A Gift of Candlesticks: a Heritage for Generations
Mary read Abraham’s letter once more. His familiar Yiddish
letters described where she was going. She’d have to ask him how to pronounce: Chicago
& Lake Michigan.
Tell David his Tateh is going to show him a new world.
I will hold you again in my arms.
Was she ever in his arms? Five
years was such a long time. The letters were often sparse and infrequent. Abraham had 15-hour workdays, only
Shabbas gave him respite. He refused to work on Saturdays; this, at risk of
losing his job, he’d written. The shop boss agreed to give him the time off,
only because Abraham was so skilled a leather craftsman. On Shabbas, he
couldn’t write until sunset. Mary understood, and still was unable to shake a
sense of abandonment. But this letter held tickets for passage to the new land,
so very far from the people she loved.
She was about to close her soft valise packed with
embroidered linens and a lace table cloth, all from her dowry; these she would
hold close and carry with her.
They would remind her of her friends, and especially Frieda, her mother.
These stitches and delicate crochets were their creations. Often, when Mary and
all the women finished with heavier chores they sat together creating curtains,
towels, bed linens, handkerchiefs and table cloths, while they spoke of
children, shared recipes, and lent a kind ear to grief, loneliness, and many
times joyous news. For quite a while they offered Mary reassurances that she
would soon join her husband.
“Only one year together during their five years of
marriage,” they’d whisper when Mary left the room. “If only he hadn’t been
drafted into the Tsar’s army. It is so good that Frieda and Mordecai Avigdor
sold some of their farm to buy him a passage. “
As Mary folded and packed her challah cover, a special gift
from Mama, Frieda’s voice startled her.
“Mary, I have something for you.” She unwrapped the heavy brass Shabbas lechter she used to
bench licht every Friday night of Mary’s life.
“Mama, no, these are not for you to give yet. For
generations they are only given after the mama dies; you must not break a 300
year old tradition.”
“My daughter, I
want you should have them now to take to America. You will carry a part of us
with you and remember us each time you light the candles. You will someday give
them to your daughter.”
Their weight in Mary’s hands was as heavy as her heart. When
would she see her parents, her sisters and brothers, especially Sam who was
soon to be a Bar Mitzvah? She rewrapped the lechter and placed them carefully
between the linens. Tateh came
into the room and found the two women wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.
“Come Mary, the wagon is loaded now. Say goodbye, we must go
to the train.”
All the family lined up with gifts for Mary, breads,
cheeses, preserves, dried fruits,
and dried mushrooms. These would sustain them in the travels by train,
and through treacherous border crossings where they would have to hide in tall
grasses.
Sam stood in front of his 5 year
old nephew and hugged Dave close. Sam had mostly resented David, because he was
the interloper who took his older sister away. Mary, Frieda and several others
smiled, a quick respite, during a sad parting. It seemed to Mary that most of
the Jews of Selz were there to wave and wish her and Dave a safe journey.
“I will visit you,” Mary promised, looking back at her
family and the only home she’d ever known. The faces she loved would alter with
age, the children would grow up, but she’d return to see them. She would write;
they would write, and at last Avrame would meet his son. Finally Avrame had saved enough money
from his work in the leather factory to send a ticket of passage for them. The
horse pulled the wagon away. Mary looked forward. It hurt too much to look
back.
David was crying: “Zayde, Zayde”, as the train pulled away.
Mary held and rocked him, promising he woud finally meet his own father, and
Tateh would love him. They would visit Zayde, Bubby, and the whole family.
“But,” Mary panicked, “will I still love Avrame?”
Avrame’s smile
and blue eyes became vivid. She
could hear him saying, “Mary someday we will be where there are no pogroms, and
we will have our own place, and you will make Shabbas at our table.” Mary
unwrapped one arm from David now asleep, and touched the carpetbag pressing
down until her hand felt the candleholders. They would be the first thing she
unpacked, and the last thing she ever took from her mother’s hands.
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