Authors: Eva Wiseman
I opened my mouth to answer back but stopped myself just in time. I knew she hated me for taking so long to be born that Moishe, my twin, didn’t get enough oxygen. He had the body of a seventeen-year-old but the mind of a child, and it was all because of me. She never told me this was how she felt, but I knew what she thought of me by the harshness of her glance whenever she looked at me. I knew it by the way she never kissed or hugged me.
“I’m sorry, Mama. Faygie and I were doing homework. We wanted to finish it before Shabbos and lost track of time.”
“You’re spending way too much time with that girl.”
“She’s my best friend after Devorah Leah.”
“I don’t like her family.”
“Why not? She’s a good girl, Mama, and her parents are wonderful people.”
She stepped closer and grabbed my arm. “I told you that I don’t want you to be so chummy with her. She isn’t a real Lubavitcher Hasid like you. I remember when her parents moved to Crown Heights. They were hippies! Our lineage is flawless. We’ve been Chabad forever. Even your great-grandparents were followers of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.”
I pulled my arm away and rubbed it. “Faygie’s parents are Lubavitchers, just like you and me,” I insisted. “Her
father works in the Rebbe’s office, and Mrs. Kauffman observes all the commandments!”
“I don’t care! You’re not to see so much of her!” She smoothed her apron across her stocky hips. “You’d better listen to me or you won’t see her at all!”
I realized that then wasn’t the time to talk to her about going to the mall to give out Shabbos candles, so I helped her light our own Shabbos candles instead. I stole a glimpse at the peacefulness of her expression as she prayed over them, and I felt myself relaxing. Next, I ladled out some of the chicken soup simmering in a pot on top of the stove. I cut up a piece of chicken and some vegetables, added a slice of dark rye bread to the plate and carried all the dishes into the living room.
Moishe was in his wheelchair in front of the window with the lace curtains half open. The rays of the fading sun streamed through the drapery and cast latticed shadows upon his cheeks. Baba had pulled up a chair close to him and hung her cane on the back of it. She was grasping his hand in her clawlike fingers. Sitting down, she barely came up to Moishe’s shoulders. She was so tiny that people were always surprised by her toughness when they met her.
Baba had the soul of a warrior. Age might have sapped her strength, but she never admitted it. She loved Moishe fiercely and protected him like a lioness protects her cub. If any of the neighborhood kids laughed at
Moishe’s head spasms or imitated his gurgling speech, they had to face her wrath. She could reduce them to tears with the sharpness of her tongue. She could do the same to me, even though I knew deep down how much she loved me.
“You took your sweet time,” she said. “The poor boy must be starving. I was about to get his soup myself.”
Both of us knew that the tremor in her hands made it impossible for her to spoon food into Moishe’s mouth. I smothered a smile.
“I’m sorry, Baba. I was doing my homework and lost track of time.”
“Are you still at the head of your class?”
“Doing my best.”
Unlike my parents, Baba was truly interested in the academic progress of a mere girl. When I skipped a grade so that I would be graduating from high school at seventeen, she was the only one who told me how proud she was of me.
I tickled Moishe’s cheek and tied a bib around his neck. Before starting to feed him, I said a quick prayer on his behalf. He tried to push my hand away and knocked the bread to the floor. I went to reach for it, but Baba leaned down and picked it up before I could. She kissed it, then handed it back to me.
“I almost starved to death in Auschwitz,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “What I would have given for
a slice of bread!” A stern expression settled over her face. “I promised myself that if Hashem saved me, I would never go hungry again.”
This was a familiar refrain from Baba, but I knew better than to ask her questions about what she’d been through. Whenever I did, she would immediately change the subject.
I started to spoon the soup into Moishe’s mouth. He drank it with happy gurgles and wolfed down the food that followed. When he was finished, I took him to his room and got him ready for bed. He was usually tired after his dinner and went to bed early. Without fail, he was the first in the family to wake up in the morning.
At the Rebbe’s bidding, ten of my brothers and sisters had already left home to go on outreach in different parts of the world. However, three of us—my brother Yossi, Moishe and me—still remained in the old house with Baba and my parents. In the mornings, Mama took care of Moishe, cooked us delicious meals and kept the house scrupulously clean. She spent the rest of her day typing briefs for a Jewish lawyer, a job she liked because she could do it at home. We depended on her income, for Papa was so busy studying the books of our religion that he didn’t have much time left for his garment business. But with Mama so occupied, somebody had to take care of Moishe, and he had become my responsibility. I tried not to let it bother me that I had to hurry home
after school, instead of going over to my girlfriends’ houses, or that I couldn’t join the school choir. After all, whose fault was it that Moishe was trapped in his chair?
I helped him into his bed and kissed him good night. Then I told him a quick story about the Rebbe’s good deeds—the same story my parents had told me when I was a little girl. By the time I turned on the night-light and tiptoed out of his room, he was half asleep.
A siren sounded outside, signaling that Shabbos was almost upon us. As I hurried to my room, I heard the front door open and male voices talking.
The men must be back from synagogue
, I thought to myself. It was even later than I’d realized.
I tore off my school uniform and replaced it with my Shabbos best—a long black skirt that nearly reached the floor and a frilly white blouse with a high neck. Black oxfords I had buffed so that you could almost see your face in them completed the outfit. These clothes reflected Mama’s taste more than mine. I craved long, silky skirts and T-shirts in vibrant colors, but Mama didn’t consider such clothing modest enough.
I brushed my hair until it was a shiny curtain around my face. Then I climbed up on top of my bed. I knew from experience that if I bent my waist to the right, I would be able to see almost my entire self in the small mirror Mama had allowed me to hang above my dresser. When I’d asked for a larger mirror, she’d told me that
instead of filling my head with vain thoughts, I should be thinking of the Torah and of the good deeds the Rebbe wanted us to do. “A Lubavitcher girl should be modest,” she’d said.
Just then, my sister-in-law Esther appeared in the doorway. Avrohom Isaac and his family spent every Shabbos at our house.
“We’re sitting down at the table,” Esther said. “Your mother will be angry if you’re late.”
With a last glance at my reflection, I jumped off the bed and followed her out of the room and down the stairs.
Mama gave me one of her looks when I dashed into the dining room.
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I sat down across the table from her.
Papa, at the head of the table, smiled at me, as did Avrohom Isaac, who was sitting beside him. On Papa’s other side was Mr. Glasser, his accountant, who had come to Crown Heights from the City to talk business with him once Shabbos was over. I’d known Mr. Glasser since I was a little girl. He was like an uncle to me. He waved his hand in greeting without interrupting his conversation with Baba and Yossi. Baby Ari cooed in his high chair and clapped his hands when he saw me. His brothers and sisters began to beckon and laugh from the foot of the table.
“Chanie, sit with us!” they cried.
“Quiet!” Mama scolded. “You should have better control of your children, Esther. They’re old enough to learn some manners.”
Esther stiffened and a panicky expression flitted across her face. Her eyes darted toward Avrohom Isaac, but he pretended not to notice.
Mama’s face softened when her eyes rested on Baby Ari. She ran her fingers down his chest.
“Itsy bitsy spider …” she cooed.
Her voice trailed off when Papa stood up to make the blessing over the wine. Then he headed to the kitchen sink to wash his hands while saying another blessing. The rest of us followed his lead. After he blessed the challah, our Shabbos bread, and all of us had eaten a piece of it, Mama, Esther and I carried in the bowls of chicken soup, succulent roasted chicken, gefilte fish patties, kugels and salads. All of us focused on the meal until we couldn’t eat another mouthful. Finally, Papa put down his knife and fork and began to explain the Torah portion he had read that day in the little one-room synagogue at the corner of our street. Mr. Glasser and Avrohom Isaac and Yossi, who had accompanied him, added their thoughts.
“Does anybody else have something to tell us?” Papa asked after the Torah lesson was over.
He looked pointedly at my nephew Eliyahu, who
was to have his bar mitzvah in a few months. Eliyahu’s cheeks turned crimson and he shook his head.
I decided to help him.
“Why don’t you explain to Papa how the Rebbe wants us to behave toward our fellow Jews?” I suggested.
My teachers were full of such tales in my school. I was sure that if we were told them in a girls’ school, Eliyahu’s teachers would be telling them in his yeshiva.
Eliyahu gave me a grateful glance and began to talk. “A long, long time ago, there was a bar mitzvah boy who lived in the old country,” he said. “He was a very honest boy, a good boy. Sadly, he was an orphan. Both of his parents had died when he was a baby.”
“So who took care of him?” Papa prompted.
“He lived with his aunt, but she was poor and couldn’t afford to provide lunch for the congregation at the synagogue where the boy was having his bar mitzvah. The boy was very sad.”
Eliyahu stopped talking for a moment to drain his water glass.
“What happened next?” Avrohom Isaac asked.
“The boy practiced day and night for his bar mitzvah,” Eliyahu said. “The older men in the synagogue liked him and admired him, especially one old man, whose name was Adam. Adam was a kind person, but he was even poorer than the boy’s aunt. He had nothing except the few dollars he had scraped together doing
odd jobs around town. But when he saw the boy practice so hard, he was impressed by his sincerity and by the beauty of his voice when he prayed.
“ ‘You work hard and you pray beautifully,’ he told the boy. ‘I’ll pay for the congregation’s lunch to celebrate your being called up to read from the Torah. You deserve it.’
“ ‘I can’t take your money!’ the boy cried.
“ ‘I want to do this,’ Adam insisted. ‘It’s a mitzvah.’
“The boy shook Adam’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I accept your generous offer.’ ”
Eliyahu stopped talking and looked expectantly at Papa.
“What did you learn from this story?” Papa asked him.
“That we should love our fellow Jews and treat them with kindness and consideration. I hope that I would behave in the way the poor man did if I ever found myself in a similar situation.”
“I’m glad to see that you are listening to your teachers,” Papa said. He turned to a beaming Avrohom Isaac. “Your son is a good boy.”
Papa, my brothers and my nephew began to hum a joyful niggun, a wordless tune that Hasidim sing in praise of the Master of the Universe.
“Bim-bim-bam-bam.”
Papa’s voice rose high.
“Ai-ai-ai,”
responded Avrohom Isaac, Yossi and Eliyahu in lower tones.
My heart bounded with joy at the sound of the melody, as it always did. I responded instinctively and let my own voice soar over the men’s. I was immediately transported into a realm of feeling, a realm of sweet delights, a realm of calm and beauty.
Then Mama reached across the table and pinched my arm hard. The song shattered at my lips.
“Have you lost your mind?” she growled. “Has your vanity no bounds?”
I blinked rapidly to regain my bearings. Everybody at the table was staring at me, even the kids. Esther’s hand was clamped over her mouth. Mama’s eyes were cold pebbles. Avrohom Isaac was nervously twirling his scraggly beard. Even Yossi gave me a look of pity. It annoyed me to no end, for he was Mama’s darling and could do no wrong in her eyes.
“No harm done,” Mr. Glasser said. “It’s all right. Chanie is like a daughter to me.”
I finally realized what I had done. In my excitement over the beauty of the niggun, I sang it in the presence of a strange man. No man who was not a relative was supposed to hear my voice in song. I had disobeyed one of our rules in my greed for the melody. I felt my cheeks burning, and I lowered my head to avoid Mama’s glowering.
“The girl forgot herself for a moment, Samuel,” Papa explained. “She is very young.”
“No harm done,” Mr. Glasser repeated. “It’s really not important.”
“Apologize to Mr. Glasser,” Papa said mildly.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I half rose from my seat, preparing to flee. How could I ever live down such shame?
“Sit!” Mama said. I could tell by her tone how angry she was.
I sank back onto my chair.
Esther opened her mouth, but after a glance at Mama’s frosty expression, she closed it without speaking. Papa cleared his throat, also as if to speak, but like Esther, he thought better of it. He offered me a sympathetic look.
Finally, Baba broke the silence. “What are you children planning to do on Sunday, once Shabbos is over?” she asked.
“Mama and Papa promised to take us tobogganing behind 770. It’ll be so much fun!” cried Ruthie.
There was a snow hill in a parking lot close to the Lubavitch World Headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway, where the Rebbe’s office was located. The hill was steep enough for toboggans to slide down it really fast. I used to go there with my friends when we were younger. We frequently saw the Rebbe smiling and waving at us from one of the windows in the building. The laughter of children made him the happiest, he always said.
“And you, Chanie? Have you plans?” Esther asked timidly.