Inelda Schnelz unlocked the door to the upstairs apartment at the back of the little theater turned kiddie entertainment center, and holding her breath against the foulness which blasted out at her, clumsily stepped over the remains of the Grandfather clock which partially blocked them, and ponderously heaved herself up the steep flight one painful step at a time.
Nearly an hour later, she sat drinking coffee in the tiny kitchen of an apartment that was a relic from a time when most shopkeepers lived within a few steps of their cash registers, staring out the window that overlooked the darkened street.
Coffee cup cradled in her large, gnarled hands, she looked up at the pictures and other mementos of a life lived behind one mask or another adorning the wall of the little breakfast nook, the nook which Hermann had built for her when both of them were still jumping at the slightest noise, be it a pigeon landing on the gutter outside, or the postman dropping a letter through the slot at the bottom of the stairs.
Among the theatrical posters and autographed publicity photos was their 50th wedding anniversary photo, taken some time in the 1970s, twin to the one in the heavy silver frame she kept on her desk in her office downstairs.
There was their first wedding photo, taken by some random stranger with Inelda's Box Brownie camera of them in their best on the L.A. County courthouse steps.
There was the one of the two of them taken by another random stranger, standing in front of the front gate of the D.P. camp Hermann had found her in 1945 not long after Auschwitz – he had walked from refugee camp to refugee camp looking for her, wearing out the bottoms of his shoes so that by the time he'd found her in a Red Cross hospital, hands bandaged, scalp a mass of of stitches, his feet showed through the soles, but he'd found her, (Ai-ai-ai, mazel tov!) he'd found her.
There was the one taken at his timid red-haired great-niece's Bat Mitzvah, taken only five years before – Herman looked so frail in this one because he'd refused chemo, "Schatzi, sweetie," he'd said on the long walk home from the doctor's office, "Ehhhh, I've had a good run! Why waste good money on a crabby old alter kocker like me? I've had eighty or so good years - see you on the other side (If there is one!)!"
Absently fingering the harsh white scar along the top of her skull beneath her thinning hair, Inelda looked up at the anniversary photo again, sighing, "I'm sorry zeisele. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but I wanted to be sure that shaygetz, goy that he is, was right for the job."
A single tear slowly zigzagged down Inelda's toad-like face, dropping unnoticed in her coffee.