Mrs. Fessler and Eleanor were already seated up front in the second pew in the center. He assumed his mother-in-law had selected the location, the better to hear and to be seen, although she wouldn’t concede her hearing was deteriorating. He sat on the aisle with Aunt Helen next to him. They left space for Amy and Josh to sit between their mother and grandmother. Ell and her mother were chatting with friends in the front pew. Mitch greeted them and introduced Aunt Helen.
“Hello,” she said a bit too loudly, leaning forward. “It’s good to see you.” The man in front of her turned around. He was wearing yarmulke with alternating rich yellow and dark blue triangular patches, like slices of lemon and blueberry pie converging at the center of his head. A tree of life design emblazoned in gold thread was woven around the rim. The elegant fabric was incongruously offset by two metal paper clips which held the yarmulke in place. “Good shabbas to you too, sir.” “Good shabbas,” he replied, looking puzzled, trying to recall if he knew her.
The place was full, as it always was for the High Holidays. Attendance fell off sharply for regular services during the rest of the year, a common problem for most synagogues. The Presbyterian Church had the same difficulty after Christmas and Easter.
Aunt Helen pulled on Mitch’s sleeve. “This is a nice congregation and such a large Temple.”
Mitch wasn’t sure how he would describe the RHC congregation. He and Ell were comfortable just belonging. It had the right combination of tradition without too much Hebrew in the service. They had joined RHC when the children were of Hebrew School age. Friends had recommended the Temple because of the Rabbi. That recommendation had been a good one. Rabbi Silver had a way with young people. He inspired them to be Bar and Bat Mitzvahed, and to maintain their interest and further their Jewish education after turning thirteen. It was remarkable, he thought, because many of their friends were unobservant, like Ell and him. Maybe, he thought, religious observance skipped every other generation. His parents had been fairly religious. He and Ell were not but Josh and Amy seemed more committed. No. That’s not correct, he thought. Neither Ell’s parents nor her grandparents had been observant. Maybe it had something to do with their being Viennese.
His thoughts were interrupted by Josh and Amy who slid into the pew just as Rabbi Silver and the Cantor walked on to the bima. The hum of conversations among the congregants died down as they assumed a respectful, prayerful attitude. Following the blessing and the lighting of the Shabbat candles, Mitch opened the New Union Prayer Book “Gates of Repentance.” He shared it with his aunt, pointing out where they were in the service and helping her to rise when the Ark was opened and the Torah removed and held high.
Aunt Helen saw Mitch smiling at her and smiled back. He was a nice boy, she thought, with a nice family. Their family had always been bright and hardworking. She looked around but couldn’t see very far. Where were the boys, her older brother Ben’s three sons? They should be here. And Lillian, her younger sister?
Remember us unto life, O Eternal One who delights in life and inscribe us in the Book of Life, for Your sake, O God of life, the Rabbi chanted from the Prayer Book.
Life. That was it. Ben was dead. The boys had grown up. Lillian was dead. From cancer. A long time ago. Now she remembered. It was after Mitchell had married but before their children had been born.
Why did Lillian have to die? She belonged alive, vibrant, enjoying her grandchildren. Lillian, the baby of the family had died first. Lord of the Universe, she prayed. Why didn’t you take me instead of Lilly? I am old and useless now. She shuddered with her burden.
Mitch put his arm around Aunt Helen’s shoulder. He thought she was deeply moved. I wonder how long it has been since she was in a synagogue? The Cantor’s deep, sonorous voice, accompanied by the delicate sounds of his zither, filled the hall. Mitch continued to support his aunt as the Congregation remained standing. Rabbi Silver, recited first in Hebrew and then in English:
Master of all the living. Your ways are ways of love. You remember the faithfulness of our ancestors, and in love bring redemption to their children’s children, for the sake of Your name.
What love and what children, Helen thought. Her love had long since been extinguished. Oh yes, in the name of religion and for the purity of the Jewish people. Her brother Ben, may he be eternally damned, the patriarch of the family since Mother and Papa had died, had ruined her life and destroyed her love. He had forbidden her to see Vittorio, marrying her off in such haste to that no good drunken Jewish baker, as if she were already ‘damaged goods.’ On their wedding night, Tomashefsky had forced himself on her, raping her, and then stolen her dowry and abandoned her in less than three months. She could have borne that and started over, if Vittorio had lived. They could have been happy together as outcasts from both their religions. They would have had each other and their music. Oh, what violin duets they had played. Her spirits had soared to the highest heavens, lifted by the sounds of their music. Vittorio had said great music, when married to a special occasion, could transport performers to a higher level of beauty and artistry. Like a premiere of a Verdi or Puccini opera. He had told her, for him, every time they played together was such an occasion. She had understood then that the true meaning of passion was when two people created such perfection, not the carnal, bestial lust of that drunk, Tomashefsky.
All that had been beautiful had gone from the world when Vittorio died. Even now she could remember his dark good looks, the humor in his eyes, his long, sensitive fingers. He had not been strong enough. He shouldn’t have given up hope. She had cursed Ben to his face, when he had told her Vittorio had died. She had screamed at him that Vittorio’s soul was on her brother’s head. He had replied contemptuously that Catholics have no soul. That was when she had turned her back on Judaism and her brother. She had returned to her small apartment, mercifully now empty with Tomashefsky gone, climbed up on the folding metal stepladder and taken her violin case down from the closet shelf. She hadn’t even opened it one last time to hold the violin. Instead, she had wrapped the case in rags soaked with cleaning fluid, and burned it in the alley. She had waited until the fire had completely consumed it, ground the ashes into the pavement stones and walked away.
She had left New York City with its memories of concert halls where she and Vittorio had gone, paying for Standing Room Only tickets because that was all they could afford, the Jewish restaurants on the lower East Side and the ones in Little Italy, alike in their warmth and boisterous noise, where the food was cheap and no one cared if they were of the same religion or not, Trinity Church where they had sat on the hard wooden pews and listened, in hushed awe to the magnificence of Bach’s Oratorio, the parks where they had walked and talked, the stores where they had bought sheet music, all the places which had witnessed their true, pure love.
They were up to the Aveinu Malkeinu- Our Father Our King. She felt Mitchell helping her to stand and bowed her head as she heard the words in Hebrew and translated them in her mind. Words learned by rote as a little girl.
Our Father, our King, have compassion on us and our children.
Yes, the children I never had with Vittorio. Would You, Lord of the Universe, have had compassion for Catholic-Jewish children?
Would you have had compassion for the soul of the father of such children?
Our Father, our King, make an end to sickness, war and famine.
Why pray for that when the deserving, like Lilly, die too early to see her grandchildren; and the self-righteous, like our brother Ben, live too long.
Our Father, our King, inscribe us for blessing in the Book of Life.
For whom should she pray for blessings and long life? Who was left to pray for? Who of their extended family remained in Poland? How many had been wiped out? Once she had seen a gravestone in a cemetery. Had it been in New London? She couldn’t remember. It had simply stated “For the Unknown Beloved” and listed their dates of death from 1939 to 1945. The Poles had always been anti-Semitic. There was no changi
ng them. No, she rejected God. God had rejected her. It had been her brother’s false piety that had ruined her life and killed Vittorio.
Our Father, our King, let the New Year be a good year for us.
Not for her. Better to be dead and gone. Let Him end the pain she always had in her heart. If her bitterness offended Him, let Him end it. He hadn’t taken her when she desired it the most. When Lillian was dying. When Lillian had died. She knew He wouldn’t take her now. To spite her because she wanted to die. Why worship a spiteful God?
Our Father, our King, be gracious and answer us, for we have little merit. Treat us generously and with kindness, and be our help.
She felt someone’s arm around her shoulder, helping her up again. It was Mitchell. Sometimes, he looked so much like Lillian. So did Amy, but Josh even more.
“Oh Lord of the Universe,” she begged silently. “Protect my sister’s children and their children’s children forever. Amen.”
They stood as a congregation once more for the final blessing of the evening. The service ended just after 10 pm, followed by announcements and the usual exhortations to become more active in the congregation and not just be a High Holiday Jew. While most of the worshipers moved slowly down the main aisle into the Church’s narthex and down the front steps, Mitch, Eleanor and the family went out the side ramp to the car. Amy and Josh, without prompting, wished their grandmother a Happy New Year, dutifully kissing her goodnight before tumbling into the back seat of the Taurus.
“I’ll meet you at Temple, tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Fessler said, waving good-bye. “Eleanor, find some time to be with me after services. I want to continue our talk some more.” Mitch raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Later” was all Ell replied.
Mitch returned from his late night walk with Oliver and found Ell smiling and waiting in the living room, the bottle of port on the glass coffee table, two filled glasses and Miles Davis’ “Love Songs” on the cd player.
“You look very satisfied with yourself,” he said, smiling and sitting down next to her. “So, what was this about wanting to talk to your mother about Amy?”
“My mother shouldn’t favor Amy over Josh but she does. She didn’t have any brothers and her own upbringing was decidedly matriarchic. She wants Amy to be close to her. So I played on that and asked her advice on how to handle some problems Amy has.”
“What problems?” he asked anxiously.
“Don’t look so worried. They’re natural young girl problems related to her first period and her ‘budding’ sexuality. I know how to handle it. I just took mother into my confidence. She thinks she came up with what I should tell Amy. We had a nice talk about how her mother had spoken to her about sex when she was a teenager. Of course they got their periods later in the good old days.”
“Ahh, clever you,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. “And that’s what’s to be continued tomorrow?”
“Yes. I want to head my mother off on dragging Amy to the opera. Maybe instead, the three of us will go out for a ladies only brunch. I’ll see what she thinks of that idea. How do you think Aunt Helen liked the service?”
“She really seemed into it. I don’t know the last time she was in a synagogue. She was brought up Orthodox but I thought she followed along all right. The prayers and chants are the same so she knew them. They’re familiar and maybe they triggered memories of better times for her.”
“Want to have our usual discussion about where we are in our lives?”
“I want to drink another glass of port, listen to Miles and take you up to bed.”
“That too. But first, let’s talk a little.”
Chapter Five
It had been two weeks since Amina had come to work with her head and shoulders covered by brightly colored shawls. She prayed during her morning and afternoon breaks, by herself, in the small room adjacent to the Chapel. She had intended to talk to Ms. Bernstein. There never seemed to be a right moment. She had been apprehensive when Ms. Bernstein had asked to meet with her, steeling herself to be terminated on the spot. So be it, she had thought. I am who I am and that is more important to me.
Instead, after complimenting Amina on how pretty she looked, and noting with a sigh of relief that the schedule at the Home was returning to normal after Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur, Ms. Bernstein had asked Amina to provide special attention to a new resident, Helen Plonsker. They were still evaluating her. Her long term memory appeared to be good. Her short term memory was not. She frequently suffered from hallucinations. She was not a threat to herself or others but, at times, could be verbally abusive toward the other residents. Family members visited on weekends but were not able to provide much support during the week. Ms. Bernstein wanted Amina to try to get Helen to interact with others and gently coax her to become involved in some of the Home’s activities. At the same time, Amina should note down her behavior, test her memory, and observe any language abnormalities.
Amina walked from the Metro to the Hebrew Home, juggling in her mind how to divide her break time between being with Ms. Plonsker and praying before noon. It was one of those warm October days, before the first hard frost, when it could have been spring, but for the glorious fall foliage. Amina loved the D.C. area in the early fall and spring. She hated winter, even the relatively mild ones of Washington as compared to Minneapolis.
On the dark cold, dreary days as the days became shorter, she had developed a game to spiritually ward off the cold. She would picture the grounds of the Hebrew Home in full spring time bloom. First, there would be the magnolias followed by the Home’s azaleas, their bright pinks, reds, purples and whites, a muted splash of color on either side of the entrance, becoming more brilliant as the sun rose higher. After the late April rains, when the faded magnolia blossoms lay like a brown blanket on the ground, the magnificent dogwoods, late blooming cherry trees and redbuds would open. One of the African American nursing assistants had told her the dogwood flower symbolized the crucifixion, the white blossom in the shape of the Cross and the red center, Christ’s blood. Amina didn’t care if others thought of it as a Christian tree. It was proof of Allah’s hand in the beauty of the world. Besides, she reasoned, Moslems accepted Jesus of Nazareth as a prophet, even saying “Peace be with him,” when they uttered his name, as they did when they mentioned the Prophet Mohamed. For Moslems, he simply was not the Son of God. Today, she thought, engrossed in her vision of the Hebrew Home in spring, even though it was only fall, it was a gorgeous day to sit in the garden. Other residents would be outside. This morning, she decided she would take Helen Plonsker to the courtyard garden.
There was a lull in her work around 10:30 when she knocked on Mrs. Plonsker’s door and found her sitting in her chair, staring at her wristwatch.
“Mrs. Plonsker, do you recognize me? I am one of your aides. My name is Amina. May I come in?”
“Ameena,” Helen said, questioningly. “What kind of name is that?”
“It is pronounced Amina,” she replied, speaking slowly and emphasizing the first vowel. “I am from Somalia.”
“Never heard of it, “Helen snapped. “So why do you sound British?” she asked suspiciously.
“My teachers all spoke with English accents.”
Helen stared at her wrist again. “I need a watchmaker. It’s broken. Do you know a good watchmaker ?” She looked at Amina for the first time. “He doesn’t have to be from England.”
Amina smiled. “We will have to try and find one. Then, since it is such a nice day we can go sit outside in the garden.”
“What for,” Helen said sharply, looking at Amina distrustfully.
“To feel the warmth of the sun and to breathe in fresh air,” Amina replied.
“I need my watch fixed first,” Helen insisted, remaining focused on the issue most important to her. Amina undid the buckle on the worn brown strap and took the watch off Helen’s thin wrist. It was an old Bulova, oval in shape with a silver case and Roman numerals. The hands were stopped at ten of eight. She thoug
ht it must be very hard for Helen to see the numbers, with her poor eyesight. She noticed a clump of threads from the frayed grey buttoned cuff of Helen’s blouse caught in the stem. While getting dressed, Helen must have pulled the stem to the open position. She looked at her own watch, reset Helen’s to the current time, pushed the stem back until it clicked, gently rewound it and watched the sweep of the second hand.
“I think it is working properly again and there is no need to find a watchmaker,” she said, handing the Bulova back to her. Helen looked at it for a minute and then let Amina help her strap it on.
“Good. It’s so hard to find a reliable watchmaker these days. Can you fix my bunions?”
Amina laughed. “No, I cannot do that, Mrs. Plonsker. But, if you would like, I can find someone to look at them for you. If you do not want to walk, I will help you into your wheelchair and we can go to the garden”
“Are you trying to get me to eat my vegetables? Is that why we’re going to the garden?” Helen asked as she let Amina gently place her arms into her old cardigan white sweater and guide her into the chair.
“No, no, Ms. Plonsker, not at all,” Amina said shaking her head and smiling and kneeling down to fold the chrome foot rests under Helen’s feet. Helen grabbed both of Amina’s forearms tightly and looked fiercely into her eyes. “I like vegetables. I just don’t like being told to eat them. You have beautiful teeth. They must have good vegetables in,” she paused, trying to remember where Amina had said she was from. “In your country,” she said completing the sentence. Amina immediately liked Helen for trying to cover her memory loss by searching for other words.
She told her about the tomatoes, ripe and full of juice and bursting with flavor, thick leafy lettuce heads, and fat succulent cucumbers and the abundant fruit grown in Jowhar and Afgoi and brought by donkey cart to Mogadishu. She remembered mangoes and papayas, sweet bananas, lemons, limes, watermelons so large you needed to hire a boy with a wooden wheelbarrow to take them home. By the time they came off the elevator and went outside, Amina was describing the different kinds of fresh fish, caught early in the morning and bought by her mother for dinner that same day. She had made herself depressed, talking so much about her childhood, her home and her mother. She put on her sunglasses so Helen would not see the tears in her eyes.
The Orange Tree Page 7