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GLOVES (a true story)by Miriam (Lipschutz) Yevick ('41) I live in Jugtown (Princeton, New Jersey) Ceramic dishes were manufactured here at one time It is said that shards of ornamental jugs Are buried underneath the sidewalks, Artifacts of past civilizations To be dug up By future archeologists. Oak trees tall enough to have outgrown their life span Line the pavement on both sides. They fall one by one with the passing years Under the whip of winds or split by lightning, Opening a hole in the foliage above To a new patch of sky. I look down the street in the early morning From my kitchen window below the oaks. See now: Professor Bodzansky Taking his morning stroll By the side of his dutiful daughter. He wears a wool cap with a visor She a stove hat of felt And matching gloves in leather. The elderly scholar And his devoted offspring Are engaged in profound conversation In the Hungarian tongue. The voracious gas ovens were denied these victims, As they were denied me. The gentleman tips his cap to me As I step outdoors. “You remind me of my father,” I say, “Gallantly lifting his hat (Straw in summer, felt in winter) To a passing acquaintance. ‘Forgive me; I am of the last century,’ (We are all of the last century now) He used to say apologetically Upon not yielding his seat to a young woman standee When riding the bus in his nineties.” “Once when I was a young man in Hungary,” Mr. Bodzansky replies, “And the weather was hot, I meant to leave my cap at home. ‘Where is your cap?’ my mother asked. ‘I do not need it today.’ ‘But how then will you greet people?’ She answered anxiously.” I extend my bare hand To the daughter in greeting. She removes her glove before returning my gesture. “Never shake hands with gloved hand,” Our mothers taught us. Nostalgia invades me: For good manners, artifacts of civilization, Betrayed and buried under the savagery of our last century. “Where are your gloves Miriam?” I hear my Principal’s harsh rebuke. I left them at home. Another demerit! There is no time now To signal the girls lined up behind me In the passageway at the school’s entrance To stealthily pass a pair forward, To be sent back in the same manner For the next student in need. Thus we must daily pass muster at the Principal’s post: Hat with the school’s logo, white blouse, navy jumper and stockings, Polished patent shoes and gloved hands, As becomes well-bred young women. These are the rules. One day, two years later, (I had fled in time) The loud stamping of boots Resounded in the passage way. They had gained admittance With the Principal’s permission, According to the rules. “This one and that one,” They picked out my former classmates. One by one they gathered them. Even the blonde, blue-eyed Berthe Perelman whose name betrayed her. “A Jewess!” “They opened their arms to me to save them. There was nothing I could do.” My once beloved French teacher told me After the war. The Principal stood by her post at the head of the passageway, As the girls walked by to the trucks waiting outside. Did she check to see if the girls wore their gloves? |
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