Supermarket Stories

Usually when I go to the supermarket, I eavesdrop on repetitive stories engrossed in gossip of other people or the constant verbal negotiations between wants and needs. Today, though, I was surprised to know that my eavesdropping went towards something far more different and other-worldly than that of the town's gossips. 

Heading over towards the pumpkins, my mother's small shopping list in my hand, I passed a fragile little old lady wearing a light blue jacket, the kind that one would enjoy being inside during cold weather, tidy tan pants, and a light pink scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. From what I heard, she was of Polish descent. She stood rather close to her communicative recipient, a middle-aged woman in a bright orange jumper, and boasted the words "Hitler" and "concentration camp". That was enough to catch my attention. "You know," she said in a thick Polish accent, contoured with some Australian, "I was 17 when a German boy asked me to the formal." "Oh you were!" returned her alleged accompaniment with delight. I tuned out for a moment, sticking to the task at hand and attempting to dismantle my sister's yearning of my attention. I pretended to examine the pumpkins up close to get some more of the conversation. "You know Hitler, yes?" "Why yes of course!" "He took me and my family." "You went to the concentration camps? You were one of his victims?" "No no no, I wasn't taken to the concentration camp, I was taken to one of the farms, you know, those farms."

I wanted to listen some more, but by then my sister suggested that she was conversing with her carer so I felt rude. I walked off, hesitating on several occasions due to me wanting this woman's story to be heard. I walked further and further away. I debated in my mind for several minutes on whether or not I should interview her. What could I say? What if that lady with her was her carer? What if she refused to allow me to ask her things, or refused to allow me to photograph her or share her story? I could not risk the humiliation. Another part of me could not risk losing this opportunity. It was a rough battle in my head and I found myself struggling to walk off. I walked back around the corner, finally thinking that I should approach her, and as I saw her in the distance continuing with her story I became hesitant again. 

I did not take the opportunity. It turned out that the lady she was with was a stranger. Standing near the potatoes, the old lady must have reminisced on her time on Hitler's farm and decided to share her story. The last I saw of her, she held tightly to the stranger's hands as she told her something that seemed important enough to be fully heard, smiling through it. The old lady walked off towards the meat. The stranger then resumed shopping, picking out potatoes, and it was then that I decided to finally go ask for her story but it was too late; like her legacy she disappeared, into the many supermarket aisles. Meanwhile we finished scanning our items and we had to leave. 

And it hit me - everyone has a story. Think about how many people you pass in the supermarkets, and how man stories there are that are untold, just like the story of this little old lady whose recipient could not care less. I keep thinking about what she endured, and I am upset with myself for not asking her personally. I should have abandoned all fears and grasped that opportunity but I did not. I luckily listened enough to know the backdrop of the conversation. Every stranger has a story, do not limit yourself to their backdrops.