"Zeidy suddenly felt that he had found the esrog he was
looking for..."
Zeidy Sholomo's grandchildren never showed much interest in
the traditional Tu Bishvat seuda that he held in his
home. Year after year, as `their' Rosh Hashona descended upon
the trees and the wing flutterings of the new spring rebirth
mingled with the intoxicating aroma of green growth hit the
almond tree which was always in a rush to blossom first -- the
young grandchildren would rush off to Zeidy Shlomo, full of
mirth and joie de vivre, light hearted, light footed,
unburdened with the travails of the adult world, to Zeidy's
old and comfy house. They would gather around the massive
table in the somewhat dusky living room which exuded a faint
but distinct smell of napthalene and old age, and partake of a
Tu Bishvat feast.
It was a meal like all meals: vegetable soup thick with finely
grated carrots and potatoes, further thickened by oats,
followed by Bubby Chava's home-made gefilte fish made-from-
scratch according to a time-sacred Hungarian recipe,
accompanied by her eternal sweet leczo as the main
dish.
"Your fish is something out of this world!" the sons would
compliment her, one after another. "No one can make fish like
Bubby," Zeidy would echo. "I've traveled the entire world in
my lifetime, but never have I tasted fish to match Bubby's!"
This was the habitual refrain, with the same words and the
same intonation that accompanied every past, present and
future serving of fish from Bubby's kitchen.
"I haven't been able to duplicate that special flavor of
yours," her daughter-in-law would join in the compliments,
half joking, half serious. And Bubby Chava would kvell-
swell with joy.
First the fish, then the soup was served, and finally, with a
great to-do, the leczo. Anyone who dared be hungry
after this repast, could find in Bubby's big fridge some
leftovers of noodles with bread crumbs and jam, or,
alternately, some real Hungarian goulash from yesterday.
"I've got everything for you, even compote," Bubby would
promise in a warm, motherly voice. "But first of all, Zeidy
must finish saying his prayers and techinos." Tu
Bishvat was not just another feast day commemorated by
Hungarian gourmet dishes. It was sacred tradition.
The grandchildren would go off to play on the open porch.
Albums spanning decades were strewn over the floor and photos
of several generations were scattered in every possible
corner. Red-cheeked `Yanky's of every variation and size were
also eagle-spread on the floor, vying with one another for the
title-owner of the most precious and rare collection: marbles,
rabbonim, bottle caps, candy wrappers of the current
advertising campaign -- all suited to the time and season.
"Who didn't get compote, yet?" Bubby Chava would interrupt the
warm family interchange as she ladled some esrog compote into
large dessert bowls.
The grandchildren didn't like this esrog compote. It was
distinctly bitter- sweet, more of the former than the latter.
The adults were born to this flavor; it was an inseparable
part of Tu Bishvat and Zeidy Shlomo waited from one Tu Bishvat
to the next just to get to taste Bubby's esrog compote
again.
"It is written in our holy seforim," Zeidy would begin
in a soft voice, "that Tu Bishvat is a special time to pray
for a special esrog. Today, the Rosh Hashona of the Trees, is
a judgment day for fruits. Chassidim and men of spiritual
stature used to pray for a superb esrog to come their way for
Succos... That's why Bubby made us this excellent compote from
esrogim. The very ones we used this past Succos..."
Zeidy would pause to gaze at Bubby's compote and then at
Bubby, herself, back and forth. They he would scan all of his
children in a sweeping glance, taking in Yochonon and Dovid,
Yehoshua and Eliyohu, lingering by Yocheved, their only
daughter. He would cast a love-laden look upon his
grandchildren, spread across the floor on the porch, pull his
plate of compote towards him and continue, "I also have a
custom of praying for an excellent esrog on this day," he
would paraphrase himself, "as it is written in seforim
hakedoshim, and I have done so for many long years. In
addition, I also offer a special prayer to Hashem that He
provide me and my family with prime esrogim, that is, good
chassanim, esrogim without a blemish... Ahh, Hashem, O
Merciful One, I beg of you, on this Rosh Hashona for trees, on
this day this is so conducive to pray for a beautiful esrog --
please set aside for us some truly fine esrogim..."
And he would enumerate his children: "First and foremost, for
my Yocheved..." A heavy, meaningful sigh would then spread
through the air of this good and old house.
Yocheved would be seated at the edge of the table, surrounded
by a warm, cohesive and loving circle of brothers and sisters-
in-law. How this generation loved Tu Bishvat, the festive meal
with one another. Zeidy and Bubby were no longer young and a
full hosting of all their offspring was a most rare event. The
exception was the annual winter's Tu Bishvat feast, beginning
in the afternoon, which was still within the limits of Bubby's
capabilities.
"Disposable dishes!" Zeidy warned her while he unpacked the
overflowing bags of cheap disposables he had purchased at the
supermarket. "Your food is so good that the fine Shabbos china
can't add a thing to it." Bubby Chava was not too sure he was
right. In her eyes, cheap paper plates did detract something
from her quality food and marred the good name of a proper
Hungarian kitchen.
"Under no circumstances," Zeidy wagged a warning finger at
her. "Yocheved thinks so, too." And here he would turn to
Yocheved and ask simply, speakly slowing and clearly to make
sure she understood him well. "Right, Yocheved? Ima mustn't
work herself too hard." Yocheved would nod in affirmation and
plant a loving kiss on Bubby Chava's weary forehead.
The two would then unpack the bags. Zeidy would supervise the
work, heaping plentiful compliments on Yocheved each time she
lifted a hand.
And Yocheved would be pleased.
A sensitive and warm heart beat inside the good Yocheved.
Yocheved had not tasted the bitter-sweet taste of temptation
and sin. Yocheved loved everyone so much and accepted everyone
with natural simplicity, anticipated them eagerly, with a
naive, happy smile that lit up eyes that were always naturally
dimmed.
When family came, she would jump upon them with leaps and
bounds and embrace them warmly. At first, her fresh sisters-in-
laws would melt away and tears would spring to their eyes from
the impact of her demonstrative affection. Shifra would look
wordlessly at her husband and wipe a stray tear. But the more
frequent these visits became, the stronger became the bond
with Yocheved and the familiarity with her limitations. In the
course of time, they would make a painful peace with the given
reality. "A wound for a lifetime," Yochonon once put it.
"We were born with it and this is how it will always be,"
Dovid, Yocheved's twin, used to say, and carry on as usual.
Only his wife, Tehilla, knew how stinging this knowledge was
to him, and how it always sat heavily on his heart.
The grandchildren accepted her as she was and loved her that
way. "Our big Doda Yocheved," all the `Yaakovelach' used to
say, and when they grew up a bit, they learned to understand
and pity her.
"Was she born like that?" they asked naively with childlike
concern that came and went. "She was born sweet and healthy
together with Uncle Dovid," they were told. "She could have
been quite normal, like all the others, and married and had a
family of her own. She could have had children and raised
them... But Hashem chose differently. We don't plan these
things; we just accept them as they come."
They all imbibed this stark message from early childhood.
"This is how Hashem wanted it. That is the only reason why
Doda Yocheved is the way she is."
"What way?"
"Well, different," they were told in honesty.
*
Tu Bishvat. When Zeidy Shlomo used to lift his palms to heaven
in prayer and ask Hashem for good chassanim, he would
flick a look of compassion and love towards Yocheved and say
in a broken voice, "You also deserve one, Yocheved. You're
also entitled to a `special' esrog. Special, just like you! A
good chosson for you, Yocheved. You also deserve
it."
The boys learned to deal with these fatherly prayers; they
heard them and internalized them, and passed on to other
things. To the cucumber and onion salad, to the new housing
projects springing up in the various neighborhoods and so on.
The pain was perennial, constant, hovering in the family
atmosphere hanging over them like an eternal reminder,
something you wake up to, go to sleep to, live with, get
married with and in spite of, raise families, have more and
more children and raise them. It was a permanent part of the
family scenery, a fixed part of the tableau.
When they grew up and became more mature, their intuitive
understanding grew accordingly, together with a deepening
pain. Bubby Chava and Zeidy Shlomo became more exalted figures
in their eyes, in fact, giant of spirit and giant of
stature.
Yocheved was a dear, unforgettable sister who dwelled
permanently in the deep, sheltered chambers of the heart.
"A chosson for our Yocheved," Zeidy used to pray for on
the New Year of the trees. From year to year, his voice became
deeper and more poignant.
"A chosson for Yochonon's Tzippy, too, and for Dovid's
Malky. For Yehoshua's Rochel..."
"Oh, not yet..." Michal, their mother would quickly protest.
"Rochel is still so young. She's still a child! She has
time..."
"That time comes sooner than you think, Michal," Shifra, the
expert, would inform her.
"But it seems like they were just born yesterday. I can hardly
believe it myself. Our Tzippy is so big but in my eyes she's
still a little girl."
The transitions were acute. That was life. We dance at far
more than the proverbial two weddings and wear many `hats' on
our heads at the different times in life.
But the heart -- how deep it can be, how much it can hold!
"Everything in good time," Bubby would hasten to agree. "But
without pressure. True, Rochel is not as little as you
think..." Somehow, Bubby succeeded in joining two
contradictory messages in one go. Michal, her daughter-in-law,
knowing her for the past twenty-plus years, always marveled at
the way she succeeded in doing so.
Zeidy would continue, "Each year I pray with all my heart for
good chassanim, for de luxe esrogim of the highest
quality. May Hashem truly bless us, Bubby and me, to live till
next year and enjoy an even more extended family and celebrate
many more joyful occasions. By next Tu Bishvat, I want to pray
for a new batch of esrogim. You know," he would conclude,
"that Tu Bishvat is especially conducive to pray for a perfect
esrog..."
Bubby would take up the thread and summarize the events of the
past year. "We danced by the haircut of Yochonon's grandson,
Zevy, and Zeidy was sandak by Dovid's Meirke, thank G-
d..."
"So Meir'ke is a father already! Unbelievable!" someone would
remark in surprise, and one of the Yankys would quickly
produce some pictures from the bris. The sisters-in-law
would try to hide themselves in the blurry picture and rack
their brains when it had taken place...
That was the routine, year after year.
"There is something very unique about that traditional prayer
of your father's," Shifra would note, later, softly to her
husband. "I can't help being moved by it each year, all over
again. I hope that it will stand our Tzippy in good stead this
time round."
"Well, you already know my father by now: the seforim
hakdoshim, the prayers -- all these are an intergral part
of him. He has a very warm Jewish heart and a genuinely
fervent desire for outstanding esrogim. For as far back as I
can remember, this Tu Bishvat prayer was part of the annual
ritual. The prayer for an especially beautiful esrog. He would
do anything to lay his hands on a truly perfect esrog..."
Zeidy Shlomo's grandchildren found very little appeal in this
yearly ritual, neither in the meal or the prayer. There were
young, lively, full of mischief and altogether carefree. What
did they care about the bitterish esrog compote their
grandmother served? Of what relevance was their grandfather's
particular prayer and the fervor with which he imbued it? They
were personally not up to the stage of picking out any kind of
esrogim, literal or figurative. They had no call for examining
these fruit for spots and dots, scratches, lumps and
indentations, just as they shunned Bubby's citric
concoctions.
At home, they would sit down to a different Tu Bishvat table,
laden with dried fruits, mainly from Turkey. They would suck
on sour candies and tear apart strips of `leather' pressed
sheets of flavored apricot, cherry or apple. The younger
children would decorate the banana stuck into the grapefruit
with raisins and bedeck this fancy Chiquita with a wide
brimmed hat made of fruit peel, and dress her with fancy
clothing, i.e., some material draped about her and anchored
down with toothpicks. This was their yearly ritual.
"May we have a sweet and happy new year," the youngest would
wish, confusing this new year with the real one and its
special fruit-and-food symbols.
"May Abba have a specially fine esrog," he would proclaim with
all his heart, a solid wish echoed from Zeidy's house.
"But it isn't Succos now," the other little ones would protest
vehemently, somewhat confused, nonetheless. The Tu Bishvat sun
would sink behind the high houses and a new year for fruit
trees would descend upon the world.
*
"When will it be my turn?" Yocheved asked Bubby in the midst
of the wedding hall pulsating with music and dancing in honor
of Tzippy.
"I want this too!" she would say in a sad, soft voice, when
the family was told the news of Malka's engagement. "I can get
married and we can live here, together with you. This can be
my home even afterwards so that you and Tatte won't have to be
all alone. I promise... And I do want to get married, so much,
so much!"
They didn't remain alone. Never. The memories would remain
with them as an eternal remembrance. Forty years together with
their special Yochy can never be erased. These can't gather
dust and the long teeth of time that gnaw away relentlessly
like a slippery mouse cannot overpower them. Forty consecutive
years of parenting Yocheved cannot be erased.
What didn't the brothers do to desperately attempt to find a
suitable mate for Yocheved? To what lengths did they not go,
to what distances did they not make inquiries in their long,
exhausting search? To whom did they not turn? Which stone did
they leave unturned in their quest for a special esrog
suitable for their Yocheved?
And Yocheved? She wanted, oh, how dearly she wished, waited,
and hoped. And so did Zeidy Shlomo, and he continued to pray
over Bubby's bitter-sweet confection, preserved especially for
the traditional annual Tu Bishvat celebration.
*
It was Zeidy, actually, who found Hillel. Incidentally,
without previous announcement. Just like that -- out of the
blue: a beam of heavenly grace and mercy during one of those
wonderful moments when the Master of the world looks down upon
us from on high, peeks through a crack and smiles.
Zeidy was in the midst of searching for a special esrog in the
central arbaa minim market set up for the public. The
owners of the various stalls knew him and his discerning eye,
and would set aside their special wares for his inspection.
"This is just for you, R' Shlomo," said Nissim, a veteran
esrog dealer, handing him an especially fine specimen. "I
myself haven't seen such a beauty in years. It's a magnificent
growth," he said, planting a spontaneous kiss on the aromatic
golden fruit.
Zeidy was not satisfied. "A mitzva that comes only once
a year deserves something superlative..."
"Pray hard this coming Tu Bishvat," Nissim said to him
pensively. "That's the time to pray for de luxe esrogim.
That's what my father, of blessed memory, used to say. He also
had a large orchard in Hadera. He was an esrog dealer of
repute. All the big rabbonim used to buy from him..."
Zeidy smiled. Esrog dealers love to talk in superlatives. This
time, though, Zeidy happened to know that he wasn't
exaggerating, and that Nissim's esrogim, like his father's,
were worthy of the finest `big rabbonim.'
Hillel appeared on the scene. "See that box in the corner?
Bring it here for the rov to see," Nissim requested. "That one
over there?" Hillel asked, eager to be of service. Zeidy's
heart skipped a beat. There was something about the voice, in
the manner of enunciation, in the innocence and simplicity of
his look that reminded Zeidy of his own Yocheved. Something so
reminiscent.
"Is he married?" Zeidy asked Nissim softly in a tense
voice.
"Halevai!" replied Nissim.
Zeidy suddenly felt that he had found the esrog he was looking
for... for Yochy.
*
"I work with esrogim for half of the year," Hillel explained
to Yocheved. "There's lots of work to be done in the field.
You have to treat the esrogim very carefully, you know.
They're so delicate. Nissim knows all about it and I have been
helping him for many years..."
"Is it hard work?" Yocheved asked with genuine interest.
"Yes, but I love it," he replied quietly, simply, and the two
went out to the large garden that surrounded Bubby and Zeidy's
house.
The garden was spacious and shaded. A deep pungent smell of
damp earth hung in the chilly air. The first signs of swelling
white buds were visible upon the almond tree that was always
in a hurry to burst the winter barrier with its blooms.
"Tu Bishvat will soon be here," said Hillel, "and the almond
tree is just about to bloom."
Yocheved nodded. "I love Tu Bishvat. It's such a wonderful
day."
"On Tu Bishvat, you can pray for a fine esrog," explained
Hillel with the authoritative ring of a maivin. "Nissim
told me that it's a very special segula to pray at this
time. Whoever asks Hashem for a beautiful esrog on Tu Bishvat
will find one for Succos."
"I know," Yocheved said. "My father always prays for special
esrogim on Tu Bishvat."
"Really?" said Hillel with wonder in his voice, hardly
believing. "Nissim saves his best esrog for him each year. His
most special one, just for him!"
*
Yaakov, the son of Hillel and Yocheved, never showed any
special interest in the traditional seuda that took
place each year at home on Tu Bishvat. Year in, year out, as
soon as this New Year would descend upon the trees, all the
young grandchildren would hurry to Zeidy's home, lively,
exuberant, free of any real worries, to Bubby and Zeidy's old,
comfy house and would sit around the massive table in the
living room for the festive meal.
For Yanky, this was like any other meal. The house was more
familiar than any other. It was his home, joint with Bubby and
Zeidy, who were like parents to him. The uncles and cousins
would join them at the traditional meal that included Bubby's
gefilte fish, made from scratch, home ground (almost home
grown), the everlasting vegetable soup and leczo in the
best of Hungarian tradition.
The cousins would exchange experiences and show real interest
in Yanky's arsenal of toys, which he distributed freely to
them with such genuine good will.
Hillel and Yocheved, Yochonon and Shifra, Dovid and Tehilla,
Yehoshua and Eliyohu would sit around the table and exchange
the latest family news, as well, dredging up memories, and
complimenting Bubby for her fish.
"Who hasn't gotten compote, yet?" Savta's voice would
interrupt the warm family atmosphere as she would ladle out,
with the ever familiar motions, the ritual compote into
disposable compote dishes.
The young folk didn't like the esrog comfiture. The adults
were born into its flavor.
"It seems somewhat sweeter this year," Shifra commented,
incidentally.
"It's altogether different this year. Not like every year,"
Dovid added.
And Zeidy? He would study the plate in front of him and say in
a deep voice, "It is brought down in the seforim
hakedoshim that this day of Tu Bishvat is conducive for
praying for an esrog. Every year I also pray for special
`esrogim'. Tu Bishvat has a special power for these prayers.
Hashem, I beg of You, on this Rosh Hashona of fruit trees,
please prepare for us good esrogim and sweeten the fruits of
the trees. For You, Hashem, are full of goodness..."
These years, the note of bitter-sadness was altogether missing
from Zeidy's voice.
