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27 Ellul 5760 - Setpember 27, 2000 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family
NOSTALGIA
The Martyrs

by Yisca Shimony

Memories of a Jerusalemite, some sixty years ago

We stood crowded at the Kosel reciting Tehillim and praying on behalf of Nachshon Waxman who had been kidnapped by Arabs, his whereabouts still unknown.

The following day. By now, we all knew that the young soldier, Nachshon Waxman, had been murdered. Sorrow and despair filled us all, knowing that he had been chosen as another victim for anti-Semitic hatred. He had harmed no one... The fact of his having been born Jewish had targetted him for this brutal act of Arab hatred.

As I heard the announcement over the air, I recalled something similar that had happened to me at the very early age of three. In a flash, I was carried back in time to the moment of a different, but similar, announcement:

*

The wind blew in my face. I closed my eyes and leaned against my mother's shoulder. It felt wonderful to be near her and know that I could see as well as touch her again. Aunt Mina had taken care of me during Mother's illness, and I didn't like her at all. She had straight eyebrows and unsmiling eyes. Our neighbor, Sheindel, had also watched over me, and she acted so strangely. She wouldn't let me enter our home! Now, however, I felt my mother's closeness. And I fell asleep contented. I woke up a while later, as my mother shifted restlessly.

"Could you do me a favor, please?" She leaned towards the bus driver as she spoke. "Could you drop us a bit closer to Moshava Bat Shlomo? I'll give you a baksheesh. I've just recovered from typhus and it is much too hard to walk all the way from the intersection to the village with this little girl. And I can't possibly carry her..."

"It is against the regulations, geveret, but I guess I can do it just this time." The driver eyed my mother. Typhus had been stalking the country and hit many homes. Her pale face accentuated the truth of her words.

We got off the bus. My mother carried our tattered baggage. I trudged along, feeling happy to be near her. Soon we saw the few houses that were known as Bat Shlomo. "There! That's the house where Bobbe and Zeide live!" she pointed to a little building. All the houses looked identical to me.

As we neared the house, my grandmother came running out. Her black kerchief blew in the breeze of the early afternoon. Her apron and her dark dress were smudged with flour. She uttered cries of joy and hugged us tightly together. "How was your trip? How are you now?" she asked in concern.

We entered the house through the kitchen. A big oven commanded the center. Bobbe was in the midst of baking her famous delicious bread. We sat by the table while she served us some of the first batch and laid out homemade butter and cheese. "Where are Tatte and the girls?" my mother inquired.

"The girls went to visit Zeide [her father]. Tatte is out in the fields. He'll be back soon."

The heavenly taste of the bread and cheese, along with some fresh milk, was greatly satisfying. My mother and I were tired. Bobbe Feige ushered us to a side room which was used as a dining room on Shabbos and Yom Tov. She led us to a bed in the corner, covered with a spread to serve as a daytime couch.

"Rest now. Zeide will be here soon. He's on his way back now," she said. She left the room and returned to the kitchen. The aroma of freshly baking bread drifted towards us and enveloped us in its homey, reassuring comfort. My mother and I soon drifted off to sleep. We were awakened much too soon by the noise of my grandfather's robust voice. The sound of the creaking wagon and the voices of his workers also reached us through the open window. A short while later, Zeide entered our room. His yellow beard was streaked with gray. His blue eyes smiled down at us.

"Here you are! Welcome!" Zeide looked at my mother. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Boruch Hashem. It's all over! We all took turns at being sick except for Yisca, here." She smiled at me.

My aunts, Simcha and Chaya, came running in. They eyed me. Both had dark hair and eyes. They stood tall and towering above me. I cringed and moved closer to my mother. In the distance, we heard the bells of the cows coming in from the fields. The hens and roosters were cackling noisily in the front yard. Long shadows stretched on the walls. In the distance, we heard hyyenas howling. I felt frightened and alienated. Soon, it was completely dark. A lamp was lit and deep shadows leaped up and down the walls, frightening me even more. I clung to my mother.

"Come with me. I'm going to the storage room." My grandfather's eyes looked at me benignly, but I stood my ground by my mother's side. "You come too!" he said, sizing up the situation.

We entered the storage room. Sacks were piled high, up to the ceiling. In one corner stood a half empty sack in which white flour was visible. Tall pitchers stood neatly by the other wall. The kerosene lamp cast long shadows on the walls and the corners. The voices of Zeide and Mother conversing lightly helped dispel my feelings of strangeness and fear.

Suddenly, the door burst open and my aunts, Simcha and Chaya, charged in. "We saw a porcupine! We saw a porcupine!" cried Chaya. "A real big one!" added Simcha. My skin prickled and I began to wail. Mother carred me off to the house and put me to bed. She laid down beside me, ready for her night's sleep as well. I pushed closer to her for comfort and security. Everything here was so strange and different...

The next morning, in the bright sunshine, I made my acquaintance with the goats, the hens and the cows. The strangeness wore off quickly and soon, the donkeys and ponies became my playmates. My aunts were kept busy with chores and school. A week passed quickly and with the fresh farm air and food, my mother recuperated; it was time to return home to Yerusholayim.

*

Several weeks later, in the midst of a game of tag, I heard cries coming from the direction of our home. I ran home as fast as I could. Mother's screaming was incoherent and all I could make out was an intermittent, "Oy! Oy! It can't be! I don't believe it!" My sister Chava and my cousin Etta stood by her, both dissolved in tears. My sister Tehilla brought a glass of water, but Mother pushed it away.

"What happened? Why are you crying?" I edged towards my cousin Etta, hoping to get an answer from her, at least.

"Zeide was murdered by Arabs!" she cried, and resumed her loud wailing and sobbing.

Mother leaned against the wall, her face wet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Oy! Oy!" she moaned and sighed deeply. "Hashem gave and Hashem took." Then she added, "Boruch dayan ha'emes."

*

So many martyrs, past and recent, throughout our long Golus. May it end, and Moshiach come speedily and in our days!

Amen!

 

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