Chapter 11
Friday Night
I knew my parents well, and at this stage, it was better not to tell them about Lily’s medical condition.
I shared this with Lily because I didn’t want them to worry – neither about her nor about us.
When she asked me what I meant, I explained that the most common argument between them was about who had suffered more during the Holocaust. My father would point at my mother and say, “She went through more,” and my mother would immediately counter, pointing at him, insisting, “He went through more.” My father emphasized that although he had been in the camps, he at least received a daily food ration, while my mother had depended on cruel Poles who tormented her family, sometimes refusing food even when offered money, and when they did provide, it was often spoiled.
She, in turn, would remind us of what she knew about the abuse in the camps, and about the gas chambers – which, to her, represented evil in its purest form. Beyond that, she refused to speak.
“So you understand why I don’t have the courage – or the desire – to tell my parents about your health.
At least not now,” I concluded my little speech.
I wanted them to see Lily as she was – without the illness – to see how wonderful she was, at least as I saw her.
Besides, I told myself, I was convinced that not only could I help her recover, but I could also protect her better than anyone in the world.
My sense of calling which had brought me to medicine now gained a new, personal dimension.
I would heal her. I didn’t know how, but I knew it would happen.
“Your parents, your decision,” Lily brought me back to reality.
“But if either of them ever asks me directly if I’m sick, I won’t lie.”
“I know. But I also trust you’ll know how to answer.” I said with confidence.
We parted as though we weren’t supposed to see each other again in just two hours.
“Good luck,” she wished me.
I needed that. I rushed down the stairs, excited and nervous, a wide smile spread across my face.
The trip from her apartment to my parents’ home took me twice as long as usual.
I wanted to delay the family meeting for as long as I could, though it was already late.
When I arrived, my parents and my sister were already seated around the set table.
Two tall candles had burned down, the challah was covered, and the wine had already been poured.
Candles, fresh challah, and wine were the only symbols that represented Shabbat for us.
It was the compromise between my mother and father.
Both had grown up in religious homes. My mother liked to remind us every week that her father had been ordained as a rabbi, and she wanted us to honor his memory by keeping traditions.
My father, the son of a rabbi as well, had walked away from Torah study in his youth – exchanging one Torah for another, that of Karl Marx.
We never prayed out loud in our home, except when reading the Passover Haggadah – which was usually rushed through just to get to the holiday meal – and, of course, when lighting candles on Friday nights and holidays.
“I gather she’s not getting married.” my sister Rachel said, surprising me at the table, right in front of our parents.
“Who told you that?”
“David told Max, and he told me. You know how it is,” Rachel replied. She was friends with Max –
“So, is something going on between you two?”
“The truth?”
“Nu…” She dragged out the word endlessly.
“I’m asking … do you want the truth?”
“What truth?” my mother interrupted from the kitchen.
“Let him talk,” my little sister scolded her.
“Michael, what do you want to eat? Chopped liver or gefilte fish?” my mother cut right into the middle of our conversation with the thing that mattered most to her – food.
“Mom, please, I asked her a question, and I want an answer. Please, just a moment of quiet.”
“First answer me, and then you can talk all you want. Fish or chopped liver?” my mother insisted.
My sister knew that when it came to food, no one stood a chance against my mother. My father stayed silent, watching the silly power struggle. He only stepped in when things had truly gone too far.
“First fish, with lots of horseradish, and then the chopped liver,” I answered.
My mother’s face lit up with joy. As she left, my sister sighed with impatience. My father didn’t like that sigh. Even without words, it was clear he was offended on my mother’s behalf.
After dinner, Rachel continued interrogating me while my father pretended not to listen – as if the words were floating over him – but I knew he wasn’t missing a thing. That was him: quiet, but alert.
“So what’s her name?”
“Lily.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Originally from Ashkelon.”
“Then there’s no chance I know her.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Tamir.”
“Does she have a brother?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because in flight school, there was a cadet named Tamir from Ashkelon, as far as I remember.” Rachel had served at the one of the cadet’s airbase.
“I have no idea,” I admitted. I didn’t know Lily well enough to know if she had a brother, much less where he might have served in the army.
“How’s work?” my father diverted the conversation back to Rachel, who was both a student and an El Al flight attendant.
The rest of the evening passed without Lily’s name being mentioned again – neither as subject, nor as object.
Even though she was all I could think about, I had no intention of bringing her up, not with my parents hovering about.
I got through that dinner unscathed, but it was only the first. For now, it seemed that not all beginnings had to be difficult.