Migration

by Judith Washington

So, here we are, January, 1953. Yesterday we moved to a suburb of New York City. I’m standing in our ultra-modern living room in our brand new house… It’s a sterile, alien museum.

Everything is in order, in its place: the orange rug, the lamps, the sofa, the new green chairs, Now we have a dining room for guests.

Most of the new furniture is blonde, like bleach-blonde women in the movies singing vapid, sugary songs telling you life is just a happy ending, when you know it’s a lie. Where are the old pieces I love? I look around for the rich, dark-chocolate mahogany furniture, for the curio cabinet and the tall, octagonal end tables my five-years-younger baby brother and I liked to crawl under when we were very small— four lions’ clawed legs staring you in the face. Only a remnant remains…. Yes, it’s January 1953. I haven’t yet reached my 11th year, and I wonder what I’m doing here in Cedarhurst.

Bubbie, I miss the heat hissing in the pipes in your Brooklyn apartment on Parade Place. When you look out the window, you see Prospect Park, and people. I miss that steam, permeating your friendly, Old-World living room. Everyone got special attention —even the chairs: You crocheted three doilies for every velvet-upholstered seat, planted the flowery creations lovingly on welcoming arms and head rests.
Sure, sometimes in winter you knew if someone didn’t open a window soon you would pass out any minute. But this was a small price, a very small price, to pay for the privilege of experiencing one of Bubbie’s Friday Sabbath night suppers.

First, the procession: The arrival of the extended family—Bubbie’s daughter, Belle; her sons, Mac and Harry; her nieces, Lottie and Rhea; my father Herman, the nephew she had raised; their respective husbands—except for Lottie-—and wives; Uncle Bob, Uncle Murray, Aunt Min, Aunt Gertie, my mother, Mary; Bubbie’s five grandchildren, a grand niece, a grand nephew. — I could tell you a story about each one of us. We made our entrance and made ourselves
comfortable, crammed into that small living room. How? I haven’t figured it out yet.

Next came the ritual of preparing the table in the living room for a long, simple, yet elaborate meal. The adding of the leaves to the mahogany table till it extended to fill the room. This involved re-arranging other furniture. It was man’s work, and they performed it with confidence Murray, move that chair against the wall.. Herman, lift that leaf a little to the left; move it to the right a little… Yes, that’s it! Now the table needed to be dressed. Definitely woman’s work . Protective pads, the undergarments, were laid carefully. Over that, a plain linen cloth was smoothed, topped by a large white lace table cloth and porcelain china dishes.

The silver plated cutlery was removed from its velvet case with reverence…it was as if I were in Temple, watching the Torah being carefully removed from its velvet, embellished container with deliberate, studied movements, then moved up and down the aisles, so the congregation could touch it and take part part in the honor of physical contact with the Word of God. Surely, here was The Ark of the Covenant in Bubbie’s living room!

…Her brief blessing over two candles she lit just before the sun set signaled the conclusion of preparations: it was time to usher in the Sabbath light.

Baruch Attah, Adona’i; Elohenu, Melach ha olam…
Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God; King of the World.

This all lead up to dinner, a four course meal. Pale gefilte fish in their gelatinous beds, with a dab of red horse radish on the side sounded the opening notes of this delectable symphony. Next, the chicken consume, with fluffy matzo balls bobbing gaily around the perimeter of an enormous soup bowl like brave sailboats on a lake. The main course: meaty roast chicken; fresh baked challah bread; potato kugel,— crisp and browned outside, soft within, but with a slight crunch of onion; the sweet carroty “tsimis” and other side dishes, all variations on a theme, all served family style. Dessert was the finale: fruit, ruggalah and other pastries. There was coffee, tea.

As important as the prolonged ecstasy of consuming this feast was, equally important were the compliments to the cook, issued and received before, during and after each course.

How can you compliment the cook before you sample the dish? Easy. “Tante, (Aunt), I’ve been thinking about your kugel all day. Give me a big slice, please.”

I watched Bubbie’s face beam as she looked over the youngest generation and nodded acceptance of each compliment, and I knew without words that an entire family constellation revolved intricately and in perfect balance around this unassuming, small-town woman from Poland, whose name was Lena Ehrlich. I accepted without question that the Master of the Universe had firmly fixed this sun in the heavens of my world.

But around what point shall I now orbit on this cold, January day? Cedarhurst is far, too far to go for supper on Fridays, and far too affluent. Nobody plays in the street, so why look out the window? I don’t know anyone, and no one knows me. With no one around to protect me, to reflect me, I’m suddenly invisible.

In Brooklyn, every evening we sat around the kitchen table munching date nut bread with cream cheese. We listened to the radio; we talked; we joked. My parents played gin rummy. I shared an enormous room with my brother. We slept on a “high riser”, one bed folded beneath the other during daytime. At night I would pull his bed out, ready for takeoff. Judy, can I have a ride? He would jump on. OK, here goes! Going up! … Judy, can we play circus? Judy, can you make me a paper house? Will you tell me a story? Will you kiss my stuffed animals goodnight?… I had a bad dream; Judy, will you hold my hand?

Yes Eddie. OK Eddie. Sure Eddie. Don’t be scared Eddie.

But now, in Cedarhurst, I have my own room. It’s small and it’s pink and I hate it. The big radio…is gone. Instead, a grey TV screen has invaded our living room, hypnotizing my family and holding us hostage, Mommy, Daddy, Eddie, all sit like zombies every night and “watch TV.” Everyone except me.

Judy, come watch television! No, thanks, I’m reading.

I go in my room and turn up my small radio to drown out the noise, then lie in my bed listening to sappy music and dream that someday, someone wise will cherish me again… I wonder who?