Angelo and Benedito lived upstairs on Duffrin Street. I often climbed up the narrow stairway to visit with them. They were brothers, Italian immigrants, and they couldn't yet speak English. They were angels. They paid attention to me and played with me whenever I wandered in. I loved them. In a way they saved my life because they offered the only normal loving relationship I had with any grown-ups.
This may sound like just another "shmaltzy" story, but for me it carries enormous weight. As a child of the holocaust, I didn't have a story-book life filled with loving family and friends. The affection I found in that upstairs apartment was rare and precious.
One Christmas, Benedito took me to Woolworths, a large department store only a block away. I still remember his giant hand enclosing my hand. He never let go of my hand the entire time. And he matched my pace, walking slowly beside me, rather than pulling me along behind him. I felt that he was enclosing my entire being, not just my hand. I felt totally safe. More than safe - I felt included.
I told him I wanted a doll. Looking straight into each others faces, I enunciated the word doll several times because he didn't know the meaning.
“Doll, doll”, I repeated, trying to bridge the language gap.
We meandered around for awhile until I spotted the dolls and tugged him over to them. But then I saw the price tags! They were displayed in giant lettering.
"Only $10" "Only $15".
I knew that Angelo and Benedito were paying $10 per week rent. How could I ask him to spend an entire week's rent on a present for me? I decided there was no way.
He was looking at the prices too but his face was impassive, unreadable. Finally I pointed to a little Barbie-sized doll – modest but perfect.
I named her Dezzi because she came to me in December. I played with her every day.
That tiny doll wasn’t just a toy – she was a piece of love made tangible, proof that kindness could still find me.