Birthdays were a special delight to us four children. My
parents would tell us what they could remember of their
childhood in Russia. There is one story my mother told us
that all of us remember to this very day. I was the oldest
child in our family and on my twelfth birthday, we all heard
the following true story:
When I was twelve years old, I was already working in a
sewing shop which produced men's and boys' suits. As was
often the case, Russia was at war, this time with Japan. We
were told by our supervisor that the uniforms we were sewing
were needed by our valient Russian soldiers. "No one will be
allowed to take any days off. I have been instructed to warn
you that whoever fails to come to work will face the firing
squad."
I didn't tell this to my parents. On the first Shabbos after
the announcement, I dressed as if I were going to
shul, and off I went to the factory.
We four children gasped in shock. Our eyes were fixed on our
mother's face. This was a story I had never heard before!
When I got to the factory, I sat down at my usual seat,
faced my sewing machine, but kept my hands in my lap. I just
sat there. My heart was full of prayers: I asked Hashem to
save me.
The lady supervisor walked over to me, stood behind me for a
moment, but didn't say a word. The women all around me were
busily footing the treadle on their machines and producing
uniforms, as usual. I just sat there.
We all gasped, waiting for my mother to continue.
The supervisor never reported me, nor did any of my
gentile fellow workers.
*
My mother finished her story at this point. It had been an
outright miracle, repeated week after week until the end of
that war.
I was fully aware of it, but still wondered how, exactly, it
had happened. I received my answer nine years later. I was
twenty-one, and preparing for my wedding. My mother had
always been sewing all of our clothes, and this occasion was
certainly no exception. My mother was blessed with magic
hands, but also with a very fine eye for design. She was able
to go into a fine lady's shop, look at the dresses on
display, and then come home and make a perfect replica of
those very expensive outfits, having bought fine material on
her way.
My mother didn't need a pattern to copy the dresses, not even
the wedding dress which she made for me. Before my wedding,
she was busy sewing my clothing as well as the gowns for
herself, her mother and my sisters. She even sewed a
beautiful gown for the flower girl who would go before me and
strew petals along the red carpet, as was the custom in those
days.
We were accustomed to seeing our mother busy at the machine,
but during this hectic time, her hands just flew, and
gorgeous, perfectly fitted and finished garments slipped out
from her machine.
It was at this time that it suddenly struck me. Up until now,
I had never understood why the supervisor had never reported
my mother for her seventh day strikes. But seeing her speed
and accuracy under pressure, I had the answer to my question.
The supervisor knew that my mother could make up in a day or
two what she had failed to produce on Shabbos.
And probably still be ahead of her fellow workers, I was
willing to bet.
