Cop Julie and The Lost Jewish Cemetery…by Robert M. Katzman
So, I’m this old new guy
In an old
Small Town
In a big new state
I joined a poet’s group
Nice woman there
Carefully looks me over
Figures out
That Hanukkah
Is possibly my holiday
Clever woman
Then she leans over to me
And whispers:
“There’s this tiny Jewish cemetery
In a mostly
Christian Town
Near here
And their red steel
Entrance sign
With its big Jewish star
Collapsed on the ground
In the mud
Makes me feel bad
It’s not right
Maybe you can fix it”
***
I backed up from her whisper
A righteous Christian
If ever there was one
Does she think I somehow
Have magic powers
Able to lift steel girders
With a wink and a prayer??
***
Still, worth finding out
Worth seeing if perhaps
A “Mitzvah”
A good deed
Can be done
Don’t need a burning bush
To get the message
Not this time
***
On a cold January day
I begin traveling on
Small country roads
Seeking a fallen star
Where the town’s
Jews are gone
Yet their dead
Still remain
***
But it’s a big state
With muddy back roads
Spreading out like spider veins
On a drunk’s nose
Forests and valleys
Cows and horses
And they don’t talk to
Strangers from
Outa town
***
Soon
I’m not exactly up a creek
But certainly near one
Time to call the Cavalry
Cavalry?
Small Town Local Cops
Speak politely
and
They’ll help a Stranger
Every time
***
I have the numbers of
Forty Small Town
Police stations
On my cell phone
Including
This quiet town
Where people like me
Wandering People of the Book
Used to be
***
I punch some buttons
Phone picks up
A voice says:
“Officer Julie here
Can I help you?”
I pause
Her voice is
Young and lovely
Only seven words
But she’s captured me
Without firing a shot
I forget why I called…
She asks again:
“Officer Julie here
Can I help you?”
***
I return to Earth
And answer:
“Ah, yes, ma’am
I mean, Officer Julie
Nothing wrong
But I’m lost
Will you help me?”
***
It’s a Sunday morning
In a Christian state
Roads are empty
Churches are full
and
Cop Julie has time on
Her soft hands
I hear her exhale
And say:
“Sure, mister
What”s the problem?”
***
I tell her I’m lost
Not sure how to ask her
For help finding
Lost dead Jews
And their fallen sign
Why should she care?
Has she ever met one?
I mean a living one?
***
So, I tell her
And she laughs
A musical thing
Her voice relaxes
In my mind
I can see her
Red lips
Spread wide in a smile
I misjudged her
***
She says:
“Oh, sure, Mr…?”
I say:
Just call me Bob”
And she does
Telling me that:
Why yes
She absolutely knows
Where the not exactly
“Lost”
Cemetery of the Jews
Happens to be
To her, that is
***
I think to myself
An odd moment
Of course
This lovely voice
Knows all the
Woods and streams
Farms and saloons
Where old worn
Massive tractor tire swings
For children
Hang on rusty chains
From thick Oak tree branches
Where old Silas Jones lives
When he’s found drunk
Again
Sleeping on a bench
On another Saturday night
***
Sweet Cop Julie
Knows
And guides me
Down this hill
Up that dale
Round the shuttered
Movie Theater
With black letters
Still hanging off the
Faded white marquee
Like broken teeth
Her voice light
Like a bouquet in my mind
***
“Watch out”
She warns me
“For that
Big crack in the road
After you cross
The tracks”
***
So we ride along
Together
Me ambling the streets in my
Twenty-year-old car
Cop Julie riding Shotgun
With me
Over my cell phone
In her small country town
Every country mile
Of the way
***
Cop Julie
Are your eyes blue
I wonder?
My own
Biblically
Brown eyes
Blinking
In the sunlight
***
Then she tells me to
Pull over
Past the Lutheran Church
Across from the Catholic Church
And down the street from
The Presbyterians
Because
The entrance to
The Lost Cemetery of the Jews
Is hiding
***
Quite logically, to me
Behind
A rusted out Chevrolet
And
A closed down
Texaco gas station
With its
Single skinny pump
I want to hug
The ethereal
Cop Julie
For helping this
Wandering Israelite
Find the sad
Forgotten cemetery
Its sign lying in the mud
Two seven-branched Menorahs
On either end
It”s large
Star of David
Smack in the middle
***
Was I sent to her?
Or she sent to me?
Can’t be just chance
Mysterious ways??
Bet Cop Julie’s
Pretty
Bet her gun juts out
From her nice
Small town hips
Ain’t nothin’
The Lady Cops
Can do about that
And they should not
***
I thank her
I bless her
I think maybe
I can find a way
To fix this thing
Then
With a twinkle in my old heart
I imagine asking
Cop Julie:
***
So, exactly
Where’s her police station?
What’s her shift?
Does she drive a patrol car?
And maybe
I’ll drive over there
Speed up
A little too fast
Just when I see her sitting
In her black and white
Squad Sar
A single
Old fashioned
Blue light
Atop her Cop Car’s hood
***
And she’ll turn it on
Pull me over
And say:
“Mister, where’s the fire?
45 in a 30 mile zone?”
Then sternly ask me
For my
License and registration
Hear me say
“Of course
Officer Julie”
***
Then see her pretty blue eyes
Look up and light up
When she recognizes
My old voice
From our nice time
Together
Then she’ll smile
A big
Small Town smile
And she’ll say:
“Oh, it’s you!
“Go on–
“Get outa here!”
And look way too cute
For me to leave her
But I would
Watching her get
Smaller and smaller
In my dusty
Rear view mirror
******
A FEW DAYS LATER, AN UNEXPECTED POSTSCRIPT
Despite the romantic nature of my poem, I was significantly disturbed by the pathetic situation of a neglected Jewish cemetery in rural America. Maybe seeing that in Europe wouldn’t surprise me, but not here. No God, not here. I decided to do something about it. I think a lot of things can get set in motion by one person deciding to do something about it. Like when a guy proposes to his girl, he is setting up the stage for their grandchildren.
I tracked down the owner of the cemetery, whom it turns out I already knew, a Rabbi Hillel (not his real name) but not in that context. I expressed my irritation and he told me that a company that was doing some work on the grounds of the obscure cemetery accidentally knocked the sign off of the top of two tall brick pillars, approx. last November 2016.
A person in Rabbi Hillel’s congregation told the Rabbi about it back then, then Rabbi Hillel contacted the company that did the damage and they agreed to take responsibility for what happened to the sign, and would repair it by December 8th, or more than six weeks ago. I should mention the Rabbi is a kind, generous and very busy man with many people to look after, sometimes in stressful situations. A year ago, I was one of those people.
When I mentioned this discrepancy to him between the repair work promised and the repair work not done, he was, oh, disenchanted. Maybe not as much as Moses was, wearily coming down from Mt. Sinai after forty days up there in the clouds, burdened with those two heavy stone tablets in his arms with the newly minted Ten Commandments written upon them, only to find his six hundred thousand followers–recently freed from slavery in Egypt after four hundred years–decided to create and worship a golden calf in his absence. Didn’t work out well for many of them.
But regardless, busy Rabbi Hillel called the company, possibly suggested Biblical retribution might be coming their way: the earth suddenly opening up and swallowing their big construction trucks, or perhaps something a little less disturbing. Don’t know. Rabbis don’t gossip. Whatever he may have said, another person from my own synagogue who had read my January 20, 2017 poem about Cop Julie, and knew about my concern, called me this morning, January 25th, to tell me the sign with the big Jewish Star in the center of it was back up!
Damn!
Five days.
Of course, the entire Earth was supposed to have been created in six days, so perhaps, indirectly, causing the resurrection of a massive twenty foot long steel sign to be replaced atop two tall pillars only took a whisper from The Ruler of The Universe. But to mere mortals, such a whisper might be more like a hurricane. I guess that company that knocked down the sign took the hint. Wise move.
Finally, in a last reference to Cop Julie, I did go to where she works, left a note of appreciation to both her and to her Chief of Police so he knows how nice his cops are to strangers. I hope Cop Julie decides to take a ride down to that cemetery some sunny morning to take a look at what was healed because of her assistance to me less than a week ago. Now that would be a happy ending to this unexpected story.
A blessing on everybody’s head in this story.
Shalom!
***********
Publishing News!
Bob Katzman’s two new true Chicago books are now for sale, from him!
Vol. One: A Savage Heart and Vol. Two: Fighting Words
Gritty, violent, friendship, classic American entrepreneurship love, death, heartbreak and the real dirt about surviving in a completely corrupt major city under the Chicago Machine. More history and about one man’s life than a person may imagine.
Please visit my new website: https://www.dontgoquietlypress.com
If a person doesn’t want to use PayPaI, I also have a PO Box & I ship anywhere in America.
Send me a money order with your return and contact info.
I will get your books to you within ten days.
Here’s complete information on how to buy my books:
Vol 1: A Savage Heart and Vol. 2: Fighting Words
My books weigh almost 2 pounds each, with about 525 pages each and there are a total together of 79 stories and story/poems.
Robert M. Katzman
Don’t Go Quietly Press
PO Box 44287
Racine, Wis. 53404-9998 (262)752-3333, 8AM–7PM
Books cost $29.95 each, plus shipping
For: (1)$3.95; (2)$5.95; (3)$7.95; (4)$8.95 (5)$9.95;(6) $10.95
(7) $11.95; (8) $12.95; (9)$13.95 (10)$15.95 (15)$19.95
I am also for hire if anyone wants me to read my work and answer questions in the Chicago/Milwaukee area. Schools should call me for quantity discounts for 30 or more books. Also: businesses, bookstores, private organizations or churches and so on.
My Fighting Words Publishing Co. four original books, published between 2004 and 2007 are now out-of-print. I still have some left and will periodically offer them for sale on my new website.