I was riding my bicycle from the Sprint Store, when I decided to pass by the apartment I lived in when I first arrived in LA. A three unit building off of Beverly and Flores. Out front, watering the lawn was an older woman. I asked if she knew Ernie and Eva? They had lived there, and owned the building.
“I’m there daughter, Edith,” the woman turned off the hose. She was wearing yard gloves. The name was familiar.
“I use to live in the apartment on the second floor.” I pointed to the porthole window. “That was my room.”
She remembered me, and my two roommates. She took her yard gloves off and came over to me. We shook hands. I used to love to talk to her dad, Ernie. He was a Romania Jew who survived a Nazi Germany labor camp, and his wife Eva survived Auschwitz. Once I asked Ernie if he hated me, because I’m German. “No, you had nothing to do with it.” He was amazed I had asked. He had taught me something that day. Something that you are unable to put into words in your youth. At the edge of the lawn I told Edith these memories, she understood just like her father did. The words came easily. I told her how I liked talking with her father, listening to his stories. I remembered the beautiful classic suits he wore. At fifteen Edith came to America . We compared how we felt about being an immigrant. I made some Jewish jokes. She laughed so hard, me a Goy, cracking up a Romania Jew. Oy Vey, who knew I had that kind of humor. When you have lived in New York you learn the different types of ethnic humor. In LA it is scarce-few people get it. Remember, think Yiddish, speak British. Before I knew it an hour had gone by. Gosh, talking with her warmed my heart, and brought me joy, and she felt the same way. I think the word is, Knockus, or Nachas. She laughed at all my Yiddish expressions .
“Daniel, if you’re in the neighborhood again, stop by,” Edith said.
“I will.”
I glanced at the second floor, the porthole window that I always loved, and made me feel like I was on a ship.
I rode my bicycle home.
Daniel Beer 