OyMG (17 page)

CHAPTER 31

“Such a day,” Zeydeh said, yawning.

He looked as exhausted as he sounded. His eyes were half open, as if he didn't have the energy to lift his eyelids. His face was pale under a layer of stubble, his jaw slack, and his shoulders slumped under the white T-shirt he wore to bed. But every few seconds his lips twitched in a half smile, and I knew he was going back over the day.

The Har Zion Synagogue Cooking Contest had officially begun at three o'clock that afternoon, and Zeydeh had managed to finish his pot of soup in time. For a while, it had looked dicey. Zeydeh and Mrs. Zuckerman got in an argument over whether to transport the soup in the cooking pot or in a Crock-Pot, and almost made us late. In the end, Zeydeh put his foot down, said it was his soup, and he was taking it in the cooking pot.

Mrs. Zuckerman gave in gracefully. She never even said a word when Zeydeh realized the soup wouldn't stay hot long enough for all the judging, and decided (last minute) to transfer it to a Crock-Pot.

Mrs. Zuckerman made a platter of chopped liver paté, which Zeydeh said needed more pepper. I thought it tasted amazing—especially when you considered she started with the internal organs of a chicken. As nervous as Zeydeh was during the judging, I knew he secretly thought it was amazing, too. There were twelve entries total, but he worried most about Mrs. Zuckerman's, hovering around the tables as the judges took their tastes, trying to read their faces, and working himself into a state of panic.

Mom got him to sit down for an hour while the judges made their decision. After all, he'd only just been released from the hospital that morning. It was too much for him, she warned. But I think even Mom admitted it was all worth it when the winner was announced.

“Shmuel ben Yakov,” the rabbi said, looking through half glasses at the index card with the judges' final results. “Samuel Morris Levine, for his matzo ball soup.”

Zeydeh was so thrilled, he kissed us all on both cheeks, then led Mrs. Zuckerman in a dance until they were both breathless. Mrs. Zuckerman took second prize, but didn't seem to mind. She kept an eye on Zeydeh through the whole thing. It was kind of sweet. I'd never thought of him with anyone but Bubbe, but watching him dance made me realize how lonely he must be.

“I like Mrs. Zuckerman,” I said to him now.

He bobbed his head side to side. “She's very bossy.”

“You could use someone bossy.”

“For that I have you and your mother.” His lips twitched again.

“But she's coming over in the morning?”

“For coffee and a pomegranate-and-prune muffin.”

I laughed. “She must really like you if she's willing to eat one of those.”

He gargled low in his throat as if I were ridiculous, but that smile was there again.

I slid to the edge of my chair so I could pat his knee. “You need to go to bed, Zeydeh.”

“I'm too happy to sleep.” He yawned. “When did they say the plaque would be engraved?”

“By Tuesday,” I said.

“Is it Tuesday yet?”

“It's still Sunday, Zeydeh. It's three hours since you won.”

“Who won?” he asked, that half smile playing around his lips.

I laughed. “You won.”

He grinned, his eyes all but closed. At least I'd gotten him settled into his favorite padded chair with a soft afghan spread over his lap and legs. Mom, Dad, and Benny had gone home, but Zeydeh had asked me to stay.

“If you won't go to sleep,” I said, “can I ask a question?”

“Will I know the answer?”

“I hope so. Because I want to know why it was so important for you to win this. You said you wanted your name on a plaque but … why?”

His lids lifted and the fuzzy blue eyes were suddenly awake. “That's quite a question.”

“You were so worried this year.”

“Maybe because I have fewer years to worry.”

I reached for his right hand. “Don't say that.”

His fingers curved around mine and held tight. If only the bones didn't look so fragile.

“It's the truth, Ellie,” he said gently. “And when I'm gone, I wonder what the world will remember of Samuel Morris Levine. What kind of name did I make for myself?”

“A good one, Zeydeh. The best.” My eyes suddenly felt full.

He took a breath, but I wondered if he heard me. His mind seemed somewhere else. “I've always thought about Bubbe's cousins who died in the concentration camps,” he said. “They were young. They had no time to live a life. For many like them, all that is left is a name, engraved on a wall in a museum. So many names. So many Jewish names. All engraved for the wrong reasons—for terrible reasons.”

His gaze shifted back to my face. “All my life, I've wanted to have my name engraved for a good reason. In honor of those who had no chance. But a life, no matter how long, is still the blink of an eye. And mine is nearing the end.” He smiled. “In all these years, I never saw my name engraved on a plaque. Can you imagine?” He shrugged. “It's a silly thing, I know, but an old man has earned the right to a little silliness, I hope.”

“It's not silly,” I managed around a lump in my throat.

He shifted on his chair, sitting forward and a little straighter. “In one way or another, we all work to make a name for ourselves, Ellie. You will make a name for yourself, too.”

“I will, Zeydeh.”

His eyes stared straight into mine, a knowing look in their depths. “This whole weekend you've barely left me. I wonder about your oratory. The tournament is only four days away. Is it written? Is it memorized?”

“I told you. I'm done with camp.”

“What? You mean the nonsense you told me at the hospital?” He pulled his hand free to wave it at me in disgust. “You've been upset and worried, but enough is enough, Ellie. You are not meant to be an old man's nurse.”

“It's not just that. You were right about the camp, Zeydeh. I didn't belong there. Besides, Canyon View has a great speech program.”

“But it won't be Benedict's.”

“I can still be a great orator without Benedict's.”

“Of course you can. But this is not the way to do it.”

“What way?”

“To give up—to quit.”

I ran both hands over my forehead and through my bangs. I could suddenly feel how tired I was. I hadn't slept much either in the past couple of days. “I'm not quitting,” I said. “You don't understand. In fact, you should be very proud of me.”

“For not competing? This you'll have to explain.”

I pulled at the edge of his afghan, freeing a snagged thread. “I talked to Mrs. Yeats the other night. She brought Devon to the hospital. She said really crazy things.”

“What things?”

“She said I didn't really want to be Jewish. The way I acted proved it. She said I was a lot like her—that she saw so much potential. I shouldn't let being Jewish ruin things for me.”

“
Oy vey
,” he mumbled.

“Here's the best part. She wants me to have the scholarship. All I have to do is come to the final performance and give my oratory, and it's mine.”

“And what will you do?” he asked calmly.

“Nothing!” I lifted my chin. “I'm not going. No way am I giving my oratory.”

He scratched at his cheek a long moment. “You could show up and pretend you agree with her. Take her money and go to Benedict's.”

“How can you say that?”

“That's what you did before.”

My throat squeezed tight. “I was wrong.”

“Or was she right, Ellie? The crazy things she said?”

“No!” I shook my head hard enough to make myself dizzy. “I just wanted the scholarship, Zeydeh. Honest.”

“Then why have these things she said stayed with you? Why do they matter?”

This time, tears did fill my eyes.

“Be honest, Ellie.”

“Because I did want to be like her,” I said, my voice trembling. “She's so successful and important. I was proud she picked me out of everyone else. I wanted her to want me.” I buried my head in the crook of my elbow, soaking my sleeve with tears. “I still do. What's wrong with me, Zeydeh?”

“Nothing,” he said fiercely. “Who in this world doesn't wish to be loved for who they are? You think you're the only one?” I felt shaky fingers slide beneath my chin, and he raised my face. “You think you're the only one to be rejected? Deemed unacceptable?”

I looked at him through blurry eyes. “But how can she believe that?”

“What's important is whether
you
believe it.”

“She said I wouldn't have lied unless I secretly want to be a Christian.”

“Of course that's what she said. That's what she'd like to believe.” He wiped his thumb across my cheek, catching my tears with his touch. “Only you can decide the truth of who you are and who you want to be. Mrs. Yeats does not get to decide. Even I do not get to decide.”

He sighed so hard that his shoulders drooped a few inches. “What I tried to do Friday night was wrong. When I dressed up in full Jewish regalia, I wanted to say something—not about me but about you. I wanted to speak for you.”

“Because I didn't do it for myself.”

“And that is why we were both wrong.” The afghan slid off his legs and pooled onto the floor. He didn't seem to notice. “Each of us is unique, Ellie. That is God's greatest gift to us—and his greatest challenge. You must find the courage to speak with your own unique voice. Otherwise, someone else will speak for you. You'll be amazed at how many want the job.” He rolled his eyes with disgust. “Your parents, your friends, your enemies, politicians and teachers—all these voices will try to speak for you. Sometimes, it seems easier to let them. But then, you've lost more than your voice. You've lost yourself.”

I peeled back strands of hair from my wet cheeks. “What if I don't hear my own voice?”

“You'll hear it. You just may not want to listen.” He patted my knee again. “Whatever you decide, whatever you do, do it because it's what your heart tells you is right.” He smiled, and his gaze drifted to the afghan.

“What is it, Zeydeh?”

“I was just thinking about your name. You remember how you hated your name?”

“You try being a fifth grader with a name like Eleanor.”

He chuckled. “It's a good name. Eleanor for my grandmother. Jane for your bubbe's cousin. And, of course, Taylor from your father. These names are part of your history; they represent those who came before you. But they are only a foundation. Now the name must grow with you. That is truly a sacred responsibility. You give life to your name, and in the end, only your name lives on.”

“I know that's supposed to be inspiring,” I said. “But mostly it's pretty scary.”

“What do you expect?” He furrowed his curly brows at me. “I am a scary old man. But you're my granddaughter and I love you—whoever you choose to be.”

I slid off my seat then and laid my head in his lap. He smelled like chicken soup and vanilla and I wanted to bury myself in his lap and hide there forever.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he gently pulled me away with his good arm. “Enough for one night.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. “I'm tired and I don't need your help to find my bed. So go, already. Come in the morning. I'll save you a muffin.”

Outside, it felt like the world had closed down for the night. Moonlight turned the houses into sleeping shadows and made the asphalt look like a flat sea of gray. Cicadas buzzed in the darkness, and somewhere near my feet, I heard a lizard shoot across the path and into some bushes. I could see the porch light of my house, but I wasn't ready to go home yet. My head was too full of everything Zeydeh had said.

A month ago, I knew exactly who I was. I was the girl who was going to win a scholarship and be someone. How did everything get so screwed up?

How did
I
get so screwed up?

Alone with only the soft slap of my sandals on the sidewalk, I had to be honest with myself. It wasn't just the scholarship and the speech team. It was Devon. It was the amazing campus and being accepted by the Benedict's kids. It was my whole stupid idea of how great it would all be. How great I would be. I'd pretty much convinced myself I was so perfect, how could Mrs. Yeats
not
like me?

No way could she
hate
me.

Even now, the thought of it made my stomach churn. Nobody had ever hated me before. But now I knew I could be hated—and not just by one woman. By thousands and thousands of people. They'd never even met me and they hated me. There could be people, right now, looking up at the same stars and wishing me dead. Wishing people like me dead. Jewish people.

I stopped on the edge of our front lawn and wrapped my arms across my waist, trembling in the warm night. Did that make me want to stop being Jewish? To change who I was?

I gazed at the sky, trying to see beyond the dark purplish blue. You could look and look and not feel like you were seeing anything. If I stared long enough, would I start to see? Would God show me a sign? I closed my eyes and thought about all that hate.

Did it make me want to change?

The truth went through me like a whisper. Like a breath from the past.

No.

It was as if I were suddenly surrounded by ghosts—the ghosts of Bubbe and her family, of my great-grandmother Eleanor and her family. I wasn't the first … I wasn't alone.

No.

It felt good to think it, to feel it. I was me. I was Eleanor Jane Taylor. I was my zeydeh's granddaughter and I had guts. No, correct that: I had chutzpah
—
the Jewish equivalent of guts. Because I was Jewish. And knowing some people might hate me because of it didn't make me want to change.