By Ann, August 15, 2019 — When my parents became empty-nesters, they happily moved into a high-rise apartment in Hackensack, N.J. where they were suddenly free of house repairs and yard work.
The apartment building had a wonderful doorman named Herman. Herman was in his sixties and spoke with a heavy Polish accent. Regardless of the weather, he was there every day with a smile on his face. He knew the names of every inhabitant of the 100-unit building including children, babies, and pets. On holidays, Herman took great delight in decorating the floor plants and lobby with white lights. He also wore a flower in his lapel and corresponding holidays hats. A jar of lollipops for the humans and a jar of milk bones for dogs was a permanent fixture on his desk. I was in college at the time and only saw him on school vacations and long weekends. He always welcomed me with open arms and wanted to hear all about college life in Boston.
During one of our conversations, he happened to list his arm as he was speaking and I was stunned to see tattooed numbers on his inside wrist. I knew this was the hideous ID mark of a concentration camp survivor. He quickly pulled his shirt sleeve down and went on with our conversation.
Later, I told my mother what I had seen and asked her if she knew more about it. She confirmed that he was indeed a Holocaust survivor and lost his wife and children in the camps. When she asked how he was able to go with his life in such a positive way, he said that he now considered himself lucky and thought of the apartment building as his home and the people in it as his family.
He believed that part of his job was spread kindness in an effort to combat the hate he had withstood first hand. Lately, I’ve thought of Herman a lot as I visualize him humming and dancing down the hallways. He still makes me smile and gives me a reason for hope.
