Lavender Love (boyxboy)✅

Epilogue

As I sat beside Alex, he reached for my hand. "That was a nice story," he said quietly, his voice softer than usual. These days, it took a lot of effort for him to speak. Today I had an extra hard time hearing him. Of course, my hearing wasn't the greatest, either.

"It's our story."

Alex nodded, muttering something in Yiddish. Having lived with Alex all these years, I'd learned a bit of Yiddish. He was talking to his mother again.

Over the past week, Alex's family—who had perished in the Holocaust—paid him visits in his room. As people neared the end of life, it wasn't uncommon for a dying person to experience hallucinations, especially someone with Parkinson's disease. Alex was aware of his hallucinations, and they didn't cause him any distress. Lately, he often wished his mother would take him with her. For seventy-seven years, he'd been waiting to see his family again. At the same time, he didn't want to go without me. Many, many, many years ago, we made a promise that we'd stay together until the end.

In 2005, I converted to Judaism so I could be buried in a Jewish cemetery with Alex. About the same time, we picked out our plot. There were specific instructions that went along with a Jewish burial. Alex outlined all of them in his Living Will, which we gave to my grandniece, Christine, Jimmy's forty-three-year-old granddaughter. We trusted her to carry out our wishes. A fellow writer and LGBTQ activist, she and I were always close. Christine and her partner, Amanda, had their first baby a few years ago. I never thought I'd live to be a great great uncle.

In this room, family photos lined our windowsill. Birthday cards from family and friends sat on top of my dresser. Christine and her family planned on visiting tonight with a big birthday cake she planned on sharing with us and everyone on the unit.

I was blessed with dozens of nieces, nephews, and great nieces and nephews. Alex and I were the 'cool uncles,' although Frankie competed for that title. Dad called me a 'beatnik,' a precursor to a hippie. I always considered myself part of the Beat Generation, envisioning myself living between New York and California, writing with the likes of Alan Ginsberg and Lowell native Jack Kerouac. But Alex didn't envision living anywhere else but Massachusetts.

However, we traveled to many different places across the world. We even visited Auschwitz back in 1998. That was the one and only time Alex returned to Poland. It was an indescribable experience, one that I could never put into words.

If I had more time, I'd recap the story of me and Alex as we navigated our way through the fifties and sixties. Alex and I were lucky to have each other, and no one had to remind me of my incredibly loving and supportive family.

"Your parents would be very proud of you," I said, squeezing Alex's hand. "Don't you ever forget that." There were times when Alex didn't think he was worthy of living. He'd ask me, "Why me? Why did I survive and they didn't?" How could I answer such a question when so many others asked the same thing? No one had the answers.

As a physician, Alex's father and his family were one of the last ones to be deported to Auschwitz from the ghetto. Once they arrived, Alex's mother, baby brother, and surviving sister were separated and sent to the gas chamber. Alex and his father were sentenced to forced labor for no crime other than being born Jewish.

In 1961, I published a novel, inspired by Alex's story. Initially, I wanted to help Alex write a memoir, but he asked me to write a novel instead. Alex and I co-wrote the novel, although I never credited him—at his request. Alex's story was one to never forget. It was a story for the world to hear so people never forget the atrocities that occurred between 1933 and 1945.

"You look thirsty. Would you like a glass of water?" I asked Alex. From the pitcher on the windowsill, I poured him a glass before he responded. He couldn't hold his cup, so I popped a straw in it and held it to his lips. He took one sip.

"Read another story," Alex said.

"You need to get some sleep."

"I want to hear another story."

He wouldn't leave me alone until I read another story, so I sat back down. "It's okay if you want to sleep," I said, opening another book.

"I'm not ready to go to sleep."

"It's okay, Alex. I promise I'll be right behind you."

"I know. Please, Joel. Read another story. Read about our first night in our first apartment."

I remembered that night fondly. Still, after all these years, my body burned thinking about it. My love and desire never faded.

"Please, Joel. You wrote about it so beautifully."

On that first night, we shared a romantic dinner on the floor of our crummy apartment. We only owned one piece of furniture: a bed. By 1955, Alex and I had become skilled in our love making. That was an incredible night. We had many more incredible nights, but there was something about that one. We didn't stop until the sun came up. I wrote about it in great detail. Afraid someone would hear me, I leaned into Alex, ready to read to him. He opened his eyes wide, eagerly awaiting as if he hadn't heard the story in twenty years. In pure adoration, he smiled at me lovingly.

"You made me a very happy man," I said.

"You talk too much. Please read."

And so I began.