Until the summer of 1979 I had not ventured far from my home in Phoenix. But this summer, at 17, I found myself in New York City. My friends and I were on a stopover trip while on our way to Washington, D.C., to attend the Key Club International convention.
A Gray Line tour of the city had been planned for our first day. The bus whizzed passed Wall Street and the United Nations. We gazed at jewels in Tiffany’s and ate hot dogs in Times Square. We pressed ourselves against the glass atop the World Trade Center and peered out over all of Manhattan. We were fully caught up in the spell of the Big Apple.
The less glamorous side of New York was also there for us to see. The bus drove us through devastated sections of Harlem. We drove by Central Park, with its green grass beckoning to all weary of the concrete island, but we were warned not to enter. Even entering the World Trade Center required us to walk through a maze of bodies, some drunken, and others just asleep on the sidewalk. We soon learned to appreciate the sleeping ones as the others panhandled or propositioned.
The ferry to take us to the Statue of Liberty was docked on the other side of Battery Park. The trees and grass were a welcome relief although many others had also sought refuge there. We waited in long lines to board the ferry and talked of Broadway, Macy’s and other attractions left for the following day.
As the crowd was allowed to board, the line surged forward and I was separated from my friends. It was then that I realized that most of the other people around us were not speaking English. My high-school Spanish was not serving me well. I had never felt so alone in a crowd before.
When I reached the deck of the ferry there was only one place left to sit. The space was on a bench across from my friends and next to a disheveled old man. His face was wrinkled. His hands were callused and rested heavily around the curve of his cane. He smiled at me and asked if this was my first trip to see the Statue of Liberty. I nodded and asked, “Where is it?” His arm slowly rose, and he pointed across the harbor.
But my eyes did not follow as they had frozen in place, focused on the underside of his wrist, now revealed from under his sleeve. There I saw the tattooed numbers and letters clearly identifying him as a survivor of the Nazi concentration camps.
I was stunned into silence. My eyes scanned his face anew. This time I found a face ravaged by horror, and thinly veiled by a smile. I was overwhelmed by the pain, hatred and torture this man must have endured. In an instant, this lesson of history was etched on my soul in a way that no movie or book would have been able to do.
“Wait until the boat turns back toward her to dock,” he said, “that is when you will get your first good look at her.” I nodded my head, still unsure what to say. “This is the best time of day to come, when the sun is shining on her and all of New York in the background,” he continued. “That’s how she looked when I saw her for the first time 34 years ago. I ride the ferry out here to visit her every month or two.”
He fell silent and looked out across the water at the statue. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but each one seemed such an invasion that I too fell silent. Then I realized that for him, the purpose of this trip was to remember a time of great joy and celebration. This was not the time to recall the underlying cause.
As the boat docked, the rest of the crowd pushed to the disembarking gate. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked him.
“No, no, you go with your friends now and climb her to the very top,” he said with the same gentle smile.
So I simply said goodbye. I was unsure whether he had any idea how much he had affected my life in our short encounter.
From the top of the statue you can see the whole harbor and have a good look at Manhattan too. And if you’re very lucky, like I was, you can see an old man sitting by himself on a park bench, gazing up at Lady Liberty.
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