PAPÁ PRACTICALLY BOUNCED in the door when he came back from Jewish Family Services on Friday. He had a bouquet of chrysanthemums, bright red, wrapped in fancy paper. “For your mother,” he said. “Make sure you set the table nice for Shabbat.”
When Mamá came home, carrying two bags of groceries, her eyes widened at the sight of the flowers in the vase on the table next to the Shabbat candles.
“What’s this, Dani?” she asked me.
“I don’t know. Ask Papá.”
“Eduardo?” Mamá called to the living room. “What’s going on?”
Papá came in and took the grocery bags from her.
“Go sit down and relax for a few minutes. I’ll tell you over dinner.”
I finished making the potatoes and took the chicken out of the oven, but all the time I was wondering what mystery Papá was going to reveal while we were eating it.
Finally, Mamá lit the candles to welcome the Sabbath. For the first time in months, Papá started to sing “Aishes Chayil.”
“A woman of worth who can find? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband trusteth in her, and he shall have no lack of gain…Strength and dignity are her clothing and she laugheth at the time to come…Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her, saying: Many daughters have done worthily but thou excellest them all.”
I saw Mamá’s eyes shining with tears. Whatever Papá was going to tell her, it wouldn’t be a greater gift to her than this.
After we’d said the blessings over the wine and bread, and everyone was served, Mamá said, “Eduardo, please. What is it that you’re going to tell us? The suspense is killing me!”
Papá put down his knife and smiled.
“I have a new job, of sorts. Now don’t get all excited, Estela, it’s not a paying one yet. But starting next week, I’m going to be mentoring relatives of 9/11 victims.”
“Mentoring?” Sari said. “What’s that?”
“Talking to them and listening to them and trying to help them get through the grief and the anger about what happened.”
“That’s wonderful, Papá,” I said. “But…why you?” I couldn’t help thinking that it wasn’t that long ago he lay morose and unshaven on the sofa, watching television for most of the day.
Mamá gave me a quieting look as if to ask how I could bring this up now, when Papá appeared finally to have turned a corner. But Papá just looked at me gravely and replied, “I wondered that, too, Dani. Even now, I wonder who am I, Eduardo Bensimon, to think that I could do anything to help these people who have lost so much in such an awful way. But I have lived through this, too. I lost my sister to terrorists suddenly, violently, and unexpectedly. I went through the waiting, the not knowing, the hope of finding her alive, and the despair of knowing that she was really dead. I’ve lived with the rage at the terrorists for taking innocent lives, and the anger at my own government for not doing more to stop them.”
Mamá took his hand and squeezed it, as if to give him the strength to go on.
Papá smiled at her, tenderly, looking so much like my old papá, it made my heart turn over.
“These people I talk to, Dani, they are going through the same thing. July 18, 1994, or September 11, 2001—Buenos Aires or New York City, a truck bomb or a plane, it is the same. Terrorists shattering innocent lives, and the relatives trying to piece their lives back together afterward.”
“I’m proud of you, Eduardo,” Mamá said. “It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing.”
“Me too, Papá,” I told him. I meant it, too.
“Well, I’m just happy you aren’t so mean and grumpy anymore,” Sarita said. “I didn’t like it when you shouted at us all the time.”
A few weeks before I would have been afraid of that setting Papá off, but he just laughed and ruffled Sari’s curls.
They say that the spirit of G-d, the Shechinah, rests in your home on Shabbat. That night, for the first time in as long as I could remember, it really felt that way.
A few weeks later, I went to the library to work on my Hamlet paper. Before I got started, I decided to send an e-mail to Gaby.
Hola Gaby!
I miss you, chica! So much has happened lately, I don’t even know where to start. Well, I guess the headline news is that Roberto is no longer my novio. He now calls himself “Robbie” and has a girlfriend named Amber. But I’m okay with it. Honestly. No lies. Maybe that’s because—newsflash number 2—I guess you could say I have a new novio myself. His name is Brian, and he’s muy guapo. But more than that, he’s smart and funny and I really enjoy being around him.
I’ve made more friends here, too. Even that one girl, Jess, who I started off hating, has ended up being a friend. It’s strange, isn’t it, how sometimes you end up having more in common with the person who you thought you couldn’t stand than with anyone else around…
Every day I start to feel a little less like an extranjera and a little more like an americana. Is it the same for you in Israel?
Things are finally better at home, too. Papá is doing much better. He is working with relatives of 9/11 victims and he said that helping others is making him feel better about himself. All I know is that even though things aren’t perfect, at least there are times where I see flashes of my old papá, and that makes me happy. Maybe as time goes on, those flashes will happen more and more often, until the depressed and angry papá is just a bad memory. I hope so, because I’ve missed my old papá. And you know who else I miss—YOU!!
Sometimes, when I think of Buenos Aires, it feels like a dream. I was born there and lived there most of my life, but now everything is so different, it’s hard to imagine I was ever there.
But we were there, weren’t we? And we were best friends. And even if I make new friends, you and I will have that special bond forever. You know things about me that no one here knows, and we share so much history. Like to you, 7/18 means something—it’s not just another day.
I looked up and Jon was standing there.
“Hi, Jon. I’m supposed to be working on my Hamlet paper, but I’m e-mailing my friend Gaby in Israel instead.”
“Did you know that Israel is only eighty-five miles wide at its widest point?”
I had to deflect Jon before he regaled me with his encyclopedic knowledge of Israel statistics.
“That’s amazing, Jon. Are you working on your Hamlet paper, too?”
“Yes. Can I sit at this carrel?”
“Sure.”
He sat down, and the first thing he pulled out of his backpack was the notebook, the one filled with letters to his father.
“I showed it to my mom and Jess,” he said.
“Your notebook? Seriously?”
He nodded, meeting my eyes for a brief instant before looking back down at the pages.
“What did they say?”
“They cried, just like you,” Jon said. “But then Mom hugged me and told me how much she loves me and we all sat around, Mom, Jess, and me, and talked about Dad and how much we miss him. Mom got out the photo albums and then we watched the video of Dad doing the hula at the luau when we were at Disney World and we laughed so hard it made my stomach hurt. It was the most we’ve laughed since…well, since it happened. Jess said we need to do it more often.”
I smiled at him, thinking about how good it felt when Papá and I shared laughter again over that silly math joke.
“I think Jess is right about that,” I told him. “I’m really glad you decided to show them.”
“Yeah. I am, too, I guess.”
He glanced down at his watch.
“Well, I better work on my paper. Mom and Jess are shopping and they’re going to pick me up in an hour.”
He pulled Hamlet out of his backpack and settled down to work.
I looked back at the computer screen, at the e-mail to Gaby.
Like to you, 7/18 means something—it’s not just another day.
And I realized that while that specific date, July 18, might not have the same significance to Brian, or Rosalia, or Jon, or Jess; after September 11 they certainly knew that it meant. Whether it was 7/18 or 9/11, we all knew what it felt like to have our innocence shattered by a terrorist act. We all knew that there was a Before, which we could never return to, and an After, where we had to learn to find joy again.
Because with joy, we overcome the terror. With love, strength, and hope, we prevail.