Sarah – 1980
I shouldn’t be here. Too many negative thoughts are
running through my head. Who knows, maybe I have some of that
“Bad Seed” in me like I always accused Lila of having. It’s
possible; after all, our parents were Holocaust survivors. Lila and I
were born on the same day, same year, and we were the first born
in the same Displaced Persons Camp in Germany. Perhaps all the
horrors that our parents went through seeped into our souls and
made us who we are. I know I’m being my overly dramatic self,
but at the time our births were thought to be a miracle. Everyone in
the camps believed our lives would be intertwined like silk ribbons
on a Maypole, that we were meant to be sisters. Instead, our
relationship was always one of competition, envy, manipulation,
and, sometimes, rage.
For as long as I can remember I hated Lila Rosen and
struggled to keep her out of my life, but not this way. Not at her
funeral, on her 34th birthday. And to make it worse, the fourteenth
of April, the day of our birthdays, will always and forever also be
Standing behind a tree, I see my parents and the small
group of mourners I have known and grown up with since the fall of 1949,
when we came from Germany and settled on Westchester Avenue
in the South Bronx in New York City. Minnie, Selma, and
neighbors from our building, kids from school, including Roxy,
even Tommy, and BoBo. Tommy is as handsome as ever; BoBo is
pregnant with their third child. Motherhood has not made her any
less tough looking. She still scares the hell out of me. I’m in
disbelief but not surprised at the sorrow and shock on all their
faces. To them, Lila was the beautiful angel with blue eyes that
shone like glass and blonde hair as smooth as silk. No one here
believed the stories, the rumors that were repeated over the years,
except for Michael and me. We knew that they were more than
possible because we were victims of Lila’s vengeance. I turn
around, hoping to see him. He promised to take the first flight out
of Paris, where he now lives. Where is he? I know I’m sounding
incredibly selfish, but Michael can always reach into the better part
of me. In his magical way, only he can make me deal with my lack
of compassion for Lila. I just wish he were here now.
Suddenly I hear cries, moaning. There is a commotion. I
run to Mom and Dad. We watch in horror as Max Rosen jumps out
of his seat, thrusting his body onto the ground at the foot of Lila’s
grave. His hands are clawing at the dirt, trying to grasp the casket
as it is being lowered. Lila’s name escapes from his throat and
echoes hauntingly as lightning sweeps across the sky. The Rabbi
pulls Max away. Someone shouts out STOP! We all turn to see
Fritzy stoically stand up and slowly raise her veil. Without shame,
for all to see and hear, she spits at Max as his body crumbles to the
ground.
“Go with your whore of a daughter. May you both burn in hell!”
I have the sensation that something has broken within me.
Can I actually be experiencing sympathy? Pity? But for who, Max?
Fritzy? Lila? Tears fall down my cheeks. I feel so utterly helpless.
Then a hand takes mine. It’s Michael. As I gaze into his eyes, the
memories of our friendship, my battle to be free of Lila, my guilt,
all flash through my mind.
