After, sitting on the bench and drinking juice, crowd chatting, a slender woman with dark hair came by and flashed a smile. She had her daughter with her, maybe nine. Also dark short hair. Introduced her, “This is Shandel.” I said “Please — tell me about the name Shandel.” The mother sat on the bench beside me. “Shandel,” she said, “is Yiddish — it means beautiful.” And then she pulled her daughter toward her, cupped her head in her hands and said “like a shandel head.” And then she put her hands on the girl’s cheeks and said “or a shandel face” — the young girl stood there smiling sweetly at her mother. “Why did you want to know?” the woman asked me. I told her “I once had a dear friend named Shandel who grew up in Greenwich Village. She was talented and lovely. I never heard the name again.” — “It’s not common — and Yiddish isn’t either. I liked your talk — my daughter too.” — they strolled away. People leaving in the dusk lights coming on, someone drumming in a cabin I remember Shandel saying “We were radicals and artists, I was the little princess of the Village — ”
