For the Love of Lou Frydman: July 1, 1930 – January 24, 2012

All last night I thought about Lou, waking between my dreams to wonder if he was still alive, feeling that sense of Lou-ness surrounding me. His voice is vivid to me (especially his laughter), and no wonder since I have dozens of hours of interviews with him and many years of hearing his stories of surviving and making a new life after all his family members, except for his brother, were killed in the holocaust that put him through six concentration camps and three death marches. I know Lou from the vantage point of being his friend, but also his biographer (for this book).

 

All last night, I also thought of Jarek’s wife, Maura, who died on this precise day one year ago. Maura was so full of spirit and sass, laughter and outrageously entertaining stories that it’s still astonishing to comprehend that she simply stopped being alive a year ago today.

I awondered if Lou would die on this anniversary, especially after I saw him Sunday, lying so still on the hospital bed in the living room, only opening one eye in understanding when I kissed him goodbye. It turns out he did: at 3:30 this morning, peacefully at home with Jane by his side.

There are those who might say Lou lived a long life, with a notable second act supreme after surviving Budzyn, one of the most brutal concentration camps; the selection process at Auschwitz; and many near-death, nothing-left-to-lose experiences. But none of those rationales mean anything to me or those of us who love him: Lou is dead, and when someone you love dies, it is always too soon, and it always breaks your heart into a million pieces.

Driving to and from Topeka where I had dental work (a good diversion actually because the physical pain distracts from the broken heart), sometimes crying so hard that I kept taking wrong turns, I thought about Lou and his family. Although there was no way he wanted to die, at least he died the way he chose: at home, in the peace that befits such a gentle man, and with Jane beside him after many family members from Lawrence to Paris, San Antonio to Northampton, called and visited, told him how much he was and still is loved.

But what speaks to me most is how he lived. He found the strength to go on after his father was shot, mother was gassed, and extended family members were

killed. He survived starvation, illness, oceans of loss, greedy foster families, having to learn multiple languages on a dime, and moreover, the world in which he grew up being utterly destroyed beyond recognition. He and Jane, who was able to flee Europe with her parents before being sent to the camps, made a life here that rippled out into two more generations.

What Lou gave me — the gift of hearing his story, threaded with laughter that took the edge off the unimaginable horrors of it, and the gift of trusting me to convey his story to others — is one of the greatest gifts of my life.

(cross-posted at www.CarynMirriamGoldberg.wordpress.com)

Remembering the Veterans and Those They Liberated

Lou’s daughter-in-law Laurie reminded me on facebook today about how veterans — such as Jarek and so many others — are also to be honored for those they saved today. Check out this article from a few years back in our local paper about Lou, and this one about Lou and an American soldier in WWII, which was published in 2003.  Here’s an article about Jarek’s war-time experience. Such articles as well as our annual pause to remember veterans illuminate not just what it means to survive, but what it means to help others survive.

Picture from Richard Gwin of the Lawrence Journal-World — Jarek in uniform.

This is Maura: A Memorial Poem

Today at Maura’s funeral and the Irish wake that followed, Maura seemed to be everywhere, threading through conversations, smack in the center of story after story, and in the synapses between jokes and punchlines. She was also shot through this poem I wrote about her that I read at the service:

 

This is Maura

 

A thousand dragonflies in the glint of sun, birdsong lifting

at the cusp of morning, or a melody you hear for the first time

and realize you already know it: This is Maura.

The one who answers any call with a fast-risen sun

of attention, unfurling stories involving two lads,

gamboling in the glades after a midnight sauna with the girls,

a late night flight from Poland, or a book that must be read,

and not without a chocolate truffle because life is hard,

and we must not waste any of it.

 

She is laughing and lamenting in the supermarket,

walking arm-in-arm with Jarek on a snowy day,

or waking from a late afternoon nap ready to rush back

into voice for us, even while navigating the little excruciations

of the body over time, the old abandonments, the beloved land

and she left, the beloved family and community she made.

She is sighing over her grandchildren, so in love with

their shining eyes and lanky undertakings. She is holding out

her hands and calling our names in astonishment

when meeting any of us as if we’re the embodiment

of life’s goodness. She is kissing Jarek on the top of his head

as he sits at the table drinking black tea, her touch telling him

he is always the first and only great love of her life,

and this life has been a continual unfolding of homecoming.

 

This is Maura, so alive — that sheen, that hue, that lilt —

that her name beats in our hearts as we say, Maura, Maura, Maura,

wherever you are, know we love you keenly, we carry you

with us, we shine with the light you made out of this life.