I've been meaning to write about Elizabeth Taylor for months. December 23 will be nine months to the day that she passed away. I suppose that is enough time to gestate an essay that describes what she did for me as a traumatized child of traumatized parents. Elizabeth raised me, she lifted me, she elevated the days of my young life.
When I was growing up, my hair was an issue to my mother, who had survived the Holocaust and spent four more years in Germany as a Displaced Person. Germans, as you may know, had a preference for a certain physical type. My mother herself had auburn hair with green eyes and a pert nose. Her skin was dusted with freckles, and she had the rosy cheeks of a milkmaid. I, however, was born with the blackest hair. It was black as a murder of crows, black as a nightmare in a moonless night, and - as my mother saw it - a dead giveaway to the fact that I was Jewish. I looked like bad luck walking.
"You would never have survived," she would tell me, speaking, as usual, of the past that lived inside her. "No one could ever have hidden you."
She meant in Germany during the Nazi era, or anywhere in the Europe where the Third Reich had reigned. Of course, I now grasp that she was traumatized by knowing that the little children who had not "passed," or been hidden in some other way, had been killed. Perhaps my mother felt, while looking at me, that my life - her own child's life -- would have been in peril, not long before. She was stuck in an eternal world of us and them, black and white. Peril and safety. Black or blonde played into this. And she preferred blondes.
Whenever a little girl with golden curls happened by, my mother would beam with an almost relieved joy. Her favorite stars were Doris Day (a buttery ray of sunshine) and Debbie Reynolds, the all-American sweetheart. She took me to see all their movies. Sometimes more than once. In the darkness of the cinema, I dreamt of rescue from this banality.
But then one day, a miracle happened! Out of the beige wasteland of America arose a vixen with jet-black hair. She was irresistible, and her allure trumped even blondeness. Like the living embodiment of Veronica Lodge of the Archie comics (who, though two-dimensional in every sense, also tantalized me), this star trumped Debbie (Betty in the comics) and stole her man! Her name was was Elizabeth Taylor - the name of a Queen. From what I heard with growing fascination, Elizabeth (now widow of Jewish impresario Mike Todd) had converted to Judaism, marrying Eddie Fisher in the Borscht Belt! She and I were growing ever closer. I liked Borscht too.
Now, I'm not pretending that the story of Liz-Eddie-Debbie wasn't utterly scandalous. It was deliciously so. (I'd been reared to be properly religious and modest, but vicariousness is another matter entirely.) No sooner had Elizabeth snared one attached fellow than she desperately wanted another, better one. This time, she wanted the ultimate macho man, the counterpart to her Cleopatra-eyed femme fatale: Richard Burton, silken-voiced Welsh lothario. Their kisses meant danger. But he was wed to another. And yet their love was eternal as the Middle Eastern heat. Could this story get any better?
After the chorus of boos quieted down, the two of them - Elizabeth and Richard -- emerged as the couple of their era. Yachts, furs, breakups, Gstaad - and the endless jewelry. My father was a watchmaker by trade, and he sold necklaces and bracelets as well, but this was something of an entirely different order. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies and pearls. Diamonds with emeralds, rubies and pearls. There was no end to the love this man had for his black-haired love goddess. He even bought Elizabeth the Krupp diamond - sweet revenge, she said, smiling as the ring twinkled, on a once Nazi-owned armament company. It came to be known as a fixture on her finger, more than 33 carats of eternal brilliance.
Now Taylor-Burton are both gone. But over the last few weeks, I visited the auction house display of Elizabeth's jewels, clothes, baubles and bags. I even bid on some very small things, but lost immediately. (A tiny porcelain box estimated at $100, for instance, would end up going for $2,000). I was not the only one who loved this woman, who wanted a piece of her immortal legend. Perhaps people were also inspired by the fact that a portion of the profits would go to AIDS research, Elizabeth's beloved charity, to which she devoted herself as thoroughly as she did to everything she loved. (Years before, had sold an even bigger diamond than the Krupp to aid Botswana.) This was the biggest auction the house had ever seen, and sales were staggering. Over 25,000 Americans had paid just to view the collection in New York alone. I ended up empty-handed.
But not empty-hearted. Elizabeth Taylor saved my life when I thought it was not worth saving. She gave me hope when my mother was hopeless. My love for her shines on, as eternal as diamonds, legends, and the woman's bold, generous spirit.
