MAYDELEH

by Shira Freehling

Part I - Summer

Hadar and I stand outside Leah and Asher’s apartment. It’s almost 4pm. It’s 83 degrees. Even though we both showered before walking over, my son and I arrive sweaty and rumpled. As Leah opens the door, Hadar runs straight for the candy drawer.

“Hemed,” I say, “Did you forget to greet Saftah Leah? Did you forget to ask her if you may have some candy?”

Leah laughs and looks adoringly at my 5-year old. “You don’t know what a compliment he gives me, that he feels so comfortable in our house. Hadar, please help yourself to candy. Any time you wish.”

Hadar beams like he’s just won the lottery. “Thank you, Saftah Leah,” he says, unwrapping a chocolate.

My friend Larry, another ex-pat living in this small town in the Galilee, introduced us to Leah a few months ago. Since then, Hadar and I have been invited to afternoon coffee at least once a week. The last time we were here, Leah and her husband, Asher, asked me over cheesecake if they may consider me their adopted daughter. I was very flattered and couldn’t wait to tell Larry.

“Yeah,” he said. “You, me and who knows how many others. It’s a gift they have. Asher and Leah find people. And then they make us family for life.”

I follow Leah into the kitchen and share the latest news about my ex-husband, his new wife, and the headaches he is giving me over alimony. “It will all work out,” she assures me. Somehow just hearing her say it makes me feel better.

Leah pours our coffee, gently stirring in milk and sugar. “You know what the secret of good coffee is, Maydeleh? All good food for that matter,” she says, handing me a cup. “You have to prepare it with love. You know, I could use the best ingredients, but if I’m angry or upset, the meal tastes terrible. Really. Just ask Asher. And I can use the most simple ingredients and people go crazy for my cooking. Why? Because I make everything with love.”

I sip my coffee. It is perfect.

Part II - Autumn

It starts to rain. Leah stirs gravy at the stove. Tiko sits at attention. “Just a few more minutes, Tiko-le,” Leah says. “Thank you for being patient.”

“You know,” she says, turning to me, “Tiko understands every word. Such a clever dog. And of course, so well-behaved.” Leah gently places a small bowl of meat and gravy in front of him. “B’tay avon, Tiko. Bon appétit.”

She joins me at the Formica table. “Will you two come over for brunch tomorrow? I’m making bourekas. Asher’s favorite.”

“Oh, thank you, Leah, but sorry, no. I fast on Yom Kippur.”

Leah looks out the window above my shoulder. Rain pelts the glass. “I don’t like the sound of rain,” she says. “In this parched country, you may think it strange. I know we need more rain...I know...But it was the sound on the boxcar roof that night...the night we arrived...When I was at camp, I saw people steal bread from their children. I saw people drop dead from hunger. My childhood ended when I was six-years-old, Maydeleh. I don’t think God wants us to starve ourselves, even for one day. I think He wants us to live. To remember. To love. Every year on Yom Kippur I make bourekas. Because we’re alive. I think that’s what God wants from us.”

I finish my coffee. Tiko’s dog tags clink softly against his bowl as he eats. The refrigerator hums. I can’t help but look at the blue-green number on Leah’s arm.

“Would you like some cake? More coffee?” she asks, getting up from the table before I can answer. “I made a babka this morning.”

Part III - Winter

Asher yells at the TV in the next room. He’s watching the evening news. “Why do you bring this horror into my living room?! Don’t we have enough troubles of our own?!!”

Leah hands me a glass of coffee and a slice of cake. “Bring this in to Asher, Maydeleh. I’ve got to watch what’s on the stove so it shouldn’t burn.”

Asher leans forward in his easy chair. He’s sitting about two feet away from the TV. Looking at this sweet, skinny old guy, you would never know he walked across Russia and drank gasoline to keep warm. At least, that’s the way he tells it, and I believe him. He holds a cigarette with an inch of ash falling over a half-full ashtray. Whenever anyone suggests smoking may not be the best thing for his health, Asher always says, “The only thing that kills people in my family is a bullet in the back...And anyway, it’s too late for me to die young.”

I put Asher’s coffee and cake on the table next to him and sit down on the couch. Somewhere in China, police in riot gear are hurling teargas. People are screaming, running, falling, bleeding. I turn away. “I can’t watch it, either,” I tell Asher.

He turns off the TV and sighs. “You know, Maydeleh...In my village in Galicia, a person could live their whole life and not even know what was going on in the next village. How did it happen that here, in our own country, Israel Broadcasting brings all the evils of the world into our living rooms each and every night. Every night! Tonight it’s young people...women...beaten like dogs in the street. Oy gevalt! I cannot sit here and watch their suffering. But how can I help them? They’re so far away.” Asher takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes.

“Leah,” he says, “Enough in the kitchen. Come. Bring your coffee and sit with us. We’ve turned off the news. Come, Hamuda. I need to hear about your day.”

Part IV - Spring

Leah joins us. She watches Hadar glide a strange-looking fire truck on the pale limestone floor. “What is that?” she asks him.

“It’s a Transformer,” he says, deftly switching the parts around to form a towering robot-like figure. “See how strong he is?”

“Hadar begs me to let him watch The Transformers every day, Leah. The kids are all crazy about this cartoon show. My parents just sent him that toy from Los Angeles. You can’t find them here yet. His friends are so envious.” My son smiles up at me.

“You know what happened yesterday, Mama?” Taking a quick breath, Hadar starts to recount every minute of the Transformers episode he saw the day before. I look at Leah and roll my eyes.

She frowns at me and asks, “What’s this you’re doing, Maydeleh? Your son is talking.”

“This isn’t talking,” I tell her. “This is Hadar reciting every word of a TV show he saw yesterday. He does this all the time now and it makes me crazy. Sometimes, right after the two of us watch a show together, he starts telling me all about what we just saw. I mean, I was there, right? I saw it, too!”

Leah laughs gently. “None of that matters, Maydeleh. You think he is telling you about a TV show. But really your child is asking, ‘Mama, do you care about the things I care about? Mama, do you care about me?’ Today Hadar is just a young boy talking about Transformers. But if he doubts your interest in what he has to say, in who he is, in what’s important to him now, then I’m afraid that someday...some day when he’s older, he may want to tell you something, something really important, but he’ll think, ‘Oh, why should I bother? She never listens to me anyway.’”

“Yes,” I said, remembering a time of silence. The letters I wrote home but threw away.

“Hadar. Hemed. Yes, please tell us. Tell Asher, Leah and me what happened on The Transformers yesterday.”

“Do you really want to know, Mama?” “Yes, dear heart. I really want to know.”

Expressions

Hamuda - Hebrew. “Sweetie” (Feminine form)
Hemed - Hebrew. “Sweetie” (Masculine form)
Maydeleh - Yiddish endearment; “Dear Girl”
Oy gevalt - Yiddish. Expression of frustration. “Oh danger!”
Saftah - Hebrew. “Grandmother”