Portraits (27 page)

Doris groaned. She would have loved to bite into a juicy plum. She was hungry, a chronic condition for her…

At long last the journey ended, as Jacob drove the truck off the road and parked under a clump of eucalyptus trees. Everyone got out and stretched and Shlomo picked up the baskets and carried them down the slight embankment to the edge of the rippling spring.

Within minutes, Sara and the girls had the cloth and the blanket spread out. Everyone was hungry and they piled their plates with food before they settled back to eat and laugh.

After the girls had rested, Sara said it was all right to change into bathing suits and wade in the stream. She put the food away and then lay down to read while Shlomo and Jacob played pinochle.

The picnic and the surroundings had evoked the memory of a different picnic in a different world for Jacob. He wondered how Lotte was and if the Mendlebaums were still alive. When he looked around at his children he realized that even if they weren’t boys he was still happy they were his. Actually, he had Lotte to thank for all his blessings. Sara was far from the perfect wife, but she was certainly superior to Lotte. Sara was no
yenta
. He would never let her know it but he envied her education and there were times when he felt inferior to her…She was a good mother to the kids and if she wanted them to grow up to be good and decent women, no one could condemn her for that. He was pleased with his family and very proud of what he had accomplished in so short a time. He’d provided a good life for his children. For sure they would never go hungry or be frightened and alone the way he’d been, he thought as he heard the happy voices and the sounds of splashing water and watched Doris float on her back and Rachel swim breaststroke with a bathing cap down to her eyebrows, and Lillian sit on a rock watching the fish scamper away.

Early that evening they set off their own fireworks display. Shlomo lit the punk and everyone listened excitedly to the sound of the firecrackers going off and watched the sparklers and the rockets flash in the darkness.

When they all got back into the truck and started on their way home everyone was tired but very content, especially Sara. There had been no fights. Jacob hadn’t had to scream, “That’s enough, that’s enough fighting.” On the drive back he even started singing “Juanita,” and Doris and Rachel joined in, harmonizing with his voice.

The day was coming to a close. Its memories would be stored away, to be taken out at another time—like the portraits in the attic.

T
HE FIRST DAY OF
school seemed like torture to Doris after the last three months of pleasure. But for Rachel it was heaven to get away from the conflicts of home. She loved the convent. At St. Frances she was not subjected to the discrimination that Doris faced at her school. The nuns were kind and gentle and Father McDougall was just about the handsomest man she’d ever seen, including even Uncle Shlomo…Except it did seem strange he could never marry.

The only time she felt different was when the other girls went to prayers. She would stand to one side of the open chapel doors and hear the sounds of “Hail Mary, full of grace.” It was so beautiful that she longed to be a part of it…

One day she managed to get up enough courage to step inside. When she saw the students kneeling in prayer, she was awed by the great hush in the room and she felt very much alone. She would have stayed but someone tapped her gently on the shoulder. She turned to see Reverend Mother Teresa summoning her. Rachel followed her down the hall and into her office.

“Sit down, Rachel. You know your mother would object to that, don’t you?”

Rachel nodded.

“Well, then, we have to do as your mother wishes.”

A tear fell on Rachel’s cheek.

“Why are you crying?”

At first she couldn’t articulate her confused feelings.

“Are you unhappy, Rachel?”

“Yes.” Her head was bowed as she looked down at the terracotta tiles beneath her feet.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Rachel took out the handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Is it a sin to hate your mother?”

“Yes, it is, Rachel. Your own teachings are the same as ours. You must honor your father and your mother.”

A long silence lay between them before the nun went on. “It is wrong to hate, Rachel. The person it does the most harm to is the person who hates. And you, dear child, are too lovely a person to harbor such feelings.”

“But how do you love someone who treats you without any kindness, or respect?”

“Is it possible, Rachel, that you’re being overly sensitive?”

“I don’t think so. My own mother talks about me. She’s told me over and over again that she’s too young to have a daughter my age, that she can’t cope with me. Nothing I do seems to please her. She’s angry all the time…And my father’s away so much that he’s like a stranger in the house. I don’t know if he really loves us. He almost cringes when we try to kiss him—” Rachel was crying again…

“Rachel, I would like to have your mother come and see me.”

“Oh, please, no…If she even suspected I talked about her with you, she’d be very angry. She wouldn’t understand at all. She thinks she’s the perfect mother who’s done nothing but sacrifice for us…”

“And you don’t think she has?”

“No. She thinks she’s the only one who ever suffered. But if her childhood was so bad, wouldn’t you think she’d want ours to be better?”

Mother Teresa swallowed hard. “Well, what do you feel should be done to let her know how very unhappy you are?”

“Nothing. She’ll never change…” Rachel sat trembling inside. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Reverend Mother, I want to become a nun.”

Mother Teresa paused before she asked, “When did you think of that?”

“For some time now—”

“What are your reasons, Rachel?”

“I don’t like being Jewish.”

“Why do you suppose you’d like being Catholic any better?”

“Because it’s so beautiful. And besides, people hate us because we’re Jews. Everyone in our neighborhood hates us…”

“And do your sisters suffer from this the way you do?”

“No. Doris doesn’t let anything bother her, and Lillian is too young to understand.”

“Rachel, let me tell you something. I come from a country that very much dislikes Catholics. To be a Catholic there is to suffer too, and very often to die. It means to be without a job, with hardly enough food to survive on—and only because we’re Catholic.”

“What country is that?”

“Northern Ireland. And the pity is, it’s the Irish who fight the Irish. It’s been going on for hundreds of years, and I pray I am wrong but I see very little hope that things will change…Rachel, I’m afraid your reasons are not quite the right ones to become a nun.”

“If I said it was more than that would you believe me?”

“I would believe anything you tell me.”

“I’ve had the calling.”

Mother Teresa took off her wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them before she asked, “And when did this calling come to you?”

“I’ve felt it for a long time now, but this morning I felt something so spiritual I just knew down deep in my heart…you must believe me…I felt the presence of God.”

“Rachel, my dear child, I know you believe what you have told me, but you must listen. The reason you feel as you do is because of a spiritual need and a need to find what you lack at home. Catholicism is a very difficult religion to take up. It is demanding to the point that Catholics born into the faith cannot always live up to what the Church demands. What is your rabbi’s name?”

“We don’t have a rabbi. We don’t even go to a synagogue. The only thing Jewish in our home is food, and only for very special days. That’s my mother and father’s way of being Jewish.”

“Your holy days are not observed?”

“No, Easter is the only one. We have a ceremony, I suppose you could call it…”

“Your Passover.”

Rachel was shocked that a nun should know about Passover. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, indeed. You’ve seen the picture hanging in the chapel hall? That, Rachel, is the Last Supper, but it’s more than that. It was in Jerusalem and the Passover was being observed by Christ.”

“It was?”

“Yes. Would you do something for me?”

Rachel looked at the nun’s kindly face. “I’d do anything for you, Reverend Mother.”

“Then, on your own, I want you to find a synagogue and attend Friday night services. I also want you to go to Sunday school. Will you do that?”

Rachel sat silent for a long, long moment. “Yes, Mother Teresa. And thank you…If it’s not irreverent, is it all right if I say I love you?”

The sister held back the tears. “To be loved by you is a very great gift. That I will always keep in a very special place in my heart.” As Rachel started to leave, Mother Teresa added, “And, Rachel, try to remember that if God can forgive us, then we must learn to forgive one another.”

“I’ll try…but I don’t know very much about God,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

Mother Teresa could not dismiss Rachel from her mind. The inner beauty she had was being crushed, it was understandable how such a girl could be drawn to the Church…Catholicism was a compelling religion and it had all the ingredients that would draw a young girl who felt unloved and had virtually no faith to sustain her. It was difficult to resist the compassionate eyes of Jesus as He looked down from the cross, difficult not to be touched by the sight of the son who lay in his mother’s arms both as man and child…from the manger to the cross. Of course Rachel had been affected by it and had interpreted it as her way out, but that was not the reason to become a nun. Mother Teresa felt she had done the right thing, but she prayed that God would ease the path for Rachel…

Rachel willed herself to forget the moment of what she considered her deliverance when she felt that she had been called, and turned to try and find solace among her own. She did not find companionship but she did find a great beauty in the history of the Jews and their struggle for survival through five thousand years. She also found a great many new confusions about her family. Her father often said how difficult it was for American Jews to hold on to their beliefs and perpetuate their faith while living in a gentile world. How wrong he was. He seemed totally oblivious to the fact that every Friday night Jews worshipped with their families at temple services—in Oakland, California, of all places. To her knowledge, he had never made the effort to cling to the faith he so often said he had been deprived of. Through the months of study she began to realize that it wasn’t that papa couldn’t have held on to his religion. She knew in her heart it wasn’t just America that had changed him, but that he had fallen away from the tradition because of other needs that she didn’t fully understand.

She began to feel that one must have faith and an understanding of one’s religion if one was to understand who and what one was. She knew she would always remain a Jew, in spite of the fact there was nothing at home to sustain her faith, and no matter where she might go, or who she might be with…

I
N DECEMBER THE HOUSES
on the Sanders’ street were transformed with holly draped around window frames and fragrant wreaths with red satin ribbons that hung on the doors. Through the windows could be seen the trees that glittered with lights and strands of silver tinsel. It was a time for presents and Santa Claus, a time of brotherhood and good will, midnight Mass and Christmas pudding.

Doris and Lillian went up and down the block, captivated by a world of make-believe and enchantment. Doris loved beauty so, and she longed to reach out and embrace what in her heart she felt she was being deprived of…

When she took Lillian downtown and saw the rush of holiday shoppers, a loneliness came down on her.

The stores were all shimmering with silver icicles.

On the corner a man dressed in red flannel with a long white beard tinkled a silver bell and called out “Merry Christmas” to the passers-by.

Parents and children pressed down the store aisles, their arms laden with packages in green-and-red ribbons and holiday wrappings.

The two girls took the elevator to the toy department, where Lillian played with the beautiful dolls, then wound up a toy and watched it in wonder as it walked away, turned around, then fell on its side. The most fun of all was the red-and-yellow automobile, just large enough for one. Lillian pedaled up and down until she was pulled up by the shoulders and told in no uncertain terms that she was to leave the department.

“You take your hands off my sister,” Doris said, looking up what seemed like ten feet into the eyes of the lady manager. The woman’s lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed. “Then you tell your sister to join you, young lady, and leave immediately.”

Doris stood her ground. “We will if we want. This is a free country—”

“But the things in this department aren’t.”

Doris gave her a dirty look. “All right, Lillian, we’re not going to buy the skates and the car in this lousy store.” She took Lillian’s hand, and with all the dignity she possessed she kicked the manager in the shins.

They ran through the crowds, ducking and weaving, until they found themselves on the street in front of Capwell’s Department Store.

Catching her breath, Lillian looked up at Doris and asked, “Were you really going to buy the skates and car for me?”

“Well…not really. I just wanted to show that terrible person she couldn’t treat you that way.”

Disappointment written on her face, Lillian said, “I wish you were…but anyway you were nice to say so.”

“Maybe next year…” Her face brightening, she said, “You know what, Lillian?”

“What?”

“I’ve got money. Let’s go to the Pig and Whistle for ice cream.” …

They sat in a booth, looking at a menu. The prices were a little higher than Doris had expected: hot fudge sundaes were twenty-five cents, marshmallow and chocolate was twenty-five cents, maple and—

“What are you girls going to have?” the waitress asked.

Without hesitation Lillian replied, “I’m going to have a banana split.”