I Hate to Say Goodbye, People do not meet by chance...

By Ruti Yudovich

Fascinating stories of growing up during an historical and momentous time --the rebirth and rise of a nation. Threats from everywhere: Arab neighbors and hardship of nature which the war refugees faced in the uncultivated Promised Land. Forbidden young love among foes, bliss and abysmal gloom and valuable life lessons are interwoven into this stormy, tumultuous and tragic-comic family drama.
Green fields. Mountains. Modest farmhouses. Withering heat in the summer and chilling cold in the winter. Threats from all sides: Arab neighbors, the hardships of nature, children’s mischief; and immigrant parents making a home in the uncultivated promised land — fleeing from that horrifying war... And bees, cows, horses, mosquitoes and especially trees — many trees, symbolizing the life path of the people involved. I Hate to Say Goodbye (based on a true story) takes place in Israel during the 50’s and the 60’s.

From the perspective of a precocious and sensitive girl, unfold fascinating stories of growing up during an historical and momentous time — the birth of a nation. Young and forbidden love, laughter and tears, bliss and abysmal gloom, reality meets fantasy and valuable life lessens are interwoven into a stormy, tumultuous and tragic-comic family drama.

I Hate to Say Goodbye is a humane and spiritual journey that speaks to anyone. If you were a kid; this book is for you; if you grew up in a family; this book is for you. Ruti Yudovich, passionately shares her insights she calls: "Moments of Deepness."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruti Yudovich
• Release date: May 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311172327

Ruti Yudovich

Ms. Yudovich is a prolific writer. She has published 14 non-fiction books sharing her successful and unique methods in her series: Speak Hebrew For Real; Learn How to Read Hebrew For Real, Be Your Own Tutor; Hebrew Binyanim Made Easy The Missing Link, Hebrew When to Say What, How to Avoid Common Mistakes, Hebrew Numbers, times & Essential Basic Phrases. Ruti Yudovich has been in the education field for over 35 years in Israel and the USA. She graduated from the University of Ben-Gurion in Beer Sheva and had a very rich career teaching and tutoring Hebrew to people of all ages. She taught classes in Ulpan Beit Brodetzky in Rammat Aviv; Modern and Biblical Hebrew at the University of Judaism in Los Angeles. Her Hebrew books are sold all over the world. In addition to her Hebrew series she had published a fascinating memoir: I Hate to Say Goodbye that was later translated into Hebrew. Her second novel, The Jewish Gypsy, is a historical fiction which is a gripping story of a gypsy teenager whose life had turned around when caught in a concentration camp during WWII. This story takes place in Czechoslovakia, France, Israel and Germany. Ms. Yudovich continues to write more Hebrew books and is currently working on her new Science Fiction book: The Black Hills.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

People do not meet by chance–they navigate their lives to meet certain people for specific reasons.

I put my small bag in my room and decide to take a stroll. Not far from the hotel is a small park. I walk around, breathe the fresh mountain air and enjoy the afternoon sun. An old heavyset woman is sitting on a bench all alone. A colorful kerchief covers her rotund head. She beckons me with urgency to come near. She has neither purse nor keys to a house or pockets to hide them.

You don’t know me, but I know you! she says, penetrating me with her tiny green eyes. The tone of her voice sends shivers down my spine.

From where? I ask feeling she is there to play on my nerves.

I came to take him away, she continues. For a moment I think she may be crazy.

Who? I ask, feeling fear cloaking my body. The woman’s eyes are cold as stone––her strength and certainty are overpowering me. Who is she and what does she know? Why is she talking to me? Why me? Did she sit here just waiting for me to arrive? I have never been to this park before.

Listen! I don’t want to talk to you anymore, I say, making an effort to sound strong but feeling like I am about to break down in front of her. Six months ago I dreamed about his funeral and then I actually saw it passing before my eyes while driving one winter night. I race away from the woman…terrified, and with a throbbing heart. Running away will not change destiny, she hollers. The voice that mesmerizes me is not that of an old woman anymore but a deep male voice. I hasten my pace to get away from that person, as I feel that she is following me.

I find myself in my hotel room. I don’t know how I got here. I land heavily on my bed, close my eyes and replay what just happened. She did not look like anybody from this area. It was as if somebody just placed her here; brought her from a different planet and put a flowery dress on her doughy body to make her look like an earthling. Maybe she is indeed a messenger––a prophetess? Who is she going to take away with her? Oh God! Just not him! Please God! He is the only one I want you to protect. If he goes away I go too. Oh no! This is nonsense. Whatever happened to me? Am I out of my mind? Listening to an old woman? A crazy one? Maybe she ran away from an insane asylum. Yes! That’s it! She is crazy. And I am crazier for taking her seriously!

I am lying in bed, looking at the ceiling, seeing nothing but the round cold face of that person. There is nothing interesting on TV. I grab the novel I brought with me and begin to read, finding myself at the end of the page not knowing what I was reading.

A knock on the door.

Telephone for you.

For me? You’re sure? Aside from my friend Tami no one knows which hotel I am staying in. Why would Tami call me in Haifa?

They were asking for Rimi Yudovich. Isn’t that you?

I guess so, I answer, absentmindedly, with butterflies in my stomach and a feeling of dread. Something must have happened.

I put on a white T-shirt and barefoot I run down the stinky-carpeted stairs and walk to the black phone in a dark corner of the hotel.

Hello, I whisper.

Rimi? my sister-in-law’s voice is choked up and she begins to sob uncontrollably.

Ziva? Why are you calling me here? I can barely understand her in between the sobbing.

Didn’t––you––hear? her voice cracks hysterically.

Hear what?

Didn’t you see on TV? she wails.

No! What happened? There is a deafening pause in her voice. Ziva, please calm down, I don’t understand!

"Oh, God, Rimi! He was shot!!!–––A bank robbery. You have to come. NOW! You must!

What? Who?

Who? Whom do you think? she breaks down with a heartbreaking sob. My world is turning black. My hand shakes…I let go of the phone…my knees buckle and I collapse in a heap.

Rimi, Rimi, are you there? Her voice fading…my heart thundering in my chest. I’ve got to go to him, but I can’t move. This is what death must feel like…

Darkness…

They buried my body in my village not far from Milan. Thousands of people are here to say goodbye. In the background they play a recording of my voice singing Tosca. I hate goodbyes…but now I am free to go anywhere.

Somebody is calling for me–––

Suddenly I am in a different country. People speak multiple languages, hope and pride in their passing faces; eyes shine. Children walk freely with no adults nearby…I see a man; I am intrigued…I cannot help but follow him. He wears shiny, gray slacks; a white loose shirt tucked neatly inside them. I am drawn to him like a sunflower turning to the light, to his self-assured gait and curious eyes. His footsteps brush the sandy path as he walks beside a metal fence. A mother carrying a child passes by him. He lifts his head and gives them a wide dimpled smile. Lines decorate the corners of his shining eyes. The child smiles back.

I follow, carefree now, fluttering around him.

He climbs up a set of stairs, opens a door. A woman with wavy brown hair and red lips greets him with a smile. He pats the bulge in her stomach, kisses her cheek, and then lowers himself to his knees, kisses her belly. This is good. She chuckles, twists his hair in her hands and then closes her eyes. She seems to be in love with him. This is very good. I feel passion between them. This is even better.

I’ll stay here. I like him. I like them.

CHAPTER ONE

In the Beginning

No matter who you are or what you did; there will always be somebody who will not approve of you. So don’t try to live your life trying to please everybody.

The moment has arrived. The big man draws near. He leans down and smiles; his whole face radiant…I feel that the sun is shining upon me. I recognize his dimples and the tender wrinkles at the corners of his grayish-blue eyes. His hair––a black curly forest. His head seems to touch the ceiling.

He is my new father, my Abba, and every part of my small body tingles with excitement. If only I could throw my little awkward arms around his neck, but my limbs are heavy. He smiles and circles my little finger with his huge fist.

Something soft touches my face…I slowly open my eyes. A small hand gropes—tickles my skin. Yellow curls and green eyes peek through the narrow rails of my crib.

Abba, is thish the gift you promished me? a high-pitched voice asks.

Yes, Shimone! We brought her especially for your third birthday, he says and I hear my Abba’s voice for the first time.

But…I don’t play with dolls, the sweet voice thickened. I want a tank that can fire lots of shellsh! Boom! Boom! Boom! Like that!

Their voices slowly fade.

I feel my heart beating and the warmth of the sheet beneath me. I lay there half-awake, half-asleep. I want to hear and see all that I can but my eyelids are pushing me down to a quiet world––a world without voices, into which I am sinking beat by beat.

Who needs another sister? Why did you bring her here? Her singsong voice gets louder as her hands grab my body. One brother is enough! I never asked you for a sister! the voice keeps whining and the room turns darker and gloomier as I realize that she is talking about me.

It’s not nice to talk like this, Hannah, a weary woman utters.

The voice belongs to a lady who stares at me––wavy brown hair, small and slightly slanted eyes, shapely lips. I look straight into her eyes. She blinks; a glint of fear looms in the pools of her brown eyes. Could this woman be my new mother, my Imah? There is something gentle about her that evokes compassion.

How shall we call her? asks Abba.

Rimi! Rimi! My brother’s sweet voice sings.

It was August 29th 1953, Tel Aviv.

***

Rimi! Rimi! Wake up! I hear a male voice from far away. A musty smell of old carpet is in the air. I don’t know where I am until I open my eyes and I see the hotel manager crouching next to me, stretching his hand out to me, holding a glass of water. You fainted, he says. I look at his kind eyes and remember…

I need to leave, I whisper urgently, bolting upstairs to my room, throwing my clothes into the small bag, grabbing my car keys and running downstairs into the dark night feeling small and vulnerable.

CHAPTER TWO

Wandering Jews

A world without kindness is a dead world.

I was just a year old lying on straw matting, wrapped in layers of diapers—almost too bulky to crawl. Abba came home with a ballooned-out belly, wearing his old brown leather jacket, looking bigger than usual. He gave me a sneaky smile, unzipped his jacket and suddenly pulled out a brown bag from his deflated belly. Imah clapped her hand to her mouth, piercing the bag with her eyes while Abba placed his finger to his lips, shushing her. He slowly pulled out chicken legs that looked like long sticks with yellow nails—sharp ones. Suddenly, a shrill cry of a chicken, kookooreekoo came out of the brown bag. Imah sprinted to the door that Abba had left ajar and slammed it shut. I jolted. Skipping over my body, she ran to the corner of the room, picked up an army blanket and put it over the windows. God forbid if any kibbutz (collective farm) member saw it, she said, and grabbed the crowing chicken from Abba. She held it by its legs and trotted to the door-less kitchen. I crawled to where the chicken sound was coming from; the bird was in a trance, performing its swan song. Imah dispatched it with a swish. No more singing.

In spite of the hardship and poverty, Imah liked the kibbutz life—the teamwork and the purpose. She was happy there. But Abba, being a man of different principles, disagreed with that kibbutz ideology and decided we should leave and try another kibbutz with less extreme ideology. Imah as always, agreed with him. A wife should always follow her husband, was something she seemed to live by.

From kibbutz Ashdot Yaakov we moved to kibbutz G’vat. I remember the first night. It was pitch-dark when I woke up to the cry of a baby. Then a cry of another baby joined in. I got scared; I didn’t know where I was. I called out to Abba. Abba, who normally would come to see me whenever I called for him, didn’t come this time. I called Imah! and she didn’t come either. Then, in a chorus of echoes I heard other kids shouting and crying Abba! Imah! "Imah’leh! Abba’leh!" None of those voices were Hannah’s or Shimone’s. Where am I? Then the lights came on. A redheaded woman with frizzy hair and round red face hushed us with her lulling soft voice, Quiet children, I am here with you. Tomorrow you’ll see your Abba and Imah, and then she turned and switched the lights off.

Why my parents handed me into the arms of a stranger, I didn’t understand. And where are Shimone and Hannah? What happened to our family? Burning tears rolled down my cheeks. Then I felt the cool touch of a caressing hand. I looked up and saw the silhouette of the redheaded woman. She leaned down and kissed my forehead. Don’t worry, Rimi, I am here, she said softly, her words calming my eyelids and before long I fell asleep.

Zina, the redheaded kibbutz nanny dressed me and sat me down to eat. I looked through the window, waiting for my Abba and Imah. Zina’s entreating requests for me to open my mouth bumped into closed doors. Why did Abba and Imah leave me with another woman? Did I cause them trouble? Was I bad? Was there something wrong with me? Zina eventually gave up trying to feed me. She helped me get off the high chair and walked me outside the Babies House, as it was called. I sat outside on the floor surrounded by wooden blocks and rag dolls. Babies my age and older children were playing, jumping and laughing all around me. I sat in the corner looking out to where bigger bodies passed on the dirt road, hoping that one of them would be Abba or Imah.

This girl doesn’t smile and doesn’t eat, I heard Zina saying to her skinny assistant. Zina held me with her eyes, then opened the big gate and walked out. A while later I saw her from afar, side by side with him. I jumped up and ran to him barefooted. The ground was burning hot. Abba! I shouted, hoping from one leg to the other, screaming Abba! Hot, hot, Abba! Abba swept me up into his big arms, lifting the burning soles of my feet from the hot ground and holding me tightly to his wet body. I circled his neck with my arms as tight as I could. I want home, Abba, with you. Don’t leave me here, don’t go! Abba said nothing. He then looked at Zina, gently trying to separate our bodies so that Zina would take hold of me. She stretched out her arms to me and gave me a wide smile.

Come to me, Rimi, she said while moving an unruly curl from my wet eyes. You see? Here in the Babies House, I am your Imah. You will see Abba and your Imah every day, but your home is here with all of the other babies of the kibbutz. My world darkened. The hands that still held Abba’s neck loosened their fierce grip and I let Zina carry me back to my new home. Abba turned and walked away without looking back at me; he was just passing by on his way to the field.

When the sun almost fell down, Abba and Imah showed up at the gate. He took me in his arms and together we returned to Abba and Imah’s home. Shimone and Hannah were sitting on wooden chairs by a tiny table. There was just one room with a small bed for Abba and Imah.

Our once happily united family was now broken. Children are not allowed to sleep with their parents, I heard Abba’s grunt.

They’ll get used to it, Imah said as she walked to the small nook, called kitchen, stroked a match and lit the kerosene burner. Let’s have tea and the cookies I took from the mess hall and… she pulled out of her khaki pants brown things that Shimone and Hanna snatched with joy and shoved into their mouths. Imah managed to rescue one brown bar, which she hurriedly put in my mouth. This was my very first taste of chocolate, and…it was stolen from the kibbutz kitchen where Imah worked.

Not long after that, I found myself in Abba’s arms again. He was carrying me back to my new home. Zina’s sparkling sunny eyes greeted us at the gate.

The next day I sat outside the Babies House, eyes glued to the gate. I was determined to escape. As soon as Zina was out of sight, I got up and toddled out. Barefoot I kept moving forward on the hot ground; each burning step brought me closer to Imah and Abba’s home. I was racing toward it when I suddenly tripped and found myself tumbling into a big hole with high brown walls. I clawed my way up the dirt wall, but as I got to its brink, I fell back down. At first, it felt like a fun game, but when I realized I might stay there for the rest of my life, I got scared and began screaming at the top of my lungs. The sun was just above me and there was no sound of adults close by. As time wore on I felt weaker and weaker and eventually I closed my eyes. Here in this hole I am ending my short life.

"Oy vey! Look at her! How did she get here? I heard my Imah’s voice. Hands grabbed at me, brushed my shirt and pants, making my body ache. I didn’t understand why she was doing it. Then she said, Look how dirty you are! and then roughly lifted me into her arms. We are going back to the Babies House."

Zina was at the gate, shaking her head and smiling playfully. You tried to run away from Imah Zina? she said, gently taking me from Imah’s arms, tossing me into the air and catching me as we both let out a shrill of laughter.

For the next six months Zina was my true mother. She was the mother I always wanted––warm, affectionate, and full of life with a contagious laughter. I no longer wanted to run away; Zina was my home––my comfort––my sanctuary.

I can still smell the familiar scent of Abba’s sweaty body and feel his hairy skin and muscled arms holding me tight to his chest on the morning we left kibbutz G’vat. I was three years and a few months old.

It was such a hot day that even the air seemed to have fainted. We need to go, Zina, Abba said, pulling me from Zina’s soft, pillowy breasts, wiping my tears with his big hand while kissing me softly. I sobbed uncontrollably and screamed while my true-hearted mother sadly walked away, then disappeared. My body ached in longing for her, as if I’d been ripped from and stolen from my beloved home. Would I ever see her again? Would I ever be loved like that again? Questions by the thousands, screamed out from my bereft cells. The separation was unbearable. I have to forget her; I can’t stand the pain.

Abba headed to a wagon hitched to a green tractor. In it were two wooden suitcases, three white pillowcases filled with clothes and the rest of our meager possessions. My brother, Shimone, straddled one of the stuffed pillowcases holding a stick in his hand. My sister Hannah sat in the corner with crossed arms, looking down. Imah sat in the wagon with them, wearing a green-buttoned shirt and navy-blue shorts, crossing her tanned legs and smiling at us softly. Why did she smile when we were all sad and despondent?

Just after Abba put me in the big wagon I noticed a heavy-set man wearing khaki shorts and shirt, running and shouting, Stop! Don’t go! His screams scared me. At first, I thought something terrible had happened to my redheaded mother. Then I thought he shouted because I could not stop crying. I clenched my fists and pursed my lips. He drew closer to the tractor; his face red and sweaty, then he started barking at Imah while pointing at us, the children. Imah answered him softly––she spoke to him in a language she only used with Abba.

You are going to take the undergarments off my children’s bodies? Abba yelled in Hebrew. Don’t you have a heart in this big body of yours? Is that how Jews treat Jews? Here?––this is the Land of Israel! Of Jews!

The khaki man just stood there panting his words out, Those undergarments belong to the kibbutz. Remember? No private property! You have to return them!

A land that eats up its inhabitants, Abba shouted, his sinews taut, looking at the tractor driver begging for sympathy. The driver held the steering wheel tight; he didn’t budge nor bat an eyelash. You dare to take the clothes off my children’s backs?

I will not let you go without the kibbutz getting its possessions back.

Is this the Land of Israel? Abba shouted. Is this the state of the Jews? I worked like a horse on this kibbutz. I spit blood! My children walked bare feet! Abba grabbed the man by his throat. I will kill you if I have to! Take MY clothes! Not theirs!

Leave him alone, Shoyel! Imah suddenly shouted at Abba while reaching for Hannah, pulling off her shirt, then her white undershirt. And you! Stop crying already, she yelled at me and her scream, like a dam, choked the rest of my sorrow from flowing out.

No one will hurt my children! Abba roared.

Hannah turned her naked back to the man who waited there shaking even more after Abba finally let go of his throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she put on her shirt mumbling, It’s Abba’s fault. Abba’s eyes shot bullets through Hannah. He clenched his fists then looked murderously at the kibbutz member.

Shimone obediently took his shirt off and Imah helped him take off the white undergarment which she hurled to the waiting man who then had two white pieces of clothes draped over his arm. I smiled at him, imploringly, but instead of smiling back he pointed at my body and looked at Imah. No! I shouted. Imah reached for my shirt and I cried out in defiance. I held my arms tight to my body. Mine! I screamed, Mine! Imah grabbed me violently while I kept struggling. She put me between her thighs, squashing my body, squeezing my ribs. She pulled my shirt so hard over my head that I thought I was losing my nose too. I cried louder when she handed my undergarment to that killer-hunter who turned away with the smug satisfaction of one who has captured his prey. Imah put my shirt back on and suddenly burst out crying. She cried so hard that Shimone and Hannah cried along with her. I saw Abba’s face change––his brows scrunched down to his nose and I realized that he couldn’t stand the tears, so at once I stopped mine from flowing.

Stop crying! Abba shouted, We are proud Jews! We should not show any weakness! Stop crying, I tell you, and then he turned to Shimone who could not stop his sniffles. What kind of a boy are you? Look! Even your younger sister can stop her tears!

I slid from the soft pillow to the hard wooden floor of the wagon and smiled at Abba…he was proud of me; I was strong enough to be able to hide the pain of my gone-forever undershirt…the loss of Zina––my redheaded loving mother…

Abba sat on the tractor’s wing and motioned to the young kibbutz member to ease the tractor to the main road, away from the kibbutz. Taking the clothes off of my children’s bodies? I’ll never live with such heartless people again, Abba said with a strenuous roar, a land that eats up its inhabitants, he quoted bitterly from the book of Exodus. I did not understand then, how a land could eat up its people. Whenever Abba was deeply disappointed by Israel, its bureaucracy or the government, he would repeat that quote, A land that eats up its inhabitants, referring to Canaan, the ancient Israel. Growing up in Russia, enduring Europe during World War II was enough suffering. And here? In the Land of Milk and Honey? Among Jews? Is that how we treat each other? THAT I won’t tolerate!

I never saw him get so angry, his face scared me. But he shouted at the man not at me. I was certain he would never ever be that angry with me. I could not bear watching Abba’s sunken eyes; I felt exactly what he felt––unable to fight back to protect our family. I looked at his long dimples, his big hands, and his cloud-clad-eyes and remembered the man I was drawn to when I saw him for the very first time.

Six months later we would be packing up again. Through the window, I saw Abba standing on a dirt road screaming at a man, pointing fingers at him then slamming the door and shouting at Imah, We are not staying here.

From the moshav (farming village) Kfar Baruch, we headed to a new moshav. Riding in the wagon, we saw the swirling smoke spew out of the tractor’s nose as we passed by a beautiful lake, Agam Baruch. Abba pointed to the tranquil and blue body of water, They grow fish here, he said. Our bodies rattled with the wagon swaying right and left, jolting us up and down while progressing on the dirt road. My grief abated somewhat hearing my Abba’s voice pointing out beautiful views. I felt cheered by springtime’s azure sky, white wisps of clouds, yellow flowers scattered along the side of the road, dotting the green fields of wild grass.

We drove into the most glorious area in Israel––Jezreel Valley, a place for farming villages and kibbutzim that embraced paradise to its bosom. Sparkling white houses and red roofs loomed from afar. This is where we are going to live from now on, Abba said.

I liked it already. Despite the trauma of leaving Zina and the kibbutz behind, I experienced a growing feeling that this place might be my childhood home—a good place. I became gradually excited to start a new life in this brand new location. Besides, Abba and Imah’s faces shone with anticipation.

Hannah sat in the corner of the wagon with a sour face. When are we going to stop moving from one place to another? she said and wiped a tear. Six months ago I had to leave my friends on the kibbutz because of you and now I have to leave them in Kfar Baruch. You always fight with peop–– Abba stopped the tractor and swiveled around to look Hannah in the eye while Hannah continued her accusations. Let’s see how long you will last in this farm, you––

Don’t you ever talk to me like this! Abba raised his voice; his fiery eyes caused her neck to bend, her head to drop.

Here he goes again, she mumbled as she nervously played with her long, black braid.

What did you say? Abba asked.

Nothing, Hannah muttered under her breath as Abba returned to driving the tractor.

We entered our new farming village from its back door. I noticed every house, every plant and tree, inhaled the smell of cows mixed with fragrances of flowers, heard happy birds, barking dogs, tractor engines and kids’ shrieks mixed with laughter. Abba stopped the tractor by a small house with run-down walls where untamed grass grew all around it.

Look! Abba called out and pointed up. These are the Nazareth Mountains. Then he turned and pointed to yet another mountain. Over there is the Tabor, and this over here–– he turned all the way, this is the Gilboa Mountain where King Saul died.

So, we’re surrounded by Biblical mountains, Hannah said and hopped off the wagon, big deal! Abba didn’t say a word that time. He tried so hard to cheer us up. I wished Hannah were nicer to him. Imah hopped off the wagon and helped me climb down.

Let’s see our new house, Imah said and smiled widely for the first time that day.

CHAPTER THREE

Shavuot and Flying on the Wings of Music

Better to be a cow than a pig––give when you’re alive.

Our first holiday in the new farming village, Hayogev, was the celebration of the harvest, Shavuot. For the holiday, my parents bought me my first new clothes––a white shirt and white shorts. Oh! I wanted the whoooole world to see me! We walked to the center of our farming village. Hannah, Shimone and I were dressed up in white, wreathes on our heads, carrying on our shoulders baskets filled with the first fruits and vegetables that we grew that year, called bikurim.

A white sea of children accompanied by an orchestra of newly born goats, chicks, lambs and calves filled the center of our farming village. We walked to the big platform that was hooked to a tractor, and placed our bikurim on it. During Biblical times, the first fruits were given as an offering to the Temple in Jerusalem. In modern Israel, and especially in our moshav, our farming village, we brought the bikurim to its center—to show off the fruit of our labor.

Lift me up, Abba, I can’t see. And in a split second, I was hoisted up to the highest lookout point of all! Shimone was standing on bales of hay singing solo, The Pomegranate Tree. Suddenly, I was carried on the wings of his voice far from this farmland, farther and farther to a great hall in a great city…

There is quite a hubbub in the theater. I peer through the curtain’s slit. The La Scalla hall is packed—rushing people overflow to the side and far back walls; wave upon wave crowding in behind the last row of chairs. The crystal house lights dim and fade, hushing the restless din. Finally the orchestra begins to play Tosca, by Puccini. How I love to sing; singing is my life! To see people lifted up to the sphere of beauty and esthetics, to see eyes glowing with happiness…this is my life’s purpose and its greatest reward. I hear the bow caressing the strings and my heart melts; the crying sounds of the violin strum the chords of my heart, breathing new life into me. Costumed all in black, I glide across the stage, greeted by the cries of joyous fans. They gaze at me as though I am their savior, rescuing them from dreary lives. I accept that I am their savior…at least for these three hours. With all my heart, I sing with the diva, El Lucevan le stelle, and The Stars Twinkled. Our voices blend and then separate, rush forward in passion, withdraw in frustration. The opera house is brimming with my thunderous voice as I sing the despair of love, e muoio disperto! And I die in despair. My character dies as the last tumultuous song ends; the crowd jumps to its feet, shouting exhilaration, swooning with affinity for such total surrender to love. They shout and applaud; whistles and cheers shake the house.

The cast bows in unison. The crowd continues to stand and sustain cheers for long minutes. I bask in their glowing countenances. Tears roll down my face, wetting my black beard; my throat begins to choke. I grin, and then burst out crying. This is my life. Eyes in the front rows glisten. Music has turned us into birds soaring high above. I could perform like this forever and I wish that they too could remain uplifted by this forever, but all I can give is three hours…

The deafening applause turns suddenly to a strangely small smattering, and I am pulled back to see my brother bow. Then, Shimone sang again and I hummed along over Abba’s curls. Imah stood near us and smiled widely at Shimone’s direction. Then she looked up at me and her sad brown eyes shone.

Still sitting on Abba’s shoulders, I noticed Hannah in the center of a circle, folk dancing. Radiant and graceful, a standout beauty with doe-shaped hazel eyes, she moved like a princess in a ponytail. Watching her unstoppable smile made my heart rejoice.

It was close to two in the afternoon. The five of us began to walk home. When I couldn’t keep up with the pace, Abba again hoisted me to his shoulders. Sitting so high, I felt I could touch the sun. I watched rooftops and trees and once in a while buried my face in Abba’s thick curls. My heart filled with immense joy. This was how I wanted life to be. This was the happiest moment of my life so far. The new moshav was changing our lives for the better. Abba and Imah laughed for no apparent reason. And who said that one had to have a reason to laugh anyway? We walked and sang Hebrew songs. At the end of every line, Abba kissed one of my legs, tickling me with his mustache; I giggled and sang, sang and giggled. Then Abba and Imah burst out in a few Yiddish and Russian songs. How much I loved them when they were happy. Even Hannah managed to giggle once in a while; I noticed she had already made new friends.

On the stroll home, Abba treated us to one of his wise tales and words of wisdom. I would rather be a cow than a pig, he said to us.

A cow? I asked. He wants to be a cow? What’s wrong with him?

"A cow gives (milk) when she is alive. A pig gives (his meat) only after he is dead. If I give when I am alive, I can enjoy seeing how I make people happy. What’s the point of giving after you die––and besides, if you want to give, why wait? On my farm in White Russia, I had to walk for about an hour to go from one side of the field to the other. We were very rich. Every Friday afternoon I would take my small leather purse and go to the nearby shtetle (a small city) to hand out money to the poor Jews so that they could buy food for the Sabbath. No one told me to do it. It was my duty as a man and as a Jew who had wealth, to share with those in need. How much money does one man really need?"

We approached our house. Gideon, our neighbor, was standing in the middle of the road smirking at us mockingly; an evil spark glinted from his eyes.

What’s wrong with this kid? Abba asked. I wanted to say, he scares me but I remained quiet.

CHAPTER FOUR

First Lesson

Your first impression is your true guide.

From Russia my father brought two things: black boots and a leather coat. The boots were identical to those the Nazis wore. For years Abba kept them in our wardrobe with his gun––a listless gun that hid behind our shoes like a hibernating snake, a motionless crocodile. The boots stood bent as if feigning powerlessness deep in the dark under my parents’ hung clothes. Each time I’d open the door to fetch a piece of clothing I feared they would suddenly stand