Why I am in the USA
The Baptism
- This man cannot become this baby’s Godfather, the priest exclaimed obviously obfuscated by his parishioner’s insistence to hurry at baptizing his son.
- Why not? Because he’s American?
- No, because he’s a Jew.
- How do you know he’s a Jew?
- His name. That’s a Jewish name.
- I don’t give a dam if his name is Jewish or Chinese or whatever.
- Don’t blaspheme in the house of God.
- Don’t blaspheme my ass. I’ll blaspheme all I want. This Jew will be my son’s Godfather.
The thunderous voice of the young father was echoing against the walls of the small church while the future Godmother was eyeing up and down this tall GI specimen with his short crew cut dark hair, large shoulders and rugged face all the while thinking that it was a good thing her brother had picked her up in a hurry at 6 AM to go to the neighborhood church, leaving her fat, jealous husband behind, still snoring his head off from too much red wine and Anisette the night before.
The baby’s aunt was somewhat homey and the American Adonis was not too impressed, however, the Yankee driver who had brought them “sur les chapeaux de roues” (on the hub caps) of the yet to be battled wary Jeep, was looking at the matron’s ass with delight.
- Hey Jose, you speak French don’t you? Says the Lieutenant.
- Hell no! Spanish and not that well.
- Sanchez?
- From the Bronx man!
Now the prelate is starting to lose patience and to get upset at the situation.
- I’m sorry Nicolas but I can’t. No, no, no. In the name of God, I can’t
- What’s he saying Jose?
- You’re a Jew Captain. You can’t be the baby’s Godfather.
- Hell, I can’t! Listen Padre, the ranking officer growled pulling his shiny unused Colt 45 revolver out of its holster, squarely placing the long barrel between the God’s servant’s eyes.
- Listen to me Padre. I know you understand me. We’re leaving for Italy tomorrow morning and many of us will probably never see Kansas again to save son of bitches like you, get my drift? So, move your saintly ass right now and officiate. Okay?
- Alright, alright if you put it that way
- Correct. That’s the way I put it. Right on your sweaty, ugly, fat forehead.
Sweating bullets, the priest’s hand are so shaky that he splashes the baptismal waters all over the place except on the infant’s head, which gets the godmother even more excited than she was a few moments ago, thinking she was watching a Western movie. So hectic she is that she grabs Jose’s groin so hard that the driver bends over in pain, which bedazzles the priest who mistakenly takes it for an act of reverence, which in turn brings him some solace.
- His name? What’s his name? the priest repeats as he looks with disdain at the baby's smiley face.
Nicolas hesitates and looks at his American acolyte with an incredulous look on his face.
- Dean. Yes, that's right. Dean, that’s his name. Barney said rightly understanding the questioning look of his cohort.
- In the name of the Father, the son and the Holy Spirit, the clergyman hurriedly finishes the ceremony all the while nervously handing the church's baptismal log to the Godmother.
- I like Dean, the woman says as she signs the register. It sounds so exotic! So Far-West!
Noisily, the priest closes the book so hard that a cloud of dust floats for a moment on the colorful rays of the morning sun light coming through the stained glass windows of the house of worship.
A few moments later, a joyous group mounts the Jeep which Jose careens through the narrow avenue towards Dean’s place of birth.
- Let’s celebrate this with a good bottle of Champagne, the father said gesturing as to mimic drinking which they all understood.
As the group walks out of the holy place, Barney turns around, flies up the five stairs to the churches carved wooden doors and re-enter the building. A few minutes later he walks out a satisfied look on his face. With no hesitation, Barney jumps on to the front seat of the whirring Jeep, Jose kept revving up.
As they arrive back to the house, Nicolas runs down to the cellar and quickly re-emerges back up with three bottles of ‘Veuve Cliquot’ Champagne in his hands. The sun is now high in the sky and the ‘temperature’ is sure going to climb real fast as it did during his somewhat illicit dealings with the baby’s father as Barney had learned.
- To hell with the war! Nicolas says brandishing a bottle and then pouring the sparkling precious wine in the glasses his wife has distributed.
The joyous party drinks, smokes and laughs as if there were no language barrier between them. After a short while, the laughter stopped and with a more sober attitude, Barney puts his hand in his pocket and pulls a handful of one dollar bills he pins on his Godson’s bib.
- God speed little fellow!
I looked for my God Father for the next 35 years. He had died 2 month before I found him.
His name was Barney Buchwald. All my life I had been told by my family who did not understand English that his name sounded something like Barney Butler. I begun to speak some English at age 30. The rest is a long story.