The Takeaway Men

by Meryl Ain

  “I manage the household,” she would say, “and I plan and cook all the meals. I’m a built-in babysitter. So Judy is free to work in the bakery and do anything else she needs or wants to do during the day.”

  Judy would wince whenever she heard Faye’s spin. Although it was largely true, except for the babysitter part—the girls were old enough to be babysitters themselves—she didn’t like that Faye had to share their personal arrangement. And, of course, in Faye’s version, there was no mention of the older woman’s overbearing and controlling behavior. The toll that Becky had taken on the entire household was never acknowledged. Neither was the emotional support and camaraderie that Faye wanted and got from Judy. Judy was not only compassionate, but she could see beyond the surface. She knew that Faye meant well. Faye just couldn’t help being loud and bossy.

  It seemed to Judy that Faye no longer needed to be so defensive. She was now prosperous and an integral part of the bakery business. She not only took care of the household expenses, but she also managed the books for the two shops. In fact, Faye signed Aron’s generous weekly paychecks. Judy did her bidding.

  One frigid winter day, Faye slipped on the ice as she was leaving the bakery.

  Judy happened to look out the bakery window and saw Faye on the ground.

  “Izzy! Aron! Come quick,” she yelled, “Faye fell on the ice. It looks like she’s hurt.”

  Izzy ran out first.

  “Faye, come on, get up,” he said.

  “I can’t get up,” she said as she winced in pain. “I think I broke my knee. I can’t feel or move my leg.”

  By then, both Aron and Judy had joined them outside, as well as Morty, who had also witnessed the scene from his shop.

  “We can call an ambulance,” said Judy.

  “I don’t really want an ambulance,” Faye said.

  “I have my car in the parking lot,” said Morty. “I’ll drive it around to the front and take you to the hospital if you don’t want to call an ambulance.”

  Faye thought she probably needed an ambulance, but the memory of the ride to the hospital with Becky conjured up unpleasant feelings. As she allowed the two men to help her into the car, she suspected she was doing even more damage to her knee.

  By the time the orthopedist arrived in the emergency room, she was in such pain that she’d convinced herself her knee was broken.

  “I’ve reviewed the X-rays, and your patella is broken in three places,” he said. “I need to do emergency surgery right away.”

  “I don’t want to be put to sleep,” she said.

  “I won’t do the surgery if you’re awake, and we need to do it right away.”

  Writhing in pain, Faye had no choice but to agree.

  As Judy sat with Izzy in the waiting room during the surgery, she began to realize that things were about to change at home—at least in the short term. She knew that she would be the one to take care of Faye, and she imagined what it would be like to be supervising instead of taking orders.

  When Izzy brought Faye home from the hospital a few days later, she was confined to her bedroom. The doctor had used small screws and plates to secure the broken bones. She was ordered not to bear weight for a month and to keep her leg elevated as much as possible.

  Cranky Faye replaced bossy Faye. She could only walk with the assistance of crutches in the small house. She called for water, for ice, for pain medication. Judy almost yearned for the return of the capable, domineering woman she had come to know.

  Judy had no choice but to take over the household. She bought the groceries, planned and prepared the meals, did the laundry, and straightened up before the cleaning woman came. She learned that she was fully capable of being in charge. And she enlisted the twins to assist by giving them specific tasks.

  Since JoJo was the more outgoing of the two, she gave her the job of answering the phone and taking messages. She tapped Bronka for the task of looking through the voluminous mail and assigning it to piles for Faye to later review—bills, business correspondence, get well cards, and circulars. Bronka rather liked her job of mail clerk, being innately curious. But because Bronka was a helper by nature, she was quick to do more than the mail. She fetched ice for Faye’s knee, brought her meals on a tray, and chatted with her.

  About a week after Faye returned from the hospital, Bronka went into Faye’s room and announced cheerfully, “It looks like you got six get well cards today.”

  “I didn’t know I was so popular,” Faye gloated. “Who are they from? Read me the names on the envelopes.”

  Bronka enjoyed studying the cards Faye received, examining the handwriting and the return names and addresses. She sat on the side of Faye’s bed and they opened them together. They read the greeting and the personal note that often accompanied it. And Faye told Bronka anecdotes about the people who had sent the cards.

  A week later, Bronka worked up the courage to ask about Becky. It seemed as if she had disappeared from the planet. Faye assured her that Becky was well cared for and that she had taken up painting. When Bronka asked if she could accompany her when she resumed her visits to Becky, Faye replied, “We’ll see. But why don’t you write her a letter; I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

  Bronka wrote a letter later that evening and mailed it the next day. Thereafter, each day she looked for a response from Becky.

  A few weeks into this routine, Judy was preparing dinner and Bronka sat at the kitchen table going through the mail.

  As Bronka put the mail into piles, she said, “Mostly bills and bakery-related business today, and only two get well cards.”

  “Well, they’re bound to taper off after a while,” said Judy. “It’s been more than three weeks since the surgery.”

  Bronka eyed a thin, blue, lightweight letter that she had missed in the first sorting. It said Aerogramme on it, and it appeared to be in one piece, folded and glued. The handwriting looked strained and deliberate, much like her father’s, whose penmanship had a foreign flavor to it. It was post-marked Jerusalem, Israel. It was from someone named Naomi Ben-Zvi and it was addressed to Edyta Wozniak, c/o Lubinski.

  “Who is Naomi Ben-Zvi?” Bronka asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “And who is Edyta Wozniak?” Bronka tested her mother, knowing full well that her father called her mother Dyta.

  She had always believed that her mother’s real name was Judyta. Everyone called her Judy, but her father, referred to her by his pet name for her, Dyta. But who was Edyta? And she did not recognize the name Wozniak. Bronka’s antennae were aroused.

  Bronka saw the color rise in her mother’s cheeks. And her sky-blue eyes, usually cheerful and twinkling, had become pools of fear.

  Judy averted her gaze from her daughter. She had never heard of Naomi Ben-Zvi, but if she was addressing her as Edyta, she must have some connection to her past. She felt trapped; she had feared this moment for years. She knew she had been exposed.

  “I imagine that would be me. We’ll open it and see what she has to say,” she said, realizing that it was time to face the truth. “Let’s read it together.”

  My dear Edyta,

  I have been trying for years to locate you. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. I was an eight-year-old girl when you rescued me and two other children in the darkness of night from the Kielce Ghetto. You covered us with blankets and smuggled us in a Red Cross lorry out of the ghetto. You brought us to the convent where Mother Mary Martha and your own sister, Sister Mary Krystyna, welcomed us into the Convent of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Although I never saw you again, Sister Mary Krystyna often referred to you as her little sister, Edyta, and told us you were the angel who had rescued me and numerous other children. And we always prayed for your health and safety. We were well cared for in the convent and when the war ended, I was reunited with my aunt, who lives in Israel. All of my Polish family perished.

  I now work in the office of Aryeh Kubovy, who is the chairman of Yad Vashem. Ever since t
he capture of Adolph Eichmann, he has been receiving letters saying that it’s not enough to focus on the atrocities committed by the Nazis. Israel must also honor those who risked their lives to rescue Jews during the Shoah. I agree. By honoring people like you, we shine a light on what is best in humanity, and teach young people the importance of kindness, respect for differences, and for acting against evil.

  The Avenue of the Righteous was dedicated at Yad Vashem on Yom HaShoah this year. Trees will be planted in honor of the rescuers. An independent public commission will meet soon to decide who will be the first virtuous and praiseworthy Gentiles to be honored. As soon as the program seeks nominees, I wish to submit your name—with your permission, of course.

  All the words and honors in the world are not enough to thank you for saving my life and the lives of so many others. But, if in some small way, I can pay tribute to you, I would like to do it.

  Respectfully,

  Naomi Ben-Zvi

  Judy was caught off guard. She should have been proud to receive such a letter, but she was ashamed. She had been unmasked. She had never found the right time to tell her daughters that she had been born a Christian and had embraced Judaism after the horror of the Kielce pogrom in 1946—after the war. It was because of Aron; he acted as if it were a dirty little secret, not a noble and beautiful gesture, as with Ruth in the Bible. This hurt her every day of her married life.

  She believed she was a good Jew. And under Faye’s tutelage, she had become an even better one—learning all the customs that were lived out in a Jewish home. But now, Bronka, for whom there were no shades of gray, would demand an explanation. And she wasn’t sure she could give her a satisfactory one. Aron had forever stalled her, and now she had to explain to her literal-minded daughter, not at a time of her own choosing, but right now.

  “I don’t even know what your real name is,” Bronka blurted out, seeing her mother’s pain, but not able to conceal her own. She felt betrayed. She did not focus on her mother’s heroics, but rather that she had concealed the truth. Who was this mother she thought she knew?

  “My birth name was Edyta Wozniak. My family called me Dyta, and that is what Papa has always called me.”

  “I thought your real name was Judy.”

  “Izzy called me Judy when I first came to America, and it stuck.”

  “And who is Sister Mary Krystyna?”

  “She is my older sister.”

  “You have a sister, and she’s a nun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been in touch with her since the war?”

  “We’ve exchanged letters, but Poland is behind the Iron Curtain, so we’ve not seen each other.”

  “Does Papa know your sister is a nun?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Bronka’s head was reeling. How could this be? The Lubinskis were the super Jews of 253rd Street. Papa went to shul every day. Mama did everything a Jewish mother was supposed to do. If she told Christina Rosen that her mother had been born Catholic (which she had no intention of doing), she would probably say Mama was going straight to hell.

  “Bronka, people are allowed to change. We are all changing all the time. I had good reason to abandon my childhood faith and embrace Judaism. I am a Jew now, and Papa and I have raised you and Johanna to be good Jews.”

  “Why did you lie about your background? You’re reprehensible.”

  “You are calling me reprehensible? I didn’t lie; I just didn’t tell you the whole truth. I’m hurt and shocked that you are totally ignoring the point of the letter. I saved many Jews during the Shoah, including Papa. This woman says I am righteous. That means nothing to you?”

  “She is nominating you as a Righteous Gentile. You can’t be Mrs. Super Jew and a Righteous Gentile at the same time.”

  “I made a mistake; I should have told you sooner,” Judy said, smarting from her daughter’s disdain as tears streamed down her face.

  “And how many times did I ask you, did I beg you, to tell me your story?”

  “I thought you were too young to understand.”

  “And when do you think I would be old enough to understand?” Bronka began to cry.

  “I wanted to tell you, but the time was never right.” Judy sobbed.

  As curious as Bronka was, she had heard enough for now. “I’m going out,” she said as she slammed the front door.

  Sobbing, Bronka ran across the street and rang Mindy’s doorbell. Jennie came to the door.

  “What’s wrong, Bubbelah?”

  “I have to talk to JoJo. Is she here?”

  “Yes, the girls are upstairs in Mindy’s room.”

  Bronka, still in tears, tore up the staircase and found them sitting on the bed, perusing Glamour magazine as Mindy told JoJo all about Kenny Lesser.

  “Bronka, what’s wrong?” Both girls said at once as they saw her tearstained, bloated face.

  Jennie followed Bronka up the stairs; she was concerned that something terrible had happened. Perhaps Faye had taken a turn for the worse, or someone else was sick or had died. She stood in the door as Bronka blurted out, “It’s Mama.”

  “What’s wrong?” JoJo asked again.

  “Mama has been lying to us all along.”

  “About what?” JoJo asked. “What could she possibly lie about?”

  “About who she is.”

  “What are you talking about?” JoJo asked.

  “Let’s go downstairs and discuss this around the kitchen table,” said Jennie, making a snap decision that as much as the teenage girls thought they knew everything, some adult intervention was needed.

  Jennie put some cookies and fruit on the table, along with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses, and sat down with the girls.

  “So who is Mama?” JoJo asked in a whimsical way.

  “It’s not a joke, JoJo. There was a letter from Israel from a woman who Mama saved during the war.”

  “So that’s a good thing,” said Jennie.

  “Well, I guess it’s good that Mama saved her, but I found out that Mama didn’t used to be Jewish and she never told us about it.”

  “What was she?” JoJo asked, incredulously.

  “She was Catholic; she even has a sister who’s a nun in Poland, and Mama rescued children from the ghetto and brought them to the convent where her sister was.”

  “What’s her sister’s name?”

  “Sister Mary Krystyna.”

  “Wow—what would Tina, Toni, and Tori Rosen think about that?” JoJo said.

  “Don’t you dare tell them!” Bronka barked.

  “So what’s the problem?” JoJo asked. Always eager to be a genuine American, she kind of liked the idea that she had an aunt who was a nun and that her mother had not been born Jewish. She also was intrigued that her mother, who rarely went farther than the bakery, had risked her life to save Jewish children.

  “Mama has been lying to us all of the time,” said Bronka.

  “Well, she didn’t really lie,” JoJo said. “And besides, not for nothing, she’s a hero. Who knew? Maybe she was just being modest.”

  “You think?” said Bronka.

  “Sometimes parents don’t tell children the whole truth because they believe they can’t handle it,” said Jennie.

  “That’s not lying; it’s protection. Your mother just thought she was protecting you. And sometimes we tell white lies, harmless fibs to avoid hurting someone’s feelings or upsetting them. I don’t know whether your mother told you white lies along the way, but everyone does from time to time. They’re a good thing because they are done out of compassion.”

  “This doesn’t sound like a white lie to me,” said Bronka. “It might not be a technical lie, but it feels like a big fat deception.”

  “I understand what Bronka is saying,” Mindy said. “Ever since Grandpa died, I’ve been thinking that I don’t know anything about my father—what he was like or even how he died. I bet you know, Bubbie.”

  “It’s your mother’s truth, and she is th
e only one who can tell you.”

  “I have a feeling she never will.”

  “Our mother has no choice now but to tell us the truth,” Bronka insisted. “And that goes for Papa too. He’s not so innocent either; he participated in the cover-up.”

  “Bronka,” said JoJo. “Everything’s not a conspiracy. Maybe there’s more to our parents than meets the eye.”

  “It’s six-fifteen, girls,” Jennie said. “Don’t you have dinner at six every evening?”

  When the girls walked into their house, although they could smell the meatloaf and potatoes in the oven, the table was not set for dinner. Usually, you could set your watch by the Lubinskis’ six o’clock nightly dinner.

  Instead, Mama and Papa and Izzy were in the living room, sitting on the green sofa covered in plastic. And Faye had actually left her bedroom. She sat on the beige chair with her leg elevated by two pillows on the matching hassock. Judy and Aron were looking very grim. Faye and Izzy were silent. The television was off, and the only sound was the whirring of the fan coming from the kitchen.

  Bronka began to panic. For fifteen years, she had tried to be perfect and now—in one fell swoop—she had disrespected and deeply wounded her mother. She could not imagine what punishment was in store for her. JoJo, on the other hand, was slightly amused at the sight of the somber adults. She had not been a party to the discussion, so she was curious about what would transpire next.

  Izzy spoke first. “Sit down, girls.”

  The girls sat close together on the piano bench, which faced the couch.

  “Now, I understand there was an argument earlier,” Izzy said.

  Bronka’s mouth was uncomfortably dry, but she didn’t dare get a glass of water. She would have to face the inquisition without one, she thought.

  “Izzy,” challenged Faye in her booming voice. “Don’t call it an argument. It was a misunderstanding. And Aron and Judy are here to clear it up once and for all. They want you girls to know how much they love you.”