Jeremiah’s Journey - 1: “Roses Are For Lovers”

The piazza is filled with people. Buildings surrounding the square wall off this microcosm of international culture from the mainstream of Italian life found in the tenements and café’s that line the cobblestone streets of the quaint neighborhood within this bustling city. Table umbrellas outline the piazza where I take in the milling crowd of tourists surrounding the fountain and ancient sculpture of a Roman God. I am in Piazza Della Signoria, Florence, Tuscany, Italy, and my name is Jeremiah Meijer of German Jewish heritage (fictional name, this is a literary fiction short story).

I know what you may be thinking − How did my family survive?  I mean, when you combine German and Jew, you may be thinking of Auschwitz. I was not there; I am only 42 years old, but my sixth generation cousin was there. Death, he saw death beyond human comprehension, but he did not die like the rest of his family − he was a doctor. “When the Nazis invaded Hungary in 1944, they sent virtually the entire Jewish population to Auschwitz. A Jew and a medical doctor, Dr. Miklos Nyiszli was spared from death for a grimmer fate: to perform “scientific research” on his fellow inmates under the supervision of the infamous “Angel of Death”: Dr. Josef Mengele. Nyiszli was named Mengele’s personal research pathologist. Miraculously, he survived to give this terrifying and sobering account.” (Reference: Auschwitz: A Doctor's Eyewitness Account by Miklos Nyiszli.)

Why is my heritage important? Because I am not like you, but I am.

I am an American. I value my Jewish heritage, my German descent, but my great, great, great grandfather immigrated to this beloved and greatest country in the world to start a new life. Ranching the plains of Kansas with cattle, I became a cowboy. Pardon, the digress. This journal entry is neither about Jewish persecution nor the demagogue, Hitler, nor about cow poking. Yes, you are reading from my journal, “Jeremiah Journey.” A lot of J’s there − Jeremiah, Jewish, journal, journey − yet, I will add one more. I am a Christian − Jesus. Jeremiah the Jew who believes in Jesus writes about his journey in his journal. Okay, you get the point, but do you see the hook? Huh? Be plainer spoken, you say. The hook is that I am a “fisher of men.” What? Homosexual? Not in the least. When Jesus said to Peter that he would be a fisher of men, he meant that Peter would draw people to follow Jesus, to be one in the faith. Before you click off this page − Stop! I am not writing about Jews or Jesus. I’m just Jeremiah writing in my journal about my journey, and here I am today, in Florence. Like I said, I’m in Italy. Roman Gods. Neptune. Yes, I’m sitting at my café table, sipping a glass of fine Italian red wine, smoking an “American Spirit” cigarette − yes, I brought a carton with me, that was all that Italian customs would allow − and sit alone on the piazza gazing at the statue of Neptune.

A beautiful Italian lady approaches the café on her bicycle. The basket attached to her handlebars has a bag of baguettes freshly baked. I smell the aroma of hot flour and begin to salivate for a taste of what she could offer. The bread, Jeremiah, focus on the bread, my mind reminds me, but I am in a foreign country alone and came here to meet the people of this land. She settles at an empty table near mine. Pulling a baguette from the bag, she looks out onto the piazza without notice of me. Tearing off the end of the baguette, it sends a steam of its hotness in the air.

A young couple approaches me. A cute girl, definitely Italian, and the boy is likely her brother. She holds a bouquet of red roses and hands me one. I gratefully accept. The boy holds out his hand and says, “Ten Euros, Signore Americano.”

I return the rose to the girl. “I don’t need a rose.”

“For your lover,” the girl replies. The Italian accent on the word made my heart thump.

“I don’t have a lover,” I replied.

“Yes, you do. Everyone loves someone,” she smiled as she placed the rose on my heart. If she had been ten years older, I would have bought the rose and given it to her.

“I am here alone. I am a writer. Writers are lonely. People love my words, but they know not who I am.”

“You write books?” she asks.

“Yes, and poetry.”

“What do you write about?”

“Love.”

“You must take this rose and press it in your book. It will bring you good luck.”

Bicycle babe with the baguette looks over her shoulder. She smiles, knowingly.

“Ten Euros? I could buy what you have, the full bouquet for ten,” I stammer.

“I will take your picture,” the boy responds.

“Pensi che questo è stupido americano?” the bicycle babe says over her shoulder.

I got part of it – stupid American.

“Give her the rose, and here, take the ten Euros. I am not stupid.”

Flower girl laid the rose on bicycle babe’s table.

The boy and girl left as soon as I handed them the Euros.

“Grazie.” Bicycle babe rose from her chair. “Would you like some fresh bread?”

She tore off a piece from the long baguette and placed the fresh bread in my mouth before I could answer.

“Bread and wine, there is none better. My name is Adelina. Yours?”

“Uh…Jerry…uh…Jerry…like the ice cream.

No wonder writers are lonely.

Jeremiah's Journey - 1: "Roses Are For Lovers"

Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge