My Turn: Giving Dad the thrill of a lifetime

The humidity had finally broken! So on a bright, beautiful, 75-degree July day, Mitch, my husband, and I decided to go to Coney Island to take in the boardwalk, people, ice cream and anything else that came along. Well what, or should I say whom, came along was my dad.

He asked, "Anna, I go with you?" A broad smile and bright eyes followed.

Shocked, I replied, "Dad, are you sure? It’s very crowded!"

"Yea, I go," he responded.

My father’s given name was Mayer, but he was called Mike, and he was in his mid-70s. He was a Holocaust survivor who escaped the Deblin, Poland, ghetto and lived in the woods for two years. He had been 16 when World War II broke out. After searching for his family after the war, he soon realized that his entire family had been lost. Mike met my mother at the displaced person’s camp; they were married in 1946, and my sister was born 1947.

An uncle in New York was found (through the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) who was able to sponsor my family to immigrate to the United States.

My parents and sister came to the United States in 1949 and settled in Manhattan’s Lower East Side — like hundreds of other survivors.

Mike, who stuttered because of an injury during the Holocaust, was a man of few words and fewer requests. He loved my husband, and the feeling was mutual. I was always his little girl. So, who would ever turn down Mike’s request for anything? Off we went to Coney Island, skeptical about our decision to let him join us.

I was not concerned about the walking; my father walked two miles every morning and a mile after lunch every day. I was concerned about the congestion and possible craziness that Coney Island is known for.

I shouldn’t have worried! Mike was in absolute awe. He loved the walking, the people and all the surroundings. My doubts about him coming with us disappeared. His smile made it all worthwhile, and there was a twinkle in his eye that demonstrated his joy.

After about an hour on the boardwalk, we changed gears and walked down the steps to the street. That was where vendors were selling goods and soliciting passersby to play games for prizes as well as get on the amusement park rides. At the amusement park, we paused at the Super Himalaya ride, which seated up to three people in a car. It went around, sort of at an angle, and got progressively faster. Then, it stopped and started again, going backward, also at increasing speed. We watched as everyone on the ride laughed and screamed.

Mike, his blue eyes gleaming, looked at us and said that he wanted to go on.

"Dad, it’s really fast!" I declared.

"I want to go!" he said.

Mitch and I looked at each other, smiled and, with trepidation, got in line with my dad for the ride. We sat together. I was in the middle and my dad was on the outside. Round and round, faster and faster we went, and then it was repeated — in reverse. My dad was laughing and having the time of his life. Mitch and I were getting a kick out of it, appreciating Dad’s thrill.

But what we also noticed as the ride continued was that my dad was now attracting an audience! He was the focus! People stopped and watched my dad. Pictures were taken by complete strangers: An old man having a great time. Or were they praying that an old man would not have a heart attack?

The ride was over. The audience applauded as my dad got off.

"Dad, they are clapping for you!" I said thrillingly.

"Oh yea? Good," he replied, smiling broadly and bright eyes gleaming once more.

It was probably the only ride he ever went on — and we were able to give him that joy!

So happy we took Mike to Coney Island. We will never forget it.

Anna Rosenberg,

Brooklyn