DISOWNED (14 page)

   "No one else can have it either."

   Huge, hot, stinging tears well up in her eyes.

   "No one else deserves it."

   "I don't either," Rivkah whispers loudly, but for the bitter moment he cannot hear.

   "Touch me Rivkah," he continues after a while, "put your hand on my forehead. Let me know you are here."

Quietly, she puts her hand on his forehead. "I am here," she replies, very softly. "You are not alone, grandpa. I am right at your side."

   "Good," he whispers then. "God is good, remember that always. No matter what happens. Don't get lost in the night."

***

Very quickly word gets around Borough Park that Moshe is back and that he is dying. Some old men from Borough Park, come quickly to gather around him. They come with prayer books, tefillin, and tears in their eyes.

When they come into the small room, Rivkah steps quickly outside. A woman cannot be present when men are praying. They hardly notice she is there anyway.  They don't seem to remember that Moshe had a granddaughter Rivkah, who comes day after day, keeping a perfect vigil at her grandfather's side.

  One old man, Yusse, remembers. And of course, Zvi Lichte, how could he forget? "

“You're that crazy granddaughter, Rivkah, aren't you?" Yusse says to her one morning as she is slipping out into the hall.

She doesn't answer.

  "You're the one who went bad?"

   Rivkah turns her back to him quickly. But instead of going into Moshe's room, Rivkah feels him standing there in the doorway inspecting her from behind as if she were a fruit that had somehow fallen off of the vine. Rotten, uneatable.

   "How did I go bad?" She cannot help but answer him.

"Yeah, I heard it," he went on. "The whole block knows. You go to public school, don't you? You wear short skirts. And your mother and father, God knows what they do now! It's a Shanda. Poor Moshe, he shouldn't have to suffer now for what you all do!  God shouldn't

judge him! God should have mercy on his perfect soul."

Despite the words that dig like knives, Rivkah holds her head up high, higher maybe than she could be expected to. From out of nowhere then she replies, "God will extend mercy, Yusse. Even to you." 

   "Oh yeah?" Yusse is taken aback.

And then again, in the middle of the hot afternoon, with the smell of medicine, vapors and the little flowers she has brought all mixed together, for a precious moment, Rivkah's heart and mind become still. She forgets completely how to be afraid of Yusse, of God, or of anyone.

Another poem flashes across her mind.

 
"Coming from nowhere I ring the bell,

   Going to nowhere I ring the bell."

 
  Inside herself she smiles.

"God loves me," she says to Yusse then, very, very quietly, "just exactly as I am."

   "What did you say?"

"He loves us All."

   "Oh yeah?" Yusse juts up his chin into her face for a second and laughs a short little laugh from the back of his throat. Three big spaces between his teeth flash at her. "You're very bold for a girl! Bold and immodest. That's what happens when you fall."

   But no matter what he says he can't touch Rivkah at all.

  "You smile and talk stupid at a time like this, with your grandfather so sick in bed? When God is listening to every word and it counts so much? Ha! Who are you that God should love?” He brushes his hand then, as if to brush away a fly that had flown out of a heap of scrap.

   "Brush all you want, Yusse. God extends mercy to everyone. Uncle Reb Bershky told me. "

  Yusse will not be defeated. "There are plenty of people who do not hold by your Uncle Reb Bershky. He had too much of an influence on you. Not every Jew believes what he says. And I heard enough from you!"

   "Maybe you didn't!"

"What's that you said?"

   But Rivkah falls silent then. And in that silence for a very brief flash, her heart learns how to go out to this old, crumpled man.

   "We're praying for your grandfather at Shul," Yusse growls then as he turns around and rushes to the door. "Believe me, he needs our prayers. And believe me, so do you."

   Then he moves fast and disappears down the corridor.

Rivkah walks into her grandfather's room and wants to tell him everything that happened. She wants to talk to him desperately, but his pale eyes have glazed over and he is very far away.

   "Grandpa, where are you?" She touches his arm lightly and shakes it back and forth.

   "I'm tired now, Rivkah," he makes a supreme effort to say.

The vigil continues all through the summer. Everyday Rivkah sits at his side.  When the religious men come, she gets up and sits on a small wooden chair in the hallway, so as not to disturb them.

   Yusse himself does not return. But he sends messages to Moshe that he is praying not only for him, but for his entire family. Moshe is glad.

A few days before the end of summer, Moshe sits up straight in his bed one morning, suddenly strong, filled with radiant energy.

   Rivkah has seen this before.  She is scared.

  "Rivkah come closer," he calls.

   But already she is as close as possible.

  "Rivkah, where are you?"

   "Right here."

   "No, you're not. You're not here," he answers, looking straight at her.

"You can't see me. But I see everything, everything. I see your grandmother, Devorah. My, doesn't she look beautiful. And my Tante Edna is with her. How come?"

   Rivkah takes a deep, painful breath.

  "They're happy to see me, so thrilled!"

   Rivkah remembers this from before. Different family members come, different ones go.

   "They say it's beautiful here. 'Beautiful, Moshe'. They say, 'please, Moshe. Don't be afraid.'"

Rivkah takes another, slower breath now.  She has no idea how long he'll be at her side, or what she'll do when he's really gone.

"Grandpa!"

"Rivkah, don't forget my Shofar! No matter what they do. You take it! It's yours! Only for you!"

   "I can't."

   "You must. They're going to give you trouble. So what? Trouble is good. It makes you stronger."

   "Grandpa," Rivkah yells.

   "What is it sweetheart? Tell me, what?"

  "Grandpa, are there any more messages for me?"

His eyes glaze over swiftly then. "You mustn't ask for messages," he says after what seems like a long, long time. Hours maybe? Months? Years? "You must do only what God wants for you. Oh, look, they're holding out their arms."

Rivkah gets up to get a wet cloth, dipped in lemon.

   "Don't go," he shrieks out suddenly to her in a voice she has never heard him use before. "Don't leave me. Don't go away."

  It's you, you're leaving grandpa, she longs to tell him, but her mouth is sealed.

   "Stay here," he utters then, "right here at my side."  Then he slumps deeper into his bed, his body quivering back and forth.

Rivkah wonders for a moment if she should call for anyone, but then realizes like an earthquake, that this too will pass. There is still some time left. His time is still not all used up.

She wipes his head with the fresh, damp cloth slowly. He moans a little as she wipes.

   "Whatever happens, Rivkah," he can manage a few more words."

"Yes?"

   "Don't forget me."

   Then his head slumps to the side and he falls asleep sweetly, almost like a little child, innocently. Rivkah wonders, how he can lie here innocent like this?

She watches his breath rise and fall lightly and sits beside his bed, trying to remember perfectly everything he has ever said.

   Two mornings later, as she is holding his very thin, frail, white hand in hers, Moshe dies. He dies simply, quietly, smiling. Contented. Rivkah feels him circle the room a moment before he says good-bye.

  Good-bye grandpa, she tries to say in her heart, but she cannot. Where is he going? Will he ever come back? And what will she do now, as she sits here beside this thin bed with the strange legacy of his Shofar and all the responsibility it carries, that he has left behind?

CHAPTER 13

For the next seven days after the burial, a great Shiva must be held. Now all must sit together in prayer and mourn Moshe and his departed soul. Suddenly the whole family has to return to Borough Park, to Moshe's house again.

   Henry doesn't want to do it. "There is no other way, Henry," Molly wails, "we have to go."

   "Okay," he agrees finally to come along.

   "This is where we come from," Rivkah tells her little brother David, who is dressed up, packed up and brought along. He is a few years old now and stares in amazement at the men in black coats rushing around in great commotion. He holds Rivkah's hand tightly. Much too tightly.

   "Where?" he asks, his eyes wide open.

   "Where we
came
from," she corrects herself then. "Not where we
come
from anymore."

   Not only men in black, but visitors from the neighborhood are streaming in one after the other. They are coming in droves in honor of Moshe and the fine memory they have of him.

 Not only do the neighbors come, but whoever is left of the family, aunts, uncles and cousins return. They return from their fancy suburbs where they have been lost in the American dream. They come to sit together for one week, in this living room for the very last time.

As she did when her grandmother died, Rivkah has come early and covered the mirrors with long, white bed sheets. No one is allowed to look at himself. Vanity is forbidden now and the collection of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, have no choice but to sit down and be with each other for seven days. Face to face. They have no choice also but to look within, into their own hearts and souls.

  "Who are they?" David whispers to Rivkah.

   "Our family."

   David starts to cry.

"Our aunts, uncles and cousins."

   "I never saw them before."

"Because we're not a family anymore."

"Why?"

"Because we're in exile, even from each other."

"What are you talking about?" David starts to cry louder.

But exile or not, for seven days in this holy month of Elul, at the very end of August, this family sits together on the low mourners stools and has to become a family again. Whether or not they like it. 

They are both shocked and relieved to be back together. At first there is a great deal of chatter. But with all the chatter, still most of them refuse to really speak to each other. They have little to say except small talk.

   Everyone wants to know what the other is doing, and then a stiff silence fills the room. A few memories press to be spoken of, but they are quickly hushed away.

   "Why don't we love each other anymore?" David whispers in Rivkah's ears.

   "We will again someday," Rivkah answers him.

   "When?"

"When Messiah comes."

   "Who is he?"

   "I'll tell you later."

   "When? Was my grandfather who died the Messiah?"

"Definitely not."

   "How do you know? Maybe he was. Maybe that's why everyone's coming and crying."

   The long, steady stream of visitors from early morning until late at night never ends. Women from the block cook and bring large plates of food to serve both mourners and guests. Mourners are not allowed to serve anyone. They must be taken care of completely for these seven days.

 The neighborhood ladies come now and completely occupy Devorah's big, white tile kitchen, where little David runs around and spends most of the days.  Rivkah cannot bring herself to go back into the kitchen. She sits outside with the others instead and listens to the clanking of her grandmother's pots.

   The men from the synagogue come like clockwork, twice a day, to pray for Moshe's soul. Whenever they come David runs over to Rivkah and stares at them hard.

   "Who are they?" he asks her, afraid now.

   "Your grandpa's friends."

   "And what are those?" he asks, pointing to their beards and black hats.

   "They're Jews," Rivkah answers him.

   "What's that?"

Rivkah's blood runs cold. She feels weak, insane, terrified and completely alone for a breathless moment. She has no idea how to really answer her own little brother.

   "What are Jews?" he pursues it.

   "Jews," she whispers very softly to him, "are people who always remember God. And thank God. For everything. Always. Forever, no matter what."

"Was grandpa a Jew?" David cries out alarmed.

"Yes, David, he was. And so are you."

"Me?" David can hardly believe it. "Forever?"

   "And ever."

   "And, Bekkie," he asks her then breathless, "what about you?"

  What about you? The words dig and echo inside of Rivkah. What about me? She has no answer for him.

   "Bekkie, Bekkie," he calls out. "Answer me! Are you a Jew?"

"I don't know, David," she whispers to no one. "God help me. I don't know anymore." This is a shiva for me too, she thinks to herself. Within a few weeks I will be at college in Vermont. Like my grandpa, planted in an entirely different soil.

   David stays close besides Rivkah all during the shiva, and when the seven days are over, stays besides her as she slowly tries to get up from the low, wooden stool she has been sitting on. The aunts, uncles and cousins who have gathered together get up quickly and get ready to depart. They gather their belongings and talk incessantly about how they will definitely see each other soon.

In the midst of their loud and aimless chatter, Rivkah sees a group of men go into the kitchen and seat themselves around the table there. Then she hears them talking loud. They are talking about her grandfather's possessions, and what will happen to the house.

Rivkah goes over to the kitchen door so she can hear clearly.

"What do we need this house for?" Uncle Max asks Uncle Jake.

"There's no one left in it now. Everyone's gone."