Old Joe

            He was of slight build and in his early seventies when we began to know each other. He was shy, timid in the way that people who have come from other places, languages, cultures, and times can be. Perhaps he had seen too much in his lifetime. He carried a lot of the past with him. Still, he loved life in the simple ways that were strongly flavored by his upbringing on a farm in Lithuania; simple meals, being out on the river fishing, the affection of friends and family, and identity with his religious faith. But, as I said, he carried with him a lot of heavy memories, dark memories born of war, persecution, homelessness, and guilt. Life is not compelled to cooperate with a man of simple desires, especially at that time in the small nation caught between the giant war machines led by Hitler and Stalin. His eyes would sometimes retreat into that darkness and remind me of how much I didn’t know.

            His family owned the house we were renting. When we all came to an agreement to rent, Joe began enclosing in part of the carport for his use on his occasional visits to Pilar. As our friendship grew, we told him that if we were ever able to buy the property from his son-in-law, he could maintain his small ‘apartment’ for his own use for the remainder of his life. And this did come to pass, and he did continue to come to Pilar. As devoted as he was to his family and transplanted community of Lithuanians, he seemed to find a peace along the river that even the church fell short of providing for him.

            It became a routine for me to join him for coffee in the early mornings while everyone else slept.  In his little room we would breakfast together on coffee, bread, cheese, fish, and the ever-present zucchini bread his wife would bake for him. We grew close; very close in a relationship that spanned the very different worlds we were born of. But there is more to be gleaned, a significance that went way beyond our affection for each other. I measure it not by sentimentality, but by the power to affect change: in this case, healing and resolution on his part, and an understanding that I still struggle to articulate on my part, even in hindsight. Beneath the swirls and eddies of the river we both loved to be near there are deep currents that drive it to the sea. They are deep and they are dark. Life happens in places like this- in the earth and wombs, and in places we can’t see with our eyes.

            It happened over the course of years that he told me his story and I listened. What made me his confessor was my Jewish heritage and his burden was of the horror done to Jews in his homeland in those dark days of war. He lived in a place and time when not choosing sides was not an option. The Russians confiscated land from the farmers. The Germans were exterminating Jews. You were a communist or a Fascist. You supported Germany or Russia. First one army would come seeking out their enemies, then the other, back and forth. Some survived the nightmare. Others died in the gulags of Siberia, the concentration camps of Poland, or on the soil of their homeland. Joe witnessed the horror. More than that, he played his assigned role. His family suffered at the hands of the Russians. Their hope was with the Germans. They helped.

            The few details he shared were enough. It was hard for him to relive these memories. He talked and I listened. I did not judge. His suffering was palpable. He lived with an incredible amount of guilt and I do not think he spoke of it to others very much if at all. Those of us never put in that kind of place need to be grateful. For Joseph, besides being his friend, I was the Jewish people by virtue of my birth and as such I accepted his grief, I listened, and forgave him for the horrors we humans are capable of, at least as much as I can forgive any of us, including myself. In war no one wins. Some lose less than others.

            Over the years he seemed to grow more amazed at how things turned out for him, at the closeness we all shared. In his broken and heavily accented English he would sometimes try to express an understanding he had gained, an understanding he was experiencing of the connections between all of us and of the way that things have of seeking resolution and evolution. I am not sure if he saw our relationship as an example of this or a precipitating factor. He was not a philosophical kind of guy. He was often left speechless. Much more was said by the sharing of ‘medicine’, breaking bread, or with tearful eyes and the shaking of his head.

            I am glad he was able to come to Pilar well into his eighties. He needed to walk along the river and spend time by himself in a simple way. It was his apartment until his death. I visited with him in the hospital shortly before he passed away and he seemed ready to move on. Blessings brother......

PEACE by Gary Lark

Some dark windless night

peace will come

It won’t tell us it’s here.

It will be there

when we look up

and see its face

for the first time

at the table

sipping soup,

passing bread.