DISOWNED

by Gabriella Murray

  "We're praying for your grandfather at Shul," Yusse growls then as he turns around and rushes to the door. "Believe me, he needs our prayers. And believe me, so do you."

  Then he moves fast and disappears down the corridor.

  Rivkah walks into her grandfather's room and wants to tell him everything that happened. She wants to talk to him desperately, but his pale eyes have glazed over and he is very far away.

  "Grandpa, where are you?" She touches his arm lightly and shakes it back and forth.

  "I'm tired now, Rivkah," he makes a supreme effort to say.

  The vigil continues all through the summer. Everyday Rivkah sits at his side. When the religious men come, she gets up and sits on a small wooden chair in the hallway, so as not to disturb them.

  Yusse himself does not return. But he sends messages to Moshe that he is praying not only for him, but for his entire family. Moshe is glad.

  A few days before the end of summer, Moshe sits up straight in his bed one morning, suddenly strong, filled with radiant energy.

  Rivkah has seen this before. She is scared.

  "Rivkah come closer," he calls.

  But already she is as close as possible.

  "Rivkah, where are you?"

  "Right here."

  "No, you're not. You're not here," he answers, looking straight at her.

  "You can't see me. But I see everything, everything. I see your grandmother, Devorah. My, doesn't she look beautiful. And my Tante Edna is with her. How come?"

  Rivkah takes a deep, painful breath.

  "They're happy to see me, so thrilled!"

  Rivkah remembers this from before. Different family members come, different ones go.

  "They say it's beautiful here. 'Beautiful, Moshe'. They say, 'please, Moshe. Don't be afraid.'"

  Rivkah takes another, slower breath now. She has no idea how long he'll be at her side, or what she'll do when he's really gone.

  "Grandpa!"

  "Rivkah, don't forget my Shofar! No matter what they do. You take it! It's yours! Only for you!"

  "I can't."

  "You must. They're going to give you trouble. So what? Trouble is good. It makes you stronger."

  "Grandpa," Rivkah yells.

  "What is it sweetheart? Tell me, what?"

  "Grandpa, are there any more messages for me?"

  His eyes glaze over swiftly then. "You mustn't ask for messages," he says after what seems like a long, long time. Hours maybe? Months? Years? "You must do only what God wants for you. Oh, look, they're holding out their arms."

  Rivkah gets up to get a wet cloth, dipped in lemon.

  "Don't go," he shrieks out suddenly to her in a voice she has never heard him use before. "Don't leave me. Don't go away."

  It's you, you're leaving grandpa, she longs to tell him, but her mouth is sealed.

  "Stay here," he utters then, "right here at my side." Then he slumps deeper into his bed, his body quivering back and forth.

  Rivkah wonders for a moment if she should call for anyone, but then realizes like an earthquake, that this too will pass. There is still some time left. His time is still not all used up.

  She wipes his head with the fresh, damp cloth slowly. He moans a little as she wipes.

  "Whatever happens, Rivkah," he can manage a few more words."

  "Yes?"

  "Don't forget me."

  Then his head slumps to the side and he falls asleep sweetly, almost like a little child, innocently. Rivkah wonders, how he can lie here innocent like this?

  She watches his breath rise and fall lightly and sits beside his bed, trying to remember perfectly everything he has ever said.

  Two mornings later, as she is holding his very thin, frail, white hand in hers, Moshe dies. He dies simply, quietly, smiling. Contented. Rivkah feels him circle the room a moment before he says good-bye.

  Good-bye grandpa, she tries to say in her heart, but she cannot. Where is he going? Will he ever come back? And what will she do now, as she sits here beside this thin bed with the strange legacy of his Shofar and all the responsibility it carries, that he has left behind?

  CHAPTER 13

  For the next seven days after the burial, a great Shiva must be held. Now all must sit together in prayer and mourn Moshe and his departed soul. Suddenly the whole family has to return to Borough Park, to Moshe's house again.

  Henry doesn't want to do it. "There is no other way, Henry," Molly wails, "we have to go."

  "Okay," he agrees finally to come along.

  "This is where we come from," Rivkah tells her little brother David, who is dressed up, packed up and brought along. He is a few years old now and stares in amazement at the men in black coats rushing around in great commotion. He holds Rivkah's hand tightly. Much too tightly.

  "Where?" he asks, his eyes wide open.

  "Where we came from," she corrects herself then. "Not where we come from anymore."

  Not only men in black, but visitors from the neighborhood are streaming in one after the other. They are coming in droves in honor of Moshe and the fine memory they have of him.

  Not only do the neighbors come, but whoever is left of the family, aunts, uncles and cousins return. They return from their fancy suburbs where they have been lost in the American dream. They come to sit together for one week, in this living room for the very last time.

  As she did when her grandmother died, Rivkah has come early and covered the mirrors with long, white bed sheets. No one is allowed to look at himself. Vanity is forbidden now and the collection of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, have no choice but to sit down and be with each other for seven days. Face to face. They have no choice also but to look within, into their own hearts and souls.

  "Who are they?" David whispers to Rivkah.

  "Our family."

  David starts to cry.

  "Our aunts, uncles and cousins."

  "I never saw them before."

  "Because we're not a family anymore."

  "Why?"

  "Because we're in exile, even from each other."

  "What are you talking about?" David starts to cry louder.

  But exile or not, for seven days in this holy month of Elul, at the very end of August, this family sits together on the low mourners stools and has to become a family again. Whether or not they like it.

  They are both shocked and relieved to be back together. At first there is a great deal of chatter. But with all the chatter, still most of them refuse to really speak to each other. They have little to say except small talk.

  Everyone wants to know what the other is doing, and then a stiff silence fills the room. A few memories press to be spoken of, but they are quickly hushed away.

  "Why don't we love each other anymore?" David whispers in Rivkah's ears.

  "We will again someday," Rivkah answers him.

  "When?"

  "When Messiah comes."

  "Who is he?"

  "I'll tell you later."

  "When? Was my grandfather who died the Messiah?"

  "Definitely not."

  "How do you know? Maybe he was. Maybe that's why everyone's coming and crying."

  The long, steady stream of visitors from early morning until late at night never ends. Women from the block cook and bring large plates of food to serve both mourners and guests. Mourners are not allowed to serve anyone. They must be taken care of completely for these seven days.

  The neighborhood ladies come now and completely occupy Devorah's big, white tile kitchen, where little David runs around and spends most of the days. Rivkah cannot bring herself to go back into the kitchen. She sits outside with the others instead and listens to the clanking of her grandmother's pots.

  The men from the synagogue come like clockwork, twice a day, to pray for Moshe's soul. Whenever they come David runs over to Rivkah and stares at them hard.

  "Who are they?" he asks her, afraid now.

  "Your grandpa's friends."

  "And what are those?" he asks, po
inting to their beards and black hats.

  "They're Jews," Rivkah answers him.

  "What's that?"

  Rivkah's blood runs cold. She feels weak, insane, terrified and completely alone for a breathless moment. She has no idea how to really answer her own little brother.

  "What are Jews?" he pursues it.

  "Jews," she whispers very softly to him, "are people who always remember God. And thank God. For everything. Always. Forever, no matter what."

  "Was grandpa a Jew?" David cries out alarmed.

  "Yes, David, he was. And so are you."

  "Me?" David can hardly believe it. "Forever?"

  "And ever."

  "And, Bekkie," he asks her then breathless, "what about you?"

  What about you? The words dig and echo inside of Rivkah. What about me? She has no answer for him.

  "Bekkie, Bekkie," he calls out. "Answer me! Are you a Jew?"

  "I don't know, David," she whispers to no one. "God help me. I don't know anymore." This is a shiva for me too, she thinks to herself. Within a few weeks I will be at college in Vermont. Like my grandpa, planted in an entirely different soil.

  David stays close besides Rivkah all during the shiva, and when the seven days are over, stays besides her as she slowly tries to get up from the low, wooden stool she has been sitting on. The aunts, uncles and cousins who have gathered together get up quickly and get ready to depart. They gather their belongings and talk incessantly about how they will definitely see each other soon.

  In the midst of their loud and aimless chatter, Rivkah sees a group of men go into the kitchen and seat themselves around the table there. Then she hears them talking loud. They are talking about her grandfather's possessions, and what will happen to the house.

  Rivkah goes over to the kitchen door so she can hear clearly.

  "What do we need this house for?" Uncle Max asks Uncle Jake.

  "There's no one left in it now. Everyone's gone."

  Gone? The word echoes inside of Rivkah.

  "We should sell it. No?"

  What is he talking about? Sell the house? Give my grandmother's kitchen away? This is my house, she wants to yell to them. It belongs to me. And to David. But no one has the slightest idea that Rivkah is standing out there listening. The others are eager to be rid of the burdens, including Molly and Henry. Who needs a place here in Borough Park? Especially when they all have modern kitchens and electronic garages.

  "What's the use of holding onto it? Who needs it anymore?" Max is adamant.

  Rivkah peers inside. Zvi Lichte is sitting in the corner, rustling papers in his hand. Only Uncle Jake shakes his head in disagreement.

  "We got memories here too," Jake says.

  Max laughs out loud. "Memories and a quarter will get you a ride on the subway."

  Rivkah walks in. "Hold onto the house for me," she speaks out. “It’s mine. I grew up here."

  "What's going on?" Max's face flushes. "You were standing out there all the time? Well, talk like a normal person then. You're a big girl now, Bekkie. You're going to college. You'll make new friends. You won't want to come back here anymore."

  "Yes I will."

  "For what reason will you come back? Sweetheart, a new life is about to begin."

  "Don't call me sweetheart," Rivkah's voice rises higher.

  Uncle Jake lifts his arm kindly, but no one notices him at all.

  "Bekkie's shaken up," Max mutters to the rest. "She doesn't see what's really here."

  You're right, Rivkah thinks, I don't see what's really here. I see the room filled with Shabbos guests, people praying, delicious food. This room doesn't change. How can it? It's a holy room. A room that held people who had more to do than press a button on an electric garage.

  Now Max gets up from the table. "We get over everything, honey. All of us. It just takes time."

  Zvi Lichte rustles his papers louder.

  "Keep the house for my brother David then," Rivkah's voice is more strident. "After all, he's a boy."

  "We can't go on with this stupid discussion," Zvi Lichte interjects. "Time is precious. It's getting late. We got business to do."

  "Not in grandma's kitchen, right after grandpa died." Rivkah stamps her foot hard. "Get out of here. All of you. You don't belong."

  "Bekkie," Henry gets up from the table.

  "This is my kitchen. Grandma's and mine! You don't know how to keep it. You never will. Before she died she warned me about this!"

  The men look a little frightened now.

  Rivkah feels her grandmother's strength rising inside her. "Now you have to listen me."

  As if shot with a gun, they all stare in silence.

  "If you're going to talk about business, get out of here! NOW!" No one moves though. Not even Zvi Lichte.

  Uncle Jake breaks the silence slowly. "She right. Let's go."

  "NOW!"

  "Calm down, Rivkah sweetheart," Jake goes on.

  "So, we'll go to another room. It's no big deal, is it?" Max is looking at Rivkah strangely though. He gets up first and leads the rest of them out of the kitchen, into the main sitting room where they sit around the old wooden table Moshe used to love to play pinochle on.

  When the men are all out of the kitchen, Rivkah picks up the broom and starts sweeping the floor. In the midst of her sweeping, she hears Zvi Lichte's speaking though. "Besides selling the house there are other matters. Moshe left certain personal belongings."

  A vision of her grandfather's Shofar rises in front of Rivkah's eyes. It's mine, she remembers, puts down the broom, and goes outside to the main room.

  "Not again," Zvi Lichte breathes harshly, as Rivkah walks in the door.

  "My grandfather's Shofar," Rivkah says softly.

  "Sit down, Rivkah," Jake says.

  But an odd silver strength surrounds Rivkah.

  Zvi Lichte just goes right on. "The Shofar goes straight to the synagogue."

  "It does not. It belongs to me," Rivkah interrupts.

  "You got to be crazy?"

  "My grandpa said so!"

  "A Shofar for a girl?"

  "He wanted it that way."

  "What do you mean he wanted it that way?" Jake tries to intercede.

  "Moshe made a mistake," Zvi blurts loudly. "He was old, he was sick. His mind wasn't thinking. He wrote things down. Nobody knows when."

  The men grow silent again, as shafts of sunlight come and criss cross in front of them on the walls.

  "The Shofar is mine," Rivkah repeats now. "Only for me." The odd silver strength surrounds her more strongly.

  "What did he Moshe say exactly?" Henry stands up suddenly.

  "This summer he told me his Shofar was mine."

  "Give me that paper, Zvi Lichte." Henry goes over fast to Zvi Lichte, and tears it out of his hands.

  Zvi stands bewildered. "It's not a personal possession, Henry."

  Henry unfolds the fragile paper, and reads it out loud to everyone.

  "My Shofar is for Rivkah alone. Only she deserves it. No one else."

  No one dare say anything.

  "That comes from a mind that wasn't thinking," Zvi breaks in.

  Tears fall from Rivkah's eyes. Then she holds out her hands. "Do as he wanted. Give it to me."

  "Now, wait a minute," Zvi's voice is shaky.

  "Put it in my hands."

  "You heard her," Henry goes closer to him, "I got Moshe's paper here in my hands. For long enough you cheated our family!"

  Zvi trembles, goes to the bureau, takes a key out of his pocket, opens the draw, and slowly takes the Shofar out. It is an old, carved ram's horn. "I can't do it, Henry!"

  "You have to."

  Slowly he puts it in Rivkah hands. "Why he gave the Shofar to you, I'll never know. You of all people," Zvi's voice is catching.

  The horn is light, carved and beautiful. Rivkah feels her grandfather's soul alive in every pore of it. Then, suddenly, it becomes heavy, much too heavy for her to hold. She cannot bear it.

  "A
nd how come he gave her his Shofar?" Zvi cries out. "Because Moshe was a saint."

  There are no saints, Rivkah wants to yell loudly. God didn't intend for us to be saints. It's hard enough just being a person.

  "A saint is gone," Zvi laments, missing Moshe, his old friend and Rabbi. "He died without pain. That's good." Zvi chants deeply. "He died without warning. That's bad."

  Every day in the neighborhood the old men pray for God to give them warning before they die. They pray for time. Let me wipe out my sins before I come to you, they plead.

  "The note says more," Henry looks up frightened.

  "Read it to me," Rivkah pleads.

  But now Zvi grabs it back. "When you deserve to hear it, then you will!"

  "Now!" Rivkah cries.

  "First, kill me."

  "When will I deserve it?" Rivkah begs.

  "That, we'll never know."

  Rivkah pulls the Shofar close to her then like a newborn baby. She wants to raise it to her lips and blow it loudly into the sky. Every day during the month of Elul the Shofar is blown in Israel, warning all Jews, gathering them, begging them to return to God.

  Slowly she lifts it to her mouth.

  "Don't you dare! Have pity! Stop it! You're a girl!" Zvi is hysterical.

  Rivkah takes it away from her mouth.

  "Take care of it, please. Promise me," Zvi Lichte's voice is scruffy with sorrow.

  "I will, don't worry." Rivkah breathes softly.

  "And with God's help, it will take care of you." Then he turns and stares at her hard. Slowly Rivkah is moving away, towards the door. "Rivkah stop a minute."

  She stops.

  "You don't have to go immediately. Do you want to stay here with us for a little while?"

  The fear rises in her promptly. All of a sudden, she's invited to stay? Her mind starts spinning. How can she? "How can I stay with you, Zvi Lichte? Now of all times, I have to go."

  Zvi's eyes look sad then. "Where?"

  Rivkah has never seen his eyes looking so sad.

  "For everything else she has time, but to come back and stay with her grandpa's old friends. That is too much for her now."

  It is too much, Rivkah thinks simply, trying to hold back blinding tears.

  "But someday you'll come back anyway," Zvi shouts coarsely. “Whether you want to or not. The Shofar won't let you stay away!"