High school is making me wish I had a big sister, however, to help me navigate the social scene. I’ve been too worried about Wendy’s potential for arrest to bother about things like popularity and pity votes in the past, but now I see these are the things girls my age are supposed to worry about. I become afraid if I don’t start I might end up isolated and alone.
Wendy continues to divide her time between school classes and partying. The partying intensifies when Jack returns from Big Sur.
Mostly, I fear losing Leigh’s friendship. She is my only anchor.
Twenty
Jules, 16 years | September 19th, 1977
HIGH
I RUN-WALK to the bus stop because I woke up late as usual and I’ll miss my bus unless I hoof it up the hill. It doesn’t matter how early I’m up or how much I try to prepare in the morning, I often run late. It’s my junior year in high school and time is still a puzzle for me. It goes by excruciatingly slow sometimes and other times slides by as though I’m in a time warp. I don’t experience the amnesiac episodes I did years ago anymore, but I still have trouble keeping track of time. My internal clock has a dead battery.
I awoke this morning after having the nightmare. Today is the anniversary of Moses’s death.
Because one of Wendy’s Psychology Today articles suggested it, I decided to try behavior modification for my nightmares. Behavior modification appeals to me because it advocates personal responsibility. When I wake up from a nightmare, instead of lying in the dark with dread, I switch on the light and start reading. I keep encyclopedia volumes by my bed and use them to sedate me so I can fall back asleep again, which I usually do.
Last night, however, I didn’t fall back asleep for a long time. Not even reading my encyclopedia article. I have no idea what I read. I woke up with the light on, the book on my chest, and an indentation on my chin where the book corner had dug in.
My first thought was about David. I wanted to call him. He’s now in his second year of college at the School of Business at University of Massachusetts at Amherst, which everybody calls Zoo Mass. This was my grandfather’s request, but David enjoys his classes.
My clock read 7:50 when I finally rolled out of bed. I figured he was still sleeping. I didn’t call.
I wondered if the date registers with him. We never discuss it. I wanted to ask him this or call to tell him I love and miss him. I decided to call later and raced to dress and catch the bus.
On my way to the bus stop, I pass the raised ranch homes built along the border of the land Howard sold to the developers. Timothy lives here. I think about the first day I heard about him, the day I left my schoolbooks up at the elementary school and he returned them to my porch.
Leigh was in love with Timothy for a while, and she made sure we met him. “Timothy is a boy with secrets,” she used to say repeatedly and cryptically.
After a while, she lost her romantic interest in Timothy and found another crush, but they stayed friends. Now we all hang out nearly every day. Leigh and Timothy are both science nerds and while I don’t always understand the stuff they talk about, it’s always interesting.
Timothy calls to me as I run by his house.
“Hey, Jules, stop. The bus already went by. Walk with me.”
I stop and turn around. I’m surprised to see him because he normally walks to school and leaves a half-hour earlier. I never walk because it means giving up a half-hour of sleep, and I don’t like the trade.
“Did it just go by?”
“It came five minutes early. I’m late because Crikey ran out when I left before.”
Crikey is Timothy’s German Shepherd.
Timothy almost always smiles a great, big, lopsided smile that turns the corner of the left side of his mouth up and crinkles his left eye shut. He doesn’t seem bothered by much. He’s the most peaceful person I’ve met and I’m a bit in awe of him. I know not everything in his world is good. His mother died when he was seven. He and his older brother are taken care of by his father, a Harvard professor who teaches neuroscience, and his grandmother. He rarely talks about his mother and then usually only within the context of a family story.
We walk along Withensea Avenue. The avenue is lined with oak and maple trees. Beyond them sits the Boston ferry landing pier with its tiny parking lot, a high seawall, and a few small, tied-up harbor boats.
I’m thinking what a perfect fall day it is. The crisp air smells like wet grass and turned soil. The sun shines and it makes the maple leaves glimmer in their colors, deep rich velvet reds, vibrant beach ball oranges, and squash blossom yellows. I pull a leaf off and study it while Timothy and I chat and walk.
“Look at this leaf. There are cities in this leaf.”
“What?” Timothy laughs. He stops and examines the leaf closely to see what I’m talking about. I love this about him. He jumps into my world with me. “Yup … looks like Chicago.”
Ms. Wheaton, who now teaches at the high school, pulls up to us in her car. It’s a tomato red Eldorado. She rolls down her window.
“Hey you two, get in. Jules, I’ve got something to tell you.” We jump in, Timothy in back, me in front.
“What is it?” I ask.
She’s smiling as wide as piano keys, and I’m smiling now even though I have no idea why.
“You got accepted into the Boston Museum of Fine Arts student exhibition.” “What? H-how?” I stammer.
“Well, remember I told you last spring they had a student exhibition every winter? I asked you if you would be interested and you said you would, so I submitted for you. I’m your sponsor. They sent me the letter yesterday. Here.” She hands me a thick envelope.
I open the envelope, which holds a packet of letters. “What? You did? What did you submit?”
“I sent the one of the boy with the eyes.”
I can’t remember the project she’s talking about, but I don’t care. I read my acceptance letter, which includes information about the art jury and the competition at the exhibition.
“It’s unfair they judge you and you compete based on your artwork. I mean, it’s so subjective,” I say. Ms. Wheaton and Timothy laugh.
Timothy says, “Spoken like a true artist. Hey, congratulations.”
“Don’t forget to sign the contract and mail it back. It gives them permission to display the artwork.”
Ms. Wheaton takes the Eldorado out of park with a grinding noise and continues driving toward the high school as I stare at the contract, the next set of papers in the envelope. I know I should be excited but I’m numb. I’ve never won anything before. Until this moment I believed Ms. Wheaton encouraged me to give me an emotional boost because she felt sorry for me. I don’t really know if my work is any good or not.
This, a professional notice, is what I’ve yearned for. I love drawing and painting and sculpture and doing all kinds of art, and even though I dream about a career in art I’ve never thought I might actually achieve that dream.
“I won’t forget,” I say as Timothy and I step out of the Eldorado.
Sitting in homeroom about fifteen minutes later, I finally feel excited. I feel like I won a million dollars.
This is the part where I get accepted by an art show.
The principal comes on over the loudspeaker with the morning announcements.
I’m not paying attention until I hear my name and the announcement that I’ve won a spot at the museum exhibition. The principal finishes this announcement by saying how proud we should all be for this achievement. I’m completely embarrassed. I can’t believe Ms. Wheaton would share this—but maybe she thought it was the right, teacherly thing to do. I’m sitting in the front seat of my row. When the principal finishes I nod my head and say, “I paid him to say that.” Luckily, a bunch of kids laugh and the bell rings. I slink out after homeroom and on my way to class I pop my head into the art room, where Ms. Wheaton sits.
“I might have to kill you,” I say, leaning in.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Y
ou’re a nice person. You won’t kill me. You should feel proud of yourself. You’re talented.”
My insides feel tingly. Everybody is smiling at me in the halls, though it isn’t until I go into the girl’s restroom, and see my reflection in the mirror over the long sink that I realize I’m smiling too. When I go into the bathroom stall someone whispers, “That’s the girl who won the art contest.”
I can’t remember feeling this happy—ever.
It’s September 19th and a pretty good day after all.
This isn’t the first time major events have fallen on the same day in my life. My head injury on the playground and Wendy’s motorcycle accident happened on the same day. Howard’s father died on my birthday two years ago.
I figure the older you are the more this stuff happens. Soon your life is filled with experiences that are bound to fall on days with other major life events.
This is also the day where the gossip about me, behind bathroom stalls, can become about the girl who won the art contest rather than the girl whose brother drowned.
The bad part of the year comes in December when our cat, Felix, gets run over by a car in our driveway. Jack’s friend, some druggie, was pulling into our driveway too fast. Felix loved to lie in the middle of the asphalt, where the snow would melt away first, in the sun. We were all used to pulling in slow to warn her. She didn’t have a chance to run. She died right away. When David came back from college for the holidays he hung a sign on the refrigerator that says DRUGS KILL CATS. No one’s taken it down so I guess Wendy and Jack agree.
I win first place in my age group at the exhibition in January. It’s astounding to me still that I got chosen at all. Winning an art award feels unreal and overwhelming. Dessert after dessert!
My grandfather, Grandmother Ruth, and her daughter Bethyl arrive early and congratulate me when they see the ribbon. Wendy and Jack show up and behave themselves for once. Leigh and Timothy stand by me all evening. It’s definitely the best moment in my life so far.
Ms. Wheaton introduces me to a woman she calls “her partner.” I don’t understand it then, but later when Leigh and Timothy and I scarf real desserts at Brighams, Leigh says, matter-of-factly, “Ms. Wheaton is a lesbian.”
Then she takes another bite of her Chocolate Mocha ice-cream.
I am practically inhaling my Butter Crunch sundae, but I put down my spoon and stare at her. Timothy keeps eating his sundae.
“So?” he says through a full mouth of Pistachio.
“Huh,” I say, but I’m thinking a million things.
Ms. Wheaton is now much more interesting. The only lesbians I have knowingly met are friends of Wendy’s who go to college at Northeastern with her. They live near Leigh.
I know they’re brave to live in Withensea and be open about their lives. Withensea is small-town-minded and scary because of this sometimes. I like them a lot, but they make me nervous because being a lesbian, or even being a friend of a lesbian, is totally uncool in Withensea. Here, everybody acts uptight about everything. Being different in any way makes other people nervous. It’s basically a rubber stamp for social failure.
As far as our own difference, David and I have managed to create a bubble of homogenous existence at school and with our friends although life at the house continues to challenge the boundaries of normalcy. Since David went away to college I feel compelled to try extra hard to blend in with my peers and identify myself independently from my family. I still feel nervous about Social Services showing up, even though Wendy no longer uses this threat to her advantage.
Leigh says, “I think it’s pretty fab.”
Timothy and I finish our ice cream and say nothing else.
Twenty-one
Samuel, 67 years | September 19th, 1977
IT’S BEEN A long time and yet each year, on this day more than others, the sorrow of loss strikes my heart in its deepest chamber.
The clock that sits on the nightstand tells me the date and the time. This is the clock that Yetta traded for her grocery stamps at the A&P. Ruth would prefer we buy another, more modern one. But I can’t bear to part with the things I shared with Yetta in my first marriage. Ruth understands.
In the year of Moses’s death, this woman, Ruth, became my wife. She is the woman I finally find my passion with. She is my bashert. It seems strange, people don’t talk about such things, I know—things like old men finding passion—but it is my truth.
Ruth kindles something ancient in me. Fire. The fire that grows out of embers buried under trampled ash. Fire that grows big but doesn’t swallow all the air. Splendid, multicolored fire that is strong but doesn’t destroy. Fire that doesn’t smell like flesh or bones but like fine wood and earth and flowers.
It breathes, this fire. It extinguished the worst of the anguish I felt after the loss of my sweet grandson.
Ruth and her daughter, Bethyl, came back to sit shiva with me after Moses’s funeral.
They prepared the meal of condolence. The rabbi and other men from the congregation visited every day to make a minyan and sing the blessing for Moses while Ruth and Bethyl prepared our meals, cleaned the apartment, and sat on my living room couch while I sat on the low stool.
Over the course of those seven days of mourning, sitting in my apartment with shrouded mirrors, Ruth reflected all the history of my life, and out of the history I found small miracles. In astonishment, I understood that all those small miracles had led me to my small apartment, sitting in a room with shrouded mirrors with my true mirror, Ruth.
After I had shared my stories of my young grandson we began to share our own stories with one another. We waited for Bethyl’s absence to talk of other things. Those things were the horrors we had witnessed and withstood. The memories that survivors can only share with other survivors. The things we keep behind our eyes like lidded vaults.
There were things I shared in those seven days that unburdened my soul simply because of Ruth’s finely tuned acceptance. Her unblinking eyes released my fears. Her tears released my own. Her touch made my skin—like a dried old leaf—crumble. Underneath, there were bright new limbs that grew stronger with each embrace.
There were things I learned in those seven days of shiva that changed my life forever.
Ruth taught me how to take my guilt and move it into a space where it has no power over my own survival. I hadn’t realized how much the pain of surviving the people I loved had shaped every interaction I’d had with every person I knew.
Ruth was on the same train I am put on after being arrested as a conspirator for the Polish Home Army, the resistance movement during the war. She told me she had watched the murder of her family—her precious mother and father, her two brothers, and her younger sister. She never volunteered details regarding their deaths at the hands of the Nazis. I never shared the details about my own family’s violent tragedy. We shared that particular sorrow, but it was also our own.
After being transported to the camp at Majdanek, Ruth—then Rinna—was selected to become a servant for the camp commandant. He lived outside the camp, in the town of Lublin. She was pulled from a line of women at the camp within an hour of her arrival. This line, she later learned, had led directly to the gas chamber, as they were murdering Jews immediately after they came inside the camps in those last months.
This death camp, Majdanek, is different from the other Nazi death camps. The others were hidden in forests or in places where there were no witnesses. Majdanek is in plain sight of the city of Lublin. The camp is separated from the city by just a farm field. The smokestacks with the acrid, sour smell of burning flesh were clearly visible from the nearby homes. The entire city of Lublin witnessed the crimes at Majdanek.
Ruth shared her horror at looking from the windows of the officer’s home to see the billowing gray smokestacks of human ash and at hearing the machine guns in those final days, murdering the last of the Jews.
She said this man and his wife were kind to her. I find this hard to believe, that a monster woul
d have compassion for a Polish Jew, but she insists they treated her well. She said they kept her safe even as they packed and fled the city before the liberation of the camp. The officer told her to stay on in the home, a home that had formerly belonged to a Polish Jew who was killed at the camp. The officer and his wife never returned, of course. Later he was tried and executed like the rest of the criminals they caught.
Eventually Ruth married a man, another Polish Jew who had been a part of the Polish Home Army, the resistance. He had returned to Lublin after the war. It was this man, her husband, who convinced her to move to Boston, where his brothers had come before him.
The man, Bethyl’s father, had died young in a factory accident, leaving Ruth to raise her daughter alone.
Ruth and her daughter were active in their synagogue, more orthodox in its practice than our current synagogue. They left that congregation as a result of its old traditions and ideas and joined ours mere months before we met again.
Our rabbi encouraged Bethyl when she shared her wish to study theology and someday become a rabbi herself. He agreed with her that it is simply custom and not law that stood between her and her goals. Now she is a cantor for the congregation, and while she loves her work she is also studying and organizing other women to petition the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York to admit female students. Bethyl is the daughter who will make me proud.
Wendy, in comparison, has only become more of a disappointment. Now her behavior seems intolerable, although nothing has changed. My open heart has opened my eyes to my own daughter’s cruelty.
Soon after Moses’s funeral, Ruth and I made plans to marry. We waited a year until after our synagogue’s Yahrzeit observance of Moses’s death to have our celebration. But then we did celebrate.
Ruth made a small wedding with her first husband and my own, with Yetta, was remarkably simple, although Rose campaigned for a more elaborate affair. This time, we agreed, it was time for a proper wedding ceremony. My one regret was the absence of my closest family members. Rose, Mocher, Oizer, my parents—all were gone. The other surviving members of the family, Oizer’s children and my youngest siblings, who came to America with Foter and Mater so long ago, have families of their own now, children whom I have never met.
The Belief in Angels Page 23