grow up as the daughter of survivors in the 70s is to learn how to resolve your own problems. Never worry your parents — they have suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Always bring nachas. Only ever bring nachas.
This means finishing every last morsel of food that is put on my plate, to my beaming parents’ relief. It means swallowing my tears when I fall off a chair and break my shoulder, insisting I am fine, until a fracture is discovered hours later.
It means not running to my parents when my older, belligerent sister tells me I am adopted (I am not), or leaves me behind when she goes on the morning city bus (I walk to school that day).
I learn to do almost anything to avoid the looks of worry, despair, or consternation in their eyes when anything goes wrong.
As a third grader, I am elated to be chosen for the school’s official girls’ choir. We will travel to various local nursing homes each Friday and sing for the elderly residents, usually nostalgic Yiddish tunes or traditional Jewish songs. As a bonus, my parents smile widely when I practice in front of them, even surprising them with tunes from the alteheim. “Tumbalalaika” is their favorite, and they hum along with eyes closed.
Our first performance is at the nursing home on Coney Island Ave., a block from where I live. I am standing in formation; I am at the far left. We begin with “Shabbos Shabbos Yom Menuchah.”
My pigtails swinging, I sing loudly and proudly, giving it my all.
I whip my head to the left. A wheelchair-bound resident close to me is gritting her teeth tightly.
Unsure, I continue along with the rest of the choir. “Shabbos Shabbos yom menuchah, Shabbos Shabbos kodesh.”
“Stop it.” That voice again. The lady is shaking her head now, grimacing.
I continue to sing with the choir, although I know it is me she is addressing.
“Neiros, challos, yayin l’Kiddush….”
“STOP IT.” She is louder now, although I am pretty sure I am the only one who hears her.
“… hakol lichvod ha’Shabbos.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her lift herself off her seat, reach out, and….
SLAP.
I hear it before I feel it. The sharp sting of palm on cheek, the bite of humiliation. I feel my cheek burn red hot. The lady wheels herself out of the room.
I stare straight ahead, eyes tearing, and finish the song, as well as the two that come next. I don’t say a word to the choir director or any other classmate.
I am stoic; I am fine.
When I get home, my parents ask me how it went. “Great,” I say. They beam.
On Shabbos, I overhear my mother proudly telling her friend Sonia that her daughter is a talented singer in a choir. But the incident haunts me.
Though I know the choir brings them joy, I eventually quit it, telling my parents it had ended.
The acute pain and humiliation eventually fade.
Of course, I never tell my parents the real reason my choirs days are over. Survivors that they are, the motto of my life, after all, is not to worry them.
As I grow up, marry, and have my own children and grandchildren, I frequently tell my family that they can always open up to me. They can tell me anything. They should never worry about not worrying me.
They look at me funny. We don’t worry aboutthat, they say. And they are open with me. They share their pains and dreams and heartbreaks and failures.
But who can I tell my story to?
I am several decades older when I finally recount the childhood tale to my husband. He is exceedingly empathetic, compassionate, and interested. My kids are next and they tsk-tsk in sympathy. My grandkids are fascinated and ask for the story as one of their top bedtime favorites.
The pain ebbs with each retelling, until finally, it is just an anecdote. But my mother, whom I visit daily, still does not know.
Whenever I am with her, I find myself reverting to my childhood role of being the supporter, the bearer of good news, the harbinger of nachas. I still want to protect her from the horrors of the world. I gently instruct her not to watch or listen to coverage of the war in Israel. I inundate her with humorous and adorable stories of her great-grandchildren’s antics. I definitely do not tell her when a family member is unwell.
But I do find myself, at times, remembering the sharp, stinging slap of my childhood and the unfairness of it all. The shame of keeping quiet.
I still crave what I never let myself have (and what she would have so lovingly given me): the healing balm of a mother’s embrace.
