Every House Needs a Balcony (12 page)

His mother taught her how to cook dishes from her vast repertoire of recipes and shared many of her culinary secrets. In time, she learned to cook so well that she sometimes invited his parents and all his uncles and aunts to eat at their home, and her food was always warmly complimented. When Ruth and her husband came to dinner, they were served an eggplant salad with a lot of garlic, and rice-stuffed vine leaves with a yogurt sauce on the side, and Nahum said he'd always known she would turn into a good
balabusta
.

“How did you know that?” she asked, charmed.

“It's all in your eyes,” he said, “especially since I have an eye in my own finger and I can wander about with it, in the tops as well as in the bottoms.” He laughed, and she answered him by saying that there isn't a Romanian woman alive who doesn't know how to cook, it's inherent in their genes.

Damn. Next Friday is rummy night at the Markovitzes' house.

I hate going to their place. They live so far away, and if Dad loses at cards he won't feel like carrying me home in his arms, and I am fed up. I am fed up having to schlep home with them at two in the morning because of their stupid card game.

Why can't we have rummy night at our place every Friday?

Why should I have to be dragged along with them, just because Fila is frightened of being left alone at home? I'm not afraid of burglars. What can they steal from us, anyway, except for our rummy tiles, which are shinier and more lovingly polished than all the tiles owned by any of the others?

I told my sister I wasn't going to the Markovitzes' next week. Not after what happened to us with their daughter,
Shila; I said that she should stay at home with me. My sister promised that it would be just one more time, and Dad promised that we'd be allowed to paint the rummy set on Saturday.

By the time she was twelve, Shila Markovitz was already five feet eight inches tall, a fact that gave her a huge inferiority complex, because of her height and because of her pimples. It was because of her pimples that Shila slapped on packs of makeup, in the staircase so her parents wouldn't see when we went out. And her height, together with her makeup, made her look sixteen.

Shila, who was an only daughter, went to great lengths to please the boys, because of her inferiority complex and because her parents didn't really love her.

The last time we went to their home, my sister told my dad that she wasn't going down with Shila to play hide-and-seek because in any case Shila didn't really play with us. Mom persuaded her to go down to the street anyway; otherwise the “little one” (in other words, myself) would go crazy with boredom and frustration watching them playing rummy. Shila soon joined the chorus pressuring my sister, because she knew that her parents wouldn't allow her to go down alone, and she was desperate to be considered cool. My sister agreed grudgingly, angry with me because it was my fault that we had to go.

“And it's only because of you that we are here at all,” I answered her at once, which shut her up.

We walked out of their apartment, and the first thing Shila did was to sit herself down in the staircase for a whole hour to smear makeup all over her face to hide her pimples, and it was my job to turn on the light whenever it went out.

As soon as we stepped out on the street, we were surrounded—or to be more accurate, Shila was surrounded—by four large sixteen-year-old hoodlums.

I suggested playing tag and didn't understand why they were looking at me in disdain and saying that tag was a game for five-year-olds.

“I'm eight and a half, and I love playing tag,” I protested, but they only wanted to play hide-and-seek, and Shila said they were right. Tag was a babies' game. I gave in and agreed, so long as I got to be the seeker. I stood next to the wall and counted, one, two, three, up to fifty. Anyone before and after me, to my sides and underneath me, is caught.

I opened my eyes and started looking for the others. I found my sister within a second because she was always afraid to wander too far away; she was also afraid of dark places.

We started looking for Shila and couldn't find her. As we approached the empty and deserted space that we didn't usually dare go anywhere near even in daylight, we heard whispering, and on the street corner we saw the four boys all over Shila, fumbling with her breasts.

We stood aside so as not to be seen. Now we were hiding from them. We thought at first that she was giggling along with them, and thought of going back without her.

As we were turning to leave, we heard her crying and telling them, “Leave me alone.”

We watched as they dragged her toward a truck at the edge of the field, and one of them stayed nearby on the outside. Fila said we should hurry home and call Shila's parents, and I said that Shila's parents would probably beat her when they discovered her hanging out with those hoods.

“Let's go talk with them,” I said to my big sister, and forced her to come with me.

We went up to the one who was waiting outside and were pleased to see that it was Ya'akov, who was a member of the Abbas family that lived on our street.

I told him to tell his friends to let Shila go immediately, and he asked, “Why?”

“Because if you don't, I'll tell your dad that you stole chewing gum from Avram's grocery store, and your dad will beat you to death with his belt. Even more than usual.” Ya'akov was almost convinced, because everyone knew that his father had a whole lot of self-respect and didn't allow his kids to steal.

“Anyway, we're on our way to the police right now.” My sister suddenly found her courage.

Ya'akov, who was a bit more afraid of his father's belt than of the threat of the police, climbed into the truck and brought out a crying Shila.

“Your mascara has smudged all over your face,” I told her, to make her laugh, but she didn't stop crying.

She didn't have to ask us not to tell her parents. We took it for granted that we wouldn't snitch on her. My sister only told our dad, after making him swear not to tell Shila's parents. And he really didn't, because he knew that the poor girl would get another whipping, and my dad hated it when parents beat their children.

When Shila graduated from grade school, her parents sent her to work as an office clerk. My mother argued with Shila's mom that she should have let her daughter go on to high school, or at least do a secretarial course, but Shila's mom said that she had supported her daughter until she was fourteen, and that was enough. It was time for Shila to support herself, find a husband, and leave home. Apart from that, high school costs a fortune, she said—I mean, not only will there be no more money coming in, but we'll have to scrimp and save for another four years before our not-too-bright daughter finds herself a decently educated husband. And who's to say she'll find herself a better husband; what guarantees are there in life? “Look at yourself,” said Shila's mother to my mother, “you're an accountant, and where did your education get you? Here in Israel you're cleaning houses to support your children; that's a life?”

Mom said she didn't care. She was definitely sending Yosefa to high school. As for me, she wasn't quite sure. “But between you and me,” she whispered to Shila's mother, “she's so pretty, she'll know how to get on. But your Shila, you know…” And my mom fluttered her hand in a “so, so”
gesture. “Shila should at least get herself some useful skill,” my mom added.

 

Friday it's our turn to host the rummy game. I love it when it's our turn. The entire house is up on its hind legs, and with the eager anticipation of seriously heavy gamblers, we set up the three card tables for our distinguished guests. We spread out the green baize card cloths that Dad brought from Romania and collect the red-upholstered chairs from Tante Lutzi. We then help Mom with food; a variety of sandwiches with
kashkaval
cheese and black olives, Romanian red eggplant with a lot of garlic,
ikra
that Dad prepared himself with finely diced onion on the side, and slices of plain Shabbat challah. Salty Bulgarian cheese with sliced tomatoes on top, to soften the saltiness. Sometimes there are
burekas
, served with brown hard-boiled eggs, fruit and watermelon, and of course, my mom's fabulous
cozonac
.

On Thursday, when it's our turn for cards, I'm even willing to forgo playing downstairs, if it means I can help my mom with the
cozonac
.

Mom separates the egg yolks from the whites, careful not to break them; even a tiny speck of yellow in the whites could cause the foam, which is Dad's job to whisk, to break. With her fingertip she scrapes out the very last scrap of white from the half eggshell, leaving it shiny in its emptiness. Even
when it's only an ordinary fried egg or omelet being cooked, a finger has to be placed inside the shell to draw out the white to the very limit of its ability.

The yeast dough is left to rise overnight, wrapped in two layers of toweling, like a child who can't go out with a wet head after being shampooed. The wrapped parcel is placed ceremoniously in the warmest spot in the house, next to the Primus stove. When the dough has risen to three times its original size, we roll it out together and add the delicious filling that Mom has prepared from cocoa, sugar, cinnamon, and ground nuts. We tried to get out of using raisins; never liked raisins.

When the dough is rolled and filled, we place it gently in the round baking pan with a hole in the middle and join the two ends. Mom covers the pan with its lid—as they say, every pot has a lid—and we wait a few more hours for the dough to rise once again. Only then does Mom place the pan on the flame, and we wander around it, checking every five minutes to see if the cake is rising as it should and sniffing the glorious smell of
cozonac
.

When the guests arrive, Mom shoves some
dulceata
into their hands (good job she doesn't push it into their mouths) to get their appetites moving. As if you know a lot of people whose appetites are static, apart from anorexics.
Dulceata
, accompanied by a glass of cold water. My mother places this very sweet delicacy, a jam she prepares herself some time earlier, in beautiful small crystal bowls that she brought from Romania, with a glass of cold water to wash out the intestines.

No self-respecting Romanian home would welcome you without an offer of
dulceata
, and I always said no. I refused to even taste it.

“Try it at least—otherwise, how can you tell you don't like it?” Dad tries to coax me.

“I know, because it's brown,” I reply, and refuse to touch it.

Once the players are seated at their game, we take up positions to the side, carefully scrutinizing everyone's cards.

I enjoy sitting next to Dad and learning from him how to play. Dad likes to take chances, so there's always a lot of tension surrounding him. At the end of the evening, my parents count up their money. Between Mom's caution and Dad's risk-taking, they usually come out quits; indeed most of the time they win more than they lose, which makes my sister and me very happy.

The food is served at about ten o'clock in the evening. For this moment my sister and I have been waiting for six weeks, for our turn to come, when Dad and Mom get up from the card table to do the final preparations and we take their places in the game. We play instead of them with real money—not make-believe—and we get to keep whatever we win. Anything we lose is our parents'. Even in a game of cards, our mother and father trust us not to lose.

It takes about half an hour for the food to be served to the tables, and we take full advantage of this time. When we win, the guests complain that we use a code language to
reveal to one another what cards each of us needs. It's a lie, but we are used to hearing adults lying to save face. That's why we don't care, as long as we win.

After the food and after clearing away the plates, we still have a few minutes left to play while Dad prepares the strong coffee, as only he knows how. Only when he takes his seat and the
finjan
is heating on the stove does Mom hurry over to rescue a couple of spoonfuls of the excess ground coffee that Dad put in and return it to the bag, before the coffee manages to boil over slowly and the liquid starts to froth.

After coffee, Dad goes back to the game, and I am happy that he is in a good mood. The following morning, my sister reminds my father that she's willing to stay behind with me at home next Friday, on condition that she gets to paint the red and yellow rummy pieces on her own.

“She can paint only the black, and you can do the green ones.” My sister tries to squeeze as much as possible out of her negotiations with Dad.

“Why does she get to paint two colors, and I get only one?” I go straight in, complaining. “So let me at least paint in the higher numbers.”

“It doesn't go by numbers, stupid. It's by colors,” my sister butts in. “And it's only four colors.”

Dad takes me aside and asks if I want to go with them to the Berkovitzes' the following Friday.

“You know I don't,” I snap.

“So give in to your sister this time, and next time you'll
get to paint more pieces than she does,” he coaxes me—which in the end turns out not to be the case. Next time, too, my sister paints two colors and I only one.

“So I'll paint the green and you the black,” I bargain with Dad. I don't like black. And, besides, I don't want to paint the blacks, just because my sister says that this is what I have to paint. I have always been contrary toward my sister, so as to stop her showing off for being a year and eight months older than me.

“Why don't you like black?” Dad asks me.

“Because people who wear black are always sad”—I find an immediate excuse—“just as you were sad when Grandmother died.”

So we shouldn't quarrel, Dad let us paint the rummy tiles every couple of months, even though they didn't need painting more than twice a year. Romanian tile rummy is not played with plain old cards, as it is by the Poles, but with tiles, and the color of the numbers engraved in them fades with time. We had two good sets of rummy tiles from Romania, and didn't use inferior, bought-in-Israel ones. Ours were heavier, made from much better quality stone.

Dad soaked the tiles overnight in soapy water. When we got up in the morning, the tiles were soft and faded, giving themselves up to the devoted care they were about to receive. We dried them off thoroughly, picked up a fine brush, and carefully opened the four jars of paint—red, green, yellow, and black. We dipped the brush in paint, just a little so
it wouldn't smudge, and painted in the number on the tile, each with its own color, giving renewed color to its cheeks. When the paint had dried, we used a razor blade to scrape off the excess color from the edges and polished the tile with a little benzene, to bring back its natural shine.