Images on Shattered Glass

By Erich von Neff

It is San Francisco in the late 1960s. Lillian Singer from the Staszow Shtetl in Poland sells old clothes on Clement Street. Bear, a Yakima Indian, lives in a phone booth. At the ABC Beauty Salon Kay Shimoguchi kneads the tresses of a blonde, while outside the Bistro La Ferme Beaujolaise the cable car goes Clang, Clang, Clang. These and more are images on shattered glass.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erich von Neff
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215385586

Erich von Neff

Erich von Neff is a San Francisco longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research student at the University of Dundee Scotland. Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. He is a member of the Poetes Francais ,La Societes des Poetes et Artistes de France, Vice Chancelier de la Federation Poetique de Saint Venance Fortunat, and Membre d'honneur du Caveau Stephanois. He has had the following publications in France (en français): Poems: 1303 Short Stories: 318 Small press books 9 Books 1 Prix (Prizes) 26 Erich von Neff's novel "Prostitutees au bord de La Route" (Prostitutes by the Side of the Road) was published by "Cashiers de Nuit" (1999) with a grant from Centre Region des Lettres de Basse-Normandie. Erich von Neff's book of poems "Les Putains Cocainomanes" (The Cocaine Whores) was published by Cahiers du Nuit, 1998. "Les Putains Cocainomanes " was discussed on 96.2 FM, Paris, 1998 by Marie-Andre Balbastre, Poem # 45 was read. Several poems from "Les Putains Cocainomanes "were read at the Cafe Montmarte in Paris,2010. Several poems from "Les Yeux qui faiblissent ont faim de la vigilance eternelle de la verite "were read at the Cafe Au soleil de la Butte in Paris, 2014. Poems from " Un Cube chrome a l'interieur d'une coquille d'oeuf cassee" were read at the Cafe Au soleil de la butte" in Paris 2014. A Trophée Victor Hugo was awarded to Erich von Neff's novel "Une Lancia rouge Devale Lombard Street a tombeau ouvert," (The Red Lancia Roars Down Lombard Street), 1998. Several poems from my "Le Puttane della cocaina" (The Cocaine Whores) were read by Giulia Lombardo at the Caffe Litterario in Rome, at the Caffe Palatennistavolo,Teni Italy & Caffe degli artisti in Milan, Bookbar in Rome, Bibliocafe in Rome , and in five other Italian cafes in Italy,2014. Several poems from my "Le Puttane della cocaina" were read by Giulia Lombardo at the Caffe Palatennistavolo,Terni Italy in February ,6 readings in May 2015, 3 readings in June 2015, 2 readings in July, 4 readings in August, 4 readings in September,3 readings in October, 5 readings in December, 2015. 2 readings of my "Le Puttane dela cocaina"were read by Giulia Lombardo at the,Caffe Palatennistavolo,Terni Italy, January 2016. 2 readings of my "Le Puttane della cocaina" were read by Giulia Lombardo at the ...

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Lillian Singer

(Clement Street, San Francisco, 1968)

I have long been convinced that the Staszow Ghetto* lives on—perhaps in rudimentary format—at the northwest corner of Seventh Avenue and Clement Street in San Francisco.

It is here that Lillian Singer brings her shopping cart filled with old books, dolls, clothing, and other items she has collected. Dressed in her babushka and frayed coat she sells her wares which amazingly people buy, though she never completely sells out. Some books and a few items are usually left over at the end of the day.

It should be remarked that Lillian Singer remembers little of the Staszow Ghetto which her family left in 1938 for New York, then San Francisco. Perhaps pessimists have better survival instincts or are just more realistic.

Since Lillian Singer lives near where I work, I have on more occasions than I wish to enumerate driven her to Seventh Avenue and Clement Street. She seems to wait at the bus stop just about the time I get off from work. She stands there waiting patiently, her shopping cart filled with sundries.

Need I say that fellow employees have criticized me for getting involved. Perhaps this is because Lillian Singer does not have blonde hair, blue eyes, and is not long legged—a more acceptable choice to drive somewhere.

Nonetheless, I have driven Lillian Singer to her corner at Seventh Avenue and Clement Street. I’m not sure how she manages on the bus. The top layer of her cart is indiscriminately placed and has a tendency to spill. Also she often has a shopping bag full of other additional items.

I have to admit that I am always somewhat annoyed at the way I have to jostle the cart around to get it to fit in the back of my car. It seems to have a mind of its own. Sometimes it fits in sideways. At other times, it fits straight in or on its side. This is because I am always trying to maneuver it so that the least number of items fall out. Books and clothing spill anyway. So why do I bother? Yet it really does seem that one position would be less disastrous than another, for Lillian Singer never packs her cart the same. Items are always to one side or another. The weight is not evenly distributed.

Lillian Singer gets in the car and says something like, For me you shouldn’t have done this. Yet I have; and she has accepted the ride, nonetheless.

Lillian Singer has a tendency to talk about her sister and her mother. Her sister teaches school and the kids don’t pay any attention.

Kids these days, I’m telling you. Her mother lives with her sister and they don’t get along. Her sister charges her mother too much rent."

For such a mother she should be grateful. And so on.

She shouldn’t charge her any rent. Besides an old woman on social security shouldn’t have to pay rent.

I couldn’t help but agree with that.

For such a mother. One who foresaw it all. Who demanded that papa bring the family to New York from the Staszow Ghetto when Lillian Singer was still in kindergarten.

In the Staszow Ghetto papa had worked as a kosher butcher, but in San Francisco he worked among Germans and Italians in San Francisco’s Butchertown, breaking up hogs, steers, and even horses.

What papa wouldn’t do to survive!

For the kids! For mamma!

Papa had died young. At thirty five.

He shouldn’t have worked in the slaughterhouse.

But what other trade did papa know?

Mamma got a job as a buyer for Grodin’s Clothing Center in the apparel market. Without a complaint she worked sixty hours a week, putting the kids through school. Finally Lillian and her sister graduated from San Francisco State College** when it was on Laguana Street.

Their paths ran parallel for a while, both teaching primary school, then they went their separate ways.

Lillian Singer began holding garage sales.

For this mama worked? For this papa died?

Lillian Singer moved to a room in the basement. She began selling here and there in the City, finally fixing on Seventh Avenue and Clement Street.

I’ve never asked her why. But there’s a lot of foot traffic, obviously reason enough.

Lillian Singer has given me a poetry book, e. e. cummings, 50 collected poems.

There was no buyer for it today. Surely there might be one tomorrow or the next day.

You are a poet. You need this.

I took the book.

Again, I have given her a ride. I have picked Lillian Singer up at Thirty-Sixth Avenue and Judah Streets, muscled in her cart with accouterments: lopsided with books and dolls hanging out.

For this mama worked. For this papa died?

Lillian Singer climbed in next to me.

Will people buy these?

Lillian Singer doesn’t know yet. She always seems to sell what is on hand, though not as much as she’d like.

Then, too, there is her work registering voters for the Democratic Party. She sits in front of a card table, wearing a straw hat with Democrat pinned on it. She’s paid by the number of signatures she gets. This booth is also at Seventh Avenue and Clement Street. She has rapport with the neighborhood.

I stopped at Seventh Avenue and Clement Street. I pulled out the cart while Lillian Singer steadied the dolls with her small-boned hands. She pushed the cart over to the Athletic Shoe Shop and began to set up shop, which consisted of spreading newspapers on the sidewalk and folding the clothes in neat piles on top of them. She put the dolls on the clothes, their backs leaning against the orange tiles of The Athletic Shoe Shop. They were the right height for children to see. One was a Raggedy Ann Doll. She had a big smile.

People walked by. Lillian Singer smiled her wistful smile. A woman in a business suit browsed, thumbing through a few books. She bought Danielle Steel’s Season of Passion novel for a quarter. The dolls and doll clothes remained. Would they sell?

For such a mother. For such a father.

From the Staszow Ghetto.

Now located at Seventh Avenue and Clement Street where Lillian Singer sells books and dolls.

Already there was a little girl looking at the dolls.

From the Staszow Ghetto—in rudimentary form—they smile. They wait at Seventh Avenue and Clement Street—The Staszow Ghetto Annex where Betsy Yang sells shoes at the Athletic Shoe Shop. Where Max the saxophone player across the street plays Misty. Where Bear the Lakota Indian drinks Midnight Express.

They wait. For such a mother. For such a father.

---

* Prior to the Holocaust Period the part(s) of a city where Jews congregated were called shtetl, though they are now popularly called ghettos. Officially, the Nazis established the Staszow Ghetto in June 1942.

** Now San Francisco State University.

The ABC Beauty Salon*

What is now The Slavic Bookstore was, until recent memory, the ABC Beauty Salon operated by Kay Shimoguchi. A woman with a sonorous voice and a quiet manner which belied a steadfast inner strength and a determined will.

I would pass the lattice window. Women sat contentedly under hairdryers or waiting their turn. I surmised from their languid manner that they were reading Vogue, Premiere, Elle, Glamour, . . . definitely something sensual.

Meanwhile Kay‘s supple fingers plied the tresses of a woman whose hair was bathed in lather. I, of course, was very tempted to open the door and wait my turn while inhaling intoxicating scents and listening to whispers of liaisons in full flower.

Now Masako Watanabe was having an affair of the heart and of the body with Yoshi Shimoghchi, Kay’s brother. She had flown over from Osaka, Japan, at his expense.

Masako was installed in an apartment conveniently near Yoshi’s house. As I understand it, this was more of a cubicle without much light. She spoke no English.

Although Masako’s evenings were often delightfully occupied—when she could be sandwiched in between Yoshi’s work schedule and family obligations—during the day she was left pretty much to herself. She could, of course, watch the t.v., though she could not understand the dialogue. In any case, she did not like t.v.

Kay Shimoguchi was upset but not furious at these peripheral aspects of her brother’s affair of the heart and definitely that of the body. And so she invited Masako Watanabe to the ABC Beauty Salon during the day. Ladies waited for their turn reading articles about Slightly Scarlet, Personal Property, and Vigil in Stones. Masako did odd jobs and thumbed intently through fashion and movie magazines. She was, after all, unlicensed.

While all this was going on, I was working at the brewery racking off kegs of beer. Germans predominated and that guttural language could be heard above my mallet, banging in the bungs. Barrel after barrel was racked off for consumption at the Rathskeller, Schlegel’s and other places where men have thick enough arms to hoist heavy steins.

Masako and Kay’s clientele thumbed through page after page of photo montages reprinting affairs, some secret, and others all too obvious. Kay lathered and combed hair while Masako assisted her as far as the law allowed.

Masako was having an affair of the heart in a cubicle with the t.v. off. Masako was lonely and Kay was determined to help.

At the brewery I racked off kegs. At the brewery I hammered in bungs. In a cubicle bodies were wet with sweat. In a cubicle wallpaper was damp and peeling.

I looked through the lattice window. Kay and her partner, Zina Zhovreboff, combed and teased hair, setting it in styles adapted from movie stars.

Zina worked primarily on the Russian customers, while Kay worked primarily on the Japanese customers, though there were some crossovers and other ethnic groups.

These styles would entice husbands or lovers or probably both. These styles would be tussled by rough hands reaching, reaching; and so, the cycle would begin again.

My wife, Lillian, went to Kay to get her American Indian hair washed and to be combed out straight. I, too, found it difficult to restrain myself.

One day, Kay said to Lillian, Maybe you teach Masako English. Perhaps you help her a little that way.

I do not know exactly how Lillian proceeded. I would come home from the brewery after racking off kegs and listening to Verdammt. Mach’s gut Erich. (Damn. Do it right Erich) and things like that.

Lillian and Masako would be walking down the block—two coal black streaks of hair: American Indian and Japanese—apparently in conversation or at least intoning words.

They would walk to Mountain Lake Park. While I spent the day at the brewery lowering the racker arm . . . filling kegs.

And so it went for month after month. In a cubicle where bodies groped, these events also lay in an extended plane.

In the ABC Beauty Salon movie magazine pages were flipped. Affairs waxed and waned from issue to issue, and new lovers appeared.

Which would only mean that wallpaper was less soggy, sweaty nights were less frequent.

I would still see two coal black streaks of hair. This friendship based on English lessons seemed to be increasing.

Verdammt. Mach’s gut Erich. One keg then another and another until beer time.

Jawohl, Hans. Jawohl.

Yoshi Shimoguchi did not read movie magazines. Yoshi did not follow the events they depicted. Yoshi had gotten used to