[Editor’s Note: The actress, who starred last Saturday at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in her long-running one-woman show, “The Need to Know,” wrote this loving tribute to a Culver City activist when he died last December.]
Jerome (Jerry) Schnitzer was my Mensch.
Mensch in German means “human,” in Yiddish “a stand-up guy.” Jerry was part Clarence from “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and part George Burns in Oh, God! He was a white-haired angel who landed by my side.
We met in the fall of 2003. I was a newborn in the anti-war movement, and I had just joined Veterans for Peace. Jerry and I marched in protest of the brand spanking new war in Iraq. He guided me through my first rally, and shortly thereafter we began to look out for each other.
Jerry had a lot of spunk for a seventy-something. I liked his continuity, fearlessness and forthrightness. In spring 2004, we started building Arlington West, a memorial for the fallen soldiers of the Iraq War at the beach in Santa Monica. He showed up every single Sunday at 0600. He always made sure we all had water and that everyone old met everyone new. Jerry knew how to put people together.
Calling Each Other Names
Jerry called me “Sarge,” and I called him “Schnitz.” After taking the Arlington West memorial across the country, Jerry let me stay at his home in Culver City. We were great roommates; both big on neatness, privacy and bursting into song. We wrote weekly letters to the editors of most major newspapers, and we stewed about the present state of the world. Those were some of the best times in my life. Every night, when he got tired, we said the same thing:
“Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I’d say.
“Say Goodnight, Gracie,” he’d say.
To which I’d reply, “Goodnight, Schnitz.”
I finally returned to college to finish my long-postponed degree. Jerry encouraged me wholeheartedly, reminding me that this was one investment that the bank could never take away from me.
He became my No. 1 cheerleader, rejoiced in the “A’s,” fretted about the “D’s,” and he read every essay I wrote. He took time to know me, kept his word, checked in, took note and stayed. He taught me the art of witnessing.
When we were living together, we got some bad news. Jerry had a tumor the size of a grapefruit, smack dab in the middle of his chest, pressing up against his heart and spine. They weren’t sure how fast the cancer would spread.
Milking the Clock
So we made the most of his ticking clock. We went to Vegas to play the slots, ate at all of his favorite diners in town. He taught me how to eat chopped chicken liver, raw onions and pickled green tomatoes. As a former cab driver, he advised me on driving and shortcuts. And he gave me unsolicited advice about love.
Jerry was married for many years to a spitfire named Ellie. He helped to raise her two sons, Walt and Dan. He dedicated the concrete wall at the end of his cul-de-sac to Ellie when she died.
If you visit Dauphin Avenue, just east of La Cienaga in the 90034 zip, you’ll see a plaque at the very end in memory of Jerry’s one true love.
As the cancer progressed Jerry could no longer leave his bed.
He hated relying on others. He couldn’t run his errands, work at Arlington West and worst of all, doing the L.A. Times crossword puzzle whilst performing his morning constitution became increasingly difficult.
He loved keeping up with the happenings at the beach. Visitors sat bedside telling him stories. But it was humiliating to him to be fed, washed and irregular.
Life suddenly seemed short and wicked; entering the world in diapers with some loving person spoon-feeding us mashed carrots, and then exiting the same exact way; with diapers and mashed carrots.
(To be concluded Friday)
Ms. Fitzsimmons appears Sunday night at 8 in “The Need to Know,” at the Whitefire Theatre, Sherman Oaks.
