When I was younger, my entire family would go camping, and as it grew dark, we would roast marshmallows around a fire and listen to my grandfather recite a poem. It was always the same poem that my grandfather would recite from memory.
When my grandfather was fourteen, he discovered the poem in a book of verse. He was working with horses at the time, and he had read the poem only two or three times when one of his horses had gotten loose. He was forced to chase the horse for miles, and somewhere in the course of the chase, he lost the book after only committing the first half of the poem to memory.
He tried for years to find another copy of the poem, but not knowing the author’s name, he gave up his search, content to having memorized only the beginning. “My First Cigar” is a poem about a child’s first attempt at smoking. Neither my grandfather nor I have ever smoked, but the poem contains such an endearing quality of innocent introspection that I was always thoroughly entertained by it.
It was not just the poem that got to me—it was the light in my grandfather’s eye, the lilt in his speech, and the sweeping movements of his arms that passionately involved me in the verse. Each one of these performances would be cut short when my grandfather would shrug and say, “That’s as far as I memorized,” and we would all nod and be left wondering how the poem ended. We accepted his inability to finish because we all knew why he could not.
Last year, about seventy years from the time my grandfather had originally found the poem, he installed a computer system in his local library, free of charge. As a return favor, he asked the library researchers to try to find “My First Cigar.” Several months later, one of them sent him the poem through the mail. I remember reading the rest of it for the first time with joy.
My grandfather has never recited the poem since, and I have never asked him to. Perhaps now that my grandfather knows the poem’s ending, his personal involvement with it is complete. For me, the story was better when it was incomplete . . . when it still had a future. I have since become actively involved in poetry, both reading and writing, and I credit my interest to my grandfather entirely.
There was a wonderful moment not long ago, when I was memorizing Wordsworth’s poem “My Heart Leaps Up” aloud, and my grandfather surprised me when he said, “I know that poem,” and was able to recite it with me. He had enjoyed the poem many years ago—I was memorizing it myself—and it was here that our two generations were bridged.
After seventeen years of knowing my grandfather better than most people I know in my life, every now and then he still decides to open the treasure chest that is his mind, and surprise me with a gift of wisdom.
Rider Strong
My First Cigar
’Twas just behind the woodshed,
One glorious summer day.
Far o’er the hills, the sinking sun
Pursued its western way;
And in my safe seclusion
Removed from o’er the jar
And dim of earth’s confusion
I smoked my first cigar.
It was my first cigar!
It was my worst cigar!
Raw, green, dank, hidebound and rank,
It was my first cigar!
Ah, bright the boyish fancies
Wrapped in smoke-wreath blue;
My eyes grew dim, my head was light,
The woodshed round me flew!
Dark night closed in around me—
Black night, without a star—
Grim death methought had found me
And spoiled my first cigar.
It was my first cigar!
A six-for-five cigar!
No viler torch the air could scorch—
It was my first cigar!
All pallid was my beaded brow,
The reeling night was late,
My startled mother cried in fear,
“My child, what have you ate?”
I heard my father’s smothered laugh,
It seemed so strange and far,
I knew he knew, I knew he knew
I’d smoked my first cigar!
It was my first cigar!
A give-away cigar!
I could not die—I knew not why—
It was my first cigar!
Since then I’ve stood in reckless ways.
I’ve dared what men can dare,
I’ve mocked at danger, walked with death,
I’ve laughed at pain and care,
I do not dread what may befall
’Neath my malignant star,
No frowning fate again can make
Me smoke my first cigar!
Robert J. Burdette
Silent Night, Crystal Night
As we walked, my grandfather said, in a voice tinged with sadness, “This month is very meaningful to me. Three highly significant events occurred in our family in November. Do you know what they are?”
“You mean our birthdays on the same day and Thanksgiving?”
He shook his gray, balding head. “Kristallnacht also happened in November.”
“Is that what happened when you were a boy? You’ve never talked about what happened to you growing up.”
With a hint of a German accent he said, “Well, you’re getting older, and it’s time you heard a bit of history by someone who lived it.”
This is the story he told tome during my thirteenth year.
“By 1935, when I was very young, the Nazis had gained great strength throughout Germany. In my city of Magde-burg, their symbols were everywhere. Nuremberg Laws deprived Jews of the right of citizenship. We could no longer have telephones, businesses or personal relationships with non-Jews. Non-Jews could not hire us, nor could we have them work for us.
“Soon after those statutes were enacted, store windows and buildings were plastered with signs saying ‘Juden Verboten’ (Jews Forbidden) in huge letters, blaring like trumpets their malicious message. During the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, these signs disappeared, only to return after the games. On the last day that I was allowed to attend school, a Nazi schoolmate threw a rock at my head, hitting me.
“Locating medicines and food had become difficult unless a Jewish-owned business was still in operation. Prominent Jewish doctors, banned from hospitals, worked from their homes; professors, banned from universities, taught classes in secret.
“My parents spoke little about the situation to my younger brother and me. I did overhear them saying that they hoped this madness would soon pass.
“‘After all,’ my father said, ‘our families have lived in Germany for generations.’
“My parents warned us to remain as invisible as possible, to avoid crowds and any commotion in the streets. Can you imagine how I felt as a teenager?
“My mother wrote to her American relatives in Maine, requesting they sign a required affidavit without delay, guaranteeing the four of us freedom in America. This document would also permit us to leave Germany.
“A year later, my country’s situation worsened, becoming extremely dangerous. Jews were required to wear the Star of David on their sleeves, becoming targets for open harassment.
“Around the first of November in 1938, my mother left for Munich to learn fancy hotel cooking in hopes of finding work in America after we received permission to emigrate. My father stayed home to try to run what little business he had left.
“During the night of November 10, while we slept, uniformed Nazi hoodlums organized demonstrations all over Germany. They hurled rocks and firebombs at Jewish-owned businesses and property. People trying to escape the flames were shot. Millions of pieces of glass shattered all over the streets. Desecrated and torched synagogues were blown up. The noise and smell woke me. The stifling smell of burning buildings saturated the air. I jumped out of bed, peeked through the curtain and thought I was in hell. My father came into our room, closed the curtain, and told me to go back to bed and keep the lights off. I finally went back to sleep.
“Throughout that night, countless Jewish men as well a
s boys my age, natural-born German citizens, were arrested and sent to concentration camps. Some of these men had previously earned medals while bravely serving their country during World War I. Survivors, rounded up the next day, were forced to march to the nearest government office, and received papers demanding payment to the German government for damages to their own businesses and homes. This catastrophe later became known in German as Kristallnacht, meaning the night of broken glass.
“When the alarm woke us in the morning, my father wasn’t home. We assumed he had gone out early on business. So I got your Uncle Fritz and myself ready for school. As we were about to leave, a family friend rang our doorbell. When we opened the door, he looked around to make sure that no one else was around to hear what he had to say.
“‘Your father may not be home for a while, and he wants you and your brother to stay in the apartment, and not go to school,’ the friend told us.
“For our protection, he didn’t reveal that my father had gone into hiding to avoid the mass arrest of all Jewish adult males. The friend left. Scared, I remained at home with a terrified eight-year-old brother.
“An hour later, someone pounded on the front door. Opening it, I saw a tall stranger dressed in a dark leather overcoat. He nearly filled the doorway. Intimidated by his size, I looked up shyly as he looked down arrogantly, both of us staring for a moment. Then the six-foot-plus intruder pushed his way inside and announced, ‘Gestapo!’ I can still hear that cold, sharp voice demanding, ‘Where is your father?’
“Scared, I answered, ‘I don’t know where he is or when he’ll return.’ The agent left, threatening to come back.
“Two or three hours later I heard that familiar, dreaded banging at the door. I shivered. I assumed the first caller had returned.
“Upon opening the door, I saw two different Gestapo agents who looked like clones of the first man.
“‘So! Has your father returned?’ one snarled. Then, without waiting for an answer, both pushed me aside, entered our home, started opening bureau drawers, emptying them on the floor, looking into all the closets and searching under the beds. Fritz and I shook with fright. We tried to hide our terror by jamming our cold, clammy hands into our pockets. Not finding whatever they were looking for, they turned without saying a word and left. Fritz and I nearly collapsed with relief.
“A short time later, these same two goons returned, demanding that I accompany them to Gestapo headquarters immediately. I told Fritz to go directly to our family’s friends. I got my coat. Then, sandwiched between the two tall, robotic Nazis who accompanied me, rode a public streetcar, believe it or not, and was delivered to Gestapo headquarters.
“Shoved into a scary-looking office, the first thing I noticed was a uniformed official seated behind a large, highly polished, wooden desk. On the mahogany wall behind him hung a huge color portrait of Hitler, whose eyes seemed to follow the administrator’s every move. Barely looking up from his papers, he shouted in a deep, menacing voice, ‘Wait outside the office until your father turns himself in!’ One of the aides pushed me into a large marble anteroom and ordered me to sit on a bench at the other end of the room.
“‘How long will I have to wait?’ I asked.
“‘For as long as it takes!’
“Only then did I realize that I was being held as a hostage. Shivering from fright and cold, I wrapped my coat around me and kept very still to avoid being noticed. I had no idea how long I had been sitting there before I saw my father pass through the doorway at the other end of the anteroom, disappearing into what must have been another office. Evidently, friends who had watched the apartment had told him of my arrest. He gave himself up in exchange for my release. The Nazis often took children hostage, knowing their fugitive parents would turn themselves in. It was a very effective tactic.
“I sat there for a long time, numb, not knowing what to do. No one paid any attention to me. After what seemed like hours, I got up some courage and approached the deputy who was seated down the hall.
“‘Excuse me.’
“‘What?’ he snapped.
“‘My father has already arrived, and I would like to go home.’
“Verifying my father’s arrival, the uniformed official behind the desk dismissed me with a flick of his pen, warning, ‘It will be your turn next time.’
“My father never discussed his experiences in the camp after his release. If anyone asked, he would address the question with a distant stare and silence.
“Five months before the start of World War II, the necessary papers came through, allowing us to sail to America.”
As we returned for our turkey dinner, Opa, as I called my grandfather, came to the end of his story.
“When the United States entered World War II, I automatically became a citizen, joined the Army and was ordered to Europe as an interpreter for German prisoners of war. I don’t dwell on my boyhood experiences, but today I felt that I wanted you to know. I guess it’s okay to remember those things once in a while.”
“Well, something good came out of all that tragedy, Opa,” I told him.
“Yah? What’s that?”
“Me,” I said, putting my arms around him, planting a kiss on his cheek.
My grandfather never spoke of this again.
Lillian Belinfante Herzberg
Green Salami
That is the best—to laugh with someone because you both think the same things are funny.
Gloria Vanderbilt
Sometime during the seventh grade two things happened to me. The first was that I got hooked on salami. Salami sandwiches, salami and cheese, salami on crackers— I couldn’t get enough of the salty, spicy sausage. The other thing was that my mom and I weren’t getting along really well. We weren’t fighting really badly or anything, but it just seemed as if all she wanted to do was argue with me and tell me what to do. We also didn’t laugh together much anymore. Things were changing, and my mom and I were the first to feel it.
As far as the salami went, my mom wouldn’t buy any because she said it was too expensive and not that good for me. To prove my emerging independence, I decided to go ahead and eat what I wanted anyway. So one day I used my allowance to buy a full sausage of dry salami.
Now a problem had to be solved: Where would I put the salami? I didn’t want my mom to see it. So I hid it in the only place that I knew was totally safe—under my bed. There was a special corner under the bed that the upright Hoover couldn’t reach and that my mom rarely had the ambition to clean. Under the bed went the salami, back in the corner—in the dark and the dust.
A couple of weeks later, I remembered the delicious treat that was waiting for me. I peered beneath the bed and saw . . . not the salami that I had hidden, but some green and hairy object that didn’t look like anything I had ever seen before. The salami had grown about an inch of hair, and the hair was standing straight up, as if the salami had been surprised by the sudden appearance of my face next to its hiding place. Being the picky eater I was, I was not interested in consuming any of this object. The best thing I could think of to do was . . . absolutely nothing.
Sometime later, my mom became obsessed with spring cleaning, which in her case meant she would clean places that had never seen the light of day. Of course, that meant under my bed. I knew in my heart that the moment would soon come when she would find the object in its hiding place. During the first two days of her frenzy, I watched carefully to judge the time when I thought she would find the salami. She washed, she scrubbed, she dusted . . . she screamed! She screamed and screamed and screamed. “Ahhhhhh . . . ahhhhhh . . . ahhhhhh!” The screams were coming from my room. Alarms went off in my head. She had found the salami!
“What is it, Mom?” I yelled as I ran into my room.
“There is something under your bed!”
“What’s under my bed?” I opened my eyes very wide to show my complete innocence.
“Something . . . something . . . I don’t know what it is!” She finally sto
pped screaming. Then she whispered, “Maybe it’s alive.”
I got down to look under my bed.
“Watch out!” she shouted. “I don’t know what it is!” she said again. She pushed me to one side. I was proud of the bravery she was demonstrating to save me from the “something” in spite of her distress.
I was amazed at what I saw. The last time I had looked at the salami, the hair on it was about an inch long and fuzzy all over. Now, the hair had grown another three inches, was a gray-green color and had actually started to grow on the surrounding area as well. You could no longer tell the actual shape of what the hair was covering. I looked at my mom. Except for the color, her hair closely resembled the hair on the salami: It was standing straight up, too! Abruptly she got up and left the room, only to return five seconds later with the broom.
Using the handle of the broom, she poked the salami. It didn’t move. She poked it harder. It still didn’t move. At that point, I wanted to tell her what it was, but I couldn’t seem to make my mouth work. My chest was squeezing with an effort to repress the laughter that, unbidden, was threatening to explode. At the same time, I was terrified of her rage when she finally discovered what it was. I was also afraid she was going to have a heart attack because she looked so scared.
Finally my mom got up her nerve and pushed the salami really hard. At that same exact moment, the laughter I had been trying to hold back exploded from my mouth. She dropped the broom and looked at me.
“What’s so funny?” my mom asked. Up close, two inches from my face, she looked furious. Maybe it was just the position of having her head lower than her bottom that made her face so red, but I was sure she was about to poke me with the broom handle. I sure didn’t want that to happen because it still had some pieces of gray-green hair sticking to it. I felt kind of sick, but then another one of my huge laughs erupted. It was as if I had no control over my body. One followed another, and pretty soon I was rolling on the floor. My mom sat down—hard.
Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter Page 9
