by Meryl Ain
“Done,” said Aron, relieved that his problem had been solved.
JoJo and Bronka were not particularly thrilled about going to Hebrew School four afternoons a week directly after public school. It meant that they couldn’t play with their friends—or relax, or even do their homework until after supper. They couldn’t go to Girl Scouts either, like their other friends. And it cut into Mickey Mouse Club TV time. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Since the synagogue was only a few blocks away, they walked there themselves. On their very first day of Hebrew School, when they reached the corner of Union Turnpike and turned right, two boys, Randy Lesser and Robert Moskowitz, were hiding in the thick green hedges in front of Dr. Pearlman’s office. The boys were about a year older than the twins and big for their age. They suddenly came out of hiding, yelled, and jumped on the girls, knocking them to the ground. Bronka was terrified, not only by the shock, but by Randy’s crushing weight as he pinned her down. He was the bigger, beefier, more aggressive of the two. She screamed in fright and then started crying.
JoJo extricated herself from Robert by scratching his face, and then she kicked Randy’s right leg twice, as she screamed, “Get off her, you big oaf. I’m going to report you and you’ll be in big trouble.”
“And who are you going to tell?” said Randy as he released Bronka. “Your weird father, who looks like he belongs on the Bowery or in Creedmoor? What’s he going to say when he finds out you scratched and kicked us?”
“What’s he going to do? Throw some bagels at us? Report us to the police?” added Robert.
“Yeah,” added Randy. “He probably couldn’t find his way to the police station, and even if he did, the police would take one look at his clothes and think he was a bum. They wouldn’t be able to understand him either. Once a refugee, always a refugee—he’ll never belong here. You’d think he wouldn’t still have that ugly accent.”
Ever logical, Bronka stopped crying long enough to shout, “Policemen come into the bakery. They know my father.”
“Your father is just a poor, schlumpy baker,” said Randy as the boys began to walk away. “My father owns three dry cleaning stores and is friends with lots of policemen. They bring their uniforms into his shops, and he cleans them for free. They love him. Anyway, everyone knows who my father is. He’s a genius and he’s famous. He won forty-seven thousand dollars on the TV quiz show, Man on the Street Genius. But you probably didn’t even see it; it’s past your bedtime—you little babies.”
Randy was right; they hadn’t seen it, but they knew all about his celebrity father. Murray Lesser, the dry-cleaning king of Queens, had become a true star in their neighborhood. During the six weeks he was on the quiz show, people had followed his odyssey, rooting for him and marveling at the fortune he was amassing. Adults stopped him on the street to congratulate him and even asked for his autograph. The girls knew they had lost the argument, and the banter stopped abruptly.
As the boys scurried away, JoJo said to Bronka, “I think we better not report them. He’s right. His father is rich and famous and friends with the police. And Robert will show his scratches.”
“Okay,” said Bronka. “But they might do it again. It scares me. I hate them.”
“I hate them too. They’re disgusting. Let’s get some candy.”
Stopping at Jonny’s Candy Store was a pre-Hebrew School ritual that began on the very first day and continued throughout the school year. The students would crowd into the small shop with nickels from their parents and buy candy to sustain them through the class. That first day of school, Bronka bought Red Hots and JoJo got Necco chocolate wafer candies.
Once at school, the girls all sat huddled together in the left-hand corner of the small classroom, two rows back. It was the same room that doubled as the minyan chapel. The boys were already fidgety and naughty after six hours in public school, where they had been sitting and following orders.
The Hebrew School teacher, Mrs. Bergman, had a chirpy bird voice and a Polish accent. But it wasn’t overpowering like their father’s, and it had a different ring to it. She said she had lived in Israel. Her goal was to teach them how to read Hebrew so they could follow the prayer book and learn the prayers. Maybe, one day, they would visit Israel. They would also learn about Shabbos and the Jewish holidays. On the first day of school, she gave special recognition to the girls in the class.
“Welcome, yeladim. This is the most girls I have ever had in a Hebrew School class. I know why the boys are here. You boys will all become bar mitzvah on your thirteenth birthday and will be called to the Torah to recite your haftorah portion. Cantor Yudenfreund will teach you your portions starting the year before your bar mitzvah date. Girls, you will also technically become bas mitzvah on your twelfth birthday, but we don’t have a ceremony for girls. But it’s always good to learn. You will all be Jewish mothers, so you will instruct your children.”
“My father wants me to have a bas mitzvah,” Esther Zilberman called out.
“Esther, we don’t call out in class,” Mrs. Bergman said, letting Esther’s comment slide without a response.
The teacher began to distribute blue, soft-covered notebooks to all the students.
“I am giving each of you a machberes. Where it says shem, you will write your Hebrew name once I teach you how to write the Hebrew letters. In the meantime, write your English name at the top of the notebook. Hebrew is read from right to left, not left to right like English. Before I teach you how to write the first letter of the alphabet, aleph, I am going to go around the room and ask you your Hebrew names. In this class, I will be calling you by those names, and not by your English names.”
There were five boys named Moshe, three named Daveed, and three named Yacov.
A couple of boys didn’t know their names, so the teacher named Elliot, Eliyahu, Harvey, Hillel, and Steven, Shimshon.
All four girls knew their Hebrew names.
“Shira, yours is the easiest,” said Mrs. Bergman. “You have the same name in Hebrew and English.”
“And Esther, is your Hebrew name Hadassah, like the women’s organization?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bergman,” said Esther.
“I want everyone to call me Morah Bergman in this class.
“And Johanna, what is your name in Hebrew?”
“Hannah Yosefa.”
“And last, but not least, how about you, Bronka?”
“My Hebrew name is Bracha Haya, Morah Bergman.”
“What a beautiful name,” said the teacher. “Your parents must have given that name a lot of thought. Class, do you know that Bracha Haya means ‘Blessed Life’?”
Bronka was embarrassed that she had been singled out. Moreover, she did not feel like her life was going all that well, especially after her encounter with Randy and Robert. Her feelings were confirmed as she began to be hit by a barrage of spitballs coming her way from the boys. And Morah Bergman didn’t even notice.
1957
BELLEROSE, NEW YORK
ONE NIGHT TOWARD THE END of June, when the twins were already in bed, and the adults were watching The Phil Silvers Show in the living room, the phone rang. Faye went into the kitchen to pick up the phone, but when she spoke, no one answered.
“Hello, hello.” There was still no answer, so Faye hung up.
A minute later, the phone rang again. Again, Faye kept saying hello but there was no response. She hung up again.
When the phone rang a third time, Izzy came into the kitchen to see what was going on and picked it up.
“Hello,” he said in a loud, agitated voice.
“Is Faye there?”
“Faye, it’s for you,” he said with a look of disgust on his face. “I think it’s Rebecca.”
“Rebecca? Where is she calling from?”
“I have no idea; pick up the phone and find out before she hangs up again.”
“Hello, Rebecca, is that you?”
“Is that you, Mother?”
“Of course,” sai
d Faye. “Don’t you recognize my voice? Was that you who just called twice and hung up on me?”
“Yes,” said Rebecca.
“Why did you do that?”
“I had to make sure it was you.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport?”
“Which airport?”
“Idlewild.”
“Idlewild? You mean you’re in New York, in Queens?” Faye looked like she had seen a ghost.
“Yes, can you pick me up?”
“Sure,” said Faye. “Which terminal are you at?”
“International Arrivals—I just came in from Paris.”
“Let’s go,” said Faye to Izzy as she hung up the phone.
Izzy did not want to go out again. He had already changed into something comfortable, finished dinner, and was now watching his favorite show. Sgt. Bilko was trying to convince the gullible Sgt. Ritzik to play poker, despite the entreaties of Ritzik’s wife. He resented being interrupted.
In addition, he hated driving to the airport; the Belt Parkway was always crowded, and the airport was a madhouse. Part of him wished that Rebecca had just taken a cab and turned up at the door. But that might have given him or Faye a stroke or a heart attack. Either way, he knew he was in for big trouble.
This is so typical of Rebecca, Izzy thought. Leave it to her to just appear suddenly and make demands. It was all about her all of the time. And the hang-ups on her mother—what was that all about? What a wonderful respite it had been to have her in Israel. It was over now. Her presence could very well upset the nice little extended family we’ve created over the last six years. It’s good for me. It’s good for Faye. It’s good for the cousins. It’s even good for my business. Rebecca is capable of throwing a grenade into the situation and blowing it all up.
Izzy grabbed the car keys, told Aron and Judy that they were going to get Faye’s daughter at the airport, and motioned Faye into the car.
Izzy fumed all the way to the airport, but he didn’t say a word to Faye. He knew his world was about to be upset by Rebecca. She was a meshuggene, he thought. She couldn’t even make herself sound normal on the phone.
When he first spotted her at the airport terminal, with her one little beat-up tan suitcase, his worst fears were confirmed. She didn’t look normal to him. Women her age didn’t walk around in public looking like that, he thought. She wore a shabby, stained, tan raincoat and a paisley kerchief tied under her chin. She looks like a refugee, right off the boat—only worse. Her attire accentuated her pale complexion and the blank look in her hazel eyes.
“Rebecca, we’re over here,” Faye called out, dismayed that her daughter’s appearance was so different from when she had first left for Israel. Then, she had been animated about her plans, radiant with excitement. Now, she looked like a lost waif. In addition, Faye was alarmed that as she walked toward them, there was barely a spark of recognition in her face.
Faye ran over to Rebecca and hugged her. But her daughter was stiff and wooden as her mother put her arms around her. Izzy took the suitcase, and the three of them walked to the parking lot together. Once they reached the car, he helped Rebecca into the back seat and he and Faye got in the front
Rebecca said little on the car ride home, only that she had left the kibbutz and gone to France. After a few weeks in Paris, she said she had headed to New York. But Faye insisted on knowing why she’d left Israel. After all, she had believed that everything was under control there for close to a decade. And now, remembering the cryptic postcard and observing her daughter’s demeanor, she wanted to find out what had prompted her to leave.
“I may be in trouble,” Rebecca said. “They’re looking for me.”
“Who, the Arabs?” Izzy asked.
“No, the Knesset is trying to find me,” said Rebecca. “They’ve been talking about me.”
“How do you know that?” Faye asked.
“I’ve heard my name has come up. They’re spying on me; that’s why I had to leave Israel.”
Izzy rolled his eyes.
By the time they returned from the airport, it was almost eleven o’clock, and Judy and Aron had already retired for the night.
Izzy carried her one suitcase into the house. He headed for the back room, next to their bedroom. Not only was she here, thought Izzy, but she’s right next to us. God help us. The nine-by-twelve-foot room housed Faye’s Singer sewing machine, a cedar chest with her fabric and patterns, other sewing supplies, and a sofa bed.
“Where are you going?” asked Rebecca. “Aren’t I going to stay upstairs? I thought you finished the attic so I could stay there when I came home.”
“No,” said Faye, “you’re going to sleep in my sewing room. Didn’t you read my letters? I told you Izzy’s cousins were staying with us. They are refugees from Poland who suffered terribly in the war, and now we’re helping them. Aron is managing the new bakery. And Judy, his wife, helps in the store and helps me at home too. They have the most adorable twin girls—you’ll love them. The whole family is living upstairs.”
“They’re still here? Shouldn’t they have a place of their own by now?”
Izzy thought, Shouldn’t you have a place of your own by now?
“How do I know I can trust them?”
“They’re family,” said Faye.
“How are they related?”
“Izzy was a first cousin to Aron’s father, Yosef, who died in a concentration camp. Izzy and Aron’s father had the same grandparents.”
“And the woman?”
“You mean Aron’s wife? She’s darling, we love her,” said Faye.
“But who is she? What do you know about her? How do you know she’s not spying on you or having your phones tapped?”
“Oh, Rebecca,” said Faye, exasperated. “You’re exhausted; you need some sleep. You’ll feel better after you get a good night’s sleep.”
“Do you really think I’m going to get a good night’s sleep on this old sofa bed?”
“I’m sure you don’t plan on staying here indefinitely,” Izzy said, hoping that if he said it aloud, that would make it true.
The next day, Rebecca slept until two o’clock in the afternoon. By then, Faye had given everyone a heads-up that her daughter was there, that she was probably exhausted and maybe a bit disoriented from the trip. In other words, it wouldn’t hurt if they tiptoed around her. At two o’clock, Faye brought a tray to her room.
“Good morning, Glory,” she said in her most cheerful voice. “Well actually, it’s good afternoon. It’s two o’clock. That makes it eight p.m. in Paris. Time to get up. I didn’t know whether to serve you breakfast or lunch, so I made a nice melted cheese sandwich for you with a cup of tea and a linzertorte from the bakery.”
“I’m not hungry,” snapped Rebecca.
“Come on, sweetheart, you have to regain your strength from all of your traveling. Have something to eat, and then get up, get washed, and get dressed. I want you to meet Judy. The girls will be back from school about three o’clock. Izzy and Aron will be home from work about five thirty, and we’ll have dinner at six. You can’t have dinner be your first meal of the day.”
Rebecca sighed and rolled over.
About four o’clock, she finally emerged from her room. Faye, Judy, and the twins were in the kitchen when Rebecca made her entrance in a white sleeveless blouse, a tan skirt that was cinched at the waist, and sandals. She had reddish-brown, wavy, shoulder-length hair, and she made eye contact. Faye was relieved that she actually looked quite attractive and exhibited a warm, friendly attitude toward the immigrants.
“This is my daughter, Rebecca,” said Faye. “Or do you want to be called by your Hebrew name, Rifka?”
“Everyone calls me Becky,” she said.
“Okay, Becky,” said Judy, eager to please both her and Faye. “And since you are Faye’s daughter and the girls call her Tante Faye, would you mind if they call you Aunt Becky?”
“No, that would be wonderful,” said
Rebecca.
“Bronka and JoJo, meet your Aunt Becky.”
The girls smiled.
“They’re adorable,” said Becky. “I notice they both twirl their hair; what does that mean.”
“Oh, I don’t think it means anything; just a habit,” Judy said.
“I think it means something,” said Becky.
“Okay,” said Faye, becoming a little nervous. “When you figure out what it means, you can let us know.”
“So the girls are having a birthday next week,” said Judy. “They are going to be ten years old—their first double-digit birthday. And we’re going to have a big party in the backyard. We hope you’ll be here.”
“What day is it?”
“It’s going to be on Thursday, July the Fourth,” said Faye. “We’re going to barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs.”
“Who’s coming?”
“We’ve invited the girls’ friends and their families,” said Faye. “Some of the neighbors are coming; we’ve asked the Mandelsterns across the street. Lenore, Mindy’s mother is a widow about your age, and her parents, Jennie and Harry. The Rosens, who live a few doors down, will be here with their three girls, and maybe the grandmother who lives with them.
“And then the Yudenfreunds and their daughter, Shira, and her brother will be joining us. Sol is the cantor of our shul, and he won’t eat in many of the congregants’ homes, but he’ll eat here because he says, ‘If it’s kosher enough for Aron, it’s kosher enough for me.’ And then there is the Zilberman family. They have a daughter, Esther, who goes to Hebrew School with the girls, and also a three-year-old little boy.”
“That’s quite a crowd,” said Becky, looking apprehensive. “I’ll see if I can make it. But even if I can’t, I want to get you—my beautiful new nieces—a special birthday gift. What would you like?”