(no subject)
I stared at the numbers on her bony arm, in plain sight as she reached out and begged for alms. Branded-had I stumbled upon a neglected treasure, a woman who had survived the holocaust and the streets of Paris? I resisted my mother’s tugs to rush through the crowd of tourists, twisting to glace at the woman, this morning’s enthusiasm at seeing Sacre Coeur subdued. Those haunting black numbers corrupted the colorful, manicure gardens surrounding the ivory monument. As my mother and I intruded upon the Sunday service with hundreds of other loud Americans with fanny packs, I felt embarrassed, for a multitude of reasons. First, I felt rude barging in on a holy service, snapping pictures while resentful Frenchmen attempted to pray. I felt unimportant and unholy staring, neck strained, at the breathtaking ceilings that arched and shined over my head. My staccato English grit against my ears like sand as it cut through the rhythmic Latin of the priest, asking my mother questions about saints. These feelings were trivial to the stone the small gypsy had placed in my stomach. My mother and I had been staying in hotels under the safety of her maiden name, Schettino. Even four years ago, before American newspapers began printing articles about burnt synagogues and anti-Semitic riots, my mother had known it would not be wise to be “Segal” in France. Not then, not now, and especially not during World War II. I felt infuriated, with the world, with myself. That woman sat, emaciated, ragged, and spurned-had nothing changed since the holocaust? And here I was, with my expensive camera, hiding under a Roman Catholic surname that wasn’t my own, hiding under these massive, immaculate arches in a church I didn’t belong in. Had that woman survived her brands for nothing, was the faith millions had perished for meeting its true adversary, not a cruel inquisitor or a helmeted fascist, but apathy within its latest generation?
These thoughts simmered in the back of my mind as I made my way past artists selling pocket-size souvenirs and past cafes teaming with foreigners. By late afternoon my mother and I were taxed, we retraced our steps back to the hotel. As we neared the gypsy woman I dug into my pockets for Euros and braced myself. She cried out something to me in French, I stared into her heavily lined face, so warped by age and weather it was impossible to judge how old she really was. Her arm, incited by the sight of the money in my fist, strained towards me and my eyes shot to the monstrous tattoo. I noticed the numbers weren’t uniform.
Was it a flaw in the Nazi’s cold, perfect system, a mutation by age, or a heartless scam. A new anger boiled inside me. I still pitied the woman, but this time it was a pity for the depraved soul that was hungry enough to swindle a few coins out of gullible tourists, like me, by painting an expert row of black digits. I coldly tossed a couple of coins in her cup, maybe I was wrong, or maybe I respected the cleverness behind the knarred gypsy’s scheme. Everyone must survive something, mustn‘t they? The image of that bent woman, shrouded in black, a leathery, lined complexion taking refuge behind the piles, stayed with me long after the glittering domes of Sacre Coeur were remembered only in photograph. When I think of her deathlike arm ominously creeping from its folds to tourists with hundreds of dollars worth of souvenirs in their shopping bags, I wonder what it must feel like to calmly paint a row of numbers, with a steady hand each morning, spiting an entire race of people, not knowing if there will be enough bread in the evening.
These thoughts simmered in the back of my mind as I made my way past artists selling pocket-size souvenirs and past cafes teaming with foreigners. By late afternoon my mother and I were taxed, we retraced our steps back to the hotel. As we neared the gypsy woman I dug into my pockets for Euros and braced myself. She cried out something to me in French, I stared into her heavily lined face, so warped by age and weather it was impossible to judge how old she really was. Her arm, incited by the sight of the money in my fist, strained towards me and my eyes shot to the monstrous tattoo. I noticed the numbers weren’t uniform.
Was it a flaw in the Nazi’s cold, perfect system, a mutation by age, or a heartless scam. A new anger boiled inside me. I still pitied the woman, but this time it was a pity for the depraved soul that was hungry enough to swindle a few coins out of gullible tourists, like me, by painting an expert row of black digits. I coldly tossed a couple of coins in her cup, maybe I was wrong, or maybe I respected the cleverness behind the knarred gypsy’s scheme. Everyone must survive something, mustn‘t they? The image of that bent woman, shrouded in black, a leathery, lined complexion taking refuge behind the piles, stayed with me long after the glittering domes of Sacre Coeur were remembered only in photograph. When I think of her deathlike arm ominously creeping from its folds to tourists with hundreds of dollars worth of souvenirs in their shopping bags, I wonder what it must feel like to calmly paint a row of numbers, with a steady hand each morning, spiting an entire race of people, not knowing if there will be enough bread in the evening.