{"id":103531,"date":"2016-10-10T16:41:25","date_gmt":"2016-10-10T20:41:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=103531"},"modified":"2016-10-11T12:39:11","modified_gmt":"2016-10-11T16:39:11","slug":"the-book-of-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/10\/10\/the-book-of-life\/","title":{"rendered":"The Book of Life"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_103534\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/10\/salamensky.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-103534\" class=\"wp-image-103534\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/10\/salamensky.jpg\" width=\"600\" height=\"420\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-103534\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Aunt Rose, right, et al., 1942.<\/p><\/div>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https:\/\/w.soundcloud.com\/player\/?url=https%3A\/\/api.soundcloud.com\/tracks\/287047389&amp;color=ff5500&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false\" width=\"100%\" height=\"166\" frameborder=\"no\" scrolling=\"no\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>In her book\u00a0<em><a href=\"http:\/\/www.simonandschuster.com\/books\/Playing-Dead\/Elizabeth-Greenwood\/9781476739335\">Playing Dead<\/a><\/em>,\u00a0Elizabeth Greenwood recounts how she faked her own death, staging a car crash in the Philippines. My great-aunt Rose did something of that nature\u2014if, admittedly, in the less dramatic mode of an aged Jewish lady with used tissues tucked into her sleeve and sagging, off-color support hose.<\/p>\n<p>Rose\u2019s ride to a wedding in Newark from Paterson showed up as planned, and as confirmed by her the week before. Somebody\u2019s nephew. Rang, rang the bell. \u2014No answer. \u2014Upturned an ashcan in the alley, climbed and, clutching at the window ledge, peered in.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Aunt Rose was gone.\u00a0<!--more--><\/p>\n<p>By the other guests massed on the stoop later\u2014a little\u00a0<em>shikker<\/em>, drunk, and still in nuptial finery\u2014the same conclusion would be drawn. Damask sofa: absent. Curtains, rugs, china: not there. And Aunt Rose? Decidedly departed.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Her late, sainted husband Bernie\u2019s brother-in-law Hymie,\u00a0<em>pisher<\/em>, pisser\u2014all slick mustache, knowing air\u2014ticked off the clues detective-style.\u00a0<em>Sign of a struggle: no<\/em>.\u00a0<em>Known enemies: none<\/em>.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p><em>Not that our Rose was universally beloved.\u00a0<\/em>But who was?\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>They fell silent, thinking through forty years of picnics and canasta.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Despite\u00a0what was<em>\u00a0essentially a verbal contract\u2014<\/em>Hymie shook his head. Vanished! The Night Rose Died was, ever after, how the incident was known. Did anybody try Chicago, where she had a son? File missing persons? Must have.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>I couldn\u2019t tell you. I was just a kid.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>My sole association with Aunt Rose had been the cheeks\u2014preternaturally soft, unlined\u2014that she would press to mine in greeting and good-bye. Beyond that, truth be told, it would have been hard to say which she was.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>The world was chockablock with great-aunts then.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">*<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe Salamenskys were \u2026 \u201d My mother\u2019s haziness these days, which prompts her to search the ceiling for words, conveys a not-unbecoming hauteur. \u201cPeculiar.\u201d Long pause. \u201cKooky.\u201d She\u2019s not done. \u201cAnd secretive. And stingy.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She\u2019s never forgiven me for taking after that side in what she clearly sees as predilection, as well as mien.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYour father was a good man. Handsome. Tall. But how he stretched a dime!\u201d She veers onto a running theme. \u201cIt could be said I wed below my station &#8230; \u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>But: Rose.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes, right. The Night Rose Died. You wouldn\u2019t let up, pestering. So many questions.\u00a0<em>Do Jews go to Hell, Ma?<\/em>\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Joanne B. down the street said so. We lived in the Catholic part of town.\u00a0<em>If you dug a hole deep enough down, flames from the Devil would leap out.\u00a0<\/em>\u2014Joanne again. \u2014We had rutted up the small tract-house yard trying.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThen,\u00a0<em>Ma, what about Heaven<\/em>.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Jews believe in neither, technically. Just Gehenna\u2014a sere valley where Canaanites burned their own children to honor the god Moloch\u2014but that\u2019s reserved for Hitler. Or Sheol\u2014a system of underworld tunnels through which, at the End of Days, our bones will roll to Jerusalem, where we will rise and dance around.<\/p>\n<p>But mainly\u2014not as colorfully\u2014there is The Book of Life. Each fall, Jews thump their fists against their chests, reciting the original of the phase \u201clitany of sins.\u201d\u00a0<em>Hard-heartedness<\/em>. O<em>bduracy<\/em>.\u00a0<em>Embezzlement.\u00a0<\/em>Culpable\u00a0or not, they repent, praying to get their names in it, a sort of sacred version of the vast-girthed volume that used to be put out by Ma Bell.<\/p>\n<p>Failing to appear in the actual directory was not, of course, to have mortally erred. But\u2014and for my mother, this had clinched a new idea\u2014to be unlisted in the phone book you did have to pay.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIf a member of the Salamensky side is left alive\u201d\u2014another eccentricity: we tend to be short-lived\u2014\u201cyou\u2019ll find them,\u201d my mother decided, \u201cin the white pages.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><em>Where did Jews go when it was their time?<\/em>\u00a0She\u2019d mused some more, called after me as I left for the public library. \u201cTry Florida.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">*<\/p>\n<p>I visited, when I was older. Miami Beach! I had a free ticket to use up. The northeast was cold.<\/p>\n<p>I don\u2019t know why, but up till now I\u2019ve never told a soul.<\/p>\n<p>Rose\u2019s cheeks seemed just as smooth, unwrinkled, at the door.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201c<em>Nu?<\/em>\u201d she shrugged\u2014and so?\u2014at being alive.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI am called Rosa now.\u201d She\u2019d taken Spanish at the Y, along with mambo lessons. The damask sofa was faded. The art-deco flat was bright. She\u2019d tucked a gay daylily in her hair.<\/p>\n<p>We sat and chatted, caught up on events since her demise. I asked how she\u2019d remained so vital all this time.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>She brought me to the kitchenette, took out a big bowl, and pushed over a pen and notepad.<\/p>\n<blockquote>\n<p><em>Half a raw onion, diced<br \/> <\/em><em>Hard-boiled egg, chopped<br \/> <\/em><em>1 grapefruit, sectioned<br \/> <\/em><em>Friendship Cottage Cheese\u2014Friendship only, dry curd<br \/> <\/em><em>Kretschmer Wheat Germ\u2014red lid, the toasted kind<br \/> <\/em><em>Mix<br \/> <\/em><em>A parsley sprig on top is nice<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<p>(It wasn\u2019t at all as bad as you think! Though I do substitute a fresh scallion, of late.)<\/p>\n<p>Perched on the stool while Rose squeezed us more orange juice, I gripped the counter to push off and whirled around.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou\u2019ll want see the sights. But first\u201d\u2014she dragged over two chairs for us to lean on\u2014\u201cyou\u2019re welcome to join with me in my exercise.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>We did leg lifts to a staticky VHS tape of Jack LaLanne.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAnd then,\u201d she said,\u00a0\u201cthe final thing. I saw it long ago.\u00a0<em>McCall\u2019s.<\/em>\u00a0I do it overnight. But fifteen minutes ought to be enough, to start. They say the skin gets so dehydrated on planes.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>I put my feet up, shut my eyes. She slathered a cool substance on my face.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe magazine said butter. \u2014Stay still while I place the cellophane. \u2014But then I wondered: What if I had pot roast? Milk with meat!\u201d Not kosher. \u201cI put margarine instead. It costs less, too.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fed, stretched, refreshed, I stepped out for some sun. \u00a0Strolled the boardwalk end to end. Downed Cuban coffees. Found nice sunglasses on steep discount at the Rexall.\u00a0<\/p>\n<p>Lifted barbells with\u00a0<em>altekakers<\/em>, geezers, on the beach. Plunged into the sea. Wrapped myself in the towel she\u2019d run down Espa\u00f1ola Way to bring me, arms waved overhead like coconut palms in the breeze.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAunt Rose,\u201d I ventured when I returned. She was mashing avocados for us to massage into our hair. \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind. I have to ask. What happened the Night You\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMissed that wedding.\u201d She sighed. \u201cOnce Bernie passed away, I had no ties. The Salamenskys\u2014never mind. It was simply nobody\u2019s business. Felt like going, so I went.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Who am I to argue with the dead? \u00a0Seventy-two degrees, clear all week. Divine.<\/p>\n<p><em>Shelley Salamensky is a scholar and writer. Her work has appeared in print and online in\u00a0<\/em>The New York Review of Books<em>,<\/em> The Believer<em>,<\/em> The Paris Review<em>, and elsewhere.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>In her book\u00a0Playing Dead,\u00a0Elizabeth Greenwood recounts how she faked her own death, staging a car crash in the Philippines. My great-aunt Rose did something of that nature\u2014if, admittedly, in the less dramatic mode of an aged Jewish lady with used tissues tucked into her sleeve and sagging, off-color support hose. Rose\u2019s ride to a wedding [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":591,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[25058,25059,23908,2857,25060,8226,1886,11503,25063,7317,657,1647,10432,25061,25062,7657,10438,25064,604,11843],"class_list":["post-103531","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-aunt-rose","tag-disappearance","tag-elizabeth-greenwood","tag-escape","tag-faking-death","tag-family","tag-florida","tag-heaven","tag-jack-lalanne","tag-judaism","tag-marriage","tag-new-jersey","tag-newark","tag-paterson","tag-phone-books","tag-recipes","tag-storytelling","tag-the-afterlife","tag-weddings","tag-yom-kippur"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>That Time My Aunt Rose Faked Her Own Death<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Shelley Salamensky remembers her elderly aunt\u2019s mysterious sudden disappearance.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/10\/10\/the-book-of-life\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Book of Life by Shelley Salamensky\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"October 10, 2016 \u2013 In her book\u00a0Playing Dead,\u00a0Elizabeth Greenwood recounts how she faked her own death, staging a car crash in the Philippines. 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