Natalie on the Street

Nietzke worked at a Los Angeles psychiatric shelter when she began this diary of her unusual friendship with a 74-year-old homeless woman, who violates ``every conventional notion of `femininity' and forces us to remember death.'' Death, the prospect of a dead woman on her sidewalk, is what impels the author to prod the recumbent Natalie into life. ``Hey Lady... are you sick?'' Nietzke asks. ``No,'' replies Natalie, ``I just haven't combed my hair yet.'' Such small touches of dignity-fresh lipstick and moist towelettes-and the determination to ``keep moving,'' despite cold, filth, hunger, and harassment, demand uncommon courage. ``To endure homelessness,'' Nietzke writes, ``for any extended period of time and still maintain integrity of the self requires more `sanity' than many of us possess.'' Natalie, for example, is as fiercely possessive of her plastic bags and cart as any Beverly Hills property owner is of Bentley and pool, reorganizing her collection the way one might redecorate a house. Nietzke's modest acts of compassion-an apple, clean underwear, water for bathing-become Natalie's first steps towards treatment of her schizophrenia and life off the street. It's an emotional journey, as Nietzke struggles with her own inner turmoil, hostile neighbors and indifferent bureaucracies (one agency offers Thanksgiving turkeys to people who don't own stoves). Nietzke courageously treats Natalie as something other than another ugly feature of the urban landscape, revealing through her personal testimony, Natalie's human face. (Nov.)