Memories of a Jerusalemite, some sixty years ago
We stood crowded at the Kosel reciting Tehillim and praying
on behalf of Nachshon Waxman who had been kidnapped by Arabs,
his whereabouts still unknown.
The following day. By now, we all knew that the young
soldier, Nachshon Waxman, had been murdered. Sorrow and
despair filled us all, knowing that he had been chosen as
another victim for anti-Semitic hatred. He had harmed no
one... The fact of his having been born Jewish had targetted
him for this brutal act of Arab hatred.
As I heard the announcement over the air, I recalled
something similar that had happened to me at the very early
age of three. In a flash, I was carried back in time to the
moment of a different, but similar, announcement:
*
The wind blew in my face. I closed my eyes and leaned against
my mother's shoulder. It felt wonderful to be near her and
know that I could see as well as touch her again. Aunt Mina
had taken care of me during Mother's illness, and I didn't
like her at all. She had straight eyebrows and unsmiling
eyes. Our neighbor, Sheindel, had also watched over me, and
she acted so strangely. She wouldn't let me enter our home!
Now, however, I felt my mother's closeness. And I fell asleep
contented. I woke up a while later, as my mother shifted
restlessly.
"Could you do me a favor, please?" She leaned towards the bus
driver as she spoke. "Could you drop us a bit closer to
Moshava Bat Shlomo? I'll give you a baksheesh. I've
just recovered from typhus and it is much too hard to walk
all the way from the intersection to the village with this
little girl. And I can't possibly carry her..."
"It is against the regulations, geveret, but I guess I
can do it just this time." The driver eyed my mother. Typhus
had been stalking the country and hit many homes. Her pale
face accentuated the truth of her words.
We got off the bus. My mother carried our tattered baggage. I
trudged along, feeling happy to be near her. Soon we saw the
few houses that were known as Bat Shlomo. "There! That's the
house where Bobbe and Zeide live!" she pointed to a little
building. All the houses looked identical to me.
As we neared the house, my grandmother came running out. Her
black kerchief blew in the breeze of the early afternoon. Her
apron and her dark dress were smudged with flour. She uttered
cries of joy and hugged us tightly together. "How was your
trip? How are you now?" she asked in concern.
We entered the house through the kitchen. A big oven
commanded the center. Bobbe was in the midst of baking her
famous delicious bread. We sat by the table while she served
us some of the first batch and laid out homemade butter and
cheese. "Where are Tatte and the girls?" my mother
inquired.
"The girls went to visit Zeide [her father]. Tatte is out in
the fields. He'll be back soon."
The heavenly taste of the bread and cheese, along with some
fresh milk, was greatly satisfying. My mother and I were
tired. Bobbe Feige ushered us to a side room which was used
as a dining room on Shabbos and Yom Tov. She led us to a bed
in the corner, covered with a spread to serve as a daytime
couch.
"Rest now. Zeide will be here soon. He's on his way back
now," she said. She left the room and returned to the
kitchen. The aroma of freshly baking bread drifted towards us
and enveloped us in its homey, reassuring comfort. My mother
and I soon drifted off to sleep. We were awakened much too
soon by the noise of my grandfather's robust voice. The sound
of the creaking wagon and the voices of his workers also
reached us through the open window. A short while later,
Zeide entered our room. His yellow beard was streaked with
gray. His blue eyes smiled down at us.
"Here you are! Welcome!" Zeide looked at my mother. "Are you
alright?"
"Yes, Boruch Hashem. It's all over! We all took turns
at being sick except for Yisca, here." She smiled at me.
My aunts, Simcha and Chaya, came running in. They eyed me.
Both had dark hair and eyes. They stood tall and towering
above me. I cringed and moved closer to my mother. In the
distance, we heard the bells of the cows coming in from the
fields. The hens and roosters were cackling noisily in the
front yard. Long shadows stretched on the walls. In the
distance, we heard hyyenas howling. I felt frightened and
alienated. Soon, it was completely dark. A lamp was lit and
deep shadows leaped up and down the walls, frightening me
even more. I clung to my mother.
"Come with me. I'm going to the storage room." My
grandfather's eyes looked at me benignly, but I stood my
ground by my mother's side. "You come too!" he said, sizing
up the situation.
We entered the storage room. Sacks were piled high, up to the
ceiling. In one corner stood a half empty sack in which white
flour was visible. Tall pitchers stood neatly by the other
wall. The kerosene lamp cast long shadows on the walls and
the corners. The voices of Zeide and Mother conversing
lightly helped dispel my feelings of strangeness and fear.
Suddenly, the door burst open and my aunts, Simcha and Chaya,
charged in. "We saw a porcupine! We saw a porcupine!" cried
Chaya. "A real big one!" added Simcha. My skin prickled and I
began to wail. Mother carred me off to the house and put me
to bed. She laid down beside me, ready for her night's sleep
as well. I pushed closer to her for comfort and security.
Everything here was so strange and different...
The next morning, in the bright sunshine, I made my
acquaintance with the goats, the hens and the cows. The
strangeness wore off quickly and soon, the donkeys and ponies
became my playmates. My aunts were kept busy with chores and
school. A week passed quickly and with the fresh farm air and
food, my mother recuperated; it was time to return home to
Yerusholayim.
*
Several weeks later, in the midst of a game of tag, I heard
cries coming from the direction of our home. I ran home as
fast as I could. Mother's screaming was incoherent and all I
could make out was an intermittent, "Oy! Oy! It can't be! I
don't believe it!" My sister Chava and my cousin Etta stood
by her, both dissolved in tears. My sister Tehilla brought a
glass of water, but Mother pushed it away.
"What happened? Why are you crying?" I edged towards my
cousin Etta, hoping to get an answer from her, at least.
"Zeide was murdered by Arabs!" she cried, and resumed her
loud wailing and sobbing.
Mother leaned against the wall, her face wet. Tears streamed
down her cheeks. "Oy! Oy!" she moaned and sighed deeply.
"Hashem gave and Hashem took." Then she added, "Boruch
dayan ha'emes."
*
So many martyrs, past and recent, throughout our long Golus.
May it end, and Moshiach come speedily and in our days!
Amen!
