Return to Helsinki, Finland
She said her name was Saga when I asked. I bought a sweater from her at a flea market for €2 and her friend gasped, “that’s your favorite sweater!” So I asked her name and took her picture. She took mine, as well. We had the same camera.
I also came away with a long, €2 scarf from the next booth. The lady said she dyed the colors herself, deep blues and greens and she thought it was silk. A smart little black bag with compartments for carrying playing cards, spoons, pens, my journal and what-not when I’m with the kids (survival kit) and from another lady, 4 beautiful candle holders for €2. I love bargains and used stuff.
Then I walked back to the main part of town, stopping at a bookseller and looking at a castley sort of place across the street, of course taking photos of the door.
I liked all the little guys around the top.
The Spanish queens still
marched down the procession and I sat on the one available bench, available
because it had a drunk man asleep on the other end. I sat on my end and
drew.
A very old man came up and in broken English asked if that was my friend, referring to the sleeping drunk. When I told him no, he asked why I didn’t sit on the other side of the walk where there was now room. It was in the sun, hot and besides, I had started drawing where I was sitting.
He persisted, and then asked me to join him for a cup of coffee. I tried to think of any good reason to go for a conversation with this stranger and really couldn't think of one . . .
I accepted and we walked veeeeeeery slowly along the plaza to an outdoor café. I asked for water instead of coffee and he came back eventually with two bottles of fizzy water. He told me his name was Franck.
He moved from Poland to Finland in 1946 and wondered if I was married. I told him no, and asked the same. He said he is, but he and his wife don’t get along. (He can tell women this in 8 languages). He likes to kiss young women and he told me it was okay there in Finland even though it was a public place. I thanked him anyway.
I changed the subject. We talked about his languages – Finnish, English, French, German, Russian, Swedish, Polish and, he faltered, looking for a word. Language of Jewish? Hebrew, I asked? No, no, Yiddish. I did my math, he left Poland in 1946. Escaped Poland in 1946, Jewish. A bit more conversation, I found out he is an Auschwitz survivor, the only one in Finland.
I kissed him then and he said liked it. It made his heart feel good, he said.
He wanted to kiss me some more, but people were staring.
There's a cool and horrible article about what he went through here: Mr. Franck
I found it surfing today in a cafe in Estonia and almost cried when I read it.