“The father of orphans
And the defender of widows
Is God
In the abode of His holiness.”
Psalm 68:5
I was nine months old when I learned how to walk. Mama said my father was so proud of me, he would take me outside and watch me walk around for hours. One day I fell and hurt myself quite badly, and after that I refused to take another step. They tried again and again to get me to walk but I was a stubborn baby, and I did not want to. Every time I crawled Mama would say, “Silly child, you know how to walk! Silly child, you know how to walk!” Then one day Mama and Tatty1 were out in the courtyard with me and I stood up, clutched my dress tightly for support and took a step.
“Silly child, you know how to walk,” I said to myself.
Mama and Tatty laughed for a few minutes straight from that. Mama said I walked around for days, muttering to myself, “Silly child, you know how to walk,” as if I couldn’t believe I took so long to get up and walk again.
I love it when Mama tells me stories from my younger years because they all involve my father and, even though he is not here anymore, he is still a big part of our lives. Mama says I am an exact copy of my father. Maybe that’s why it is sometimes hard for her to look at me. I have his red hair and blue eyes. Mama says my hair is hajszín szőke, blonder than red, but that’s just wishful thinking.
I know my red hair is considered ugly, but I don’t care because I have a part of my father that I get to wear on my head every day. Some people may think it is something to be embarrassed of, but to me it is a crown.
My father died when I was five years old and, being that I am the oldest child, I have the most memories of him. Leah was only four at that time. Pinchas, my little brother who died, was two, and Cheskel was still in Mama’s belly so of course he can’t possibly remember anything. Although, sometimes he mixes up Mama’s stories of him as if they are memories from his own brain. I remember the day my father died clearly, like a flash of lightening in a blurry storm, and I know that the memory is fully mine. First, he was sick in bed and then they sent him to a hospital that was too far away for us to visit. I was playing outside in the courtyard one day and I saw Zaidy, Mama’s father. He walked slowly to our house, and he was bent over a little. As he got closer, I saw that he was crying. I had never seen him crying before that. He did not have to say anything, I just knew. I ran all the way up the twisty steps to the shul2 where my uncle was learning. He looked up over the sefer3 at me and I said, “My Tatty died.” He stood up and scooped me into his arms and ran down the steps with me to Mama.
My father was a teacher, but “Not just a teacher!” as Mama would say. He had students from all over the country. Sometimes he had students from places as big as Budapest. They would come and he wouldn’t just teach them regular knowledge. He would teach them character, and how to be a person, and there is nothing as important as that.
Mama said that he used to set the table every morning before she got up.
“Why are you setting the table?” she would ask him. “That is a woman’s job. Do you think I cannot manage it?”
“You are nursing a baby,” he would say. “You are taking care of everything; you should have to set the table too?” And so, she let him do it.
Sometimes it makes me sad that I don’t remember a lot of things about him, and that I must rely on Mama to tell the stories (which she does quite often, mind you). I feel bad when his face is blurry in my head. Fuzzy red beard, blue eyes . . . but very transparent and not fully formed. But I never forget how he made me feel. He used to take my hand in his when we went to the outhouse together to wash up. He let me hold the candle all by myself and he put his fingers to his lips and winked at me. I knew not to tell Mama, but my father thought I was big enough to hold a candle. I nearly burst with pride as the flickering flame warmed my face and made the dark room glow.
Once when I was on a walk with him, I jumped into a puddle. I was wearing my brand-new shoes. He took my hand and took me into the nearest shul. He took my stockings off and placed them out to dry. While we waited, he told me stories. The only rebuke I got was, “Your mother is going to kill us.” But I was safe because I was with him.
Sometimes I feel sad that I do not have him with me anymore. Especially when my friend’s fathers meet them unexpectedly in the street and give them a big hug, or when they pick them up from school and before setting off for home they take firm hold of their hand. In those times, when I feel like there is a little swirling hole in my heart, I think of a story Mama told me.
“You know Rosie, when you were born, I thought you were a little angel baby.”
“Was I?”
“Well, that is what I thought. My friends who had become mamas all warned me that babies stay up all night. They looked so tired, with dark circles under their eyes, and I was worried that when you came along that I would be just like them.”
“But I was an angel baby who let you sleep?” I asked, already feeling proud of my baby self.
“That is what I thought, until one night when you were a few weeks old. I woke up and I almost panicked! Your father’s bed was empty, and you weren’t in your bassinet! I stumbled to the kitchen, and I found you and Tatty sitting there. You were so tiny and peaceful in his arms. He read the Talmud as he swayed and sung softly to you, so I wouldn’t wake up. When he saw me, he smiled and said, ‘You caught me. Now go back to bed, you need your rest!’ And so, I did. And to think that all along I thought you were sleeping through the night!”
When that lonely feeling wells up inside of me, I close my eyes and picture myself as a little baby in my father’s arms. I imagine him holding me in the crook of his left arm and rocking me gently, our identical red hair reflecting the moonlight as it streams in through the window. Then, I don’t feel so lonely anymore.