a huge scale that resulted in a tasteless, milky
sludge on which a human being could barely survive.
Massive harvester fleets combed the oceans, daily skimming
billions of tons of plankton from the tainted waters. At peak
efficiency, all of these efforts provided just enough
nourishment to maintain the subsistence level of existence
under which all but a privileged few lived. Occasionally
shortages would occur, resulting in massive riots in the
affected areas. Many thought that the UNE orchestrated such
shortages, depending on the resulting fatalities as a
supplementary means of population control.
• *
The four men sat on the floor of the small room, huddled
around the buzzing electric heater in an effort to escape the chill
of the damp concrete walls. The youngest wasn't under 50 years
24
of age and each was clothed in rough gray coveralls, except for
one man who also wore a tattered brown jacket. The jacket was
made from the skin of an animal that had lived and died many
years before the man had been horn. The man in the brown
jacket was a little taller than the others, despite the pronounced
curvature of his spine. He sat there with the other three, staring
into the orange element of the heater. The television set in the
corner of the room was off
The man in the brown jacket spoke. "Supervisor at Processor Twelve said there's gonna be a shortage in our sector next
week. Said he heard one of the plant managers talkin"bout it
after some 'mince inspection men left last shift."
Two of the other men grunted their concern. The third
man waved a dirty hand in the air and said "How's some manager privy to that kinda stuff? lb the 'minces' he's no more than a
tech with a clean face. Some guy who measures sludge 'stead of
touchin' it. Nothin' at all."
The man in the brown jacket hunched forward closer to
the heater and replied "I'm tellin' you what he said. You can take it
or not, it don't matter to me."
"Don't matter to you neither. If he did know, which he
don't, there ain't no reason he'd tell you."
The man in the brown jacket looked up at the other man
and said nothing. The only sounds in the room came from the
buzzing heater and some yelling out in the hall. The four then
sat there, without speaking, for several minutes. Then the man in
the brown jacket spoke.
"You do what you want, but I'm gonna save up what I can.
If you know what's best for you, you'll all do the same."
The other man spat at the heater. His saliva spattered
against the orange coil and sizzled. He wiped at his chin with a
sleeve and said "Yeah right, we'll be smart like you and starve
ourselves worsen we already do just 'cause some whiteface in
Twelve is talkin' crap."
The man in the brown jacket looked down at his dirty,
calloused hands. The tour men listened to the veiling down in
the hall.
25
• • •
Among the masses, the individual had ceased to exist.
Most people lived their lives without choice or control over
their own destinies. A person received only enough
instruction to enable him to perform the specific task to which
be had been assigned. A lifetime spent tending vats of sludge
was the norm for most. Fully 99% of the world population was
illiterate, and depended on the 24-hour world-wide
programming provided by the UNE consortium for mindless
diversion and heavily processed news. Although separate
nations still existed, the United Nations of Earth, effectively
world government, had been in total control jiff many years.
This had become necessary when entire nations in the Third
World had begun to die. The UNE controlled everything:
the distribution of food and resources, the global economy, the
world peace force, health care services, and vocational
training. Somber officials issued emotionless directives
garnered from WorldNet, the intelligent super-computing
network whose only task was to run simulations and provide
instructions to the UNE officials, who relayed these to the
masses. All commands were brutally enforced by the faceless
UNE peace enforcers. For most, lift was simply work, obey
and exist.
He pushed the flask back to her. "You nced it more." Till
he had stolen this flask, they hadn't eaten in three days. It wasn’t
much, and soon he'd have to leave her and go back tip fin. more.
They both knew that she had to eat as much as possible if there
were to be any hope of the baby surviving.
She looked at him for several moments. Feeling obligated to
the life growing inside her, she drained the remainder of the
sludge from the flask. She then put it down and huddled closer
to him in the duct as he wrapped his arms around her. Nothing
more needed to he said. Soon they were both asleep.
She slept deeply while he was unfortunate enough to
dream. Images of an UNE abortion squad locating them tilled
his head. He saw the police tear his (site from his arms and
restrain them both. They held him and made certain that he
could see her, pinned to the ground and naked from the waist
down, as a technician jammed the nozzle of the apparatus into
her. He struggled wildly against his captors until a club cracked
against his forehead. Still conscious but unable to offer further
resistance, he watched as the technician activated the machine.
She screame d uncontrollably, drowning out the humming sound
of the machine. Blood pounded in his head and flowed freely
down his face. There was absolutely nothing he could do.
He awoke to the sound of nearby footsteps.
• • *
The man held the flask of thick fluid to t he woman's
mouth. She hesitated at first, then gulped from it eagerly. When
half was gone, she stopped and pushed it towards him. "Now
you," she said.
He looked at her face. Pale skin, dark eyes and short brown
hair. Like him, she was dirty and tired and damp with tear. They
had managed to evade the UNE police for weeks, hiding among
the catacombs and passages of the deepest underground areas in two
sectors. He had been a maintenance engineer and knew the
interconnected maze of sub-basements well. They had kept moving,
and when they heard the distant footsteps, they stopped and hid.
He looked down at her belly. It was swollen, and it was why they
had fled.
26
27
THE MARCH OF
THE LIVING
LISA GRUNFELD
I could feel the gentle blowing of the wind and the heat of the
sun against my face—ideal conditions, but not for standing in
the center of a concentration camp. While walking along the
fields through the high stalks of grass, I started to cringe. I constantly found myself lagging behind the others. I was stopping,
unwilling to move any farther.
On this day, I was going to march from Auschwitz to
Birkenau in memory of all those innocent Jews who died here. I
was on a trip called "The March of the Living." Sonic 3,000
Jewish teenagers from around the world participated in a march
from Auschwitz to Birkenau. We were ready to march that same
path our ancestors did on the way to the gas chambers.
At the sound of the traditional rain's horn used by Jews
around the world, the march began. It was hard to believe that
3,000 teenagers were marching together in compete silence for
the same cause. It was unbelievable that something like this
could bring such unity. As we walked up a hill toward Birkenau,
the striking blue jackets blazed in complete unison.
Jewish leaders, survivors and marchers shared their thoughts and
feelings. The special guest was Elie Wiesel, who spoke as a survivor
of the Holocaust. His stories could only make you think. His
touching last words arc what stayed with me through my
journey in Poland. "I cannot tell you what I saw. I am afraid.
I am afraid we would all break out in tears and would not stop."
From there we went to the gas chambers each with a plastic
bag and spoon. One at a time we put some ashes into our bags
and sealed them. The following day we went to Israel and buried
our bags and planted a memorial tree.
We brought them hack home—hack to the State of Israel.
Getting on that plane three weeks ago I was just like any
other Jew, but now I was a Jew who experienced what it was like to
be a Jew in a country of anti-Semitism—anti-Semitism alive and
growing.
I learned what ignorance is the hard way. I remember
walking down a street in Poland and getting stones thrown
down on me from the top of a building. Was this because I was a
Jew? I marched that long path from Auschwitz to Birkenau so
that history is never repeated again. "The one who does not
remember history is bound to live it through again." This is
something that I will never forget.
I could not believe that houses lined the road of the camps. The
local children were riding bicycles on the tracks that were once
used for bringing in new prisoners to be gassed. Did these Polish
parents teach their children what Auschwitz was once used
for? Did they truly believe the Holocaust is something to forget?
During the march we saw little Polish kids who were standing there with ice-cream cones, as if they were at the
park—standing and laughing at us. My friend took a picture and
when I asked him why he simply replied, "I'm taking a picture of
ignorance."
At the end of the march we all joined for a ceremony.
29
28
THE LIE
JUANITA C. PETTIS
PERFORMANCE
it's merely a dance
choreographed by a cripple
danced by a drunk
on an unlit stage
before an audience of one-armed men
who thunderously applaud
a stone deaf performer
DEBRA PARIS
It all began with that terrible nightmare I'd had ten months earlier. I woke up in a cold sweat, reaching for Gene, crying uncontrollably. I had been dreaming that he was dying and as my
subconscious sensed my losing him, my conscious shook me
awake to free me from the uncontrollable pain. He, attentive as
always, immediately woke up and began soothing me, caressing
and stroking my neck and back as he "baby talked" me repeating
his favorite line, "I'll be here when the others won't."
I suddenly realized how much I'd taken him for granted,
assuming that his role in life was to do my bidding and mine was
to let him. I'd been very selfish with my affections and oblivious
to my true feelings. Because of his insecurity, where my popularity
was concerned, he'd remind me from time to time of his
position by saying, "I'll be here when the others won't."
Now was my chance to make up for all the anguish I'd
caused him. As I tenderly kissed him all over, I knew I loved him
and would cherish him until the day I died. I said as much. More
and more I found myself undistracted by outside forces, totally
absorbed in my newfound feelings and unabashedly acting them
out. I wasn't in love with Gene, but I did love him, and I became
obsessed with making up for lost time.
Then came that Sunday, ten months later. All I wanted to do
was to curl tip with the newspaper and relax my way into
Mond ay morning when t he grind of t he work week would
engulf me. "Baby, let's go to the beach today. Let's do something different," Gene said. Not only did he want to sabotage
my Sunday by going to the beach, but he picked the one farthest
away: Jones Beach! Boy! Talk about a test! I really wasn't in the mood
for his suggestion. As I lay there, sprawled out across the rug,
rollers in my hair and the newspaper at my feet, my conscience
began to nag me. Gene asked so little of me and the look in his eyes
said it was really important to do something sponta-
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31
neous. I smiled and he knew he had me and he smiled. We gathered up our things, picked tip his two brothers and their
girlfriends along with my brother, and off we went to Jones Beach.
It was so hot I was melting away. I was miserable to say the
least. Everyone ate and drank as I sat there dousing myself in
one Coke after the other, try ing to look like I was having a good
time. Then it came time to "hit" the water. I, still in hair
rollers, decided to walk along the sand and just keep an eye
on the others. Gene swam like a fish, gliding across the ocean
bobbing up and down with the grace of a dolphin. (He was
the one I really had to watch.) Suddenly I realized it had
been a while since he reappeared from under the depths
of the ocean. Counting seconds, I began walking into the
water, then wading, until the water was so high it lifted me up
and I began floating, looking for Gene.
Because I couldn't swim, when my brother saw me, his
antennae went up in alarm, and he followed me in. Here we
were, two fools who couldn't swim, getting in deeper and
deeper, wanting to believe we'd just lost track of Gene. Finally,
my brother suggested we go back and get a lifeguard. We did. I
spoke to the guard who, because of my calmness, assumed there
was nothing to be concerned about. How could he know it was
an act—that I was fighting with myself not to be the typical
hysterical woman. All along, my insides were screaming for
him to do something. As he continued unsuccessfully to
reassure me, my worst fears were realized. A man came
running over, breathless, as he explained that he had come across
a male body while searching for his flipper.
I turned and went running toward the crowd. Oh God! It
was Gene. His normally cream-colored complexion had turned
green and as the guard pumped his stomach, sand piled all over
him. The guard kept screaming "Breathe, goddamn it, breathe."
He developed a faint breathing pattern and the crowd roared but
he was far from safe. The helicopter came and took him away to
Nassau Medical Center. This was the nightmare being realized.
As I sat there numb from the hours spent hoping and dreading
32
while they tried to revive him, I thought to myself, "He lied
to me.." No! We lied to each other. He would not he here when
the others weren't and I wouldn't cherish him until the day I
died but rather until the day he died.
MOMENT
There
in a moment
he appeared
like the stars in the night.
He
just sat.
The strings to his feelings
were untied.
I
was wordless staring
at the floor
wishing it would bring me away
from
him.
ANDREA SCOTT
33
THIS IS WHAT YOU NEED
JEFF WALSH
Marikonda's canoe slid down the silvery stream in the early
morning. This was Marikonda's canoe. The one his father had
given him. It was the fastest, sturdiest canoe in the entire village.
It was this canoe that was chosen to make this important
trip. Many of Marikonda's tribesmen had lost their canoes and
their lives at the rapids that emptied into the "Great Rivers."
Only in extreme cases did anyone venture across these rapids,
and if they did they always spoke to the "Puwari" first.
Puwari was the wise 01(1 man of the village. His tepee was
actually some distance from the village, down the stream. Puwari
always knew what was needed.
It had been Puwari who convinced the tribe two summers
ago to purchase blankets at a discount in August. The young
braves laughed at him at first. But their scorn turned to respect
when the harshest winter ever followed and much of the tribe
was saved because of that summer's purchase of good blankets at a
discount cost.
It was Puwari who convinced the tribe to plant the seedless
bushes along the banks of the stream. The whole tribe laughed
and t h ou ght " H o w ol d is t h e P u war i ! H ow c razy a rc hi s
thoughts!" But when the heavy spring rains swelled the stream
and flooded the other villages, theirs was saved by Puwari's seedless
bushes.
Marikonda knew full well that Puwari always knew what
was needed. He looked forward to their meeting and that special something that he would be provided with. It would have to
be very special since this trip was the most important one in
Marikonda's young life, vital to the very survival of the tribe.
Marikonda had been chosen over all of his
tribesmen—chosen to make the perilous journey downstream,
over the perilous rapids, and finally to the Great River taking
him south to the supply depot to purchase the white man's strong
medicine
that alone could cure the disease that afflicted the members of
the tribe. The elders had gathered all of the gold the tribe could
spare to purchase it.
Marikonda's canoe was the fastest and the sturdiest. And
Marikonda was the tribe's strongest young brave.
When Marikonda steered his canoe to the grass y bank in
front of Puwari's tepee he saw Puwari crouching and praying.
Puwari rose and greeted Marikonda with an embrace.
"Puwari, before I embark on my journey, I come to you.
I have always known of your wisdom. My great father taught me
that when I was a boy. Do you have for me, oh, great Puwari,
what is needed?"
There was a magical twinkle in Puwari's old eye as a paternal smile cut across his wrinkled cheeks. He put his hand on
Marikonda's shoulder saying, "My son, I have what you need.
Wait here, and I will get it from my tepee."
"What wonderful thing could this be?" thought Marikonda.
Puwari returned from his tepee and placed in Marikonda's hand a
smooth stone of irregular shape about the size of a large man's
fist. It was dark in color, and it did not sparkle. "This!" cried
Marikonda. "Puwari, have you nothing else for my perilous journey?"
"But, my son," said Puwari, "you have ample food, your
young strength, and all the gold of the tribe. This is what you
need!"
Marikonda was stunned. "But Puwari, this is just a stone!
A plain stone of no value! What will I do with it?"
Puwari still smiling said, "My son, it is what you need. Now
go, he brave, and have faith. You will return with the medicine of
the white man."
Marikonda was lost in thought as he slipped into his canoe.
"Perhaps Puwari has grown too old to be wise?" he thought as
he glided off the grassy bank. "Why would I need a worthless
stone?" he thought. His mind was filled with many questions as
he directed his canoe downstream toward the Great River. He
was quite disappointed. He had expected a magic dagger or spear.
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34
These thoughts occupied his mind even as he quickly
approached the rapids, made more dangerous than in other years
because of the heavy spring rains.
Marikonda was not prepared as the wild waters hurtled the
canoe sharply to the left. He tried to lean in that direction and
stabilize it, but the torrent lifted the front of his canoe, dumping
his supplies and the stone in his lap. Marikonda fought furiously,
desperately. He thought of the tribe waiting for him and the
children. As the canoe spun forward a sudden push from the
right propelled Marikonda toward sharp river rocks that had
caused the drowning of many of his tribesmen.
As he struggled he thought of Puwari and the silly rock in
his hand. How useless was it now! The rushing sound of water
engulfed him and his canoe. Marikonda heard a sharp ripping
sound as a large hole was torn in the front of his canoe, quickly
tilling with water.
Desperately Marikonda reached out with his strong arm
and managed to free his canoe, but there was still the large hole
by his left foot, a hole about the size of a large man's list.
Marikonda had no time to think. He reached forward with
the Puwari's stone in his hand. It lit the hole perfectly. He
remembered Puwari's words. "This is what you need! Be brave,
and have faith!" Marikonda was tilled with an unearthly courage
and determination as his strong arms filled wit h h energy and
powered the canoe through rapids to the peaceful waters of the Great
River.
Marikonda brought his canoe safely to the banks of the
river where he patched his canoe with sap and birch bark. It was
good enough for him to complete his journey. He purchased the
medicine, and eight days later returned safely to the village after
stopping at Puwari's to thank him.
Marikonda kept that stone with him the rest of his days.
Whenever he would look down at it, he fondly remembered
Puwari and could still hear his words: "This is what you need! Be
brave, and have faith!"
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