| By Mike Lipstock 1st Place Overall |
That morning Mrs. Fanelli wept so long that she used up all her tears. We were a classroom of 8-year-olds listening to her voice crack each time she tried to speak. Maxie, Al and I wept along with the others as we watched her grope for her voice.
"Whatta ya think?" I asked my two best friends. "Ya think it was Christina? She's been pretty sick."
"Nah," Maxie said. "She couldn't get polio; she wore a big wad of garlic around her neck."
"Maybe it wasn't strong enough," I said.
"You sure she wore a garlic bag?" Al asked. "She's Italian like me. She should've worn a camphor bag, not garlic. Italian evil eyes love garlic. It's camphor that they hate."
Poor Christina, she probably mixed her amulets and was paying the price.
Mrs. Fanelli stood in front of her desk, dried her eyes again and said very softly, "Christina has died... the doctors did everything but our beautiful Christina is gone."
Not a peep came out of the class. We were all trying to figure out how final dead was.
Hands flew up; each child had a question for Mrs. Fanelli. After all, death was something new.
"Will she ever come back to school again?"
"Does she look beautiful in her coffin?"
"Did her brother Andrew also die?"
How did she die? Was it a mix of the camphor and garlic? Or a case of mistaken identity by the evil eye?
Mrs. Fanelli motioned for all of us to sit in a circle on the floor and went from child to child kissing each of us on the cheek. That morning almost seventy years ago I mourned a human being for the first time in my life.
When the final bell rang and we lined up to go home, Mrs. Fanelli was still dabbing her eyes. She said, "Christina is in her coffin at home. Her parents would be so happy if you visited her after school."
Visit a kid in her coffin? I was frightened just thinking of it. Trouble was I'd loved Chrissy since kindergarten. I really wanted to see her one more time.
No one in the class wanted to go, but Al made it a little easier.
"I'll go with you, Harry. I'll even show you how to pray."
"We gotta pray?" Maxie asked.
"Yeah, we gotta say something for her soul."
"What's a soul, Al?"
"I don't know; it has something to do with funerals."
"Is it OK for us?" Maxie asked. "Harry and I are Jewish."
"I think so."
The three of us marched up Chrissy's steps and rang the bell. We were led into a room with a million flowers and smells that cleared up all the questions in our head. Chrissy's mom and pop took our coats and gave us each a pink rose and a kiss on the cheek. And there in front of us was a beautiful casket lined with pink satin, white lace and bouquets of forget-me-nots. In front of the coffin was a kneeling pad and Al, who knew about these things, dropped to his knees and mumbled a few sacred words. It was my turn, and when I approached I saw this beautiful little girl whom I loved in a bridal gown. She seemed to be asleep so I spoke to her from my kneeling bar.
"You look happy, Chrissy. I said a prayer for you. Al showed me how."
I could see Maxie mumbling something from his kneeling bar. Guess he loved Chrissy too.
That night my mother knew something was wrong because I couldn't eat her Transylvanian goulash stew, my favorite meal in the whole world.
"Whatsa matter, Harry, you sick? Something happen in school?"
"Nah, I'm OK, Ma, just a little tired. Think I'll lie down."
In two minutes my big brother Bob was sent in to interrogate me. Bob was a year and-a-half older than I and knew everything.
"What happened, Harry? I heard some kid in your class died."
"Chrissy. And I loved her."
"Did you see her in her coffin?"
"Yeah, and she looked beautiful. She looked like she was getting married."
"Did you pray for her?"
"Sure I did."
"You got down on your knees and prayed for her?"
"Yeah."
"Was there a cross and a picture of Jesus above the coffin?"
"Sure."
"You know what, Harry? You're no longer a Jew; you prayed to Jesus."
"What am I, Bob?"
"You're Italian! And you can't sleep in my room anymore."
"Where do I sleep?"
"Ask Ma. Maybe with the Italians."
I went to the kitchen where my orthodox Jewish mother was sitting at a table and carrying on a conversation in a language I had never heard before.
"What's that, Ma?"
"I'm praying for the little girl in your class who died."
"In Jewish?"
"No, in Romansh, a language of the mountains. Harry, did you know her?"
"I loved her, Ma."
She put her arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. "She was only 8, Harry."
"She looked like a princess in her coffin, Ma."
"Mrs. Fanelli called me. You, Maxie and Al were the only kids who showed up. The others were too scared."
"Ma," I said, "Bob kicked me out of the bedroom because I prayed for Chrissy with a picture of Jesus in front of me. He said I'm not a Jew. Am I Italian now?"
"He's teasing you, Harry; pay him no mind."
"He's putting a board over the bedroom door, Ma, so I can't get in."
"He'll let you in, Harry. Leave it to me."
On Sunday Al, Maxie and I joined our mothers on the stoop; they were dressed in black from head to toe. Mrs. Vitigliano, Al's mom, walked over to Bob and said, "Bob, I'm adopting your Italian brother Harry. He'll be living with us now."
"Whatta ya mean?" Bob stammered.
"You refuse to sleep with him. You say he's Italian, not a Jew. Kiss your brother good-bye, Bob. He's coming to our house to live."
By now Bob was hysterical and pleading with Ma.
"I was only kiddin', Ma. I love Harry. I'm crazy about Harry, Ma. Please don't let them take him from us."
The mothers consulted in whispers and grudgingly gave him another chance.
It was time to go. We followed our three immigrant mothers, an Italian and two Jews, who marched to St. Brendens Roman Catholic Cemetery to pay respects in their own special way.
I held Ma's hand and she squeezed it.
"Harry," she said, "the rabbi told me what you did was a mitzvah."
"What's that, Ma?"
"A good deed." |
Mike Lipstock lives in Long island in the summer and Florida in the winter (he says to "get away from that awful Long Island snow"). When Mike entered our competition, he broke his cardinal rule of avoiding contests. But he said he entered two stories because they were "kind of special" to him. Breaking that rule won him our $250 First Place Overall prize for Requiem for an 8-year-old and an honorable Mention for the other, Swordsman, as well as the opportunity for us to share his great story with our readers. He explained: "I use a mix of humor to relate the anti-Semitism that gripped America so tenaciously in the '30's and '40's that I remember so vividly. With the hate that the media reports each day this should give your readers a history lesson and perhaps a new focus on how it was to live through those days."
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Mike wrote a memorable story. And it was, in fact, that quality--the ability of a story to stick with a reader long after the reading--that made this the First Place Overall winning story in our Winter 1999 Writing Competition. After the judges had read numerous manuscripts, shuffled pages and scores, and swapped opinions, the one story that stayed crisp in their minds was this 1,200-word story. Why did it linger in their memories? How can you incorporate that same technique to infuse your own stories with that "memorable" quality? To start with, take a look at the premise of the story. Mike tackled a couple of difficult topics: a young boy's first encounter with death and cultural/religious misunderstanding. Either topic is, by nature, serious and could create a somber tone. Yet Mike carefully mixed two tones throughout his story. Now examine the tone this author used to pull in the reader from the beginning. If he had blatantly stated a child had died, the tone would have likely stopped many readers cold from reading any further. Instead, he wove a mystery around the nature of the apparent tragedy the teacher had yet to relay to the class. As we wait (and read on) to discover just what has happened, Mike blends in a playful tone as the boys try, in their own misplaced way, to figure out the answer. This playful tone lightens the mood enough to keep us reading even when the impact of the death finally is revealed. At this point we realize that the children's perceptions will probably continue to color, and therefore lighten, this otherwise somber subject. That fact makes our reading of this sad subject more comfortable. When the boys go to Chrissy's home, the mixed tone of respect for the deceased and the amusing confusion of the boys makes the scene one we enjoy even in the light of the situation. A bit later when the sad impact begins to hit Harry, the author skillfully eases the pain for us--and Harry--by then bringing into play his second theme, cultural misunderstanding. Mike has already prepared us for this theme in the very early scene at school as the three best friends had revealed their cultural differences through natural--and amusing--conversation. Therefore, the second theme, although it seems to come late in the story, had already been well-planted for the reader. Mike's use of two tones (serious and light-hearted) to carry the reader through these two tough subjects was well-crafted. Most impressive, however, was the author's ending for this story. The three mothers, walking together with their children create a simple, yet pointed setting for the last lines that are also both simple and pointed. Our judges applaud Mike for his skill in creating such a poignant story in such a tight package--and for his message of respect, love and understanding for all cultures. This story was, in fact, a good deed. |
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