“When you daven—” I began. Bubbe stayed silent, so I continued, “do you know what you’re saying?”

“Mostly,” Bubbe said. “Now are you ready to go?” She squeezed my hand lovingly and picked up the bag with our food.

I thought that over as we stepped carefully down the staircase of the building to busy street below: It must be strange to do all that davening and not really understand what you are saying. In Yerushalayim, we all knew Hebrew. We spoke it to our friends and we spoke it to each other and we spoke it to Hashem.

I would have thought about it more but as soon as we hit the street, there was just too much to see, and I had to put the idea on hold. If I had thought Yerushalayim was big, Riga was way bigger. Bubbe held my hand tightly as we boarded a bus. We got off after a few stops. Crossing the street, we passed among a few trees and entered a little path in a garden.

“Bubbe, it’s beautiful,” I breathed, watching the sun’s rays filter through the leaves of the full trees.

She slipped her hand inside mine and squeezed gently. “I’m glad to have you here, Elka,” she said softly. And that was even more special than the beauty of the park. Bubbe was here. She loved me. Her presence made me feel warm and secure as we enjoyed the grass and the trees and even the water together. When it was finally time for lunch, we spread out the sheet we had brought and pulled out our sandwiches.

“So, Elka,” Bubbe said, handing me the chicken sandwich she had prepared. “What do you think?”

“I love it,” I said, gesturing to the peaceful space around me.

“It’s so nice to have you here,” Bubbe agreed, “although I doubt this measures up to Yerushalayim.”

I looked around again. “Yerushalayim is nice,” I agreed, although I wasn’t sure nice was exactly the right word. “It’s much hotter than here.” The words were silly. Bubbe didn’t mean the weather. What I had really wanted to say was that it was the people. Here I had Bubbe and in Yerushalayim… did Yocheved and Faiga count? I wanted to say that they didn’t. They certainly didn’t give me that warm, loved feeling that I was feeling right now. Because even though I didn’t live here and even though the streets and the city and even the trees felt strange and foreign and unknown, here I felt a certain sense of belonging.

“How’s your mother?” Bubbe asked, breaking into my reverie.

“Mama?” I repeated. A pang of longing flashed through me but I squashed it. “She’s good.

We’re all good.”

“She’s really happy there,” Bubbe said. “When I tell her to come live near us, she says no.”

I nodded. “She wants to be near the yeshivah.”

“Yes,” Bubbe agrees, standing up and shaking the crumbs off the sheet. “It’s nice that you have a place for yourselves. Maybe she’s right for staying. I don’t know if you’d find that here.”

“But here we have you,” I insisted, taking the mostly empty bag from the floor and putting the sheet inside. We fell into step and headed toward the water.

“Look,” Bubbe said, pointing to a photographer who had his camera set up among the trees, waiting to stop people who wanted their picture taken. We meandered over to see what was happening.

“Ma’am.” The man tipped his hat toward us as we watched him capturing the image of the couple standing before him. “Would you like a photograph?” he asked, motioning to us to step into the space the couple had just vacated.

Bubbe gave me a slight push on the small of my back. “She’ll take one,” she said as I walked toward the tree. “It’s for your mother,” Bubbe whispered, “and for me. So I have one when you leave.”

I smiled but then quickly changed my expression to a serious one so the photographer could take the picture. I couldn’t wait to see it. And I couldn’t wait to show it to Mama.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 934)