The poems in this post are part of a special section, curated by Ori Z Soltes and Robert Bettmann, The Jewish Experience.
Wanted – Female [Naturalized]
by Ellen Sazzman
Her new name adopted on February 28, 1938.
In 1937 Chaya [Yiddish for life, life-affirming] flees Polish pogroms
and crosses an ocean to work for her elder brother Morris
[previously Moshe] in his dress shop, he who fled Poland earlier
knowing no English and even less about dresses.
The siblings speak and do not speak the same languages.
The cut-rate shmatte [rag] store hides inside a warren of down-
town Cleveland streets west of Public Square and Higbee’s
[high-end department store, later recast as Jack’s Casino].
On the one-year anniversary of her arrival, Chaya is informed by
Marcia, Cleveland-born salesgirl, that it’s time to take an American
name. Chaya hears Arlene Francis host the radio show What’s
My Name, sees Arlene’s pretty photo, and takes Arlene’s name.
On the day of her renaming, I have not yet come into being, and
Arlene has not yet met my American father to whom she surrenders
her surname [Dyszmanski]. For the spring season, Morris rebrands
the shop Arlene’s. He orders red velvet dresses [post-Christmas bargain].
Arlene advises he is making a mistake. Morris says he [the man] does business
better. Morris buys the heavy gowns [in spite of Cleveland’s humid weather].
But the gamble [plus Lake Erie offshore poker bets] and chain-smoking
do Morris in. The store and Morris go under [bankruptcy and lung cancer].
Arlene buries him [Lakeview Cemetery], his stone engraved Moshe/Morris.
In the Cleveland Press’ Help Wanted [Female classifieds], Arlene finds
a salesgirl job [Martha’s Millinery] where she works until she [I] shows.
She lives much longer as Arlene than she ever did as Chaya [until Arlene
Morris Marcia Martha and millinery no longer survive as popular or fashionable].
Mosaic
by Ellen Sazzman
The Wordle scores she posts on Facebook every day
improve significantly as the weeks wear on.
I am impressed, knowing of her illness.
And on Instagram: snapshots of her mosaics,
intricate designs, stained glass, pastel rainbows
molded into a heart, tree of life, peace symbol,
and a hamsa – hand of Miriam – to protect
against the evil eye, a promise of good fortune.
Good, she looks good, posing with her son,
thinner than she’s ever been. Perhaps if I’d looked
closer, I would have noticed the screenshots
of her visage were taken a year earlier
before the recent photo printed with her death notice.
How did she keep arranging letters and shards
of stone into fresh symbols of beauty and hope
as if she could puzzle the pieces together to map
the mystery. I carry a tray of assorted pastries
to her shiva and pass through her front yard
lush with jeweled birds, flowers, butterflies
embedded to weather all seasons. I was not
much help to her when she sickened.
She couldn’t go out, couldn’t eat. I couldn’t go over
empty-handed. If not food, what was left
to offer, to give, to grieve a woman of valor?
S As In Sam
by Ellen Sazzman
SANDS – the name uder which the reservation has been made
at le nouveau French restaurant in D.C. in the 21st century.
S, A, N, D, S: one syllable, easy to spell, a legacy from Father,
long gone, who claimed Better not to be identified as Jew.
After crème brulee, clafoutis, chocolats, and cafe,
the waiter arrives, his hand outstretched with the check,
trying to guess which of our quartet is MM/Mme Sands.
My husband of Protestant extraction shakes his head,
as do our two Catholic dinner companions. I smile,
accept the bill and hand it back, pressed to a credit card
stamped with my “maiden” name: Sazzman.
S as in Sam, A, Z as in Zebra, Z as in Zebra, M, A, N.
Rhymes with jasmine, jazzman, has-been, but hard to pronounce,
to spell, to keep those zzzs and ssss straight, easy to switch, erase.
In 1970, Father secretly sends a typed letter to the Ivy League
colleges that reject me and alleges antisemitism.
In 1950, Father’s older brother adds an N to his surname, Sazzmann,
more Anglo-Saxon and to the liking of his German war bride.
In 1940, Father’s father, the happy-go-lucky grandfather I only met thrice
between his four wives, is listed in the U.S. Census rolls as Gazman –
a spelling error or his scheme to escape the taxman. No chance to ask
before he dies. In 1900, Samuel Sazzman is recorded as arriving
at Ellis Island from Romania. Father’s father’s father? He disappears
into NYC’s huddled masses, trying to leave no trace of his name,
wretched refuse upon the shore. SAZZMAN – no one stole the name,
no one could give it away. Scavenger, I reclaim it for the next reservation.
Ellen Sazzman is a Pushcart-nominated poet whose work has been recently published in Clackamas Review, Slipstream, Dos Gatos Press, Atlanta Review, Folio, Peregrine, Delmarva Review, Sow’s Ear, Lilith, and Common Ground, among others. Her collection The Shomer was a finalist for the Blue Lynx Prize and a semifinalist for the Elixir Antivenom Award and the Codhill Press Award. She was awarded first place in the Dancing Poetry Festival, received an honorable mention in the Ginsberg poetry contest, and was shortlisted for the O’Donoghue Prize. Her debut novel, Wild Irish Yenta, was published this spring.
Featured image in this post: 12 Tribes Mosaic in the Jewish Quarter (9700152548) (2), zeevveez, creative commons via wikimedia commons.
