My Neighbor, Sylvia

I like to believe I’m a friendly person. I smile at people, I say hello to my neighbors, maybe even chat about the weather, the world under Covid, our aches and pains, traffic, you know, the mundane things of everyday living. Sometimes, I may ask about their family, the pets. Though, I never really have time to get deep, being wound up in my own life, my own concerns, to stop and engage in someone else’s story. It’s the reality of living in a busy, hectic environment like NYC. Yes, Covid has slowed everything down a bit, but it has also amplified our own concerns even more. We’ve retreated even further into our own world, a by-product of weeks and months in quarantine.

My next door neighbor was a charming little French woman, Sylvia. She had the cutest accent and sweetest smile. I imagined her to be in her 80’s. We chatted every now and then, simple uncomplicated conversations. She adored our dog Dante. She would pronounce his name, Dantee instead of Dante and I thought that was adorable. “Hello Dantee, you sweet little boy, come here so I can pet you,” she would say. And Dante would scamper over and lick her hand. Every time she saw me she would ask about him. I always felt she had a soft spot for dogs, but Dante especially.

Sylvia lived alone in a studio apartment. Her third apartment in the thirty-five years she had lived in the building. She told me she had started in a one bedroom then eventually moved into a two bedroom. She was very proud of that. But her son, Claude, eventually convinced her to downsize to a studio so it would be more manageable for her. Sylvia relented, reluctantly I was told by her son and that is how she came to live next door to us.

Sylvia was a perfect neighbor. She never complained about anything. In fact, sometimes she would ask, “Why doesn’t Dantee bark? I never hear him.” I told her he was a very good boy and well trained. That made her smile and she would shake her head, “Yes, he is a good boy.”

In the mornings, when I walked Dante, I would see a very well dressed Sylvia in the lobby, waiting for her “ride.” She would get picked up by a community bus and spend the day at a Senior Center. Sometimes, her son would pick her up to go shopping. I never got the sense from Sylvia that she was lonely or lacking in companionship.

Then COVID happened. For months, Sylvia never left her apartment. She had respiratory issues and the doctor had been adamant that she not move from the apartment. I couldn’t visit because I didn’t want to risk endangering her life. I offered, from the safety of a locked door, to shop for her, get anything she needed. Sylvia would always say, “Merci, thank you, but my son will get it for me.” But every now and then she would knock on my door and ask me to mail a letter for her, which I did happily. I can’t image how lonely those months must have been for her stuck in a studio apartment with no human contact…not even a Zoom visit. I doubt she was technically inclined.

Finally, when things opened up a bit, Sylvia was allowed to leave her apartment. The first time I saw her she was so excited because she was going to the doctor and then to get her hair done.

One day in December, she knocked on my door. I opened it and saw her standing there, cane in one hand and a can of soup in the other. I noticed that the hand holding the can was wrapped in a small cast. She asked me if I would open the can of soup for her. Sylvia had fallen and hurt her wrist. But she assured me everything would be fine because she was going to rehab and would be like new again. That was the thing about Sylvia, I never heard her complain. There had been another time when she spent months in a rehab facility for her respiratory issue. When she returned home, the smile was back on her face. So I opened the can for her, told her anytime she needed something opened she could always count on me. She thanked me and went back to her apartment.

That was the last time I saw Sylvia.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I saw her son, Claude leaving her apartment. We asked about his mom and he told us, she was in the hospital. Sylvia had contracted COVID at the rehab facility and was now in the hospital on a ventilator. The doctors didn’t think she would make it.

On January 27, 2021, Sylvia passed away.

So who was Sylvia?

Sylvia Lewin (nee Rosenstrauch) was born in Germany on September 11, 2029. She was not in her 80’s like I thought but actually in her 90’s. A Holocaust survivor who lived in Germany, France and Italy during World War II trying to evade capture by the Nazis. She was among 800 Jews who were trying to escape from a German occupied area of Italy. For two years a group of Catholic Priests risked their lives to hide them from the Germans. She survived and after the war she moved to Argentina where she lived for 10 years. She had been in the USA for 65 years.

This incident was chronicled in a 2008 memoir written by Louis Goldman, Friends for Life: The Story of a Holocaust Survivor and His Rescuers.

Sylvia would have been around 14 years old during that time. I can’t fathom the fear she must have felt. A young woman, who under normal circumstances would have been thinking about school, boys, make up, dresses instead was hiding from the Nazis, wondering when they would be captured. She survived and thrived, reached the age of 92 and then, this unforgiving, retched virus takes her life…

I didn’t know Sylvia’s story. I never asked. I wish so much that I had. But I wonder, how many more Sylvias have lost their lives in the past year, their stories unknown to their neighbors, friends? I hope someone heard their stories, celebrated their lives.

Her son has been cleaning her apartment for several days now, discarding trash and useless dust collectors and keeping only what is valuable to him. The trash room is full of her stuff. I saw her walker among the trash and it touched me deeply. In my mind, I saw her shuffling towards the elevators with that walker, excited to get to her Senior Center to see her friends. Among the discarded plates, glasses and bed sheets I saw a vase. It’s brown and yellow and not special at all. But for some reason it caught my attention. I took it because I want to have something of Sylvia’s. I could image this vase in Sylvia’s studio apartment, perched on a shelf with flowers, maybe next to some family pictures. I took the vase because I want to always remember this magnificent woman.

I brought flowers yesterday. I put them in the vase and placed it next to my wedding picture, for my friend, my neighbor Sylvia, in her honor and in honor of every Sylvia that has died.

Rest in peace, my friend.