The various mishloach manos recipient lists compiled by
the respective residents of French York each year, differed
from one another in nearly every respect plausible: the type
and color of paper on which the names were laid out, the
color and form of the print forming the names, and of course,
the number of names and the identities of the names
themselves . . .
There was but one detail, however, shared by all. One name
appeared at the very top of every list without exception; the
common thread that bound together not only the Purim lists,
but also the all-year-round hearts of the entire French York
population. Mama Katz — the beloved motherly figure, who,
having never borne children of her own, filled the unofficial
public position of community mother.
In flagrant departure from her usual style, Purim was the one
holiday Mama celebrated as a royal guest at the table of
others. Her principle of partaking in the simchas chag
of whoever was first to invite her was common knowledge.
Thus, invitations to various Purim Seudas would begin
tumbling in as early as Sukkos, each year. This year, Mendy
and Basya Mirel Yeruslowitz were the couple fortunate enough
to have made the catch, and their elation bordered on
indescribable.
"Your prayers must have been extra powerful this Rosh
Hashana!" sixteen-year-old Elisheva had exclaimed wide-eyed,
as her mother triumphantly replaced the receiver in its
cradle, the night following Simchas Torah. Even the younger
children had not missed the ecstasy of the moment and had
pulled the cushions off the sofa while jumping up and down,
chanting: "Mama Katz! Mama Katz!"
And now, the joyous day had finally arrived. After hearing
the reading of the megilla, Mama made her way back to
her cozy cottage, only to be greeted by mountains of gift
baskets gracing her front steps. So weighty were the
mountains, and so high did their crests tower, that Mama Katz
began fretting that perhaps she'd have no choice but to bring
in a bulldozer to obtain access into her own home.
The powerful strains of singing that reached her ears from
the corner of the road were gathering momentum as they drew
nearer, heralding the arrival of a full-blown Purim parade.
The destination? You guessed it. The serene and sunny abode
of the modest Mama Katz.
The great procession of transformed young men, teenaged boys
and baby girls who were swinging their legs from atop their
brothers' or fathers' shoulders danced and waved and clapped
their way up the Katz' front stairs. Shoving aside the
mountainous roadblocks with evident ease, the group forced
its way through the door.
Forever faithful to her annual custom of providing for the
gastronomic needs of the dancers, Mama was gently setting
some tantalizing baked goods out on a massive tray, when she
borrowed a moment to peek out of her large kitchen window.
Expecting to see only her old, sturdy fig tree waving its
limbs in rhythm with the singing, her eyes opened wide at the
sight of a frowning young girl leaning on 'Grandpa Fig', as
Mama liked to call her ancient tree, chewing her lip in
hesitation. It was sixteen-year-old Elisheva Yeruslowitz, who
was ushered inside and seated at the kitchen table with a cup
of hot apple and fig juice (a Mama Katz novelty) and a
heaping bowl of Hamantashen. The Purim parade was all but
forgotten, the insistent hullabaloo — ignored.
Elisheva was ashamed for having disrupted Mama's most joyous
day. "I . . . I'd forgotten about the Purim Parade, and when
I reached your house and heard the music, I considered going
home . . . but then you came out and found me."
"Baruch Hashem for that!" Mama pronounced emphatically,
"After coming all the way here, why would you go home without
stepping in? That would have been a terrible shame . . .
besides, there's no joy that can compare to that of
untangling doubts. What's on your mind?" "Well how should I
begin? I don't want to speak loshon hora, of course,
but I spent some time going over the seven conditions of
speaking for a good reason, and I think this situation fits
the bill. I need your advice to help repair and improve a
relationship."
"A relationship?"
Elisheva smiled shyly. "Yes, my relationship with my sister
Chani. It just seems like a hopeless cause. We have such
completely opposite personality types. We just don't
understand each other!"
"I can see what you're saying. From what I've seen, the
personalities of you two do seem quite antithetical. But what
brings you here today of all days?"
Elisheva sighed. "Well, this morning, as we were packing up
the mishloach manos packages together, Chani suddenly
said: 'You know those chocolate mint brownies you wanted to
make for our chocolate and mint theme? Well, you really
should have made them.'
"'But Chani' I reminded her, 'we decided not to bake things
we'd have to freeze, so as not to send people non-fresh food,
remember?' "She said she did remember, but, when discussing
it at school, her friends said that frozen brownies actually
tasted even better than fresh ones. "'I doubt that,' I
declared. `Who says?'
"'My whole class says.' "This was really too much for me.
'Your entire class?' I asked, vexed, 'What — did you ask
your teacher permission to get up and conduct a class vote on
`the quality of frozen brownies'?
"Chani didn't say a word; only stared at me with angry eyes
that soon became moist and stomped out of the room."
Mama Katz was thoughtful. "Do you think your sister's overly
sensitive?" she asked at last.
Elisheva hesitated. "No. I don't believe there's such a
thing. I get offended from things that would seem silly to
others as well. Different from Chani of course, but still
trivial."
"So why do you believe there's no hope for patching the
relationship up?" Mama prodded gently.
"Because it's our very personalities that are problematic.
I'm concerned with details, logic, and in-depth
understanding. Chani's much more of a girly-girl, and she
takes my inquiring nature offensively — as if I'm out to get
her!"
At that moment, the Parade arrived at the kitchen door with a
noise that topped all records. Mama, ever resourceful,
extracted a pen from her apron pocket and scribbled something
down on paper. Elisheva took it, gesticulated her thanks, and
trustingly left Mama Katz to tame the rowdy crowd.
Swinging down Mama's three doorsteps in one giant leap,
Elisheva opened the note curiously. Then comfortably propping
herself against 'Grandpa Fig,' she began to read it. The
message was short and to the point, but had a good ring:
"The classic solution for social rues, Has always been
stepping into the other's shoes. And although this is
generally expressed, In nothing beyond a figurative sense,
One further step you can take today, Please heed well the
words I say. On Purim in costumes we all go on stage, We
pretend to be different in type, style and age. It is up
to you — your outer garb to change, And your two styles on
this day try to exchange."
*
With time, the Parade departed from Mama's cottage, and
resumed its march around town. Mama Katz was now free to
begin her rounds of delivery. She began . . .
Mama's deliveries always stretched on far beyond Purim.
Stalled as she was, in each house she entered, she was
reluctantly forced to abandon this special mitzvah
after a mere three to four visits: the point would come when
she'd dubiously look at her watch and say: "Is it really this
late? My, how time flies . . . I'd better make my way over to
the seuda."
This year was no exception. After having managed to
distribute no more than four baskets, she hurried over to the
Yeruslowitzes to help with table settings, last-minute food
preparation, and festive holiday decorations. But as she
opened the heavy metal driveway gate that led to her hosts'
front yard, she was arrested by thirteen-year-old Chani
Yeruslowitz.
"Mama Katz," she panted hurriedly, "I couldn't wait for you
to arrive. I have a problem I wanted to tell you about."
"Certainly," came the warm reply, "Shall we sit down there on
the garden chairs?"
Chani couldn't contain herself even as long as it took to sit
down. "My sister doesn't understand me," she gushed, "I know
she's older and wiser and everything else she is, but we just
don't get along. I don't think this is loshon hora
because I'm sure you can help me, but she just always picks
on me. Everything I say she finds some problem with. I feel
like I'm not worth anything. I can't go on like this!"
Mama clucked sympathetically, thought for a moment, then
said, "It's Elisheva's personality to be penetratingly
precise. I really don't believe she has anything against you
personally . . . she's not trying to prove you wrong . . .
she just doesn't accept anything that doesn't sound 100%
logical. But, listen: Usually, when people have this type of
problem, I try to help them step into the other's shoes, if
you know what I mean. But seeing today's Purim, why not have
some fun at that . . . "
"So here's my idea. Borrow some of your sister's most typical
clothing. try her hairstyle. Take some time and try to adopt
her way of thinking. Just for today, of course. Try to want
to understand things deeply and question everything
intensely. Don't accept anything at face value. Just to see
what it's like to be her. It should be fun, don't you think?"
Chani laughed hysterically and went off to her bedroom and
Mama Katz knocked at the front door.
"Hello, Basya Mirel," Mama enveloped Mrs. Yeruslowitz in a
great big bear hug. "A freilichen Purim! I'm so sorry I
didn't make it here earlier, but you know what it's like."
Then she lowered her voice to a whisper, "Do you think we
could possibly exchange identities for today?"
*
The Purim Seuda that year, turned out to be one of the most
memorable ones in the history of French York.
Basya Mirel Yeruslowitz was unusually warm and not harried.
Instead of rushing around and bubbling with excitement, as
usual, she sat still in her seat, a serene smile enlightening
her face. The courses were served slowly and calmly, as if
all the time in the world belonged to her.
Mama Katz on the other hand, seemed to have been possessed by
a new, energetic spirit. For once, she didn't just sit at the
table smiling, engaged in pleasant conversation. Instead, she
was rushing about, trying to hear everything at once, in a
style that quite resembled . . . Basya Mirel!
Equally hysterical were the appearances of the two women.
Basya Mirel had donned Mama's short and wavy old-fashioned
shaitel, along with her wide lacy-collared blouse, and
long pearl necklace. Mama, clad in Basya's frizzy bun-styled
red one and green sweater made Rabbi Yeruslowitz blink in
surprise.
But what really enthralled the Yeruslowitz children and
regular guests alike was the identity exchange that had taken
place between Elisheva and Chani, the antithetical sisters.
The drama, exaggerated for the effect, had everyone rolling
with laughter. Even the actresses themselves, were surprised.
"Venahapoch Hu" described the situation. This time it
was Elisheva who listened empathetically to all that was said
to her, trying her best to remark sweetly, without prodding
too deeply or analyzing the speaker's words. Genuine
sensitivity was the name of this game.
Chani, on the other hand, mustered all she had to listen
closely and examine the words of all who spoke to her, as
though with microscopic equipment. Although it contrasted
with her very nature, she endeavored to dig up valid
criticism about anything said to her. The family and guests
listened, watched and blinked.
Neither Elisheva nor Chani walked away from the table that
night, with the illusion that their relationship had been
patched up in a lasting binding way. Each girl understood, in
her own unique style, with her own, personal thought
patterns, that building up a relationship would demand
tedious, uncompromising work. Still, things were different.
They'd learned the importance and power of stepping into the
other one's shoes and realized that character change is
difficult to achieve. But the warm memories they shared from
the delightful meal they had shared in mutual understanding
brightened the long path ahead, and somehow shrunk the
obstacles.
The atmosphere smelled different and, somehow, very
promising. Things would never be the same — of that they
were both certain. Thank you, Mama Katz!
