After the Second World War, my mother wrote letters to people
she had known in Russia, who had been neighbors of her
parents and their children. Three neighbors answered that
they had seen the Germans shooting all the people as they
were running away; among them had been my Mother's dear ones.
We shared my mother's weeping and tried hard to comfort her.
Many years passed before she was able to cease mourning every
day.
At the time, we were living in Rochester, New York [some
seventy years ago]. After a few years of saving up, my
parents moved to Baltimore, where my brothers were learning
in Ner Yisroel. My husband and I followed soon after with our
children.
My father had started an independent mattress business, where
no one had to work on Shabbos, and he continued producing
them in Baltimore. But at one point, he began talking about
retiring and moving to Eretz Yisroel. "It's what we pray for
all the time. `Next year in Jerusalem.' What is stopping me
from going?"
My mother could not bear the thought of leaving the children
and grandchildren. "When we left Russia, I never saw my
family again," she said.
"But travel is much simpler nowadays," my father told her.
"They can come and visit us." She was not convinced.
"Alright," he threatened finally. "If you won't come, I'll go
alone."
Shortly after his ultimatum, a wonderful letter came from my
mother's brother, the only one who remained alive; Uncle
Shmuel had not been in Minsk at the time of the German
invasion, but away on a business trip. He never contacted his
sister, my mother, because he was so devastated by the loss
that he forgot her address. It took him five years to
remember the name Pheterson and the city Rochester. A
conscientious clerk in the post office sent his letter to the
only Pheterson in town, my father's brother, who gladly
forwarded it to my father in Baltimore.
Many letters followed and even a few phone calls begging our
dear Uncle Shmuel to come to us in America, but he echoed my
father's dream of moving to Jerusalem.
My parents made aliya, but getting Uncle Shmuel to join them
proved impossible. You see, Uncle Shmuel had remarried after
having lost his family. The Russian government asked his
wife's children whether to grant Uncle Shmuel an exit permit
to visit his sister in Israel, but they refused. "What if he
decides not to come back? Who will take care of our
mother?"
A few years later, when they knew Uncle Shmuel better, they
exacted a promise from him that he return after a month's
visit, and true to his word, he went, and came back to care
for his second wife until she died, many years later.
And so it came about that Uncle Shmuel was scheduled to
arrive for a visit. I was in Jerusalem at the time and
accompanied my mother to greet him at the airport. When she
saw him, she immediately shouted, "Shmuel!" He was so
overcome with emotion, that he had to step behind a pillar in
order to calm his beating heart.
We finally found ourselves in the sheirut-taxi,
speeding through the forest of the Jerusalem Corridor, on our
way to Mother's apartment, beaming with joy, when suddenly,
he uttered the strangest words. "In Russia, the trees are
bigger." Moments later, he said again, "The flowers in Russia
are more beautiful."
Mother and I exchanged looks and raised our eyebrows but no
one in the car said a word. The moment we entered her
apartment, Mother sat Shmuel down, gave him a drink, and then
asked, "Why did you praise Russia in the taxi?"
"I was afraid there might be a spy."
We had a lovely visit together. I was thrilled to speak to
this uncle who had taught me to sing and dance as a little
girl, skills which had made our trip over to the States much
easier, since I won the favor of the passengers and staff on
the upper class deck. [See "Memoirs" Parshas Noso.] When the
time came for me to return to Baltimore, my husband suggested
over the phone that I bring Uncle Shmuel over to meet the
rest of the family.
He agreed and was most gratified to be able to converse with
most of the American members of the family in Yiddish. Uncle
Shmuel happened to be in great need of a good dentist and I
found him a Jewish one who could also converse with him in
Mama loshon. All of Uncle Shmuel's teeth needed to be
pulled, and the process would take three visits, he told
him.
After each visit, I brought him home, put him to bed, placed
an icebag on his cheek and let him rest. When he awoke, I had
a soft lunch ready for him. After the third visit, when he
came into the kitchen after his nap, he held out a wedding
ring in his hand.
"I want you to have this," he said. I refused but he
persisted.
"Don't say `no' to me," he said in half anger. "This ring is
Russian gold, but this --" and he pointed to my heart -- "Is
Rochel gold. I want you to have it!"
I am wearing this ring to this day and I think of my dear
uncle often.
