Makeup Tips from Auschwitz: How Vanity Saved my Mother's Life

By Tommy Schnurmacher

Tommy Schnurmacher has written a book that could change your life. It changed his.
As a writer, Montreal media icon Schnurmacher is an intense force of nature, a seismic swell of visceral empathy, laser-sharp wit and courageous self-analysis.
Now meet Olga. Auschwitz prisoner A-25057, aka Mom, A fearless, dramatic and unpredictable maverick. An original.
Exposing the souls of a family for all to see, Make-up Tips from Auschwitz is an addictive page-turner. Schnurmacher's voice resonates with a lyrical cadence all his own and an unsettling candor reminiscent of humorist David Sedaris and essayist Augusten Burroughs.
Like the Oscar-winning film, Life is Beautiful, Schnurmacher revisits the Holocaust with rays of light in the darkness.
Sparkling with chutzpah and charm, this is a story of a family's cultural collision and delightful dysfunction. With the growing pains of Shtisel, the earthiness of The Simpsons and the fierce family loyalty of The Sopranos, these newcomers from Hungary defy authority. They figured out early on that conventional values were not enough. It was their moxie that allowed them to succeed.
Schmooze with the passing parade that includes John Lennon, Elizabeth Taylor and Crystal Nacht. You will laugh out loud as you meet a cast of supporting characters who redefine eccentric: the 50-minute therapist, the psychic rabbi and a superstitious hypochondriac named Paris.
Once you get to know these mutineers from the mainstream, you will want to organize an intervention. Or at least a Passover Seder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Aug 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228805175

Tommy Schnurmacher

Tommy Schnurmacher is a national award-winning broadcaster who has interviewed Canadian prime ministers, Arianna Huffington, Pulitzer prize-winning novelist Jeffrey Eugenides, and show business personalities like Clint Eastwood, Catherine Deneuve, and Charlie Sheen.

Book preview

Dr. Rebecca Melman-Hellman

Darn. It was too late to pick up a plastic-wrapped Mondo Kosher smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel at Second Cup. I was already huffing and puffing along a rain-swept Greene Avenue worried about arriving late for my two o’clock appointment with my psychologist, one Dr. Rebecca Melman-Hellman.

The doctor is no relation to the Hellmann’s (est. 1913) mayonnaise empire and when I made the rookie mistake of asking if she was, I had to spend thirty minutes of the expensive session defending myself. Dr. Melman-Hellman slowly explained about having one less consonant and made it abundantly clear she felt I was not really interested in her family background, but only using the question to mask my covert hostility. Covert? It was overt! Believe me, it was not really hostility directed at Melman-Hellman. It was more annoyance at myself that I was paying her one hundred and fifty dollars an hour.

I must confess I was addicted to this woman. My obsession with Melman-Hellman started when I spotted her at some well-meaning caregiver seminar offered to ‘members of the general public’ in a crowded mini-auditorium of the Jewish General Hospital. The topic was the impact of the Holocaust on the second generation.

I had been invited to be one of the speakers but I did not have to accept. Had I wanted to, I could have opted instead to attend a free matinee performance by the Cirque du Soleil but I loathe such tedium; I cannot stand all those fit young acrobats jumping about. They are always so deadly earnest, staring straight ahead with eyes wide open, trying to look profound while hanging on to some twenty-foot tie-dyed shmata that is billowing from the rafters. Since I could simply not stomach said Cirque, and as I was indeed a child of Holocaust survivors, I reluctantly agreed to take part.

I was in awe of Holocaust survivors and amazed at how they had triumphed over unspeakable horrors. I admired their amazing resilience and remarkable courage. Like any child of Holocaust survivors, I had been told often enough that I had an obligation to never forget.

Some survivors do not like to talk about the Holocaust to their children. Not my mom… not Auschwitz prisoner #A-25057. I knew that was her number—she showed me the tattooed number on her forearm when I was nine.

I pointed at the blue number. What is that?

"Vat do you think it is? It’s not a telephone number. Dis is how the Nazis kept track of their Jews.’’

Mom, you see, liked to keep me informed about history in general, and family history in particular. She told me that she and her sister were walking together on a country road near their little village of Szerencs in Hungary one lazy summer afternoon complaining to one another about how boring their lives were. A few months later, she said, they would be on board separate jammed cattle cars hurtling towards Auschwitz.

I was no more than six when Mom patiently explained to me that the reason I had no grandparents was because they had been gassed to death. I knew this was a very bad thing… she could not stop crying whenever she talked about it.

My mother also liked to keep me up to date about any family plans. I had just started kindergarten when she woke me in the middle of the night and told me we had to leave right away because my uncle from Montreal had arranged for a car that was waiting for us outside.

Where are we going?

We are going on an adventure.

Why do we have to go when it’s dark outside?

Because it is a secret adventure and we don’t want anyone to know. But don’t worry, Tomika, it will be great fun. You even get to bring along one of your toys.

I knew exactly which ones I wanted to take. I would bring my painted wooden streetcar and my new mandolin.

Sorry, my Tomika, you can bring only one.

The wooden streetcar did not really do much other than just sit there so I opted for the mandolin.

She was certainly right about it being an adventure. We were fleeing Budapest during the chaos that followed the Hungarian Revolution. Once out of the car, we would be crossing muddy terrain near the Austro-Hungarian border, climbing over barbed wire and gingerly avoiding the landmines that had been carefully planted to prevent too many citizens from fleeing the workers’ paradise.

Russian soldiers were everywhere but my parents had been assured by friends there was no need to worry; the Russians were usually either drunk or asleep by the middle of the night. They were also told they could rely on Gyula, a resourceful Hungarian peasant who had helped the Russians place the landmines in the first place. He agreed to guide my family and a few others past those landmines for a reasonable fraction of the precious American dollars they had been diligently stashing away for months. Strangely, Gyula became very tired en route and asked for more money for all his trouble. My father obliged but Gyula’s fatigue set in again when I started playing my mandolin a few hundred yards from the Austrian border.

What Gyula did next ended my musical career.

Piece #2

Cleopatra

Gyula may well have been a music aficionado for all I know. It was not that he had any dislike of mandolin music per se or that he was unimpressed with my fledgling talent. It is that he simply thought attracting the attention of Russian soldiers who might, say, shoot us all on sight, would not be a good idea. Not wishing to go to any great length to explain the nuances of his assessment of the situation, he merely smashed the mandolin over my head, knocking me out cold thus ending my impromptu performance. The good news is I was carried the rest of the way to the refugee camp where they showed us movies.

After we settled in Montreal, I decided that Cleopatra was the greatest movie ever made. I came to this definitive conclusion at the age of ten. It starred Elizabeth Taylor and, let me tell you, I knew plenty about her. She was a famous and beautiful actress who looked exactly like my mother— black hair, high cheekbones and such smooth white skin. "Porcelana babana" as my father would say whenever they were both in a good mood; playful rhyming Hungarian for porcelain doll. Whenever he said it, Mom would always tightly grip his hand and smile—she felt his was a most accurate analysis.

My awareness of Mom’s resemblance to the Hollywood star was not subjective; it was based on an endless supply of evidence. As Hungarian refugees arriving in Montreal, Mom and I learned how to speak English by reading her movie magazines. Elizabeth Taylor would often appear on the cover of Photoplay and Movie Mirror. She was not just on the cover, you understand. Oh no… not our Liz, she was no Connie Stevens. Liz was mentioned very often in the scintillating, multi-page gossip columns penned by the powerful Hedda Hopper and her arch rival Louella Parsons. From Hedda and Louella, we learned about the love triangle of Cleopatra, Mark Antony and Julius Caesar and how it paled in comparison to the love triangle of Elizabeth Taylor, Eddie Fisher and Richard Burton.

Louella always had the juicer tidbits but the column Under Hedda’s Hat was always a fun read with all those candid pictures and famous names in bold print. Mom and I heard she was anti-Semitic so we sided with Louella in the feud, but secretly, we read Hedda nonetheless. When Mom discovered that Eddie Fisher had left his wife Debbie Reynolds to marry Taylor who had converted to Judaism, Mom was not buying any of it.

She told me, Dis von’t last. We should remain poor as long as dese two are married –and den–ven they split up–vee should become rich.

In our Clark Street flat in the Plateau, Mom’s second-hand blonde-lacquer Art Deco boudoir table added to Elizabeth Taylor’s mystique. Featured prominently, and reflected in the just slightly tarnished mirror, was a hand-painted Chinese jewelry box that played tinny music whenever it was opened. To the left of the music box was a still-fragrant bottle of cheap Chat Noir perfume. Framing these two treasures—half a dozen color pictures of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton on the set of Cleopatra. These photos had been meticulously cut from the pages of the movie magazines with special emphasis to make sure that their removal would not damage any gossip column content on the flip side. I was very proud of how well I performed this delicate and crucial task. The operation would necessitate buying two, and occasionally, three copies of Photoplay. Smiling relatives on Mom’s side, and even more so on Dad’s side, would often find themselves exiled to scrapbooks to make their vacated picture frames available for the latest pic of Liz and Dick.

If there was even the slightest doubt in my mind as to the extent of the resemblance, this was dispelled by a special leather-bound book in which Mom would paste pictures of Elizabeth Taylor and other celebrities next to pictures of herself wearing the same haircut or similar outfit… page after page of Liz and Mom and one strange juxtaposition of Mom and Rudolf Nureyev!

One sweltering summer night, Butterfield 8 starring Elizabeth Taylor, was playing at the Van Horne Theatre on Cote des Neiges. In this 1960 film, Taylor played the role of a prostitute. I wanted to see it, of course, but in those days, you had to be sixteen to see a movie. I told the lady at the ticket wicket that I just needed to speak to my mother for a second and I promised to come right out again. I lied. I did no such thing. I found Mom, sat down next to her and we both watched the film. Not once, but twice. We both agreed that Liz delivered a superb performance.

A few months later, there was no question of me going to sleep early on Oscar night. Before anyone was going to sleep, we both had to make sure Liz was going to win the Oscar for Best Actress.

To this day I know Elizabeth Taylor’s full name: Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky. The double Burton reference is no typo—she married him twice, the first time in Montreal, six days before my Bar Mitzvah. Warner was a senator and she met the Fortensky guy in rehab.

After Elizabeth Taylor died, her family hired Christie’s to auction off her worldly goods. Most items went for absurdly high prices, but in the smaller online auction I managed to score an enamel compact that was part of her personal collection. Touched by her own hands. When it was delivered, I proudly showed it to Mom who was by then confined to a wheelchair and starting to lose her memory.

"Anyu, this compact belonged to Elizabeth Taylor. You remember Elizabeth Taylor?"

She opened the compact, smelled some of the powder that was still there and snapped it shut. She looked up at me with a concerned look on her well-lined face.

Tomika, do I still look like Elizabeth Taylor?

"Of course you do. You are a ‘porcelana babana’".

Opening the compact again, she looked at her reflection. She paused then looked up at me once more. Slowly and gently, she gripped my hand and smiled.

Piece #3

A Hard Day’s Night

I was in the hallway, sprawled out on the wall-to-wall mustard-yellow broadloom carpet in our third floor walkup apartment on Cote Ste Catherine Road. I had been there for hours listening to CFCF radio. Deejay Dave Boxer, you see, was on the air giving away free tickets to see the Montreal premiere screening of A Hard Day’s Night at the Capitol Theatre. All you had to do was to call in. I did—and I was one of the lucky winners! I was so thrilled because now I would be part of the action. In reality, I ended up being part of a long lineup in the parking lot of CFCF Television at 405 Ogilvy Avenue in the wilds of Park Extension.

I took the bus there and I took the bus back all on my own. I came home triumphantly clutching that precious green and black ticket in my hand and grateful that it had not been stolen by any number of bullies who were on the bus. I still have that ticket to this very day. Why? Because my mother would not allow me to go to the premiere.

What do you mean I can’t go?

I love you too much to let you go. Don’t you know what will happen if there are hundreds of children crowded into a movie theatre?

What will happen? They will all have a great time, that’s what will happen.

Ah yes, they may have fun at the beginning. But what the kids don’t know is that a maniac also knows that there will be all these kids all in the same building, all at the same time. Anyone with a brain will realize he will buy a bomb and kill them all and that is why you cannot go.

Uh-oh. Maybe she had a point. With what little courage I had at the time, I ventured a weak, Maybe the maniac will be busy with something else? Maybe he has to work for a living like Daddy?

Maniacs do not have time to work for a living.

If maniacs don’t work, how can they afford to buy a bomb?

Mom was undeterred. I asked her why all the other kids could go. She told me it was because their parents were Canadian and that Canadian parents did not love their children.

So I missed the big premiere. While all those Canadian kids watched John, Paul, George and Ringo on the screen at the Capitol Theatre, I was home monitoring radio newscasts to hear about any local explosions. Of course there was no explosion… there was no maniac. But I did not give up; I worked on Mom relentlessly as it was not just the opening night she refused to let me attend; I was not allowed to see any of the subsequent screenings. After each radio newscast, I would point out to her the dearth of news of any explosion. The Capitol Theatre, in fact, had gone unbombed for three weeks.

"It seems obvious to me, Anyu, and I am sure that an intelligent woman such as you will understand that no self-respecting maniac would want to blow up a movie house at a half-empty matinee screening when he could have destroyed a packed house on opening night!"

Mom grudgingly agreed that I had a point so she finally agreed to let me go provided, that is, that she could come with me and that we would go shopping afterwards because she needed a new cocktail dress.

Mom was too vain to wear glasses, so she needed my help to read those tiny price tags. So later that week, we did go see a matinee screening. A gawky fourteen-year-old accompanied by his mother who was eight months pregnant, sitting in the balcony screaming just like everyone else at appropriate and inappropriate moments.

Mom is much older now and I like to visit her and make her a cup of lemon tea. She often forgets that I just went to see her and calls me back to come visit. She pleads with me and tells me she is lonely. Sometimes I am just too tired to go and many times I tell her I am too busy. But then I feel anxious and tell myself I better go; it’s the least I can do. She is my mother and I should be grateful I have her. Whenever I arrive, she is thrilled and her face lights up. She keeps thanking me. She says she does not want to take advantage of my good nature, but she misses me so much. The more she says, the worse I feel. What kind of a monster am I? How could I have resented coming by? As she sips her tea, I tell her I am going to write a memoir and she asks me if I am going to mention her—I sure am.

When I take my leave, she gives me a gentle kiss. Her skin is so soft. I kiss her on the forehead and wish her a goodnight.

She pauses for a second, You can go now if you are busy, but if it’s possible, could you stay just a little longer?

It occurs to me that one day she will not be there to ask that question. Needless to say I stay. I could not leave if I tried.

PIECE #4

John and Yoko

When the Beatles came to Montreal in 1964, my luck the date they chose for their matinee and evening concerts at the Montreal Forum coincided with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

Needless to say, I did not even have to ask my father if I could go; I knew it was totally out of the question. Besides, tickets were selling for the outrageously high price of $5.50. Not being able to see them was a huge disappointment so I asked my father for some money to buy the Beatlemania album.

I give you ten dollars weekly allowance, Tommy. Why don’t you buy it from that?

I already spent my allowance.

Then you can buy the album next week.

"Please, Daddy. Please. It’s such a good album and it has both ‘Please Mr. Postman’ and ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ It’s only four dollars including tax."

My father was a soft touch; not a harsh bone in his body. He simply could not say no to me and handed over the four dollars.

I was a dedicated Beatles fan, inconsolable when the Dave Clark Five momentarily pushed the Fab Four out of number one spot on the Top 40.

One sticky, hot afternoon in late May 1969, I heard CFOX radio deejay Charles P. Rodney Chandler mention that John Lennon and Yoko Ono and her six-year-old daughter Kyoko were holed up in town having a Bed-In for Peace at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. Wow! A Beatle in Montreal? I never particularly liked Lennon’s long hair and I confess he was only my third favorite Beatle, but he was a Beatle nonetheless. It would be fun to go downtown to catch a glimpse of him, so I called my good friend Lilian to join me. She turned me down because she was too busy doing biology homework. Then I called my Northmount High classmate Gail. I was impressed with her because she used to write letters to the TV studios in California asking for the autographs of people like Carol Burnett and Tommy Smothers. We had worked together writing and even sold a couple of scripts to the CBC Radio show, Funny You Should Say That.

Gail patiently explained to me there was no point in going downtown as we would never get anywhere near the guy. She predicted a scene with thousands of crazed fans held back by dozens of well-armed security guards. Undaunted, I insisted we give it a shot. I told her I had already gone to the trouble of forging a fake press pass and I even had a set of colored crayons for Yoko’s daughter Kyoko.

What do we do if we can’t get in? Gail was still not convinced.

We come home, but at least we can say we tried.

It took me a full 15 minutes of waxing enthusiastic about what a magnificent addition a John Lennon autograph would be to her collection before Gail finally relented and agreed to come along.

We took the 124 bus. We transferred to the 65 and then it was just a brisk five block walk to the Queen E.

Gail’s power to peer into the future was nil; I was the one who had it pegged. Not a single teenager in front of the hotel. Not one! Gail had been convinced that the lobby would be mobbed. Wrong again… not a single kid there either.

We made it to the bank of elevators and still not a teenybopper in sight. No security guards. No one so much as gave us a second glance. Since we had heard on the radio our prey was on the seventeenth floor, Gail—the amateur—wanted to push the 17 button. I brushed her hand aside and pushed 18. I am no fool. Two kids getting off on the ‘Bed-In’ floor? Too obvious even to the most dim-witted security guard.

The two of us got off on the 18th floor and took the stairs down to the 17th. We peered to the left. Nothing. We peered to the right and noticed some commotion near Room 1742 which had some empty room service trays outside.

We rushed over and knocked on the door; two things happened simultaneously. One - a tall lumbering security guard appeared out of nowhere and had his hand on the back of my collar; and two - the door opened. Standing in the doorway were Yoko and her daughter who looked like her mini-me.

I am so sorry, madame; I don’t know how these two managed to get up here, but not to worry. I will throw them out right now.

While this exchange was taking place, little Kyoko was eyeing the shiny box of crayons I had in my hand. She took the bait just in time.

Can I have the crayons?

Not if we are being thrown out! I said. Gail looked sheepish and said nothing.

Yoko—ever the peace lover—decided to chime in.

No one will be thrown out. These are our friends. Please come in.

We were not in the suite 30 seconds when she invited us to meet her husband, Would you like to meet John? He is in the next room.

We remained glued to the spot. Meet John? Meet a Beatle? A real Beatle? Did she know what she was saying? We both nodded and said yes at the same time. We met John Lennon, we talked to him—no one asked us to leave so we stayed. I ordered Pouilly Fuisse white wine for Tommy Smothers; we saw visitors like Petula Clark, Timothy Leary, Dick Gregory and Li’l Abner cartoonist Al Capp.

It was great fun hanging out with all these notables, but the reason we ended