by Meryl Ain
On the other hand, Judy did light candles every Shabbos and on holidays, and she was kosher inside and out of the house. Faye thought it was very touching when she heard her reciting the Modeh Ani prayer with the girls when they woke up, and the Shema when she put them to sleep. It did not seem to Faye like she was just going through the motions. She chanted with enthusiasm. And although it was not then required for women to do so, Judy certainly attended synagogue services more frequently than Faye or most of the other women in the community. When she mentioned her uncertainties about Judy’s origins to Izzy a couple of times, he had warned her to keep her mouth shut. Faye had controlled herself now for more than a year and a half.
With Rosh Hashanah fast approaching, Faye was going to make homemade gefilte fish with Judy. Izzy and Aron were at work, and the twins were playing with the Rosen girls at their house. So the two women were alone in the kitchen. The sun shone through the tiered apple orchard curtains, showcasing patterns of red, green, and yellow fruit on an antique white background. The tiny kitchen, painted lemon yellow, had little counter space. The Formica-and-chrome table, where they ate their meals, was the only place big enough to prepare food. As Faye brought her mother’s grinder to the table from the basement, she thought, What would it hurt if I ask her one little question? She’s been living in my house for almost two years?
She decided not to plunge in, but to start gradually.
“Have you ever seen a fish grinder like this, Judy? It was my mother’s.”
“No, I haven’t. What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to grind the fish for the gefilte fish. I use whitefish and pike. My mother and grandmother made it with carp. In fact, they told me they used to keep the carp in the bathtub until they were ready to prepare the gefilte fish. But I never actually saw a fish in the bathtub. I’m not sure if it’s true or just a bubbe-meise,” Faye said with a giggle. “Did you ever see a carp in the bathtub when you were growing up?’
“No,” Judy chuckled. “I never saw that either.”
“Did your mother use carp?”
Judy said nothing but shrugged her shoulders.
“So first I grind the whitefish and pike, along with the onions,” Faye said as she began explaining the preparation. “Notice we do not grind the head and bones. We’re going to save them for the fish stock. I always ask David, my fish man, to take out the eyes. Some people leave them in, but I don’t want the fish looking back at me,” Faye laughed. “Do you want to try grinding?”
“Sure,” said Judy. She really had no interest in grinding these smelly fish. It was bad enough that the grating of the onions was making her eyes tear. But Judy was a good sport, and she didn’t want to offend Faye.
“Good job, Judy. Now, we’re going to take the ground fish and combine it with matzo meal, egg, the grated onions, some salt, and also sugar. We don’t want to skimp on the sugar because we want it a bit sweet. It’s a nice contrast when we serve it with the beet horseradish. You’ll notice I don’t really measure ingredients. Like my mother and my grandmother before her, I schit a rein—throw things together by instinct—and it comes out great. Of course, you can’t do that with baking. With baking you have to be exact. So that’s another reason I don’t bake. Do you know why it’s called gefilte fish?”
“No,” said Judy.
“Originally, the ground fish was stuffed back into the skin of the whole fish. Gefilte means stuffed in German. But now, most people take the easy way out. We just make it into balls and boil it in the fish stock.”
Soon the smell of the fish cooking in the stock permeated the kitchen, and then filled the entire first floor of the small bungalow. Judy saw the door to the attic was ajar, and quickly went to close it so as to prevent the odor from wafting upstairs. The truth was that she thought she was going to gag, but she was terrified of insulting Faye. She had tasted gefilte fish at Warteplatz, and while she didn’t love it, she could tolerate the taste. And Aron adored it. But the smell of it cooking was a different story.
“How about something to drink?” Faye said, noticing her discomfort.
“Good idea,” said Judy. “Can we sit outside for a bit?”
“Sure, let’s sit on the front porch, and I can check on the fish from time to time. How about some ginger ale? Go ahead, I’ll just finish up in here and bring the drinks out.”
Ginger ale was just what Judy needed. Relieved that she was away from the smell and taking deep breaths of the fresh air, she recovered quickly.
“It’s such a beautiful day,” said Judy as Faye came out, holding two glasses.
“Yes,” said Faye. “It’s much too beautiful to stay cooped up inside with the gefilte fish. From the smell of it cooking, you’d never guess that it actually is tasty. It’s not my favorite food; I’m more of a chopped liver and eggs kind of gal, but it’s a taste of tradition. I prepare it just like my mother and grandmother did. It makes me feel close to them when I do.”
Judy took a sip of her ginger ale, not quite sure what she should say next, so she settled on, “That’s lovely, Faye. You’re keeping their traditions alive.”
“And what about you, Judy, do you have any customs that conjure up family memories?” Faye continued.
“Well, we named Bronka after my mother and Johanna after Aron’s sister and brother.”
“Isn’t Bronka a Polish name?”
“Yes, it is. My mother was Polish.”
“And did your mother have any special recipes?”
“She was an expert at pierogies. That was my favorite comfort food growing up.”
Faye knew she was onto something here and was close to the truth. Should she let it go? Judy’s mother had been Polish. Her specialty dish was pierogies—not cholent or gefilte fish or brisket. Faye got the picture; she now understood why Judy didn’t look the slightest bit Jewish and knew so little Yiddish. She wanted to hear her say she was not Jewish.
“So your mother was not Jewish?”
“No, she was Catholic.”
“And when did you become Jewish?”
“Before I married Aron. I chose to, like Ruth in the Bible.”
“Did a rabbi convert you?”
“No, Aron did. He taught me the Hebrew prayers.”
“Did you go to the mikveh?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Did you immerse yourself in water?”
“No. Like a baptism?”
“No, not really.”
So Judy had not been born Jewish. I wonder where Judy was during the war, Faye pondered. How unusual for a Polish Christian woman to choose to become a Jew, especially in light of the slaughter and persecution of Jews throughout Europe. That must be quite a story.
While Faye was not really surprised, she was shocked that Aron, who was such a pious man, had not followed the letter of the law in regard to conversion. She might discuss it with Izzy, but why bother? He’d probably say Aron was evening the score with his son, Henry. Hadn’t Henry adopted Christianity without a formal conversion?
Faye’s fact-finding mission was cut short when Bronka and Johanna, along with Tina and Toni Rosen, suddenly appeared on the front lawn.
“Tante Faye,” all of the girls called in unison. “We’re hungry, can we have a snack?”
Faye quickly became distracted by the thrilling sound of her newly earned status. In a very short time, she had become “Tante Faye” not only to the twins, but also to the neighbors’ children. She had also become a surrogate mother/mother-in-law/mentor to Judy. She vowed to herself that she would try harder to win Judy’s trust.
“Let me check on the gefilte fish first,” she said heading for the front door, “and then I’ll bring out some milk and nice bakery cookies for everyone.”
“Yay!” shouted the little girls in unison.
While Aron and Judy still had thick accents and struggled with English, Bronka and Johanna had become fluent English speakers—with just the slightest trace of an accent—by the
time they entered kindergarten that fall. Children are much better language learners than adults, Faye explained to Judy, but she also insisted that purchasing a TV would help not only the girls, but their parents speak better English. Izzy didn’t think they needed it. He said they could always go to the neighbors to watch The Show of Shows. But Faye maintained it would help the acculturation of the girls to watch the same programs as the other children—Ding Dong School, Howdy Doody, and Kukla, Fran, and Ollie.
Faye won out, and she told Judy that the girls would be entering school with a leg up, since several of their neighbors still didn’t have a TV. But Faye was also quick to let her know that their elementary school building, PS 347, had not kept up with the times. To Judy and the girls, it looked like a typical old brick school building—three stories with narrow staircases. They had no basis of comparison. But Faye questioned the class size. She had read that the “baby boom” was straining existing classrooms, and many new schools would have to be built to accommodate the ever-increasing wave of children being born.
Right before school started, Tina Rosen showed the twins the new back-to-school outfits that her mother had bought for her from Mays Department Store. The twins were impressed. JoJo especially coveted the flowered dresses and pleated skirts and pretty blouses that hung in Tina’s closet.
“Let’s ask Mama if we can go shopping in Mays,” JoJo said.
“Good idea,” said Bronka
When the girls arrived home the same day, Judy and Faye both had big smiles on their faces.
“Faye has a surprise for you,” said Judy.
“Come into my sewing room,” said Faye. The sewing room was on the first floor, originally built to be a small bedroom. But Faye had transformed it with her sewing equipment and supplies. Hanging on the closet door were two new dresses for each of the girls.
JoJo noticed immediately that they looked a bit old fashioned, not at all like the clothing Tina’s mother had just bought for her at Mays. But she didn’t say anything, and Faye was oblivious, so pleased was she with herself. Bronka just smiled.
“Look, I’m constructing my own fashion industry,” said Faye, beaming with pride. “I even took the subway into Manhattan and first checked out the children’s department at Best & Company and Bonwit Teller, two of the fanciest department stores in the city. Then I chose chic patterns and beautiful material just for you.
“Look at this beautiful blue gingham,” Faye said as she stroked one of the matching dark blue-and-white-checked cotton dresses. “I want you both to be the height of style.”
“Now give Tante Faye a big hug and say thank you,” Judy said. “She’s put so much effort and care into your dresses.”
The twins obediently thanked and hugged Faye, but they were not convinced that these dresses were fashionable at all. They were much too young to appreciate her efforts. And while they dutifully wore whatever they were given, once they noticed their other classmates had frocks like Tina’s, they began to wish that they, too, had the same outfits as their peers. Johanna, in particular, really didn’t want to wear these homemade clothes. She wanted to be like everyone else, but she saved her comments for her sister alone.
Along with thirty-three other kindergarteners, the twins and their neighbor, Christina Rosen, were squeezed into a classroom that had been built to accommodate twenty-five. While both girls went off to school for the first time without a peep, the two teachers, Mrs. Betts and Mrs. Allen, intimidated Bronka.
“They’re strict, but not mean,” JoJo told her mother the first day. “We play, hear stories, and have to follow the rules.”
The twins were perfect pupils for their crowded classroom. They were well behaved and compliant and, as always, could cling to each other in this new situation. For the most part, they adjusted well to school the first week.
Except when Mrs. Betts, commanded “Take cover!” seemingly out of the blue. Bronka was gripped with fear, and her whole body started to shake.
“Don’t worry, BonBon, the teacher said this is just a practice drill,” Johanna whispered to her under the table as she grasped her sister’s shaking hand.
Had the teacher said it was a practice drill? Bronka hadn’t caught that, and it didn’t feel like practice to her at all. There was no consoling her; she was terrified that a bomb would drop on their school, and they would all be smashed to smithereens.
After school that afternoon, they discussed it with Tori Rosen, Tina’s seven-year-old sister, in the Rosen’s backyard.
“I think Bronka didn’t hear the teacher say it was just a practice drill,” said JoJo.
“I did,” said Tina.
“Yes,” said Tori. “When you go to school, there are weekly bomb drills. We have to practice in case the Russians drop an atomic bomb on us.”
“What’s an atomic bomb?”
“It’s a very scary weapon that can destroy the world.”
“How does it destroy the world?”
“It lands with a very loud noise and sets off explosions that kill people.”
“Who are the Russians?”
“My dad says they are very bad and mean, and they want to take over the world and take away our freedom.”
“How do they drop a bomb?”
“They push a button.”
“And if we hide under our desks, will we be safe?”
“I guess so,” said Tori. “Why else would they make us do it?”
But Bronka simply didn’t believe or understand Tori or her teachers. If they needed to practice, she reasoned to herself, it meant it could happen for real. Each time the teacher shouted, “Take cover!” she braced herself for an explosion.
Bronka’s fears extended to the world outside school as well. When she heard sirens go off at any hour of the day or night, she was seized with dread. She could be playing with her friends on the street or lying in bed, and the wailing of the sirens would cause her to become short of breath. No matter how many times JoJo told her not to worry, or Mama said it was the firemen going to put out a fire, she was gripped with terror. The sirens tapped something deep and dark within her that she could not articulate. To her, sirens did not merely sound like there was a fire somewhere; they evoked a profound feeling of suffering and loss. Somehow, she associated them with the takeaway men and her father’s haunted expression.
In kindergarten, the twins were also introduced to uplifting sounds—the sounds of music. Mrs. Allen played the piano, and the children marched around with chimes and triangles and cymbals. And they learned songs that were fun to sing together as a class, like “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”
As the Christmas season approached, the girls not only heard Christmas carols sung in their school but were required to sing them too.
The Christmas lights lit up the dark when Uncle Izzy took them for a walk right after sundown.
“Look at the lights,” they marveled, but they didn’t question why they didn’t have them.
Now that they had turned five and were attending school, Christmas took on a whole different meaning with their required participation in the festivities.
“We are going to have a Christmas concert in December and the whole school will perform,” said Mrs. Betts. “Mrs. Allen and I will teach our class two songs. How many of you know, ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town?’” Most of the class raised their hands. “And what about ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful?’” About half of the pupils indicated that they were familiar with the classic Christmas carol.
“Good,” she said. “I see many of you already have a head start. The rest of you will have to catch up.”
Bronka panicked. What did the teacher mean by “catch up”? Did it mean she hadn’t learned something that she should know? Did it mean the other students were better than she was? She began to worry and hoped that she would be able to learn the songs quickly so she would not be left behind. Every day when they rehearsed the songs in school, she became nervous. So she started practicing wit
h Johanna at home. Her twin was not only the more relaxed of the two, but she had perfect pitch and a beautiful singing voice. Soon, both of them had mastered the Christmas carols.
One night, after they had recited the Shema with their mother, Johanna said, “Mama, do you want to hear the songs BonBon and I learned in school?”
“Of course, I would love to hear you both sing.”
They began with a lively rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Their mother was charmed by how they seemed so happy singing together. But she also noticed the inescapable fact that Johanna was the more talented of the two; her perfect pitch barely compensating for Bronka’s apparent tone deafness.
Judy clapped enthusiastically. “Very, very nice,” she said.
“Tina and Toni Rosen say that Santa Claus comes to their house on Christmas Eve and brings them lots of fun presents, like dolls and toys. Why doesn’t he come to our house?” Johanna suddenly asked.
“Is it because we have been bad?” Bronka added.
“Oh, no,” said Judy. “This is a Jewish house and Santa doesn’t come to Jewish homes.”
The twins were not satisfied with this explanation. “Why not?” they asked in unison.
“Are Jewish children not nice enough?” Bronka added.
Judy realized she was entering dangerous territory; the girls were very well behaved. She didn’t want them to think they were less deserving than their friends. Or especially that it was a negative thing to be Jewish.
“Well, actually, I will tell you a secret, but you must promise not to tell anyone. Don’t tell the Rosen girls or any of your friends at school who believe in Santa Claus. You don’t want to spoil Christmas for them. Promise?”
“We promise,” they said in unison.
“There is no such thing as Santa Claus,” she announced.