Day After Night (32 page)

Shayndel gazes straight into the lens. Her grin leaps off the paper, still infectious
even after forty years.

It is the same forthright expression she wore in the early pictures of her with Malka
and Wolfe in Europe. The same in the later family snapshots, sitting between her son,
Noah, and her daughter, Tedi.

Tedi stands to Leonie’s right. She is a full head taller than the
others, a blonde beacon with a tentative smile. She blinked just as the shutter closed.
Her hand is raised as if to wave.

Shayndel was pregnant when she found out that Tedi had been killed in the Egyptian
attack on Negba.

At Shayndel’s left, Zorah seems to be moving toward the camera, her right shoulder
ahead of the left. Although her lips are pressed together, not quite smiling, her
eyes are dancing. She looks younger and more carefree than anyone else in the picture.

Meyer was killed in ’48, weeks after the declaration of Israel’s statehood, and Zorah
married a Polish survivor. They raised two sons in a cramped, three-room Jerusalem
apartment, and she worked in the library at Hebrew University until her death. At
the memorial service, students and professors recalled her infallible memory, her
green raincoat, and the way she pressed candied dates on anyone who walked into her
cubicle. Shayndel read the obituary, which reported that the distinguished cardiologist,
Dr. Jacob Zalinksy, delivered a moving eulogy about her abiding friendship with his
mother.

Gershon pointed at Zorah. “See how this one hides her arm behind her back? She must
have been a survivor from the camps.”

“But she looks so happy,” said the American.

“Why not?” he asked. “She was alive. She had made it to the land of Israel. From the
look of this picture, she had friends. She was young, pretty.”

“That sounds like a happy ending.”

“I hope she was happy. I hope all of them were,” said Gershon as he slid the picture
back into the folder. “But that wasn’t the end.

“That was just the beginning.”

Thanks to many teachers, friends, guides, and supporters in Israel, beginning with
Baruch Kraus, principal of the NFTY-EIE High School, from whom I first heard the story
of the rescue from Atlit. Elisheva Benstein was an indispensable translator, researcher,
reader, driver, and ally through the whole process. Alon Badihi, in his role as Executive
Vice Chairman of the Society for Preservation of Israel Heritage Sites, enthusiastically
aided and guided my research, arranged visits to the Atlit Illegal Immigrant Detention
Camp, and organized meetings with site director Zehavit Rotenberg, and historian/
archivist Neomi Izhar, who were gracious hosts and generous resources. Thanks also
to Hagit Krik, Atlit Camp Guide; to Kibbutz Yagur and Kibbutz Beit Oren for use of
their archives; and to Moshe Triwaks of Matar Publishing for his kindness and encouragement.

It was a privilege to meet with Tzvi Carmi of Kibbutz Beit Oren, and Haifa resident
Osnat Blechman, both of whom experienced Atlit firsthand. Thanks also to Sara Emanuel,
Haya Harari, Ruth Gorney, Murray Greenfield, Dr. Gershon Yelin, and Dr. Naftali Hadas,
who shared their stories of Atlit, the war, and the years before the founding of the
state of Israel.

My friends and teachers, Lorel Zar-Kessler, cantor of Congregation Beth El of the
Sudbury River Valley, and Rabbi Tara Feldman accompanied me on visits to Atlit and
helped me understand what I saw and heard there.

For their advice, comments, and various forms of encouragement, I am indebted to Eleanor
Epstein, Laurie Gervis, Marcia Leifer, Ben Loeterman, Rabbi Barbara Penzner, Sondra
Stein, Sebastian Stuart, and Ande Zellman. Thanks to Amanda Urban at ICM and everyone
at Scribner, especially Nan Graham, Samantha Martin, Susan Moldow, and Paul Whitlatch.

I was cheered on by my family—daughter Emilia, mother Helene, and brother Harry. Jim
Ball, my husband, was a rock—as always.

Amy Hoffman and Stephen McCauley have been strong, wise, and patient writing group
partners/coaches/nursemaids every step of the way. I am glad to be in their debt,
forever.

Continue reading for a preview of Anita Diamant’s

The Boston Girl

A Novel

Available from Scribner December 2014

Ava, sweetheart, if you ask me to talk about how I got to be the woman I am today,
what do you think I’m going to say? I’m flattered you want to interview me. And when
did I ever say no to my favorite grandchild?

I know I say that to all of my grandchildren and I mean it every single time. That
sounds ridiculous or like I’m losing my marbles, but it’s true. When you’re a grandmother
you’ll understand.

And why not? Look at the five of you: a doctor, a social worker, two teachers, and
now you.

Of course they’re going to accept you into that program. Don’t be silly. My father
is probably rolling over in his grave, but I think it’s wonderful.

Don’t tell the rest of them, but you really are my favorite and not only because you’re
the youngest. Did you know you were named after me?

It’s a good story.

Everyone else is named in memory of someone who died, like your sister Jessica, who
was named for my nephew Jake. But I was very sick when you were born and when they
thought I wasn’t going to make it, they went ahead and just hoped the angel of death
wouldn’t make a mistake and take you, Ava, instead of me, Addie. Your parents weren’t
that superstitious, but they had to tell everyone you were named after your father’s
cousin Arlene, so people wouldn’t give them a hard time.

It’s a lot of names to remember, I know.

Grandpa and I named your aunt Sylvia for your grandfather’s mother, who died in the
flu epidemic. Your mother is Clara after my sister Celia.

What do you mean, you didn’t know I had a sister named Celia? That’s impossible! Betty
was the oldest, then Celia, and then me. Maybe you forgot.

Nobody told you? You’re sure?

Well, maybe it’s not such a surprise. People don’t talk so much about sad memories.
And it was a long time ago.

But you should know this. So go ahead. Turn on the tape recorder.

—

My father came to Boston from what must be Russia now. He took my sisters, Betty and
Celia, with him. It was 1896 or maybe 1897; I’m not sure. My mother came three or
four years later and I was born here in Boston in 1900. I’ve lived here my whole life,
which anyone can tell the minute I open my mouth.

Where I lived in the North End when I was a little girl wasn’t so quaint. The neighborhood
smelled of garbage and worse. In my building to go to the bathroom, we had to walk
down three flights from our apartment to the outhouses in back. Those were disgusting,
believe me, but the stairways were what really scared me. At night, you couldn’t see
your hand in front of your face and it was slippery from all the dirt and grease.
One lady broke a leg on those steps and she never walked right again afterward.

In 1915, there were four of us living in one room. We had a stove, a table, a few
chairs, and a saggy couch that Mameh and Papa slept on at night. Celia and I shared
a bed in a kind of narrow hallway that didn’t go anywhere; the landlords chopped up
those apartments to squeeze in more people so they could get more rent. The only good
thing about our place was that we had a window that looked out on the street so there
was a little light; a lot of the apartments faced the air shaft, where it was always
the middle of the night.

Mameh didn’t like it when I looked out the window. “What if someone saw you there?”
she’d say. “It makes you look like you have nothing better to do.”

I didn’t understand why it bothered her but I kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t get
a smack.

We were poor but not starving. Papa worked in a belt factory as a cutter and Celia
was a finisher at a little shirtwaist factory upstairs over an Italian butcher shop.
I don’t think we called it a sweatshop back then, but that’s what it was. And in the
summer, it was steaming hot. When my mother wasn’t cooking or cleaning, she was mending
sheets for the laundry across the street. I think she got a penny apiece.

Together, they made enough money for rent and food. Mostly I remember eating potatoes
and cabbage, and I still can’t stand the smell of cabbage. Sometimes Mameh took in
a boarder, usually a man right off the boat who needed a place to flop for a few nights.
I didn’t mind because she didn’t yell so much if one of them was in the house, but
they made Celia nervous.

Celia was “delicate.” That’s what Mameh called her. My sister was thin and had high
cheekbones like my father, blue eyes, and fine brown hair like him, too. She would
have been as pretty as the drawings in the magazines, but she was so shy that she
winced when people talked to her, especially the men Mameh pushed at her.

Celia didn’t like to go out of our house; she said it was because her English was
so bad. Actually she understood a lot but she wouldn’t talk. My mother was like that,
too. Papa managed a little better, but at home we only spoke Yiddish.

When Mameh talked about Celia to the neighbors, she said, “Twenty-nine years old already,”
like it was a death sentence. But in the next breath she’d brag, “My Celia has such
golden hands, she could sew the wings on a bird. And such a good girl: modest, obedient,
never gives me any trouble.”

I was “the other one.” She never talked about Betty at all.

“The other one is almost sixteen years old and still in school. Selfish and lazy;
she pretends like she can’t sew.” But I wasn’t pretending. Every time I picked up
a needle I stabbed myself. One time, when Mameh gave me a sheet to help with her sewing,
I left so many little bloodstains she couldn’t wash it out. She had to pay for the
sheet, which cost her I don’t know how many days of work. I got a good smack for that,
I can tell you.

You wouldn’t know Celia and I were sisters from looking at us. We had the same nose—straight
and a little flat—and we were both a little more than five feet. But I was built like
my mother, solid but not fat, and curvy starting at thirteen. I had Mameh’s thin wrists
and her reddish-brownish hair, which was so thick it could break the bristles on the
brush. I thought I was a real plain Jane except for my eyes, which are like yours,
Ava: hazel, with a little gold circle in the middle.

I was only ten years old when my oldest sister, Betty, moved out of the house. I remember
I was hiding under the table the day she left. Mameh was screaming how girls were
supposed to live with their families until they got married and the only kind of woman
who went on her own was a “kurveh.” That’s “whore” in Yiddish; I had to ask a kid
at school what it meant.

After that, Mameh never said Betty’s name in public. But at home she talked about
her all the time. “A real American,” she said, making it sound like a curse.

But it was true. Betty had learned English fast and she dressed like a modern girl:
she wore pointy shoes with heels and you could see her ankles. She got herself a job
selling dresses downtown at Filene’s department store, which was unusual for someone
who wasn’t born in this country. I didn’t see her much after she moved out and I missed
her. It was too quiet without Betty in the house. I didn’t mind that there was less
fighting between her and Mameh, but she was the only one who ever got Celia and my
father to laugh.

Home wasn’t so good but I liked going to school. I liked the way it felt to be in
rooms with tall ceilings and big windows. I liked reading and getting As and being
told I was a good student. I used to go to the library every afternoon.

After I finished elementary school, one of my teachers came to the apartment to tell
Mameh and Papa I should go to high school. I still remember his name, Mr. Wallace,
and how he said it would be a shame for me to quit and that I could get a better job
if I kept going. They listened to him, very polite, but when he was finished Papa
said, “She reads and she counts. It’s enough.”

I cried myself to sleep that night and the next day I stayed really late at the library
even though I knew I’d get in trouble. I didn’t even want to look at my parents, I
hated them so much.

But that night when we were in bed, Celia said not to be sad; that I was going to
high school for one year at least. She must have talked to Papa. If she said something
was making her upset or unhappy, he got worried that she would stop eating—which she
did sometimes. He couldn’t stand that.

I was so excited to go to high school. The ceilings were even higher, which made me
feel like a giant, like I was important. And mostly, I loved it there. My English
teacher was an old lady who always wore a lace collar and who gave me As on my papers
but kept telling me that she expected more out of me.

I was almost as good in arithmetic, but the history teacher didn’t like me. In front
of the whole class he asked if I had ants in my pants because I raised my hand so
much. The other kids laughed so I stopped asking so many questions, but not completely.

After school, I went to the Salem Street Settlement House with a lot of the other
girls in my grade. I took a cooking class there once but mostly I went to the library,
where I could finish my school-work and read whatever I found on the shelves. And
on Thursdays, there was a reading club for girls my age.

This is probably where the answer to your question begins.

“How did I get to be the woman I am today?” It started in that library, in the reading
club. That’s where I started to be my own person.

Anita Diamant is the author of the bestselling novels
The Red Tent, Good Harbor,
and
The Last Days of Dogtown
; a collection of essays,
Pitching My Tent;
and six nonfiction guides to contemporary Jewish practice. An award-winning journalist,
her work appeared regularly in
The Boston Globe Magazine
and many national publications. She lives in Massachusetts. Visit her website at
www.anitadiamant.com
.