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 do not make a lot of money, especially back in the late 1980’s, so finding a decent engagement ring proved to be a bit of a challenge. The meager savings I had up to then went to paying upwards of $250 dollars a month in train fare to commute back and forth every day from Long Island to Manhattan where the academy is 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 up to that point, and he was a gentle, affectionate man who enjoyed family. My parents and my 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. Also, 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.
In moments, I had a lead for a
jeweler in Flushing, Queens who was described by Ziggy 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 a bit cautious as I
didn’t know how much of a favor this was going to be, and I did not 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 they did
more than just play cards together. He repeated what Ziggy said about not
having to buy from him, and that he just 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 to him because Ziggy trusted
this man. I was given a lengthy tutorial on choosing the perfect stone, then I
was told that I didn’t have to decide that day. So, I left his store, grateful
for the knowledge I picked up from his lesson and returned to what was left of
my brief weekend and 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 loop and comparing them to the ones I already picked
out, I found the perfect, one carat, white diamond, nearly flawless; and then I
chose the setting and the smaller diamonds for the setting. The ring, which was
made within the week, is gorgeous. To this day, my wife is complimented on the
quality of the stone. Other jewelers have said that I got one hell of a deal
on the diamond.
I remember thanking Ziggy
profusely and he waved me off as if he did nothing. But I also recall one scene
which 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 gave me in
finding a reputable jeweler. His intervention was important in making our
experience perfect. The ring, flawless and more valuable than what I paid for,
is a cornerstone of our marriage in both symbolism and value.
Ziggy listened to me and
challenged my assertion that anything he contributed was such a big deal. After
a few more protests on his part, I saw him become soft in his composure,
resting his arms on the table.
“That's why I explain to people
their actions have consequences for others. It was then that 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 just to wipe his eyes.
You see, Ziggy survived the Holocaust.
His family lived in Poland before WWII, 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. The
townspeople informed the local authorities that the family was harboring a 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. When he, his parents and his brother were
later cornered and arrested after a search by the locals looking to root out
the “Jews” who were 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 Ziggy’s ear. He said,
“Tell them you bake bread.” Immediately, Ziggy was separated from his family
and put to work only because he told them he was a baker, and he was used as
slave labor in the camps. The rest of his family were all murdered.
At Ziggy’s funeral many years
later, a Rabbi told us the many acts of kindness and generosity Ziggy performed
throughout his life. After immigrating to the United States after the war, he
moved to the Bronx and worked for a baker and saved 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, they found the
money for glasses through Ziggy. The same was for folks who could not afford
heat, food, medicine, and even lifesaving surgery. Ziggy was a man who lived
through Hell and still had the faith in mankind to help all those 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 which was born not of misery, but despite it. Ziggy insisted
that the Rabbi not tell anyone who received a gift from him who their benefactor
was. Only after his passing, did the Rabbi reveal his secret.
I learned something after Ziggy
told us his story that day, and I had my faith in humanity re-affirmed upon
hearing 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 recognized that even a crust of bread can save
a life.
