Always and Forever (52 page)

When Yankel was jarred out of his sleep he was surprised to see that it was night. He looked around the room, disoriented, then heard the knocking again that had awakened him. Pegeen called through the door, “Mr. Stev …” but it was too difficult to pronounce … “are you all right?”

“I’m all right, thank you,” he answered, his voice weak and scratchy.

“You’re sure?”

“Thank you, I’m sure.”

Pegeen walked away feeling somewhat uneasy, knowing he had missed both lunch and dinner that day…

After breakfast the next morning she knocked on Yankel’s door again. “And how would you be feelin’ this morning?”

When there was no answer Pegeen opened the door slowly and found Yankel with his eyes closed. From the sound of his breathing she knew he was very ill. Immediately she got a basin of cold water and a wash cloth, brought it back to Yankel’s bed, washed his face, then applied the cool cloth to his forehead. For five days and nights she looked in on Yankel as often as she could. On the sixth day, when Yankel finally opened his eyes the first sight he saw was Pegeen, who sat in the rocker by his bed.

“I’ve been sick … no?” he said quietly.

“You’ve been sick … very.”

“You took care of me?”

“It’s no more than I would be doin’ for anyone.”

“I’m sorry to be so much bother.”

“Oh, saints be praised. You were no bother.”

From that moment on Yankel’s affection for Pegeen O’Hara grew rapidly. Despite his father’s warning that it would be wrong for him to even look at a non-Jewish girl, he reasoned that she had been good to him, that it was only natural that he should like someone who had been so kind to him. God could hardly blame him for that….

Life became very good for Yankel. He found a job as a dishwasher and when he had some money saved he decided it would be a nice gesture to repay Pegeen for her kindness by hiring a horse and buggy so that they could ride into the country. He waited until after dinner was over one night to tell her. He stood in front of her in the sitting room, watching shyly as she embroidered a sampler. Clearing his throat, he said softly, “Maybe if you wouldn’t be busy this Sunday … maybe you wouldn’t mind if I asked you to take a nice ride.”

She finished a stitch and looked up at him. “That would be lovely.”

On Sunday they drove out into the country, and Yankel gave way to his curiosity about Pegeen. As they sat in the lazy afternoon he asked her where she had come from. Until she was thirteen her home had been Ireland, she said. Her mother had died when she was four, and when her two brothers were killed in an Irish rebellion her father decided to send her to the safety of his brother’s home in America. Tragedy was no stranger to Pegeen, and her seven years in Wichita had not substantially brightened her personal life. She had sat at the bedside of her aging uncle and watched as he breathed his last breath, and when he was peacefully laid to rest Pegeen found herself the owner of O’Hara’s boardinghouse.

Yankel sighed when she finished her story. It seemed that the violence in Ireland was little different from the pogroms he’d run away from, and his heart went out to her. When he told her about his escape from Russia, about the family and dreams he had left behind, the expression on her face told him that she understood all too well what he had been through. Now there was a common bond between them—a bond of loss that had brought them together.

After Yankel recited his prayers that night, he sat up for a long time trying to reconcile his feelings for Pegeen with his father’s teaching. You heard what she said today, he thought. Like for me, life was not so good. She’s a kind and understanding person—and if she’s not Jewish, it’s not her fault. I would have been happy if she was, but she’s not. I think I should marry her. Please, God, don’t be angry. You remember the book of Ruth? She wasn’t Jewish either. And neither was Moses’ wife. I’m not Moses, but what could be so wrong with it, God? …

The next Sunday they took another ride into the country and stopped at the same meadow. They talked for a while and then sat in comfortable silence until Yankel said, “I don’t know you very long and you don’t know me very long, but long has nothing to do with liking someone. It may come as a big surprise to you but … if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to marry you.”

Pegeen stifled a smile. “Why, you’ve never even called me by my name.”

“I know, but not because I don’t like you. I can’t pronounce it.”

She laughed. “That’s why I never called you by your name. Every time I try to say it, it sounds like Yankee.”

“It sounds like what?”

“Yankee,” she said. “
Nu,
if it sounds like Yankee, call me Yankee. And since I can’t pronounce your name I’ll call you Pegela.”

Six months later they were married. With a small loan from his wife, Yankel opened a restaurant. Nine months later Yankel and Pegeen were blessed with a son. As Yankel looked down at the child he said, “What a
shayn
little boy.”

Pegeen asked, “What did you say?”

“I said the little boy was
shayn.
”

“Then that’s the name … Sean.”

On the birth certificate was written Sean Stevens, at Pegeen’s request.

Despite Yankel’s deep affection for Pegeen, he couldn’t help regretting that a son who was descended from generations of rabbis should be called Sean. And the changing of Stevensky to Stevens was almost like having to cut his earlocks. But this was America and in America one forgot the old ways. The things that Yankel would not forget or give up, even in this promised land, were his
tallis,
his
tefillin
and his Talmud. The ritual began at dawn as Yankel wound the thin strap around his arm and placed the little square black phylacteries on his forehead and on his arm, while Pegeen was in the adjacent bedroom with baby Sean at her breast….

When Sean was four, on Saturday mornings he could be seen walking into Temple Emanu-el with his father. It was the only temple in Wichita, founded by German Jews in 1851, and because it was Reform and Yankel couldn’t use his skullcap and
tallis
during their services he wasn’t especially happy to be worshiping there. But it was 1904 now, and Yankel was waiting patiently for the ground to be broken and the cornerstone to be laid for the Orthodox
shul.
It wouldn’t be built for three years, but for Yankel the wait was worth it. The disenfranchised of the old world had found Wichita, Kansas. That lovely city had acquired enough Russian and Polish Jews to make the miracle possible. Now he’d be worshiping in a
shul
like a real Jew.

On Sundays Pegeen and little Sean could be seen walking up the wooden stairs under the peaked roof of the Protestant church. Both Yankel and Pegeen held to their beliefs without conflict. The respect for each other’s heritage was complete, instinctive. It didn’t need to be talked about.

When Passover came, Yankel taught Pegeen to make matzoh balls, and on Easter Sunday she decided to forgo the traditional dinner of ham in deference to her husband’s belief. He built a booth in the backyard at Succoth to commemorate the Festival of Tabernacles. Pegeen came home on Ash Wednesday with a dot of ash on her forehead. Pegeen became so accustomed to Yankel’s traditions that at Purim she prepared crisp, lacy potato pancakes. At Christmas the presents under their brightly decorated fir tree seemed to reflect the light of the candles that burned in the menorah on the sideboard. Instead of being confusing to Sean, the mingling of the two traditions was exciting and rich. It all seemed natural, normal.

One of the great joys in Yankel’s life was Sean’s
bar mitzvah
at Ahavach Achim Synagogue, when he saw his son standing before the congregation in his
tallis
and
yarmulkah
reading a portion from the Torah. He sought out Pegeen’s face among the women, and when she returned his look with a warm smile it seemed to him that his life had become very full, more so now than ever before.

At Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur Sean
davened,
praying at the side of his father. The only time Yankel sat alone was during the memorial service when the highest of holy days came to a close with the setting sun. Yankel walked home in the dwindling shadows. Although he hadn’t eaten or sipped a drop of water from sunset to sunset, he was not weak. His spirits had. been restored, his life was full.

But it was not to be long-lived. At forty-two Yankel lay on his deathbed. Sean, who had just turned twenty-one, was seated on a chair at his side. Yankel looked deep into his son’s eyes and said, “I have tried to live my life as best I could and in my heart I have kept God’s commandments. You are my
Kaddish,
my immortality. Through you I will live, my blood will run through the veins of all the generations to come. When God calls me you will cut the lapel of your coat and you will sit without shoes for seven days. Each year you will observe
yahrzeit
and light a memorial candle. You have been taught the Mourner’s Kaddish and as my son, whom I love, will recite it. I ask you to do this for me so that I will not leave this place I’ve loved without it being remembered that once I, too, walked upon God’s green earth …”

A week later Sean stood at the graveside of his beloved father, silently watching handfuls of dirt thrown over the casket. Pegeen stood next to him among the Russian and Polish congregants with whom Yankel had worshiped. She felt blessed that she had shared her life with this quiet and loving man, and if she wept it was because Yankel was someone for whom time should have stood still. The world had become a better place because he had lived in it. Listening to Sean that evening as he sat in his stocking feet on an orange crate, reciting the traditional prayer for the dead …
Yis-gad-dal v’yis-kad-dash sh’meh rab-boh
… she prayed that their son would carry just some of his father’s goodness into the world …

And he did, in his own way. Sean became a doctor and married Laura Benton in the chapel in which Pegeen had worshiped through all the years. Two years later she was overjoyed to hold her grandson, James Stevens, as she had held Sean. If only she could have shared this blessed event with her very own beloved … her Yankee, her Yankel. But even as the thought came to her it seemed that he whispered in her ear,
“Mein
dearest Pegela, I thank you, but remember that God in his wisdom always knows best. Live for our child and enjoy the years.” She remembered that when she was privileged as a very old lady to celebrate their son’s fiftieth birthday….

One evening after having supper with her grandson James, she sat in her bedroom reading Yankel’s Talmud. Such beautiful words … such magnificent poetry. Yawning, she climbed into bed, turned off the bedside lamp and closed her eyes. She died in her sleep that night as gently as she had lived her good life….

Only fifteen years later, it was Dr. Sean Stevens’ hourglass that had run low. When the days of his years had come full circle, he called his son James to his bedside. Sean lay reviewing his life as once his father had done with his only son … “Unlike my father, I’ve not lived my life as a Jew, but I want to be buried as one. I’ve kept my word through the years and repeated the
Kaddish.
I didn’t teach you as I had been taught, but in the last days of my life I ask that you say those holy words for me … ‘you are my immortality as I was my father’s.’” …

When James Stevens had finished his long recital, some of it laced with unspoken reminiscence, they sat silently, father and daughter. He looked at his beloved Janet. “I thank you, darling, for reminding me. Until today I hadn’t thought much about this … but we are the products, and the inheritors, of those who went before us. When my time comes I too want to be buried with a
tallis,
the way my grandfather and my father were … and you, Janet, you are my immortality. Apparently I’m not quite the
gentile
Dr. Stevens I’d always thought I was. Well, I’m glad of it …”

Janet went to her father as he stood up. The two looked at each other, and then they reached out, arms enfolding. Father and daughter united as never before. With each other … with the beauty of the past …

When Janet returned to New York she came with a far deeper sense of herself. Her first thoughts, not surprisingly, were of Fayge, and she could hardly wait until Sunday …

She walked eagerly down Orchard Street, which today she found had a different look for her. Something down deep in her reached out to embrace these people even more than before. Almost breathlessly she walked to Fayge’s store, only to find that the
CLOSED
sign was out. Something was wrong … quickly she walked beyond the store and knocked on the door to Fayge’s fiat. It took a while before it was opened. When she entered and looked up, she knew her fears were well-founded. There were no tears but somehow she knew that Fayge’s jolly face was a mask for sadness.

She greeted Janet with an embrace and a kiss, affecting her usual manner. “Well, Janetel, you had a nice visit with your momma and poppa?”

“Lovely,” Janet answered, watching Fayge trying to put on a brave front. “How are you, Fayge dear?”

Fayge swallowed, paused for a moment, then said, “How am I? Fine. Come, I’ll make a nice glass of tea, then we’ll talk.”

As they sat at Fayge’s kitchen table drinking iced tea, Janet studied her friend’s face over the rim of her glass. “I was … surprised to see that you weren’t open today, Fayge.”

“Nu,
so I’m entitled to a Sunday. Tell me, what happened with your family?”

Fayge was obviously reluctant to talk about herself at this moment, and respecting that, Janet began to tell her the story of her great-grandfather, ending with her father’s request to be buried in the tradition of his people. And as she talked, Fayge sat there reflecting on the story that in one way or another had affected the lives of all Jews. Poland … How painfully vivid were the sounds of hobnail boots running across a cobblestoned courtyard, the sound of a siren, a car coming to a screeching halt, a door being bashed in, the screams, pleading, the cries of children … the herding into boxcars … numbers on tattooed arms … emaciated bodies … families separated … gas chambers … Auschwitz … pits in the ground … arms and legs, by the hundreds … Fayge closed her eyes and put her hands over her face. Did one ever forget? How was it possible to forget? At least Mendele would die in the warm sun of Miami.