Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life by Yehoshue Perle Page B

wasn’t eager to leave the warm house, nor Grandpa’s songs, nor my newly returned Mother. Mother must have sensed this, too, and while I was pulling on my coat she called out from her bed, “Let him stay home one more day. He won’t miss anything.”
    There were no objections.
    I looked out the window with fresh eyes. It was blue and bright. Grandpa must have already gladdened his heart with a drop of aquavit. He was walking around the house, very pleased with himself, and regaled us with his selections of wordless melodies, everyday songs, and festival tunes. Grandma shuffled softly about in her red nightcap, lit the stove, and started fixing breakfast.
    Mother was the last to get up. Now, in the bluish-white light coming through the windowpanes, her face looked young and serene. Not until this morning had I noticed Mother’s warm, soft double chin and her pale blue eyes. She was wearing a thin, black petticoat with pointed edges, which rustled as she moved.
    “Did you buy that?” Grandma bent down and fingered the garment.
    “Do you think I can afford such things?” Mother replied with a quiet bitterness that was at odds with her serene face. “It’s a gift from Gitl-Hodes.”
    “Silk?”
    “What else? Cotton?”
    Grandma wiped the corners of her mouth with two fingers. Grandpa cast a sideways glance at the garment and asked casually, “How much did a thing like that cost?”
    Nobody answered.
    Mother sat down with her back to the room and began combing out her wig.
    I wasn’t sure why, but that black silk garment, that was given to Mother by Aunt Gitl-Hodes in Warsaw, somehow didn’t appeal to me. In it, she seemed to be someone else, not the same Mother who had burst into the house one morning at dawn, arms outstretched, crying, “Moyshe’s gone!”
    At home I’d never seen Mother like that. Her arms were never so bare. At home she never washed with scented soap or preened before the mirror the way she did now.
    “Frimet, what’s taking you so long?” Grandma called out. “Breakfast’s already on the table.”
    “Never mind,” said Mother, patting the curl on her wig. “That’s how they do things in Warsaw.”
    “But this isn’t Warsaw.”
    It was a while before Mother was ready to come to the table. She walked stiffly, puffed out like a peacock.
    We all sat down, Mother opposite me, her warm, little double chin quivering slightly. Only now did I notice that Mother had brought back with her from Warsaw two dimples on either side of her cheeks. She took dainty bites, sipped her coffee through slightly opened lips, and, in the middle of all this, turned to me and said, “Mendlshi, is that how you eat?”
    “How’s he supposed to eat?” Grandpa asked.
    “In Warsaw they don’t eat like that.”
    “Enough already with your Warsaw! So, she doesn’t like how he eats. And do I eat any better?”
    “You don’t eat nicely either, Father.”
    “Rokhl, listen to what your daughter is telling me. I’ve lived sixty-two years and never knew that I don’t eat nicely. Pray tell me, how do you eat nicely?”
    “You don’t gulp your food. You take small bites.”
    “How wonderful!”
    Mother didn’t respond. I tried to take small bites and not gulp my food. But I felt a tightening in my throat and my eyes started tearing. Grandma set down her cup of coffee and called out, louder than usual, “Mendl, are you crying?”
    Mother, too, set down her cup. Her double chin became slightly distorted. “Hush, Mendlshi, don’t cry,” she said, stroking me. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you eat.”
    “That’s Warsaw for you! Who’d have ever thought of it! N-n-a!” Grandpa growled.
    Mother finally calmed me down, but I was left with a heavy heart.
    “See, what a beautiful day it is,” said Grandpa, back at his worktable. “Mendl, why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air?”
    “I don’t know.” Mother hesitated. “I’m still a bit worried about him.”
    “It won’t hurt