Part I
Pa was kept busy most of the day in the Old Age Home where he
lived. With the exception of his meals and a short after-
dinner nap, he was in the Beis Midrash from four a.m. till
nine p.m., either praying or studying. But in the evening,
when Pa returned to his room, he would be overwhelmed with
loneliness. Ma had died suddenly and he grieved in
silence.
As we were his only children living in Israel, we had rented
an apartment just a few blocks away from the Home and now
took turns visiting him every night, spending time with him
till he went to bed at eleven.
It wasn't always simple getting to his room. Very often, the
old people sitting around in the lobby would buttonhole us on
our way, desperate to share their life stories of sacrifice
and concern for others -- only to be left in their old age,
destitute and all alone. Some more aggressive old ladies
begged to be hugged and kissed. Others would kidnap us to
their room, starved for contact with another human being, and
try to buy us with packages of their left-over food that they
insisted we take -- with the logic, "Such a shame to throw
out; with so many children, you can surely use it."
One night, when I'd exhausted all possible conversation with
the silent old man who was my father-in-law, and was very
seriously wondering if my presence was more of a burden to
him than a comfort, I suddenly had a brainstorm.
"Pa!" I said. "Tell me a story!"
He quickly looked up, certain that he hadn't understood.
"Yes, that's right. Tell me a story!" I repeated. "There are
so many things that I don't know... like how it was to grow
up in the shtetl, or how you met Ma or how you got to
Canada..."
"Ach! Foolishness. Of what use to know?"
"But, Pa!" I insisted, having sensed a flicker of interest.
"I really mean it. What do I know about the world that you
grew up in? Having been born in America, I missed out on so
many experiences."
"Yea, experiences,' Pa said dryly, and shook his head at my
naivete. "Narish kindt! Some experience you missed,
having to cook up pots of water before Shabbos so that the
neighbors wouldn't know that there was nothing to eat.
Watching your sisters become hunchbacks as they bent over the
lace they embroidered twenty hours a day to earn the few
zlotys that never amounted to a dowry. Some experiences you
missed, not having your belly always rumbling and grumbling
and growling with hunger..."
Pa's eyes were distant, hard and hurt and full of distress.
He pulled a stained, crumpled handkerchief out of his caftan
pocket, and loudly blew his nose.
"Foolishness!" he said again, ending the discussion. But as
he stroked his beard, I could sense his revisiting the
past.
"But, Pa," I said, suddenly thinking of something that made
me tremble with excitement. "If you told me things about the
shtetl, I'd be able to write stories about them.
Jewish magazines pay lots of money for good stories."
I waited for the idea to sink in. I was certain that knowing
what a hard time my husband was having earning a living, if
he thought that there was even the remotest possibility that
I might earn some money from the things he told me, he would
cooperate, and I hoped that perhaps, by talking about the
past, he would find solace in his grief.
The flicker of interest in Pa's eyes grew sharper, then
quickly dulled again. He shook his head in short abrupt
motions, narrowed his eyes as though still weighing the
matter, then said, "I'm not a storyteller."
His tone was final.
It was true. Pa was a silent type. Even when he had something
to say, he rationed and measured each word. Words were holy;
to be reckoned with the utmost of care. Because of the gift
of speech, man was the choice of Creation. To waste that gift
in idle chatter or unnecessary gossip was simply
inconceivable!
"Whatever you say, Pa." I quietly deferred. Who did I think I
was anyway, trying to get him to talk things out, acting like
a therapist when I knew nothing?
"But tell me, Pa," I persisted, not being one to give up so
fast. "Is that why you left the shtetl? Is that why
you ran away from Poland? Because of the poverty?"
Pa leaned forward to better explain.
"In those days, the part of Poland that we lived in was
always involved in border wars. One day we were under Russian
rule, the next day under Polish. Not that it made such a
difference to us, but with wars being constantly fought, both
countries needed a standing army, and they drafted the Jewish
boys.
"There was nothing that Jewish mothers feared more than
having their child inducted by the army. In most case, they
were never heard from again. I had an older brother
Azriel..."
Pa's eyes were suddenly rimmed in red and he couldn't go on.
He swallowed and sighed. His eyebrows lifted, his hands flung
out.
"Nobody knows what happened to him. One postcard and then
silence. We never heard from him again. By the time I reached
draft age, my mother was desperate. She gave me medicine to
simulate a heart condition, which nearly killed me. She
begged me to chop off a finger, to bring on a rupture, all
kinds of self mutiliation that would exempt me from service.
But I refused to be crippled! I am a Kohen and being maimed
would make me unfit for service in the Beis Hamikdosh when
Moshiach comes. I wouldn't let anyone touch me. I knew that
in big cities, people bought army exemption cards with
money.
"The only problem was that money we didn't have."
(to be continued)
