I decided to change the subject and asked when he expected to finish work and close the company for good.
“I believe within a week,” he answered.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then the doors will be permanently closed,” he said, his voice sounding a bit hoarse.
“Does that make you sad?”
He thought about it for a while and then he answered, “Yes and no.”
I waited for him to continue.
“You see, this company was like a living organ in our family. We grew up with it, lived with it. It was like the daughter of close relative. If a customer complained, we would all take it as a personal assault. That’s how my father raised us. It was important that people were satisfied and not get angry at him. If someone complained, he immediately compensated him. That was the reason we sent out the check. If we made a mistake, we would rectify it even if a long time had passed. It was a very emotional business. Things are different today. Business is business. Suppliers aren’t willing to take our word any more—they want guarantees. We used to seal a deal with a handshake; there’s no such thing today.”
Then there was silence. Not an uncomfortable silence; it felt relaxed. Strange, I thought, it is only the second time I have met him, but already I feel as if we had known each other for a long time.
Finally, he said, “Would you like me to check the card again? Did you bring it?”
“Yes,” I answered.
All of the sudden I felt cold. My whole body began to shake. I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my shivering. I took a sip of the water he gave me earlier and placed it on the bureau. My body was tense. Mickey’s eyes were fixed on the painting; he didn’t speak, and his breathing could barely be heard. It appeared as if he was traveling back in time, as if he wasn’t in the little room in the back alley in the center of the city. Not knowing where he was at that moment, I kept quiet and waited for him to begin speaking.
Then the telephone on the table began to ring. Mickey picked up the receiver and I could only hear the impatience in his voice.
When he finished the conversation, he explained, “That was my mother. She wants you to take the cookies that are left.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then, with uncharacteristic bravado, I asked, “Did she say anything else about me?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering, and then he said, “Yes, she wants me to invite you to our home.”
“Why?” I wondered.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“I mean, she doesn’t even know me.” I tried to understand.
“You’re right, but she tries to fix me up with every Jewish girl I talk about,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“But I’m not Jewish!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought you were. Maybe because of your interest in my father’s story. I just assumed that… I’m sorry…”
“It’s OK,” I consoled him. “It doesn’t matter, I still want to hear the story.”
“On September 1, 1939, Hitler invaded Poland and demolished the Polish army,” he began. “It was a Friday, the day when Jews prepare for the Sabbath and therefore their work day is shorter than usual. When rumors of the invasion reached him, my grandfather asked his employees to go home and look after their families. After he locked up the factory, he hurried home. The family packed one suitcase and fled. Two weeks later, the Jews in the city were all rounded up and deported to the General Government Zone.
“My father and his parents boarded the first train that came their way. It took them southward to the city of Krakow. From there, they traveled to a city adjacent to the Slovakian border. I don’t remember the name. My grandfather hoped that the further away from the center they got, the safer they would be. With the money he took with him, he rented a small room in a crowded, poor neighborhood. He thought it would help them assimilate among the residents. But my grandfather didn’t take into consideration the fact that some make their peace with poverty and some try to escape it. One of the neighbors suspected that his new tenants were Jewish, so he turned them in to the Germans for money.
“At five in the morning, there was a knock on the door. My grandfather woke up in a panic—he knew exactly what was happening. He went to my father and begged him to hide in the closet. At first, he refused, but after my grandfather pleaded with him, he climbed into the closet. The bedroom door opened and there were three Germans standing in the doorway. They beat my grandfather with a club. One of the soldiers grabbed my grandfather and dragged him to the car waiting outside.
“This is how my father was torn away from his parents. He swore to himself that he would not rest until he was reunited with them. He couldn’t imagine his life without them.”
Mickey suddenly stood up, opened the door, and went outside, leaving me alone inside, stunned by his story. The air in the room was dense. It was dim inside, and only the small amount of light that came in through the open door reminded me that there was still a long trip home ahead of me. I got up and went outside. Mickey was leaning against the wall, his hands hiding his face. He was crying, but when he felt my presence, he quickly wiped his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Every time I talk about that period, it feels as if I was there myself. Maybe if my father would tell me what happened, that would give me some relief. But you came here to check out the card and here I am yammering on and on about horrible things.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, becoming angry. “I was the one who asked you to tell me.”
Mickey smiled. We were both quiet.
I finally said, “OK, I have to go. It will be dark soon, and I don’t like driving in the dark.”
“How about spending the night with us?” he said surprisingly.
His offer caught me off guard. I didn’t know how to refuse without sounding like I was trying to get out of it. I said, “I don’t want to be any trouble. Your parents don’t know me and I don’t want to make them uncomfortable.”
“Ridiculous,” he said. “My mother will be happy. She loves having guests over, and there is always enough food for the occasional visitor.”
“You have that many random guests?”
Mickey smiled and I saw his shiny white teeth in the gloom. “The truth is, we have a spare room for potential Jewish brides,” he said.
“But I’m not Jewish,” I insisted.
“So, you will sleep in the room for nice gentiles who aren’t potential brides.”
After an answer like that, I couldn’t refuse. I nodded and Mickey began to organize the table and pack up his things. He opened the door for me and took a last look around the room, his eyes lingering a bit on the colorful painting. I left my car next to the office and we drove in his car. The landscape slowly changed. The tall buildings were replaced by one-story houses. The foliage became lush and the air clearer as we left the noisy city behind and drove to a rural area. I opened the window on my side and let the wind caress my face, comfortable in my silence, wanting to completely succumb to the landscape. Wide expanses of green stretched out like a tapestry on either side, hidden every now and again by tall trees that allowed the setting sun to peek through their branches, swaying in the wind. The sky painted in purple and orange hinted at the sun’s transient nature. Very soon it will disappear only to bring light to another place.
I closed my eyes and became completely addicted to the feeling of calm that washed over me. My hair was fluttering in the wind annoying me, but I didn’t make a move. Mickey was quiet next to me. His driving was relaxed and confident and complemented my own tranquility.
He suddenly stopped the car.
“What happened?” I asked.
“We’re here,” he answered with a smile. “You fell asleep.”
“Really? I was sure that I was totally awake.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “You looked so calm and relaxed.”
I smiled at him in appreciation.
&n
bsp; “Come, let’s go inside.”
Only when he said that did I raise my eyes. A huge beautiful house with three separate sections stood before me. The central wing jutted forward and the side wings were placed further back. I couldn’t discern the color of the house since it was already dark. Lanterns had been lit all around me and cast tiny stars everywhere. The door opened and light poured out from inside the house.
“Michael,” said a voice.
“This is my mother,” he said.
We moved toward the entrance; the gravel crunched under our feet. Before I knew what was happening, big fat arms encircled me and pulled me to an ample chest in a hug that choked the breath out of me for a moment.
“Eva, I’m so happy you came,” said the woman.
“Thank you, I am too,” I said.
She pushed me away a little bit, looked at my face and said, “Beautiful.”
Mickey planted a kiss on her check, pulled me out of her embrace and pulled me inside.
“I didn’t hear her name,” I whispered to Mickey.
“Rivka,” he answered, also in a whisper. “Like Yitzhak’s wife from the Torah.”
I nodded.
Mickey closed the door behind us. His mother disappeared somewhere in the house and I was captivated by the strong aromas that filled the air.
“What are those smells?” I asked Mickey.
“Shabbat home cooking.”
“I can smell chicken soup,” I mumbled and inhaled the odors.
“That’s right,” Mickey confirmed with a smile. “What else?”
I inhaled through my nose once again and said, “Meat—roast beef with gravy.”
“Good,” he said with a chuckle. “Go on.”
“Noodles with raisins.”
This time he laughed out loud and stated, “Your sense of smell is quite developed. What else?”
“Fish. Carp?” I asked it as a question, even though I was certain I knew the answer.
Mickey roared with laughter. “I didn’t know you were such a good cook,” he said.
“I’m not in the least, but the smells remind me of the dishes my mother used to prepare.”
Mickey looked at me, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he decided against it. He just smiled, took me by the hand, and led me to the room selected for me.
We went up the stairs to the second floor. The living room was underneath us. An enormous crimson-and cream-colored carpet was on the floor. Two brown sofas sat across from each other. There was a coffee table between them, holding a fresh vase of flowers. A chandelier hung from the ceiling with arms curved upward; it formed silhouettes of flowers on the ceiling. A long bureau next to the adjacent wall had many photos crowding for space. There were a number of paintings hanging on the wall. The room radiated warmth.
We reached the top of the stairs, from which a long corridor with doors on either side of it stretched. Mickey still held my hand when he opened one of the doors for me. “We have reached the Room for Nice Gentiles,” he said with a smile.
I went inside and a feeling of warmth enveloped me all at once. The light wood floor was partially covered by a shaggy carpet and there was a bed with a colorful quilt with two white nightstands on either side; on each of them stood a lamp with a lampshade with colors that matched the quilt. On the wall across from the bed hung a picture of a ballerina.
“This was my younger sister’s room,” he explained before I could ask. “She was married a few years ago and lives in New York. They are supposed to come for dinner.”
“Do you have one sister?”
“No, two. My big sister lives in San Francisco. She moved there a couple of years ago. She’s a partner in a law firm, married to a doctor, and they have two children. Typical Jewish family,” he added cynically. “OK, I’ll leave you alone. Oh, there are clothes in the closet my sister left behind. You can use anything you want.”
Mickey left and closed the door behind him.
Lying down on the bed with my feet dangling, I took a deep breath and tried to digest the last several hours. Me, a friendless girl who doesn’t know how to make contacts—I am in a total stranger’s house and… And it doesn’t feel so bad. I got up from the bed, stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. For a minute, I didn’t recognize my own reflection. What are you doing in this house? I asked myself.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. “Eva, are you ready?” Mickey called out.
I looked at the clock and was surprised to see that almost a whole hour had passed. I hadn’t taken a shower or gotten ready. “I’ll be down soon,” I yelled.
I washed my face in the bathroom, sprinkled some perfume from an almost empty bottle on the shelf, brushed my hair with my fingers, put on some lipstick I brought with me, and went downstairs. Mickey was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to lead me into the dining room where the rest of the family had gathered. He introduced me to his younger sister Naomi and her husband Jerry, and then to his father, Shlomo, who shook my hand with indifference. That’s when I saw how much Mickey looks like him: the same lips, the same big eyes, and the same facial features, but the mouth was different. Mickey’s mouth had a wide, warm smile, while his father’s remained clenched shut.
“Time for candle lighting!” Everyone turned around to face the mother, who had a clean white handkerchief on her head. She stood in front of two tall candlesticks made of silver. She lit the candles, lifted her arms up and then down to cover her face. Everyone stood and watched her. A murmuring could be heard from behind her hands and everyone around her was quiet, waiting for the prayer to end. All of the sudden I broke out in a cold sweat, my head so dizzy that I had to hold on to the end of the table to stop myself from falling. The room was spinning and with it the mother’s praying figure. Mickey could feel my distress and hurried to bring me a glass of water. “Are you OK?” he asked with concern.
“I’ll feel better in a little while.” I could barely answer.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No, no. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
The dizziness began to dissipate slowly and I was able to stabilize myself again. Except for Mickey, nobody noticed what was happening. Rivka finished the prayer and everyone turned back to sit around the table. They sat me between Mickey and his younger sister, Naomi. Shlomo, who sat at the head of the table, stood up. In one hand he held a cup of wine, and in the other a small prayer book. Everyone stood up from their chairs and listened to his words. He said the blessing for the Sabbath and finally blessed the wine and everyone answered, “Amen.” At the end, he said, “Shabbat Shalom,” and we all sat down.
Naomi and her mother went to the kitchen. They came back with the first courses and placed them in the center of the table. Mickey asked what I would like, and I asked for the familiar fish patties that my mother used to prepare. They were delicious. Just the right amount of sweetness. Suddenly I saw my mother leaning over the counter in the kitchen cleaning the scales off the fish, and my father’s look when she served them to his plate. A look of loathing. He ate what she prepared but never missed an opportunity to express his disgust. I, on the other hand, loved her cooking—and the realization hit me that I never told her so. Eating the fish with the sauce, every bite was a memory mixed with pleasure and guilt. The second course was a clear broth with a greasy bone floating in the yellowish liquid, like a monument to the tastes of the evening but also to the loud sucking sounds made by my father. The main course included roast beef and baked chicken with potatoes. Next to this, she placed a sweet noodle quiche (which I loved) and sweet carrots topped with dark raisins.
I couldn’t stop refilling my plate. Mickey’s mother looked at me with satisfaction. Between each course, casual conversation was made. Naomi talked about her new job that is supposed to begin in two weeks’ time. Her husband, Jerry, talked with Shlomo about business. I noticed that Shlomo was listening to him, but, although he nodded his head, he didn’t say a word. Rivka asked me about my
self and my parents, but as soon as I told them they were dead, she stopped talking about them. I guess she didn’t want to hurt me.
Dessert was served to the table and for me it was a great surprise. It was dried fruit compote. The water had absorbed the sweetness of the fruit and it tasted like heaven. My mother made this exact same compote.
When I told Rivka that every dish she served stirred a childhood memory, she gave me a strange look and smiled, and I relished all the flavors that reminded me of a home in a place that was completely foreign to me.
When dinner was over, the men remained at the table and read from one of the prayer books. Mickey explained that this prayer was called “Blessing of the Food,” where the Jews thank God for the food He has given them.
“But you said your parents aren’t religious at all,” I said.
“That’s true, but my father carries out some of the Mitzvahs. He goes to synagogue on the holidays and says certain prayers. Apparently, this is his way of dealing with the experiences of the Holocaust and the death of his parents.”
When the men sat back down at the table, we—the women—got up and cleared the dishes and the food. Naomi washed the big dishes and put the rest into the dishwasher. Rivka and I brought her the empty dishes. Once the table was clean, we three stood in the kitchen. Rivka handed me a towel and I dried the washed dishes while she arranged them in the cupboards.
This situation, seemingly so routine, brought tears to my eyes. There was never this kind of togetherness at my house. My mother was responsible for the kitchen and no one was a part of what she did there. Not because she forbade it—ever since I could remember, the kitchen had been her kingdom, and I believed she wanted it like that. I never offered my help and neither did my father. I don’t remember ever doing things together; we definitely never had casual and relaxed conversation. Each of us had his own place and his own role and nobody interfered with anyone. Now I’m standing in a strange kitchen, with a family I only met several hours ago, and feeling so comfortable and so at home.
Rivka could feel me becoming melancholy and caressed my face with her hand. I felt like an open book to her. Every once in a while, during the meal, she looked over at me. An understanding look. A mother’s look.
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