Kindness Has A Ring To It

In July of 1989, I was a raw recruit in the New York City Police Academy. It was then that I decided to propose to my girlfriend.

New officers in the police department did not make a lot of money, especially back in the late 1980s, so finding a decent engagement ring proved to be a bit of a challenge. The meager savings I had up to then went toward paying upwards of $250 a month in train fare to commute every day from Long Island to Manhattan, where the academy was located.

By chance, I had a conversation with my brother-in-law’s stepfather at my sister’s home. We were seated at the dining room table for dessert.

“So, you are getting engaged?” he asked in a heavy Polish accent.

Ziggy was in his early seventies and in ill health. I’d known him for many years by that point, and he was a gentle, affectionate man who enjoyed family. My parents and siblings all loved Ziggy, and we were close to my brother-in-law’s family, sharing our Catholic and Jewish heritages from one holiday season to the next.

“Yes, I’m excited. I’m shopping for a ring,” I said.

“Where did you go? You didn’t go to the mall, did you?”

I noticed a look of alarm on his face.

“Uh, I was going to?” I said, almost as a question.

I think I gulped.

“No, no, Michael. You go see my friend. He’ll show you what to do, how to buy a diamond. Don’t even buy it from him if you don’t want to. He’ll just make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

Ziggy took a piece of paper and produced a pen from his shirt pocket.

Within moments, I had a lead for a jeweler in Flushing, Queens, whom Ziggy described as “a man I play cards with every Tuesday.”

After thanking him, I put the paper in my pocket.

The meeting with the jeweler took place that Saturday. I couldn’t wait to see what my options were, and though I had a modest amount of money to work with, I was still cautious. I didn’t know how much of a favor this was going to be, and I didn’t want Ziggy to feel beholden to this man on my account.

“So, you know Ziggy? I better treat you right, then,” the man said as soon as I walked in.

“Ziggy told me to look for a cop, a strong young man with a crew cut. You must be Michael.”

He shook my hand vigorously and welcomed me into his store. We spoke for a minute or two about Ziggy, and it was apparent that the jeweler had immense respect for him and that the two of them did more than simply play cards together.

He repeated what Ziggy had told me about not having to buy from him. He only wanted to teach me about buying gems, diamonds in particular.

“You never buy a ring that’s already made. You buy the diamond first and then have the ring made from the stone.”

His voice was authoritative. I listened because Ziggy trusted this man.

I was given a lengthy tutorial on choosing the perfect stone, then told I didn’t have to decide that day. So I left his store grateful for the knowledge I’d picked up from his lesson and returned to what was left of my brief weekend before another grueling week at the academy.

The next Saturday, I arrived early at the jeweler, cash in hand, to buy a stone.

After at least two hours examining diamonds with a loupe and comparing them with the ones I had already picked out, I found the perfect one-carat white diamond, nearly flawless. Then I chose the setting and the smaller diamonds to go with it.

The ring, made within the week, was gorgeous.

To this day, my wife is complimented on the quality of the stone. Other jewelers have told me that I got *one hell of a deal* on that diamond.

I remember thanking Ziggy profusely, and he waved me off as if he had done nothing.

But I also remember one scene that played out at my sister’s home shortly before Ziggy passed away.

It was Thanksgiving.

The conversation was about family and what we should be thankful for, and I mentioned to Ziggy that I was grateful for the help he had given me in finding a reputable jeweler. His intervention was important in making the experience perfect. The ring, nearly flawless and worth far more than what I paid for it, had become a cornerstone of our marriage in both symbolism and value.

Ziggy listened and challenged my assertion that anything he contributed had been such a big deal.

After a few more protests on his part, I saw his composure soften. He rested his arms on the table.

“That’s why I explain to people that their actions have consequences for others.”

Then he turned to the rest of the family and began to speak.

“I need to tell all of you this, because it is important. I have seen horror, lost everything. And we all need to learn that just a little kindness…”

He paused to wipe his eyes.

You see, Ziggy survived the Holocaust.

His family lived in Poland before World War II, and he was a young man forced into hiding in the countryside with his family to escape the Nazis.

His sixteen-year-old sister found refuge with a Catholic family who hid her. Townspeople informed the local authorities that the family was harboring Ziggy’s sister.

When Ziggy learned of the betrayal, he watched helplessly from the woods as the family, his sister, and the family’s two-year-old daughter were executed in front of their home.

Later, Ziggy, his parents, and his brother were cornered and arrested after locals searched for Jews hiding in the forest. They were all deported to Auschwitz.

As Ziggy, his family, and others were forced off the train, a total stranger whispered into his ear:

“Tell them you bake bread.”

Immediately, Ziggy was separated from his family and put to work because he told them he was a baker. He was used as slave labor in the camps.

The rest of his family were murdered.

At Ziggy’s funeral many years later, a rabbi told us about the many acts of kindness and generosity Ziggy had performed throughout his life.

After immigrating to the United States following the war, he moved to the Bronx and worked for a baker, saving enough money to eventually open his own shop.

If, as the rabbi explained in his eulogy, Ziggy learned of someone who needed glasses and could not afford them, somehow that person found the money for glasses through Ziggy.

The same was true for people who could not afford heat, food, medicine, and even lifesaving surgery.

Ziggy was a man who lived through Hell and still had faith in mankind enough to help anyone in need.

We were told by the rabbi that in the camps, Ziggy risked his own life to smuggle crusts of bread to the dying for sustenance.

In the Bronx, with his own bakery, he continued to provide for those who needed help, giving from his own plate, if you will, to make sure others did not suffer or live in need.

The man was a model of kindness born not of misery, but despite it.

Ziggy insisted that the rabbi never tell anyone who received a gift from him who their benefactor was.

Only after Ziggy’s passing did the rabbi reveal his secret.

I learned something after Ziggy told us his story that Thanksgiving, and I had my faith in humanity reaffirmed when I heard the rabbi offer his tribute to such a wonderful man.

We all need to take a lesson from an unselfish man—a person who saw his small acts of kindness as inconsequential but understood that even a crust of bread can save a life.

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