Je Suis un Candélabre

As many of you likely know from my effusive self-congratulations on social media, I’m currently playing Lumiere in a production of “Beauty and the Beast”. It really has been one of those, dare I say, “enchanted” experiences (shut up; you love it).  Now, in case your parents forgot to supply you with a childhood, Lumiere is the candlestick. He harbors a contentious relationship with his best friend, the constipated clock, and is constantly trying to feel up the feather duster. The only problem? He doesn’t have hands because… well, because he’s a candle. 

In order to transform me from your run-of-the-mill two-armed schlemiel into a debonair candelabrum, I have to carry “candles”. These candles, like my performance, are far from subtle. They’re these big honking things. Each houses two buttons: one for lights (red and yellow LEDs) and one for a fan that blows a piece of flame-shaped fabric. From a gander, you’d guess they weigh at least 10 pounds. Mercifully, they only weigh 3.25 pounds (trust me, I’ve put them on a scale). And while they may not be as heavy as they look, three hours of swinging them over my head and smiling like my left shoulder isn’t trying to kill me from the inside out does eventually take its toll. Thankfully, the audience often acknowledges my herculean efforts.  

 

People ask me constantly, “Do your arms hurt from holding those things?”  Without any exaggeration, I hear this question at minimum three times a night. I’m not joking. Every other table in the restaurant asks me this—and those who don’t are eavesdropping when I respond to those who just did. 

My response is entirely reflexive—at this point it’s almost like saying “God bless you” after I hear a sneeze. “In a word: yes,” I’ll chuckle. Or, “At least I don’t have to do push-ups anymore!” and we all have a laugh. Or “If you have stock in Aleve, I’m going to make you a millionaire!” This perpetual loop has become so much a part of my existence over these past few months that I've begun to worry; if no one asked about my arms, would I just cease to be?

But this isn’t the only thing that inquiring minds want to know. As you may recall from the original animated film, Lumiere is the only character (except Babette) who speaks with a French accent (even though the movie is set in France). The reason behind this is pretty cut and dry: he has a French accent because Jerry Orbach felt like doing one (and who could say “no” to Jerry Orbach?). So, it’s his fault that every Lumiere since has had to spackle it on thicker than bouillabaisse. Either that, or he’s a complete and utter letdown.

This is all your fault.

It’s mostly kids who ask me, “How did you learn that French accent?” My response to this is programmed, too. Only, with this question, I offer no variety. Everyone gets the same answer: “My grandfather was French.” This usually satiates their curiosity. They nod and smile and get back to whatever world they were living in before they met me. And I walk smiling because I know that my grandfather would be over the moon. The only thing is… it’s a lie.

Much to his (and Adolf Hitler’s) disappointment, my grandfather was actually born in Berlin. As a young tot, he learned to walk on soil he was told did not belong to him. After all, he was a Jew. And when the pogroms on Kristallnacht destroyed what property his family did own—a clothing store—his father, mother, and brother fled for safety in Paris.

It wasn’t long after their migration that France (all too easily) fell to the Nazi regime. As the Nazis took power, they requested that the local government supply a list of all Jewish men. They were to be deported—sent to work in the camps. But in their eagerness to show compliance to their new overlords—and, I’d wager a guess, due to anti-Semitism of their own—the French went a step beyond. Instead of supplying a list of the men as requested, they included women and children as well. Every Jew was marked. 

Well, that wasn’t what the Nazis had asked for because that wasn’t what the Nazis could handle. The overwhelming numbers put a kink in their killing machine. While the men would have been sent to work, this overwhelming number of people was just a nuisance. They needed to be dealt with. And swiftly. That meant certain death for almost all. (The Nazi’s left the Jews of Paris to swelter without food or toilets for days in a bicycle arena until they knew what to do. You can read all about it in the novel “Sarah’s Key”.)  

I'm may (or may not) be related to people in this photograph.

On that fateful day when the Jews were told to report, my 13-year old grandfather—named Fritz—trundled what little he could carry. Not too far ahead, the cattle cars were waiting. My great-grandparents approached the man with the clipboard. They proudly spoke their names. After all, what else did they have? 

After each name, the man with the clipboard placed a check. “Kurt,” (father), check. “Else,” (mother), check. “Hans,” (brother), check. “Fritz…” The man with the clipboard turned the page. He looked confused. And then he turned the page back. He traced his finger along the list. “Fritz?” they repeated. But it wasn’t there. His name had been left off the list. A clerical error had been made. Because of this, his was the only life in his family to be spared. This happens to be the only reason that I exist. As he watched his family carted off to what would be their eventual murder, my grandfather looked at that Nazi with the clipboard. He asked him one simple question. “What do you suggest I do?” to which the Nazi calmly replied, “I suggest you run.”

So he did. Pushing his was back through the crowds he began racing through the streets of Paris. In a short while, he found himself at the hotel where his family had been living. He stepped into the lobby and encountered a familiar face. It was the hotel’s concierge, a woman called Madame Bertand. She was holding an orange. When she saw him, she immediately began to cry. “I never thought I’d see you again. Here,” she gestured, “have an orange.” She hid him in an attic until the war was won.

From then on, he never wanted to be called “Fritz”. The sound of it was rough and far too German. So, he changed his name to “Andre”. That matched his new identity; like him, it was infinitely more French.

After the war, he moved out of the attic and into a bed at an orphanage. But due to the great influx of war orphans, they gave him the boot on the day he turned 18. He had nowhere to go. So, naturally, he became a stowaway on a potato boat heading toward America.  And, for the rest of his life, whenever someone questioned his (thick) accent, he’d wipe his palms on his trousers and make a long story short. He simply told them he was from France. After all, it was the country that made him man. That lie, and a good cognac, brought him such joy. So, on his behalf, every time someone asks me about my French accent, I’m going to say it was his. That’s the type of lie that deserves to survive another generation.

The other night, a woman in the lobby made my heart smile. We were chatting after the show and she enthusiastically exclaimed, “It’s like this is the part you were born to play!” Oh, if she only knew.