Light from the Darkness

Rivka Holtzberg never intended to be a modern-day Jewish heroine. She lived her life simply in Mumbai, India, surmounting incredible daily difficulties to live the life she had chosen as Chabad emissary. Her reward was the satisfaction of one Jew at a time, taking on one mitzvah at a time. For her, that was worth everything she endured. Modest and unassuming, with an ever-present smile lighting up her face, she would have been happy to spend the rest of her life in the sweltering, disorderly India. Instead, her name has become a household word, her example held up by women around the world since she and her husband Gavriel were murdered at their post, when terrorists stormed Nariman House on November 26, leaving their two-year-old son Moshe crying “Ima” at the funeral of both his parents.

The heady smells of turmeric, fenugreek, and cumin, and other less pleasant odors, would assault Rivka Holtzberg as she navigated her way through the narrow winding streets, crammed with tiny jewelry and tailor shops, on her way to the open-air market. She needed to walk carefully, to avoid stepping on the old men and woman lying in the gutter starving, the untethered goats nibbling at piles of garbage, and the cows venerated by the people.

Her pale skin and western dress were out of place among the dark-skinned Indians mostly wearing saris, carrying their purchases on their heads, but being different didn’t faze Rivka. She was here to spread light in the darkness of Mumbai, India, to feed the bodies and souls of the searching Israeli backpackers.

She would stand in the kitchen in her Chabad house, working cheerfully with her small Indian staff as she cleaned and plucked 200 chickens each week and baked hundreds of loaves of bread, preparing fresh breakfast and a full dinner buffet each night for the thirty or forty travelers that might stop by. She would serve 800 meals a week, and refused to accept payment from her guests.

"They were magnets," said Rabbi Yosef Chaim Kantor, the Chabad shaliach in Bangkok, Thailand. "When you were with them, you felt like you were in a different time and space. That is why people loved coming to be with them. Their home was an oasis in Mumbai."

Rivka spent a great deal of her day cooking, related Efraim Nass, a long-time visitor to the Chabad house in Mumbai. But whenever people came to the Chabad house, she would stop whatever she was doing and run to greet them. "What would you like to do first?" she would ask, "Rest, wash up or eat?" If they were shy and demurred, she would simply show them to the computer room, where they could access the internet in a Jewish environment. She would offer to do their laundry and would place a heaping plate of food in front of them. While she showed her guests around, she spoke to them, getting to know them and figuring out how she could best help them. Her guests returned her warmth and confided in her, talking with her late into the night.

She had a quip for everyone. "You're too skinny," she laughingly told one woman. "I can't just make you two eggs. You need to eat at least three." And she went into the kitchen to whip up a fresh batch of scrambled eggs.

Rivka didn’t only take care of the guests who came to her Chabad house. She would bring packages of food to Jewish women in prison and spend time visiting them. If someone called and said they needed food and did not know how to find her Chabad house, she would immediately pack them a box of food, and send it by taxi, no questions asked.

Rivka hosted a minimum of fifty to sixty guests every Shabbos. Many would find their way to their door, having found out about the warm hospitality through word of mouth. But Rivka and Gavriel weren't content with that. Gavriel would make the rounds of all the hotels and hostels frequented by travelers and ask to see the guest book. He would then call the room numbers of all the names that sounded Jewish and invite them for the Shabbos meal.

Gavriel would return home triumphant. "Rivka, we're going to be having seventy guests for Shabbos," he would announce. Rivka would smile broadly at the thought of all the guests, but question her husband about where he had gone, making sure he hadn't left any hotels or hostels out. She was not content unless she was sure that every effort had been made to reach every Jew in Mumbai. Although she could have easily used Gavriel's help, she would encourage him to go out again and bring home even more guests.

The Holtzberg’s Shabbos table was the highlight of the week. Gavriel and Rivka were eager to create a communal feeling among the diverse group of backpackers, businessmen, ex-convicts, diplomats, and diamond dealers. “Gavriel insisted that everyone go around the table and say a few words to the group, giving guests four options: either delivering words of Torah, relating an inspirational story making a commitment to take on a mitzvah, or leading a song,” said Benjamin Holzman, a frequent guest of the Holtzbergs’.

Hillary Lewin, a Yeshiva University graduate who spent five weeks with the Holtzbergs in Mumbai, related that Rivka once told her that there was one holiday where they had no guests. It was just Rivka, Gavriel and Moishie. “I expected her to say how relieved she was not to have guests, but she told me it was, in fact, the only lonely holiday they ever spent in India.”

She also relates that, “On my last Shabbat in India, I slept in Rivka and Gavriel’s home, the fifth floor of the Chabad house. I noticed that their apartment was dilapidated and bare. They had only a sofa, a bookshelf, a bedroom for Moishie, and a bedroom to sleep in. The paint peeled from the walls, and there were hardly any decorations. Yet the guest quarters on the two floors below were decorated exquisitely, with American-style beds, expansive bathrooms, air conditioning (a luxury in India), and marble floors. The juxtaposition of their home to the guest rooms was just another example of what selfless, humble people Rivka and Gavriel were. They were more concerned about the comfort of their guests than their own.”

There were no shortcuts in Mumbai. Rivka could never decide that this week would be a lazy one and cut corners by buying ready-made food. There was nothing ready-made in India. Milk needed to be brought from a farm and boiled, chickens needed to be slaughtered, spices were brought fresh and dried and ground by hand, and flour needed to be sifted before it could be made into homemade bread and cake. These were tasks that Rivka did willingly, day in and day out, with a smile on her face.

"In all the five years that I visited — and I was there often — I never once saw Rivka get angry," related Efraim Nass. "Every bone in her body spoke kindness, and she lived for that purpose. She was giving 24/7, 365 days a year. I think she accomplished far more in her twenty-eight years than many people accomplish in seventy or eighty years."

He remarked that Rivka’s voice seemed to be perpetually hoarse, probably from lack of sleep and overexertion. She was up from early in the morning to late at night, constantly tending to the needs of the people there. Her only relaxation was to speak on the phone to friends and her family in Israel.

Rivka Holtzberg's uncle, Rabbi Yitzchak Dovid Grossman, compared the couple's work to that of our forefather Abraham. "Like him, you built a hospitality center," he said, "not for yourselves, but so that any Jew could enter and find a warm place. How many times have I heard Israelis say they went to India to find themselves, and they found a mother and father — Gavriel and Rivka."

Our modern-day heroine brought light where before there was only darkness. The forces of evil and darkness snuffed out her life, but her good deeds will always be remembered and perpetuated, just as the miracle of Chanukah is never forgotten.

Although Chanukah is associated with the pure light of the gleaming menorah, it was preceded by a darkness that seemed never-ending. Daily, Jews went to their deaths for trying to keep Torah and mitzvos. Women continued to bear children and secretly circumcise them, knowing that if caught, mother and newborn child would be thrown from the city walls. There was Chana's anguished cry to G-d as she stood over the bodies of her seven slain sons. To save the Jewish people, Yehudis, a noble and pure woman, had to put her innocence in dire danger.

Darkness everywhere. Anguish marring the noble faces of the Jewish nation as the angels cried out, "Zu Torah v’zu s’chorah – is this Torah and its reward?" looking at a world that had gone black. Yet, from the depths of the pain and the suffering, the Chanukah lights spread their warmth. The seeming senseless suffering and tragic sacrifices of the Jewish men and woman became shining lights of heroism, lighting up the tapestry of Jewish history with their greatness.

Almost two weeks after the unfathomable tragedy that claimed the life of his parents, Moishie Holtzberg has begun to smile. He is his mother's child, who was able to smile even in midst of dealing with the Tay-Sachs that claimed the life of her oldest son and left another critically ill in a palliative care facility in Israel. Despite everything, she was always able to keep on giving. Moishie’s heart-wrenching cries for his parents still occasionally fill the air, but by smiling and playing, Moishie is unwittingly carrying on his mother's legacy of transcending pain.

Rivka and Gavriel's murders darkened an already bitter exile. But in the past week alone, thousands of lights have begun to twinkle as a result of the darkness. Thousands of women have begun to light Shabbos candles; men, women, and children have taken on extra mitzvos; new Chabad centers have been established in their honor. And of course, the Chabad House in Mumbai is being rebuilt, meals are being served, and minyanim are being held at a different, nearby location in the meantime.

Rivka left family, friends, and a comfortable life to live in Mumbai for one purpose only: to bring the light of Judaism to those who had not yet experienced its warmth. And even with her death, the love and kindness she spread in her lifetime continue to ripple and spread, as thousands are drawn closer to Judaism because of the tragedy. If we find the strength and goodness within ourselves to truly and graciously welcome the next guest who comes into our home, and to fill his or her needs as Rivka did, we honor her in the best way possible, as she would want.

Like the Chanukah lights which came from the intense darkness, the light of Rivka and Gavriel continues to spread.

The Rebbe and the Child

“Mommy, why is that lady over there crying?”

My mother put her finger to her lips. “Shh Nechamie, not so loud. If anyone can help her stop crying, it will be the Rebbe.”

I was glad I was wearing my nicest shabbos dress with the pink flowers and lace. The girl in front of me was wearing a denim skirt that didn’t cover her knees, with clunky purple earrings hanging to her shoulders. I guessed her mother hadn’t told her that she must wear her nicest clothing to the Rebbe. I looked at the hundreds of people standing in a line that took up the whole block, and felt like yelling out, “It’s my birthday. I’m going to be six today!”

It felt like forever, but the line slowly moved forward. As we got closer, Mommy started telling me what to say. “Nechamie, tell the Rebbe that heint is mine yom huledes.” The words sounded strange on my tongue. We never spoke Yiddish at home. “Ma, why can’t I just tell the Rebbe that today is my birthday in English. It’s too hard for me to say.”

“Just try. I’ll practice with you.” She said, patting my hand reassuringly. “Now after you tell the Rebbe that it’s your birthday, he will probably give you a brocho in Yiddish. Even if you don’t understand, just say amein.”

As the line snaked slowly towards 770, I practiced the unfamiliar Yiddish words over and over again, “heint is my yum holedus.” I didn’t want to mess up. As I hopped from one foot to another, I chanted to myself, just say Amein, just say Amein.

Finally we arrived at the big ornate brown door, and walked down a long hallway. “It’s so quiet.” I whispered to my mother.

I craned my neck to look ahead. There was a man videoing everyone who went by and someone snapping pictures with his camera. A big lady with a curly brown shaitel and big green glasses, was quickly pushing people along. I was glad that I was too short for them to reach me. I didn’t want to be pushed.

I stared at the Rebbe as I approached. He had a white square beard. I didn’t know anyone with such a white beard. My father’s beard was black and my grandpa didn’t have a beard. I wondered how the Rebbe could stand so many hours. My feet were already hurting and pinched from the patent leather shoes I was wearing.

I stared at the Rebbe’s face curiously. He must have been very old, but he didn’t have any wrinkles like my grandma had. He had such nice blue eyes. I liked his eyes. Mine were plain and boring brown.

Finally it was my turn. I stood in front of the Rebbe. He handed me a dollar in my right hand, and then he looked straight at me, and listened as I pronounced the words I had practiced so carefully. “Heint is mine yom huledes." The Rebbe bent down, so he could look me in the eye.
“Are you making a party?” he asked in his thick Yiddish accent.

“Amein,” I said, as I looked proudly at my mother for approval. She tried signaling something to me, but I didn’t understand what she wanted.

The Rebbe bent down and repeated the question another two times. “Are you making a party?”

“Amein!” I spoke a little louder this time, thinking that the Rebbe hadn’t heard me.
The Rebbe bent down a little lower.

“Are you making a party? He repeated patiently.
This time I heard the words- “Yes, yes,” I said, happily, pigtails bouncing. “I’m making a big party for all my friends.”

The Rebbe smiled, and handed me another dollar. I smiled back, staring at those wonderful blue eyes, before I was swept away by the big lady wearing the curly shaitel and big green glasses.

Beautifully Me

My wedding day was the first time I looked into the mirror without flinching. “Nechamie, you’re beautiful,” my new husband Pinchas said. I almost believed him. But that night, after the reception, the glamour faded away. I took out the hair pins and the black curls cascading against the shining tiara, fell in haphazard messiness around my narrow face. The beauty melted away in stages, as I washed off each layer of meticulously applied makeup. The smooth clear skin, thick luxuriant eyelashes, gently blushing cheeks, and rich red smile, was torn away. My ordinary face with its bright red spots littering my skin, small deep set brown eyes, scraggly eyebrows and long narrow nose lay exposed.

I turned away from the mirror. I was ugly. I could temporarily hide behind a mask of makeup, pretending that one day I would finally reach a universal standard of beauty. Or I could accept reality and make the best of it. My husband had somehow seen beyond the plainness of my looks into the depths of my soul and I would have to learn to do the same.

Truth be told, I had avoided mirrors since childhood. I wasn’t skinny enough, tall enough, pretty enough. When I went to social events, I would watch all the people standing around, smiles on their beautifully made up faces. Happy couples would stand in all corners of the social hall, joy and love of life radiating from their glowing faces. Only I was alone. Only I was stuck in a body I couldn’t stand, with a face I hated to look at.

Here among the Hassidim where I grew up, the soul received a lot of attention. The body was important only as a setting for the precious diamond of the soul. But the beauty of the soul wasn’t enough for me. Of course I wanted to be respected for intelligence, competence and depth. But I also wanted to be beautiful.

It took an excruciating headache, trip to the emergency room, and anaphylactic allergic reaction to change my worldview.

“You have a urinary tract infection,” the doctor informed me, as I lay prone on the narrow leather table in the emergency room cubicle. “I think that the agonizing headaches you’ve been experiencing, the stiffness in the neck and back, and viral symptoms are all stemming from this infection.”

I sighed with relief. My primary care physician had suspected meningitis and sent me to Beth Israel Hospital for a spinal tap. I could handle an infection though. That was something easily cured.

As the nurse left the room after setting up the flow of antibiotics, she casually added as an afterthought. “Sometimes people have a small reaction to the antibiotics. Just let us know if you do.”

“What kind of reaction?” I asked worriedly.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” she responded. “Just a little itching.”

I leaned back against the hard leather table and tried to get some rest. The steady drip of the antibiotic reassured me. The pain racking my body for the past 36 hours would soon be gone.

“Everything’s going to be ok,” I whispered to Pinchas. He squeezed my hand tightly. “Thank G-d, it’s not meningitis. I was so worried.”

But then I started to feel a strange sensation in my lower lip. It felt dry and acidic. Seconds later it began to swell.

“Pinchas, notice anything different about my lip?” I turned to him anxiously.

“Looks normal to me,” he said. But a minute later, his eyes widened in shock.

“Your face…it’s blowing up…” he said as he ran out of the room to call a doctor.

The doctor quickly shut off the offending medication.

“Guess you’re allergic to Cipro,” he said. “The nurse will give you Benadryl. I’ll be around if you need me.”

As the nurse gave me Benadryl, I suddenly felt something in my throat close. It was if a valve in my throat had suddenly shut. I bolted upright and began coughing violently trying to get air into my throat. Pinchas jumped when he saw me sit up so suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. I tried to tell him but I could not get the words out. I clutched my throat tightly, and the words screamed in my head, “Help me, I can’t breathe!”

Summoned by the nurse, the doctor came running. I was gasping for breath, and my throat was swelling rapidly, completely cutting off oxygen.

“Hold tight,” the doctor said. “Calm down and try to breathe. I’ll give you epinephrine and oxygen.”

I pushed his arm off from mine, kicking and flailing desperately at the doctor, heaving and gasping for breath.

The epinephrine worked almost immediately. My heart started racing and I shook uncontrollably, but with the oxygen mask on, I could breathe tiny small breaths.

When I stumbled into the bathroom an hour later and saw a mirror for the first time, I was stunned. I bore more resemblance to an alien then a human. My lips protruded out several inches, my narrow nose had thickened and my cheeks ballooned out, pushing against my eyes, making them into slits. My face had a vacant, glazed look to it, with discolored patches of red skin on my cheeks and chin. I turned away from the mirror repulsed.

“Oh honey,” the nurse said when she came by, “you look so much better. Your face was completely mottled before and now it looks worlds better.”

. “Thanks,” I smiled wanly, “that makes me feel real good.”

I turned to my husband weeping. “Pinchas, how can you stand to look at me? I look scary and horribly ugly.”

He gazed seriously into my eyes. “Nechamie, I love you just the way you are. So your face got swollen. It is still the beautiful face of the wife that I love.”

Although the doctor reassured me that my face should return to normal within 24 hours, every time I saw a mirror I anxiously peered inside, looking and hoping for a return to normalcy. I felt guilty for being so concerned about my looks when I had just survived a near fatal allergic reaction. But I couldn’t stop myself from caring. I was afraid of looking like a monster forever.

I wanted only one thing. I wanted my own familiar face back. I didn’t want to see a caricature of my face staring back at me. I wanted to see the face that had been mine for the 25 years of my life. I wanted to see the face that was beautiful in the eyes of my husband and adored by my little son.

Slowly the swelling receded. My small sculpted chin appeared first. The fat lip which extended and puffed out diminished to an evenly shaped lip and my face resumed its oval shape with finely protruding cheekbones. My eyes which had been swelled shut, began to resume their natural almond shape, and lost their squinting bleary look.

I stared at myself in wonder. What a nice face, I thought. Even… could it be…pretty? I had never noticed my small delicately shaped lips, because my teeth weren’t perfect. I had seen only the narrowness of my eyes without ever noticing the rich hazel color, and long thick eyelashes. My focus on my flaccid stomach had not allowed me to appreciate my slender build. But now I stared and stared.

The face and body that was mine wasn’t perfect. But it had appeal. For the first time in my life, I was now able to appreciate both diamond and setting.

Moments to Live

“I think…you’d better visit soon, Nechamie”. There is a small tremor in my grandfather’s voice that had never been there before.

“If you wait much longer, I don’t think Grandma will recognize you any more.”

I had known this was coming, but the words swirl around me like a dark cloud enveloping my heart.

“I’m coming.” I manage. “I’ll book the tickets today.”

One week later, I arrive in New Orleans with my two year old son Menachem. I’m desperately afraid that I’m too late. Afraid that the grandmother who loves me and takes so much pride in my accomplishments, will stare at me in non-recognition and ask, “Who are you? What is your name?

I hold my breath as I greet my grandmother with a crushing hug, my heart beating a little slower as she excitedly greets me and calls me by name. She hasn’t forgotten me. Yet.

How is she doing?” I ask my aunt in an undertone several minutes later. My aunt purses her lips. “Not good.”

I glance over to my grandmother, absorbed in the antics of little Menachem.

“What is the name of your charming baby again? she asks in a stage whisper. “You’ll have to excuse me. My mind doesn’t seem to work so well in the morning.” Her voice trails off. “…or in the evening either.”

I almost burst into tears and fling my arms around her, as she opens the door to what’s most on my mind. Instead I hastily change the subject and ask my grandmother if she would like to go for coffee at the local Starbucks.

Once there, Grandma looks around the tastefully decorated coffee shop she has visited countless times in the past.

“How lovely!” she exclaims. “Couches in a coffee shop! I can’t believe I’ve lived here all these years, and I’ve ever been here before.”

“But Grandma, didn’t we come here the last time I visited?

I immediately regret my words as she looks at me, confusion clouding her smoky blue eyes.

“Of course I’ve never been here,” she says defensively. “I would certainly have remembered it, if I came here before.”

It is several minutes later when she repeats that she’s never seen Starbucks before. The words form in my mind, “of course you have,” but by sheer force I manage not to say it aloud. I smile instead.

Back home, I leave my grandmother to her rest and walk with Menachem in the verdant park bordering my grandparents building. I try to imagine life without memories. I can almost see myself many years in the future. Would I want to be corrected if I was losing my memory, or would I want to be humored?

Menachem’s urgent pointing as he strains against his stroller harness drags me from my thoughts. “Look, doggie,’ he points, face alight with excitement. “Yes, doggie” I repeat mechanically, my mind miles away. His repeated exclamations draw my mind back into the park, from the out reaches of thoughts. I don’t remember what I was thinking about- something about memory, identity, about life’s meaning and the soul, but I lost it.

“Mommy, doggie,” he repeats. I look to where his finger is pointing. It’s the same dog.

For a brief moment I try to see the world through his eyes. I try to deliberately forget that I just saw the same dog two minutes ago and attempt to see it as my son did ; an adorable ball of fur, endlessly playing fetch with his owner, but I don’t succeed in shutting off my memory. I see the ducks eagerly scrambling after the small crumbs of bread being thrown by an elderly gentleman, but somehow can’t separate it from the ducks I used to feed with my mother in Prospect Park.

I find myself wondering if there’s really a way to be present in life and in the moment without relinquishing my hold on my past and future.

My grandfather calls me on my way to the airport. “Thank you for coming,” he says simply.
There is a pause as though he is considering whether to say the next words. They come out in a jumbled rush.

“Grandma asked me when you were coming to visit. She said that I promised her that you were going to come and you didn’t show up.”

His voice broke slightly. “She’s already forgotten the visit.”

“I’ll remember, Grandpa,” I whisper through my tear choked voice. “I’ll remember.”

Note: This story is fictitious

(Much thanks to Uncle Larry for his help in shaping this piece)

A Sister's Heart

She must pass many rooms before she reaches her sister's room in the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. The rooms are too quiet, in some the hiss of the ventilator the only hint of a sign of life.

Dena walks down the sterile corridor, a brightly wrapped present under one arm, resisting the urge to run back to the safety of her father's car. She sees a small waiting room with a few overstuffed couches, a homey rug on the floor and a vending machine. She steps inside. Just for a minute, she thinks, before she visits her sister for the first time. Three weeks ago Miriam was diagnosed.

Dena sits down on the grainy faux leather green couch and stares at a poster of some swans on a peaceful-looking lake. Another scene, though, rises to her mind, the unpleasant incident that took place just before her sister got sick.

It had been a warm summer day a week before her first day in eighth grade. Dena burst into their tiny summer cottage. Face flushed from the long bike ride she had just taken, she headed to the fridge for a cold drink. She groped around until she found the bottle of soda she had hidden a few days ago. Her health conscious mother severely limited soda and junk in the home, but her father had slipped her a healthy version of ginger ale as a small reward for her constant help in the house. She had decided to save it for another day. Today was that day. She headed to her room with a good book, checked to make sure none of her many brothers and sisters were around and opened her drink.

Deeply involved in her book, she didn’t notice the door open. Her sister Miriam, two years younger, stood at the door. She tried to hide her soda but it was too late.

"Dena, what are you drinking?" Miriam demanded.

"Nothing. It's none of your business."

"That's not true, I saw - you have soda! I'm going to tell Mommy that you have soda."

Before Dena could stop her, Miriam ran out the room calling "Mommy, Dena has soda. It's not fair- I also want some!"

Their mother tried to mediate and convince her to share her soda with Miriam. She refused. "Miriam always wants everything I have," she had cried. "I do all the work and I deserve extra privileges."

Miriam insisted it was not fair, tried to grab the bottle from her sister and ending up spilling most of it on the floor.

Miriam had not even looked sorry.

"I hate you!" Dena had cried furiously. "I wish you never would have been born!"

It was the day after that Miriam began complaining of the arm pains that landed her in the hospital oncology ward.

She had pushed off visiting her sister as long as possible. Night after night, unable to sleep, those terrible words she’d said kept coming back at her: "I wish you never would have been born…"

Dena shakes herself loose from her thoughts and looks anxiously at her watch. Her parents will be upset if she spends most of visiting hour spacing out in the waiting room.

But what will she talk about with Miriam? Maybe she should tell her how lonely it is to walk to school every day without her. Dena shakes her head. That’ll only make her feel bad that she's not in school. Okay, she’ll tell her about all her friends who’ve been asking about her. Or maybe it’ll cheer her up to hear about all the presents that keep coming for her every day. Dena bites her lower lip. No, maybe not, maybe not.

The boxes of gifts piled in the narrow entranceway were the first thing that she saw when she walked into her house after a long day of school. Ever since her sister had been diagnosed, flowers, gifts and cards were being delivered to their home in droves.

She flung her backpack onto the unopened boxes, then glanced over the address labels, in the irrational hope that one was addressed to her. Of course none were, and as usual her parents weren't home.

Today more than ever, she longed for her mother’s hug and gentle reassurance. For the first time in her life she had failed a test. She had fought back her tears as she saw the bright red X’s slashing through her paper with a prominent 60% broadcasting her failure in math. She wanted to tell her teacher that it was not her fault. That she really had wanted to study but her father-a math whiz- had been at the hospital until midnight and hadn't been available to help her. That instead of studying the night before she had spent many hours washing dishes, folding laundry, cooking dinner and helping put her younger brothers and sisters to bed. She wished she could explain that the only way she kept the demons of fear away, as her life fell and crashed around her was to work so frenetically she had no time to think. But one didn’t say such things to a teacher.

"Marks aren't what are important in life," her mother used to reassure her, on the rare times that her marks fell below a 95%. She could just imagine her mother's tinkling laugh. "I used to fail math all through elementary school. It's good for you to experience failure once in a while."

Her mother would have reassured her- except she wasn't home. She didn’t return from the hospital until 11:00 P.M.

Dena was waiting up for.

"Hi Dena," her mother tiredly greeted her. She didn't seem to notice the clean dishes stacked in the dish drainer, or the neat house.

"Hi Ma. I'm so glad your home. I wanted to tell you that I got back my math…" her voice trailed off in mid sentence. Her mother’s eyes were glazed over.

"Mommy? Ma, are you listening to me?"

Her mother got to her feet unsteadily. "It's been a hard day. Miriam did really badly today," she sighed.

She had not heard a word Dena had said.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow sweetie. I must go to sleep now." Her mother stumbled off to bed.

Dena watched her leave. The tears that had been hovering all day now spilled down her cheeks as she wept.

"Don't I matter,” she whispered to herself. "I don't want to hear about Miriam all day. I want to talk about me for once."

Resentment, guilt and jealousy. Struggling with this bitter cocktail of emotions, she has avoided visiting her sister until now.

Not that anything has changed, but her mother, desperate for a break, has asked Dena to assume hospital duties for the day. She reluctantly has agreed.

She stands up with a sigh. She can't put it off any more. Her sister is waiting.

The door to her sister's room is slightly open and she cautiously opens the door. The nurse adjusting the I.V. notices her and motions with her hand. "You can come inside, dearie. I'm almost finished here."

"Thanks," Dena says shyly and comes in. The nurse's large frame partly shields her from seeing her sister, but then she finishes measuring out the dosage of medicine and leaves the room. Dena gasps.

Miriam's curls are gone. Her mother had told her that that the chemo caused loss of hair and she had nodded in understanding as she assimilated the information. But nothing could prepare her for this. Miriam looks like the pictures she once saw of a holocaust inmate, with a shaved head, gaunt face and terrified, tragic eyes. She remembers how she used to love to "boing" the auburn curls that hung in long ringlets to Miriam's shoulder and watch them bounce up as she let go.

She clenches the present clutched in her hand until the wrapping paper crumples and rips.

Her sister's almond shaped brown eyes look strangely bare and unprotected without her long black eyelashes or delicate eyebrows. Her aquiline, narrow nose with the rounded tip is too big for her face with her skin tightly pulled over her protruding cheekbones. Her ears seem like enormous pink conch shells without her bouncing curls partially covering them.

"Hi Miriam," she says, averting her gaze. "I I” her words trip over each other “I brought you a present." She thrusts the present to her sister, almost rooted to her spot. "I hope you like it."

"Thanks." Miriam removes what’s left of the hearts and flowers wrapping paper and opens the small box. A silver necklace glitters against the black velvet.

"Here, let me help you put it on," says Dena, and she clasps the necklace around Miriam's neck.

She holds up the small box to her sister. "Look, the jewelry box comes with a mirror. You can see how the necklace looks."

Miriam turns her eyes away, hands moving unconsciously to her bald head. "I don't look in the mirror anymore. I'm too ugly."

Dena gropes for a topic of conversation, her eyes darting around the room, glancing off the large hospital bed, rails pulled down, and the silver, scratched I.V. pole steadily dripping its poison; anything to avoid looking her sister in the eye.

"I see you have a roommate.” Dena gestures toward the curtain dividing the small room in two. "Do you speak to her at all?"

"No," Miriam says shortly. "She watches T.V all day."

Suddenly her face screws up and her finger jabs frantically at the oblong yellow basin on her night table. "Quick, give! Give it to me."

Dena grabs the basin and places it under her chin. Miriam retches into the tiny tub, her shoulders heaving, tears mingling with the vomit. The basin is too small to contain the vomit splattering on the sheet, the bed rails, everywhere. "Should I go call a nurse?"

" No, stay with me," Miriam begs.

Dena places a tentative hand on Miriam's back. The smell is making her gag. She stays put, though. "It's O.K." she murmurs. She removes the offensive basin and used the rough white hospital washcloth to clean her sister's face and mop up the spills. Her sister leans back, exhausted, clenching her eyes shut.

Dena looks around helplessly. What can she do for her sister? Miriam has always loved back massages and used to cajole Dena to give her one whenever possible. Turning Miriam to her side, she begins kneading her hands into her bony back. Miriam is still moaning with pain and nausea but every so often gives a whimper of pleasure before finally falling into a drug-induced sleep.

Dena carefully removes her hands from Miriam's back without awakening her, and gently pulls a fresh blanket over her, the movement brushing her long red hair over her sister's bald head.

There is still a little time left before her father will arrive to pick her up. She stands in the corridor. She leans against the wall. She squeezes herself tightly and just stands there, frozen like an ice figurine. She cries in soundless gulps. Finally, after what seems like ages, she pushes herself off the wall.

She wants to do something, she doesn’t know what. She walks quickly down the long corridor she had entered so anxiously, almost an hour ago. She sees the snack bar near the entrance to the children's ward.

It takes her several minutes to decide what to buy. Then her eye catches on a can of ginger ale. She inserts the quarters into the vending machine.

She trembles, remembering that day.

A small sad smile forms at her lips. She’s sure her sister has forgiven her, the small fight eclipsed by the beeping machines, doctors and noxious hospital air around her.

Yet, she would do anything to hear Miriam’s indignant voice again, demanding that she share the soda. She wishes she could wrap reclaim the time when she had fought and argued with her sister as fiercely as she loved her.

The clunk of the metal can hitting the bottom of the machine brings her back to the present moment.

Holding the sweating can in her hands, she returns to her sister's bedside. Miriam is still sleeping deeply, a thin arm flung over her forehead. Dena places the bottle of ginger ale on the night table where her sister will be sure to see it when she wakes up, and with a last lingering look quietly slips out of the room to meet her father.

(This story was recently published in the anthology, "Everyone's got a story.")

Friends

Eliezer was my first and my last boyfriend. In our strictly orthodox community, girls and boys were segregated from an early age. We became friends because he was the only child my age for miles around in the deserted country side, where we spent every summer.

We rented a small cabin on his parents’ property, and we first met as innocent three year olds. Barely bigger than me, he used to try to push me on the swing, his tiny hand hitting against the wooden swing, with only the momentum of gravity enabling me to move anywhere.

Free from the stone and concrete jungle in which we lived all year, we reveled in the freedom of the wide open spaces around us. We ran through the tall prickly grass, heedless of the nettles stinging our bare legs and scream in a mixture of fear and delight as the tiny ants crawled up our feet, tickling us.

Our days flowed by unstructured by anything but the passing of time. We meandered lazily through the day, exploring, eating, swimming and just being.

The property was a haphazard sprawl of giant bales of hay, fluffy white sheep, squawking chickens and lumbering cows sounding their plaintive moo. Low hanging bushes of raspberries, blueberries and blackberries grew wild. Grabbing our tin buckets, Eliezer and I hurried to pick the ripest and plumpest berries before our many siblings could get to them. “Watch out, that one’s poisonous,” he cried out as I prepared to drop a particularly luscious blackberry into my pail. “Oh no,” I dropped the berry in alarm. “Just kidding” he laughed as he popped the berry into his mouth. “It looked too good to resist.” I swung my bucket at him in mock revenge and before we knew it our mouth, hands faces and hair were stained a deep red-blue with the smashed berries in our hair slowly leaking their juice down our forehead.

The remaining berries were made into little pies, which we brought into the little fort we had built from bales of hay. Bees buzzed around us as we wove our dreams for life.

“Where do you think we should live? he asked.

“Here of course!” I responded. “We’ll have ten kids and they’ll each have their own tent to sleep in under the stars.”

On Saturday I would share Eliezer with my family. My father was home after a long week of work and my parents and six siblings took a slow amble down the rustic country road. We always had the same ritual when we passed an abandoned market shed. The musty smell of rotting wood intermingled with dank, dark air, creating a secretive atmosphere.

“Who wants to be sold first?” My father called out.

“Me, me,” I said and scrambled to be the first in line. My father lifted me up into the rotting produce bin.

“Who wants to buy Nechamie?” He called out in his best sellers pitch.

I always held my breath at this point. But he never disappointed me. “I do!” Eliezer called out. “I’ll take a dozen of her.”

We almost didn’t need a flashlight at night. Thousands of stars glittering above competed with the rapid flashing of the fireflies. We reached out our hands, and tried to grab them, trying to keep some of their light for ourselves but we were almost never successful. Lying side by side in stubby grass, I was hypnotized by the stars above.

“Wonder why there are no stars in Brooklyn?” I murmured.

“Too many people make wishes on them.” Eliezer declared with certainty. “So then they disappear.”

One summer everything changed. We were both nine years old and had spent practically every moment of every summer together for the past 6 years. One day when I went to his house, he had a friend over. I looked at his friend uncertainly.
”Hey, Eliezer.” I said. “Do you want to come over to my house? You could bring your friend with you.”

Before he had a chance to respond, his friend surveyed me with disgust.
”You play with GIRLS?” he said. “Don’t you know that girls have COOTIES?”

Eliezer regarded me for moment and hesitated. “I don’t play with girls,” he said emphatically. “She’s not my friend at all.”

I reeled as if I had been physically slapped in the face. I turned and ran the short distance to my cabin, tears blinding my eyes. I tripped and fell and heard their mocking voices chasing me. “Cooties. You have cooties.” I spent the day in my room alternately vowing that I would never talk to Eliezer again, and hoping he would come and apologize so I could reject him. I watched wistfully as I saw Eliezer bringing his friend to all our special places. Our hay fort, the pond in which we swam, the patch of land where we stargazed and the berry bushes where we had spent so many happy hours.

It was only boredom that induced me to forgive him enough to spend time with him the remainder of that summer. But the places that had once been so extraordinary to me had been shared with a stranger. They would never be special again.

This summer, I surrendered to nostalgia and revisited the country home of my childhood with my husband Pinchas. We walked slowly through the property. Although weeds had almost choked the life out of the berry bushes, several luscious blueberries and raspberries hung low on the branches, and we spent several minutes cramming the juicy tidbits into our mouth. Our old cabin had fallen in disrepair, but I showed him the tiny bedroom with the two rusting iron bunk beds I had shared with my four sisters.

Directly across from our cabin was Eliezer’s house. I tried steering Pinchas into the direction of the bales of hay, but my husband tugged me in that direction. “Hey, that must be your old friend Eliezer’s house! Let’s go look.”

Eliezer’s family was long gone, but I half expected him to come running out, long peyos swinging, a tin bucket clutched in his hand. The incident that I had never shared with anyone, even my husband, flashed my mind. “She’s not my friend. I don’t play with girls. Cooties, she has cooties.” I clenched my hands tightly, as a sinking feeling of rejection slammed through me at the memory. I hadn’t thought of the story in years, but I recognized that feeling. I had felt that sinking feeling, clammy fists, and inexplicable anger, every time my husband forgot to wash the dishes when he promised, was more than five minutes late, didn’t compliment me on dinner, or was too busy to talk.

Pinchas didn’t notice the emotions playing through me. He had caught sight of the pond covered with a light film of green algae and overrun with hundreds of croaking slimy frogs. “Want to come with me to the pond? Let’s try to catch some frogs for your brother.”

“I’m not going with you.” I said playfully, as I turned in the opposite direction. “Don’t you know that men have cooties?”

Pinchas laughed, his boisterous chuckles echoing off the stillness of the country day. I laughed too. Then together we raced to the pond. “Dare you to jump in!” I teased him.

“No problem—as long as we jump in together!”