Eleven

 

EARLY THE NEXT morning, I was awakened by the moldy smell of grated potatoes. It could only mean one thing: latkes. We were expecting my grandparents (my father’s parents), Morris and Ruth, their daughter-in-law and son Sam and their three children, and my mother needed to prepare at least two dozen latkes. She hadn’t started to fry them yet; she waited for the last moment so they would be hot. While I helped form the patties, she fried one for me and topped it with sour cream, just the way I liked it. Now, I was in heaven—just me and my beautiful mother in the kitchen, like old times. It was hard to believe that only the night before, I had felt so alone in my own house.

It had finally stopped snowing and the sun was coming up. I put on my coat and opened the front door, ignoring my mother’s protestations. I had to take a look at the house. Through the snow, I saw patches of corrugated metal from our low slanting roof; the brown-framed window of the attic where we children slept; and the big linden tree that hid the front entrance when in full bloom, fanning out like a large spread hand and casting spiked shadows on the walls of the pale-yellow wood exterior. I thought I was the only one up besides my mother, but there was Velvel on the street side of our house, his gloved hands wrapped in a big towel, wiping off snow from our light blue-gray, fancy fence—the pride of our family.

My grandfather Morris had worked in a cement factory. After hours, he had fashioned a mold with twelve decorative spokes bisected by a horizontal band of embossed bumps. A curved bottom barely brushed the grass. The top of the mold had a graceful wavy scroll design like a cake’s frosting pattern. Morris made six molds, enough to form a unique and elegant fence that set our otherwise plain house apart from our neighbors.

In their later years, Morris and Grandma Ruth moved from this house to a large room at my uncle Sam’s, saying they didn’t want the bother of taking care of such a big place. We all knew the real reason for the move—to give us our own house, my father being the oldest son. Before that, we were packed in a small apartment shared by another family, separated by a sheet for privacy. As my mother had often reminded my father, “This is no way to live.”

My father, at first, didn’t want to take the house. He couldn’t replace his parents, he said. But my brother, who told us girls the story one night last summer, thought my father was afraid he couldn’t afford the upkeep and would lose face with his family. My mother, who had been pregnant with me, gave him an ultimatum. This was another time my mother had showed her chutzpah.

 

That night, we lit the shamash on the menorah to begin the eight-day Festival of Lights. My father’s tea-colored eyes came alive at the table when he explained to my ten-year-old cousin Leah that the menorah symbolizes the miracle of a day’s worth of oil that lasted eight days. He bent his head to look down at the candles on the table. His sparse, gray-streaked, reddish-brown hair drooped to his forehead and he combed it back with his fingers. He sat down, cleared his throat, which rasped from smoking, and went on and on about the victory of the Jews called the Maccabees, who had recaptured their temple in Jerusalem from the ruling Greek-Syrians.

We had a nice, but crowded, first night of Chanukah. My cousins, including Leah’s older brothers, Mottel and Alter, and my sisters and brother sang songs and played dreydl, spinning the top for the prize of nuts. We all longed for a little Chanukah gelt, but those times of extra money were gone. We did get to eat vegetable soup, kasha kreplach, and my all-time favorite dessert, mandelbrot.

Before we went to sleep, I showed Rivke and Drora my Journal of Important Words, which had been entitled by Ida in black ink on the first page with my name on the bottom. I had left a few pages empty in the beginning, saving them for something extra important. On the first empty page, Ida had copied a sentence from the last will of Sholem Aleichem:

“Wherever I may die, let me be buried not among the rich and famous, but among plain Jewish people, the workers, the common folk, so that my tombstone may honor the simple graves around me, and the simple graves honor mine, even as the plain people honored their folk writer in his lifetime.”

Drora was very intrigued by this quotation. She had read Sholem Aleichem’s stories of simple village life, but this philosophy was underlined and starred by Ida. My oldest sister asked about Ida’s political and social views. I didn’t think I could explain them properly. So I showed her the chart in my journal that Ida made after I had driven her crazy with questions. Ida had explained that there are many subgroups and these are general categories. Here is her chart:

 

Political, Social, Educational Movements in Poland and Russia

(and elsewhere in Eastern Europe)

Name of Movement             Belief System

Bund      Non-Zionist, Socialist, Yiddish

Halutz    First Pioneer Zionist youth movement

Hashomer Hatzair              Left-Wing Socialist-Zionist youth movement (pioneering settlements, scouting)

Betar       Revisionist Zionism (Jabotinsky), military education, pioneer settlements

Left Poale Zion    Zionist workers, Marxist, Communist, Yiddishist

Right Poale Zion Zionist workers, modern Hebrew, non-Marxist, moderate Socialist

Mizrachi                Religious, mainstream, Zionist

Agudath Israel      Religious, ultraorthodox (including Hasidim), anti-Zionist

 

“Brilliant,” Drora exclaimed. “But where does Ida stand, since she likes the quotation about being buried among the plain people?”

“She is her own person,” I said. “She goes to the Tarbut, which favors Hebrew, but she loves Yiddish. She’s a Zionist, yet loves her country and village and thinks Jews should be able to live happily there, and she wants to go to America someday.”

“I can understand that,” Drora said, squeezing a ripe pimple. “I guess we’re all mixed up.”

Before I heard where Drora stood and I’m sure chatterbox Rivke had her own views—or thought she should have them—I fell asleep.

 

I WOKE UP early and found my handsome brother in the kitchen. Velvel had my coloring, light hair and blue eyes, from my mother’s side of the family, whereas my sisters were a cross between my mother and father, who had darker skin and brown eyes. Velvel was also tall like Drora, but he was muscular and lean. His hair was wavy on top and his features were perfectly sculpted—Perl said like a Greek God. I figured the girls all had a crush on him, but he was also very bookish and shy.

Like Ida’s teacher, Mendel, Velvel was fired up politically. He went to meetings of Hashomer Hatzair, which was Hebrew for The Young Guard, and often wore the group’s shirt and neck scarf, borrowed from a cousin who was much smaller.

Velvel was sitting in a chair by the stove, warming his enormous feet. “So how is life in Brest?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Good,” I said. “Perl has been wonderful to me and I have a roommate and teacher, Ida, and I made a friend in school named Ania.”

“Is she Polish?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just asking.”

Perl must have heard us talking from her bed on the couch in the next room and joined us wrapped in her woolen shawl.

“It’s freezing in here,” she whined.

“Come by the stove, tante,” Velvel said. 

In the midst of a warm and friendly conversation, with a lot of kidding and jokes, I began to see a new side of Velvel, one that wasn’t so serious. The line that stuck in my memory is when Perl said, “I’ve heard from my cousin in Brooklyn, New York City.”

Dutifully, Velvel and I asked about this cousin’s news from America.

“He wished us a Happy Chanukah, of course. And guess what? He says the Americans Jews copy the goyim about Christmas.”

“Do they have a Santa Claus?” I asked excitedly.

“Maybe some do. Bernard said that it is a custom there to exchange gifts for Chanukah like Christmas presents. Usually, a small gift is presented on each day of the holiday.”

“Eight presents?” I was aghast, not only by the shock of the practice, but by the obvious wealth of American Jews.

“We can be American here, too,” Perl said. “And I’ll show you all later.”

Velvel guessed that Perl would give us Chanukah gelt—a zloty or two, or maybe a fake coin made of chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. I couldn’t wait. 

But we had to wait, at least until that evening, because my grandmother Elke and Aunt Khane came over. My mother was angry because they just dropped by at lunchtime and she hardly had enough food for us. She managed to scrape together some leftovers, careful not to mix meat and dairy as my grandmother followed kosher rules, and added boiled potatoes and more carrots to the soup.

While we were eating, Aunt Khane bragged that my grandmother had given her money to buy a new coat.

“Oh?” Perl said. She waited for a word from her mother, but my grandmother was silent, smiling, proud that she could buy something for her daughter.

Perl exploded, without warning. I must say I was a little scared to see her this way. “Just because I have a boardinghouse doesn’t mean I have all the money in the world.”

“Do you have to begrudge your poor sister a simple coat?” my grandmother asked.

“Yeah, it’s always about poor Khane this and poor Khane that.” Perl’s chubby cheeks expanded.

“Perl Cohen Epstein! Your sister is all alone in this world with three children.”

“You forget that my husband is dead, too.”

“Oh Perl, Perl. There is nothing I can ever do to please you. You have things that Khane doesn’t.”

Perl was too proud to tell her mother that she, too, had bills she couldn’t pay. The big difference was that Perl lived larger than she was and Khane was just the opposite.

“It’s not just that,” Perl said, sounding like a teenager. “Other people can use things too, like your other daughter, Mother. Sheyne wears this worn-out coat from twenty years ago, and as I recall Khane already had a fairly new coat.”

“I don’t need anything,” my mother said, in a way that showed she was pretending. She smoothed down the sides of her wool skirt, too big for her slim figure.

“Don’t be such a martyr,” Perl said to my mother.

“What’s a martyr?” I asked.

“This is not your business,” Perl said.

My face felt hot and I was holding in my crying. I didn’t remember Perl ever talking to me this way.

“I’m sorry, bubele. I didn’t mean that.” She beckoned to me.

I must have forgiven her because Perl was the one person besides Ida who could get me to her side in an instant. The nasty remarks went on, and I realized this was how my mother and her sisters always talked to each other. It was hard to believe that they were still vying for their mother’s attention at their ages. 

 

If she couldn’t cajole her mother and sisters, Perl had no trouble with her nephew and nieces. At bedtime, she walked upstairs to the attic with us girls in two beds and Velvel, who usually slept on the couch, on a perene, a featherbed, in the nearby storage area.

“Children, I have something for all of you,” she called.

Velvel lumbered to our side of the attic. We watched her with our mouths agape, like baby robins in a nest waiting for a worm.

Perl carried over her large satchel, which she had brought up earlier. She opened the clasp. I thought it had been filled with her clothes even though she had also taken a small valise that she was using in the parlor.

“Now, these are for Chanukah, like they do in America. It’s not a lot, but I want you should be modern, too.” With this announcement, she pulled out a skull-size box wrapped in red tissue paper and handed it to Drora.

Drora looked stunned and kept the box in her lap.

“Open it,” Perl ordered.

Drora still didn’t move and when she realized that we were staring at her, she slid her fingers under the tape and lifted the paper gently so she wouldn’t rip it.

Velvel said, “Just open it already.”

Drora said, “But the paper is so beautiful. Maybe I can use it for something.”

At that, we all sighed, realizing that Drora had to do things slowly and methodically. This was her way. Finally, she opened the box. It was a small globe on a stand. The continents were raised like brown and tan bumpy animals, and Drora ran her fingers over them as if she were tracing the route for an upcoming voyage.

“It’s wonderful!” she crooned.

I was happy for Drora but a little jealous. I couldn’t imagine that my gift could be half as good.

Next, Perl handed a soft, bulky object to Rivke. It was also wrapped in tissue paper, only this time it was green. With these Christmas colors, I knew my parents—and certainly my grandparents—would have a fit. Unlike Drora, Rivke tore the paper open to reveal a brown-and-gold striped cardigan. Perl had knitted it, she said, just for Rivke.

“Oh,” Rivke said, holding it up against her chest. I knew Rivke was disappointed. She wanted a store-bought present like Drora’s. With our prodding, Rivke tried it on. When she put her arms in the sleeves, it was obvious the sweater was much too small, so she didn’t try to button it. But Perl insisted, and Rivke yanked the middle button to its hole and it just about made it, straining the wool across her chest. Rivke wouldn’t button any more, clearly humiliated by her pudgy stomach. It was more than that, though. She hadn’t grown so much since Perl had seen her last. Perl was an expert knitter; she should have known Rivke’s size.

“I’ll wear it,” Rivke said, without conviction.

“Don’t be silly, Rivele. Give it to Esfir. I’ll make you another.”

Rivke handed me her sweater; it was useless to protest.

“And for you my little Esfir, I have something special.” This remark only made me feel more embarrassed for Rivke, so I couldn’t show my excitement. The rectangular box was the length of one and a half rulers. This one was wrapped in yellow paper. Being more like my sister Drora in some ways, I carefully unwrapped the paper. When I opened the box, I inhaled so deeply and held it in for so long that I almost fainted.

It was a beautiful doll with a full-length, ruby taffeta dress trimmed in fancy lace. Her hair was blond like mine and she had a round, rouge-cheeked porcelain face with large blue eyes also like mine. Embedded in sockets, her glass eyes stared intently and were fringed in lush lashes that looked like real hair. She had a tiny upturned nose and red-painted cherubic lips. She wore dainty black velvet slippers. If there was ever a doll that looked like me, this was it.

What my sisters didn’t know was that a few weeks before, Perl and I had gone to the market. On the way, we’d passed a small shop that sold women’s hats and accessories. In the window, there was a doll with a sign propped up against it, announcing a sale. At the time, I said to Perl, “Oh I would give anything to have that doll. If I had it, I’d never ask for anything again.”

I hadn’t been hinting to Perl. There was no reason for her to buy me anything; I hadn’t yet known about her new Chanukah gift policy. And the doll cost more than two week’s groceries. It was a fortune.

And wonder of wonders, this was the very same doll. To this day, I don’t know how Perl afforded it; then, I didn’t think about it. All I could do was stroke the doll’s dress and hold her tightly to my chest.

“Oh, Esfir, she’s beautiful,” Drora said.

“Can I hold her?” Rivke asked. Reluctantly, I gave her my doll, but for only a few minutes.

Even though my sisters were too old for a doll, I can say this now, I don’t think they were really happy for me. It was bad enough I lived with Perl. But now, I got the best present by far.

Perl sat on the bed, smirking. She didn’t make a motion and we were staring at her. There were no more gifts in her satchel, and Velvel glared at Drora’s globe as if he hadn’t noticed.

Perl stood and reached into her sweater’s wide pockets. “Don’t think I have forgotten you, Velvel.” She handed him a tiny netted bag filled with gold-foil chocolate gelt. “I know how much you like sweets,” she added.

“Thank you Aunt Perl,” he said, shoving the bag into his sweater pocket and not offering us a bite.

I was enamored with my doll, grabbing it back from Rivke. I couldn’t wait to show it to Ania. She had a doll too but, compared to mine, it was nothing special. I decided to call my doll, Mary, after Jesus’s mother and because it was one of Ania’s favorite names. Perl almost had a stroke. “Mary is not really a Jewish name,” she said, angrily.

“But wasn’t Jesus Jewish?” I asked.

Rivke said my name loudly in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t argue. So I renamed her Miriam and Perl was happy. I went to bed thinking that this was the only time I had such a wonderful gift, my first real doll. It was the best Chanukah in my life.

 

THE DAY BEFORE Perl and I were leaving for Brest, at the beginning of the new year, 1937, I woke up early and surprised Rivke in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table massaging a soapy mixture into Miriam’s hair.

Horrified, I snatched Miriam from Rivke and frantically dried the doll’s hair with a towel. “What are you doing?” I screamed. “You’ve ruined Miriam’s beautiful hair.”

“I was only washing it,” she said, adding, “to surprise you,” as if those last words could convince me of her sincerity.

“Why?” I asked, still bewildered that my beloved sister could do this behind my back.

“So that Miriam has clean hair for your trip back to Brest.”

I didn’t say anything more, but the rest of that day, I walked around with Miriam tied to my waist. I thought and thought about Rivke’s actions and was so hurt, I could barely look at her the rest of our time there. It wasn’t until I got back to Brest that Fanny and Liba used some of their hair products to get Miriam’s hair in an acceptable style. My Miriam was never the same, though I loved her even more.

On the train back to Brest, I realized that it hadn’t been such a wonderful holiday. Yes, it was so cold and we had little to keep us warm except for our clothes and the kitchen stove. But there had been other kinds of hot and cold.

When my grandmother and Aunt Khane came unexpectedly, my mother had been furious at them, and probably at Perl too for assuming she’d entertain in her stride. My mother’s normally pale complexion had reddened and her blue-green eyes—then more green—glowered. Perl had been enraged at her mother and jealous of Khane about the new coat. My sisters and brother were jealous of me. Jealousy was passed on like an outdated dress with patchwork hemlines.

During that vacation, my brother became glum and had disappeared on mysterious missions causing loud arguments with my father. My father was away even more and didn’t appear to have missed me at all. My sisters, too, were busy, with what I can’t remember. I spent a lot of time with my next-door neighbor, Gittel, and my doll, Miriam.

Yes, much happened during our time home that winter. However, there was a far more significant reason that holiday is seared into my brain. It was the last Chanukah my whole family spent together.