A Rose
“I have a white rose to tend
in July as in January;
I give it to the true friend
who offers his frank hand to me.
And to the cruel one whose blows
break the heart by which I live,
thistle nor thorn do I give:
for him, too, I have a white rose.”
~ Jose Marti ~
As I have done countless times before, I walked into a somewhat overcrowded thrift store, removed my sunglasses, and looked past the bulging racks of clothes, searching for dishes and shelves of books – the reason I love thrift stores. While my eyes feasted on the treasures yet to be explored, my ears were bathed in Andrea Bocelli’s blissful voice – ah, an opera lover, I thought. I wanted to compliment the older, white haired man, who sat behind the stacked counter, on his taste in music; but he was otherwise occupied, on the telephone, and it was near closing time. I let the music swirl me away, and began to gingerly walk through the serpentine aisle, trying to take in all of the riches.
Kate had gone next door, to a Cuban restaurant, to pick-up a tide over pastelito or empanada; the eatery too was closing, she found nothing for us to snack on, and thus made her way into the second hand store, not normally a favorite place of hers. Either her presence stirred the gentleman, behind the desk, to hang up his call, or the conversation concluded and he was now free to ask us if we had been in his store before – we had not. He explained the charities it supported, that they had a warehouse of furniture, and that all clothes were half price. Alright, but I did not want to be bothered with small talk, I thought – I was in full search and rescue mode. I apologized for the late hour, and promised to not shop past closing time; no problem, he said they never throw anyone out who was spending money. Okay.
After a few more minutes, Kate made her way to the man, and asked the prices of the unmarked books. I too had found a few books, but put them back, not finding a price. He would not give her a price; he only promised she would not be disappointed. An unsatisfactory answer, but as she was picking out books, I went back and retrieved my finds, as well.
It was late, someone else had come in to help close the shop; and we were hungry. I was interested in the warehouse, but not that day. Kate now put her books back, deciding the technology they spoke of, may be too outdated, to be of service; but I gave her my small stack: A book on pre-World War II England, Romantic Britain, edited by Tom Stephenson, a how to book about bridge, Bridge Play, by Alfred Sheinwold, and a book about Adolf Eichmann, Eichmann Interrogated, Transcripts from the Archives of the Israeli Police, Edited by Jochen von Land in collaboration with Claus Sibyll.
They are all interesting finds; but it is the book about war criminal Eichmann, which will take the conversation past the four dollars the store owner charges for the three books. He has just finished reading a book about the Mossad, the Israeli secret service, he struggles with the name, as he brings up how Eichmann was captured in Argentina, I ask him if it is The House on Garibaldi Street he says no; it is a book about various Mossad operations. We continue to talk, and I tell him about a mini-series by BBC/PBS on Auschwitz that we have just finished watching. Auschwitz Inside the Nazi State, which was filled with what for me was new information. The documentary was aided by documents and firsthand accounts obtained after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and while horrifying, as it should be, it was also insightful. http://www.pbs.org/auschwitz/
It is doubtful he can learn much from the show, he is a survivor – oh my, there really is so much to say to this perfect stranger, and even more so much to listen to.
The man, Kate, and I begin to talk. He wants to know where we are from? Are we traveling through? What is our story? Such easy questions, which at the moment have such complex answers – Kate and I look at each other, mentally debating how to answer. He goes on to tell us that he survived lung cancer, 25 years ago, and that Michael Moore will soon be contacting him, regarding his story. The man who arrived to help him close-up the shop, looks ready to go home or on to some other Saturday night activity. The conversation must come to an end; he gives us his contact information, and tells us to come back to the store. We start to head out, when he calls us back: “You must each pick a rose.”
A rose, I look toward the crystal vase, he is pointing toward, and look back at him. Without me speaking, he understands; “Yes, pick a rose. You must each take home a rose.” I smile, from the inside out. I walk over and pick out a rose for Kate and one for me. We all say good-by again, and my head is swirling with warm thoughts about the people that I am drawn to and love, the things I enjoy and what in life matters. How can a few minutes with a stranger enrich me so much?
I get to the car, and make a vase out of a discarded water bottle. The roses are long stem and so very fragrant, they perfume not only the car but later on the bedroom, and a week on, still are perfect. What a lovely gesture, a rose.
I have thought about that man all week. Yes, he had impeccable taste in music and books, yes he was eloquent and loquacious, and yes he gave me a rose – all good reasons to think of him; but he also gave me an intangible and priceless gift of hope in beauty and love. I so often feel like a stranger in the world, colliding heart first into tenets, which feel completely foreign and offensive, constantly being told that the things I value are either passé or inconsequential and that I live in a land of make believe that denies the reality of life, in the twenty-first century. I concede that it may all be true, but at least I am not alone! The charming man, and he was extremely charming – so few people are these days – reminded me that I am not alone. There are other souls searching for someone to talk to about a great book, to share a beautiful piece of music with, and to receive their gift of a perfect rose. That is all for now.
(I believe the book the man was reading is the Mossad: The Greatest Missions of the Israeli Secret Service by Michael Bar-Zohar and Nissim Mishal.)
