Life in Pink and other Bright Colors

Revised in October 2026 from “Life in Pink and other Bright Colors,” originally published February 22, 2013.

The sun had yet to rise when Hank woke up, jumped out of some girl’s bed, pulled on his pants and boots – the boots still speckled with paint – threw his jacket over his shoulder and left. He thought about writing a short letter, an apology? A thank you? He wasn’t really sure – he didn’t really remember anything about the night before – only that her name was Penny. Before he left the apartment he looked back at her and saw her blue eyes through her black hair watching him and she smiled a half smile. He smiled, looked down and then waved.

He walked down the three flights of stairs, got a knowing smile from the doorman, who must have been the doorman from last night because he looked familiar, then walked out onto 73rd St.

As he walked he knew that a cup of coffee was required to even think about surviving the next mile or so that he needed to walk to get to his apartment. On the corner he saw a diner and took a large cup to go – then he was on his way. The street lamps were still lit, the ground was shiny from last night’s rain and there was a nice cool dry breeze. He looked at his watch – 5:31 am, June 15th Friday.

As he was walking, he decided to take a detour and head on across to Central Park; he had nowhere to be until later on that night and did not feel like going home. As he walked he noticed that there was a crowd of people, a couple of police cars and a couple of ambulances parked in the middle of the block between Madison and 5th avenues.

“What’s going on?” he asked a lady standing there.

“See for yourself – they are covered now,” she said pointing to a mound covered with a black tarp, “but a couple of minutes ago you could have witnessed what looked like a double suicide.”

“There are two people under that?” he asked.

“Yes, an elderly couple I used to see once in a while walking together; never really spoke with them although I could tell the wife was sick.” She said it as if discussing a TV show she just watched.

“Sad…” Hank said as he realized he hadn’t been able to look away from the couple.

“Yeah, well I need to get to work.” With that she walked away.

He just stood there wondering if they had any children or loved ones who would be looking for them. Wondering what caused them to want to leave…

He stood there thinking about the lives they must have led, and he pictured them —

A shadow of two people dancing as a crooner sings a song professing his love for his lady. They are slowly dancing on a roof somewhere and the shadow is being cast by a full moon over New York City. The crooner is coming out of a small radio and the couple are each from France.

They were both non-observant Jews. They had worked together in a university in Paris and were lovers in the shadows of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. At first they were unafraid of being targeted since they were non-observant and did not consider themselves Jewish, so they decided to stay in Paris. Unfortunately the Germans didn’t make the distinction between practicing Judaism and being born a Jew. When the roundups came, they were taken and sent to separate concentration camps.

After the camps had been liberated by the Americans, by a miracle, they each survived and they were reunited at a displaced persons camp.

Beatrice had just been allowed to leave the hospital and was walking gingerly to the cafeteria set up for the displaced persons.

“As I walked, the one thought that had kept me going, throughout my time in hell, was Victor. Was he alive? I wasn’t sure if I was truly alive at that point.”

She sat in the tent drinking her soup and trying not to cry. She knew her parents had been killed since they were chosen to go left while she was told to go right. That was how the Germans chose life or death.

As she sat there, holding back tears, tears she knew she had to shed in order to move forward, a man sat across from her.

He was skin and bones, a bald head covered with a knit cap and a blank window in his eyes.

He looked at the lady and he smiled. Beatrice saw that smile and fell to the ground.

She woke up when a medic put smelling salts in her nose.

“That was Victor.” She said, “my Victor.”

“Yes, my beautiful Beatrice, I am here. We are together again.”

By 1948 they had moved to America, New York City.

Fifty-some years later – four children, eighteen grandchildren and several great-grandchildren.

It was that same year that Hank came upon the couple covered on the street, that Beatrice had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She had been undergoing treatment which took away her hair and strength. Just when the treatment was nearing an end, she was told that the cancer, was back. This time the doctors were not giving her more than six months.

Victor had sat down with her and told her, “Just as in Paris we knew it was our time to leave, but we waited too long, so here in New York City, this time we must accept it is our time to leave, once again.” With that he bought a bottle of wine, a tape recorder with a recording of their favorite songs. They went up to the roof and then as they had back in the forties – left their home for the promise of a better life.

All this Hank learned later, from the grandson of Mr and Mrs. Addas – he had gone to make a Shiva call out of curiosity. He ended up with photo albums, stories and evidence of a life full of love.

“They loved to dance,” the grandson, David, explained. “They were in love with each other and never spent more than one or two nights apart. But not out of any obligation, only because they wanted to be together – Grandpa used to say ‘apart they were like an ordinary piece of art, together they were a masterpiece.’ They were a model couple and one very difficult to even measure up to. He used to sing to her this song, ‘La Vie en Rose,’ while they danced. He would say ‘put your heart against mine…’ amazing.”

That evening as he walked back to his apartment he realized that his life was an ordinary piece of art and that what was missing wasn’t another artist but a reason for the colors and the shapes to blossom. He might never paint his masterpiece – but it hit him just what it was that was missing in his life. The music played but did not move him, the colors existed but did not inspire and the love he made – with Penny, with girls whose names he never learned – possessed no emotions.

As the sun rose the next morning he noticed a red ray streaming across the sky and he realized he had never before seen that hue – he took that as a sign. Put on some music and decided to sit by his easel. A masterpiece in chains within his heart – time to break free.

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