YISCA SHIMONY is a Jerusalemite from 'way back,
generations back. She has already shared her reminiscences
with us about life with the old time flavor.
I looked in the mirror and asked... No, I didn't ask,
"Mirror, Mirror on the wall..." and what goes after.
All I asked was, "Do I look like Bobbe Rochel?" I tried to
recall Bobbe Rochel. What was she like? I closed my eyes in
efforts to reconstruct her image.
*
I must have been four years old the last time I saw her. As
was usual on every Shabbos, the whole family went visiting
our grandparents, Bobbe Baila and Zaide Moishe Eli. Before
climbing up the stairs, my mother stopped abruptly, bent
down, and addressed me, "Why don't you let Bobbe Rochel kiss
you?"
"I don't like Bobbe Rochel!" I stubbornly said. Bobbe Rochel
was my great-grandmother and she lived with my
grandparents.
"Why?" my mother asked, bewildered.
"She is a great tzaddekess!" my older sister Tzilla
interjected vehemently, throwing her arms wildly in big
circles to show how truly great a tzaddekes she
was.
"Where is her husband?" I countered with childish logic, as
though the fact of her being alone diminished her
saintliness.
My oldest sister, Chedva, whom I loved dearly, bent her knees
and brought her face close to mine. "You know," she said
softly, "she is a widow. Her husband was killed in Chevron.
The Arabs murdered him. He was called Zaide Zev Elimelech,
and he, too, was a great tzaddik and a big talmid
chochom!" Chedva paused, looked into my eyes, and then
added, "We all love Bobbe Rochel! Come with me and let her
kiss you."
I walked upstairs holding fast to Chedva's hand, and I felt a
little more courageous. I saw Bobbe Rochel and she looked to
me like a white cloud, drifting towards us as she moved from
her bed to the table. Everything about her was white. Her
robe, her shawl, even her kerchief was white. I saw her pink
little mouth, the tiny nose and the big blue eyes, but all
this was scarcely visible under the voluminous wrappings of
white.
"Oh, here is Yisca!" she piped in a small voice and bent down
close to me, trying to kiss my cheek. My sister Chedva held
my hand tightly and gave it a squeeze. I gathered up my
courage and gave my great-grandmother a small peck on her
cheek and quickly ran out of the room. I made a quick dash to
the porch and joined my cousins. We played together for the
remainder of the family visit.
*
Now, a few years later, as I stood by the mirror, the image
reflected looked somewhat familiar... Enveloped in a white
bathrobe with a large white towel swaddling my head, I
couldn't help wondering.
"Do I look like Bobbe Rochel?"
