Senior Class: José’s First Kiss

José with his wife, Kate .

What a pleasure it is to feature José DiMauro as our guest blogger today. Born in Argentina, José graduated from medical school at Univ De Buenos Aires and left home in 1963 to start his medical career at Chicago’s Mercy Hospital. From there he became a board certified pathologist at University of Illinois in Chicago.

After retiring, Dr. DiMauro and his wife Kate moved to Admiral at the Lake, where I lead a weekly memoir-writing class. For Valentine’s Day this year the prompt was “Before I Met You.” This exquisite essay José read out loud in class wowed us all, and he has generously agreed to let me share it with you Safe & Sound blog readers here, too.

Greta

by José DeMauro

Trying to stop the passage of time, an old memory lingers Between 1943 and 1946, when I was somewhere between nine and twelve years old. It was then that I met you, Greta.

Remember?

My father had bought that lot with the old house in the back. We moved into that old house while he built the new one up in front, the one your parents rented. That rental was meant to be temporary, until father recouped some of his expenses. It lasted for a couple of years, not more than 3, I believe. We moved into the new house after your family left.

Your parents spoke Spanish with an accent. It was said that your father was French and your mother Russian. But that could have meant anything: in Argentina we called anybody from Eastern Europe “Russian.” At the time many people were coming to Argentina from eastern Europe. I didn’t know about those things, but I suspect now that your parents may have been Jews escaping the pogroms.

Your parents looked somewhat out of place in the neighborhood, particularly your father, the owner of that hair styling salon on the main street.

You were their only child, at least two years older than me, weren’t you? You were tall, thin, vivacious, and smart. At least I thought so! You had short hair, most likely your father cropped it, didn’t he?

Let me tell you why I am thinking of you now. There was a patio inside that house my father built. We used to play there. My sister would play with us, too. Do you remember?

When I think of that patio, I mainly see the light, particularly that summer. It was vacation time. I’m guessing it was noon and the sunlight came straight down, leaving no shadows. It was hot, too. You and I were left alone on that patio, seated on the tiles with our backs against a wall and you, you suddenly turned towards me and said, more of an order than a request, “Kiss me!”

At the time, I only lived to run around with the neighborhood boys. I was not troubled by the thoughts of girls.

That day we were two children seated side by side, and suddenly quiet under the bright hot sun.

“Kiss me!” you almost commanded. I hesitated, kept looking straight ahead to something that I was not seeing. But there was an urgency in your voice.

So I turned my head and kissed you. On your cheek as I remember. Maybe it was the heat or the sweat, but it tasted salty.

Your family moved out of the house shortly afterwards. Only once, soon thereafter, we crossed paths on a sidewalk. You were with your mother, and I was with mine. Our mothers ignored each other, but you waved your hand to me with a smile, and I did the same.

I still keep an old small black and white photograph of you standing side by side with my sister and me. It is a bit out of focus, like my memories.

But I still clearly remember that kiss.