Rachelle and I moved into our apartment in the Annex nearly two years ago. At the time, an older couple that were downsizing, were moving out of their beautiful house directly to the South.
When I introduced myself to the husband, he snarled at me, “what do you want me to do about, write a book?” He paused a moment and then broke into a huge grin, before pumping my fist like a long lost relative.
His wife was beautiful and elegant. She was probably about 75 years old, and whenever I saw her I thought of a character from a work of fiction, a woman ahead of her times who was never afraid to be who she wanted to be. When she moved, you could smell her perfume and hear her jewelry.
Their move was presided over by their adult daughter. Thin and joyless, she stood on the sidewalk each day trying to force her parents into doing things her way. It was stressful just seeing her, let alone having to listen to her. One day, under her guidance, the mother drove her Jaguar sports car into the garage, breaking the door clean in half. I believe that the accident well may have been an intentional act of rebellion against the daughter.
Later, I found out that the husband was an Auschwitz survivor, but that he never spoke of the experience.