was at home. The window was her observation slit through which she could see the whole yard. Grandma Lisa was watching us secretly now.
When Grandpa Hanan visited us, she didn’t open her door and didn’t come outside. Grandpa didn’t expect her to for they had nothing to talk about.
We were still turning and turning, and Grandpa was singing. I sang along. How wonderful I felt! Besides, I was the only one he was twirling, for Emma was asleep.
As I flew, I thought – how did the skull cap stay on his head? It must have been glued to it. It never fell off. Grandpa even scratched his head in a special way, without taking it off. He lifted the back of it with one hand, like one valve of a shell. His other hand went under the cap and a rustling sound could be heard. Much as I tried, I never managed to look under the valve of that shell. What if something valuable, unusual, something Grandpa carefully protected and hid from everyone’s eyes was kept in that hiding place?
“All right, that’s enough. Let’s go.”
Grandpa put me down, picked up his bundle, and we went inside.
Mama greeted her father in a restrained manner. It was the custom in Asia. You could hug and kiss your mother, but you had to treat your father with respect and restraint. True feelings could be displayed only when misfortune struck. Mama, for example, took care of Grandpa twenty-four hours a day when he had bad fits of asthma.
Grandpa sat down at the small table in the corner and opened his bundle carefully. It held a small pot of hot food wrapped in a cloth. Oh, how delicious was the smell coming from the pot. We hadn’t had anything to eat today. It was true that the day before I had managed to eat illegally, so to speak.
Yesterday, Grandma Lisa cooked meat dumplings. Their aroma filled the yard. Mama and I were the first people the aroma reached. We were sitting at the table near the cherry tree where Grandma had brought the dumplings. But it didn’t mean that we were invited to have dinner. Father was at the hospital. Daughter-in-law and her children could not expect to be treated to dinner when he was away. If we wanted to sniff how the dumplings smelled, we were welcome to do that.
“Robert, come eat!” Grandma shouted. Robert didn’t answer. Grandma called him another time, then she ran to the house for her son.
I stood near Mama who was sitting at the other end of the table. The fragrant steam tickled my nostrils. I was staring at Mama. Suddenly, she stood up. She took me by the hand and led me to the platter of dumplings. She grabbed a hot dumpling and stuffed it into my mouth. Oh, how tasty it was! It was very hot, but I didn’t care, so tasty was it. Oop… and she popped another one into my mouth… and another…
That’s how I had dinner yesterday. But naturally, today my stomach didn’t remember that. Seated in Grandpa’s lap – after all I was a little kid, and it was all right to spoil little kids – I gobbled the tastiest food with delight. Grandma Abigai was a first-rate cook. My mama had learned from the best. Except now she didn’t often get the chance to use her skill.
“How are the children doing?” Grandpa asked.
This short question deserves special comment. Firstly, Grandpa couldn’t stand it when someone asked how he was doing. That was why he didn’t like to ask such questions. Secondly, he had known for a long time that his daughter Ester’s life was far from good. She would answer such a question, if asked, as she had been taught as a child, “Thank you, Papa. Everything is fine.” So why ask? And what could Grandpa do apart from what he and Grandma Abigai had already been doing for us? The question “How are the children doing?” was the most painless.
I learned the truth about my parents many years later. My Mama’s parents, Grandpa in particular, were against the marriage. Perhaps, they knew something about the groom.
“Do you also sew at home?” Grandpa asked.
“Sometimes, when they allow us to take work home.”
A Zinger professional factory sewing machine was standing across from the dinner table. After Grandpa’s sharpening machine, it was the best rattling machine in the world. As she sewed, Mama pressed its pedal to the floor – what a great sound it made, endless, ringing, clear-cut, like a burst of machine gun fire. It was better than at the movies! I used to hide behind the doorpost and, standing on one knee, I was ready for battle, and I would open fire.
“Rat-a-tat-tat… Rat-a-tat-tat…” I was firing at my enemies without missing. I was destroying unit after unit. Come nearer! I’m not afraid of you. It was a pity I couldn’t have too many of those battles for Mama didn’t often sit at the sewing machine at home.
Grandpa left. Emma woke up. Mama fed her and turned on the radio. Uzbek music was playing. My curly-haired little sister, well fed and satisfied, whirled in a dance. I followed her. Mama began to sing and snap her fingers. We moved our heads and shoulders, tapped our feet. It was a whole orchestra playing for us.
Emma was whirling so fast that she tumbled to the floor, and the dancing stopped. And I, taking advantage of the moment – Mama was in a good mood and she was with us – sat down on her foot to have a ride.
Up and down, up and down… Mama sat with her legs crossed moving her foot. She herself was also moving to the same rhythm. I sat on her foot like a rider on a jaunty horse. Wow, how fast my horse was galloping. Everything was flashing by and my head was spinning. I had to try not to fall from the saddle.
At the peak of my bliss, Emma began to squeal – she also wanted to take a ride, and immediately. Just try and prevent her.
“Oop-la! Oop-la!” Mama repeated as the curly one went into gales of laughter. I could also hear Mama’s quiet laughter. The three of us had such a good time.
What a great day that was!
Chapter 9. Macaroni
“Ester, did Eshaim bring you two rubles?” Grandma Lisa asked loudly for everyone to hear.
Hands on her hips, she stood on her porch with the kitchen door wide open.
It was Sunday morning. Grandpa had just knocked at our door and given Mama two rubles before leaving for work. After casting a sidelong glance at their windows, he mumbled, “Don’t forget to write it down.” He had been ordered to do that. In other words, Mama should remember that the money had been lent.
“So, did he bring it?” Grandma asked again, informing the inhabitants of our yard about the situation in the family. “Go to the bazaar and buy a chicken leg and rice for Amnun. Cook broth for him. Also buy a flatbread and a big tomato, this big,” and she spread the fingers of her right hand for fear that Mama might buy a not-big-enough tomato.
When Father was sick one had to go to the bazaar quite often. On Sundays, Mama took us along.
The way to the bazaar was familiar, down to the very last detail. Korotky Lane was connected to Shedovaya Street by a short lane of about two hundred meters that was wider in some places and narrower in others. It was no more than two or three meters wide at its narrowest point. The walls of the houses that formed that narrow passage were propped up by massive brick buttresses. Thick at the base, those supports held the houses up during earthquakes.
An old man and an old woman, as they say in fairy tales, “Once there lived an old man and an old woman…,” lived in one of the houses. When the weather was good, the old woman usually sat on a little wooden chair at the gate
