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Authors: Lillian Faderman
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daylit street. I must have gotten home. But I know I didn't see anything that was in front of my eyes, and my ears were deaf to everything but her golden voice.
My mother gave me the money. I knew she would, because wasn't this the beginning of what we'd dreamed about for so long? My teacher was Sid Sandman—the Acting Director of Theatre Arts Studio, Irene called him. He was waiting for me the afternoon I went for my first lesson. He took me into the large room, which was separated only by a thin whitewashed partition from the little front office where I'd first seen Irene Sandman's gorgeousness. I recited "To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street" for him, and he watched with judicious eyes, legs crossed, chin resting on the palm of his hand. With his black lacquered hair and pencil-thin mustache and his brown belted jacket with a scarf around his neck, which he tucked under his shirt like an ascot, he did look as I'd dimly imagined a director might. He nodded approvingly at my attempts to sound like Milo, in wonderment at the marvels of Mulberry Street. "I'll write a dramatic monologue for you," he declared.
At our next meeting, I pronounced the lines of the script he handed me with all the histrionics I'd been practicing for years: "My ... my name is Rachel Hoffman. My mother? I don't know where she is.
They
took her away. I haven't seen her in a long time." When I was eight years old, I'd overheard some woman in a store say about me, "Doesn't that child look like a little refugee?" Sid must have thought so too. Halfway
through the monologue, I was to push up my sleeve and display to my invisible, kind interlocutors the concentration camp number branded on my arm. "What? She's in the other room? Waiting for me?" I was to exclaim at the end of my four-minute performance before I ran off, joyfully shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I had no trouble imagining devastating separation from my mother. I had no trouble imagining emotional wounds inflicted on me by the Nazis.
For weeks we went over the piece, only he and I in the entire place, the office room dark. "Very fine!" Sid Sandman said solemnly, or "Take it from 'the number on my arm?'"
Always I listened for a noise in the outer room or hoped that the door would open. But I saw the luminous Irene only in my dreams.
One day, though, the light was on in the office when I arrived, and there at last, sitting at the desk and holding a receipt book, was Irene Sandman. I felt myself turn paler than dead grass.
"I'll just pay you now for the whole month," a woman said.
"One month for Sissy Simpson ... and that's for the Wee Ones Dance Movement Class," the lovely voice said.
I watched her elegant white hand with its well-shaped red fingernails writing out the receipt. The woman took it and left, brushing by me.
"Lillian, hello," Irene Sandman said.
She remembered my name!
"Sid says you're making terrific progress."
I barely squeaked out an "Oh, thanks," though I could have wept for joy.
"I'll sit in on your session today," she said, smiling brilliantly at me. Neon spots swirled before my eyes. How would I be able to speak if those radiant violet eyes were upon me?
But I did. I was Rachel Hoffman in every inch of me, with only the tiniest fraction of my mind aware that Irene was poised elegantly on the bench next to her husband. When I ran out of the room shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in my eyes there were real tears that sprang miraculously from nowhere.
"Wow!" Irene let out as I came back to stand before them.
Could I believe what I was seeing? There were tears in her eyes too. I'd moved Irene Sandman to tears! In Mary Marvel's cape I floated just under the ceiling.
"Lillian." The mellow tones arrested me a half-hour later as I floated still, now out the door. "I'd like you to bring your mother with you next week."
I landed with a thump. Dear God, my mother! Whatever for? My mother never wore lipstick anymore. The shadows under her eyes had become even
My mother gave me the money. I knew she would, because wasn't this the beginning of what we'd dreamed about for so long? My teacher was Sid Sandman—the Acting Director of Theatre Arts Studio, Irene called him. He was waiting for me the afternoon I went for my first lesson. He took me into the large room, which was separated only by a thin whitewashed partition from the little front office where I'd first seen Irene Sandman's gorgeousness. I recited "To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street" for him, and he watched with judicious eyes, legs crossed, chin resting on the palm of his hand. With his black lacquered hair and pencil-thin mustache and his brown belted jacket with a scarf around his neck, which he tucked under his shirt like an ascot, he did look as I'd dimly imagined a director might. He nodded approvingly at my attempts to sound like Milo, in wonderment at the marvels of Mulberry Street. "I'll write a dramatic monologue for you," he declared.
At our next meeting, I pronounced the lines of the script he handed me with all the histrionics I'd been practicing for years: "My ... my name is Rachel Hoffman. My mother? I don't know where she is.
They
took her away. I haven't seen her in a long time." When I was eight years old, I'd overheard some woman in a store say about me, "Doesn't that child look like a little refugee?" Sid must have thought so too. Halfway
through the monologue, I was to push up my sleeve and display to my invisible, kind interlocutors the concentration camp number branded on my arm. "What? She's in the other room? Waiting for me?" I was to exclaim at the end of my four-minute performance before I ran off, joyfully shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I had no trouble imagining devastating separation from my mother. I had no trouble imagining emotional wounds inflicted on me by the Nazis.
For weeks we went over the piece, only he and I in the entire place, the office room dark. "Very fine!" Sid Sandman said solemnly, or "Take it from 'the number on my arm?'"
Always I listened for a noise in the outer room or hoped that the door would open. But I saw the luminous Irene only in my dreams.
One day, though, the light was on in the office when I arrived, and there at last, sitting at the desk and holding a receipt book, was Irene Sandman. I felt myself turn paler than dead grass.
"I'll just pay you now for the whole month," a woman said.
"One month for Sissy Simpson ... and that's for the Wee Ones Dance Movement Class," the lovely voice said.
I watched her elegant white hand with its well-shaped red fingernails writing out the receipt. The woman took it and left, brushing by me.
"Lillian, hello," Irene Sandman said.
She remembered my name!
"Sid says you're making terrific progress."
I barely squeaked out an "Oh, thanks," though I could have wept for joy.
"I'll sit in on your session today," she said, smiling brilliantly at me. Neon spots swirled before my eyes. How would I be able to speak if those radiant violet eyes were upon me?
But I did. I was Rachel Hoffman in every inch of me, with only the tiniest fraction of my mind aware that Irene was poised elegantly on the bench next to her husband. When I ran out of the room shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in my eyes there were real tears that sprang miraculously from nowhere.
"Wow!" Irene let out as I came back to stand before them.
Could I believe what I was seeing? There were tears in her eyes too. I'd moved Irene Sandman to tears! In Mary Marvel's cape I floated just under the ceiling.
"Lillian." The mellow tones arrested me a half-hour later as I floated still, now out the door. "I'd like you to bring your mother with you next week."
I landed with a thump. Dear God, my mother! Whatever for? My mother never wore lipstick anymore. The shadows under her eyes had become even
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