Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life by Yehoshue Perle

sounded as if someone was banging on our ceiling with sticks.
    The house was now warm and bright. Mother, in honor of the occasion, lit the large lamp, usually reserved for holidays. Father, still in his work clothes, put the wardrobe together again. He twisted the right corner of his mouth, exposing his white, healthy teeth, and gave a little sigh. I held the small kerosene lamp up to him, and every time he sighed, I did too.
    It was altogether different here than in our old place. In the kitchen there was already a fire going, and the black, chipped pots with their open, hungry mouths, having settled in on the burners, seethed and simmered, just like at Grandma’s. One side of Mother’s face was red, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to the elbows, like bagels.
    Every few minutes, Mother appeared in the doorway, reminding Father, in a soft, solicitous voice, “Leyzer, maybe you should wash up. The food’s getting cold.”
    But Father was still busy with the wardrobe, trying to put the cornice back into place. Supporting the cornice on one shoulder, he bent his head a little, making his tall, broad-shouldered figure appear squat and stolid. Suddenly, he removed his shoulder, bent over, and the cornice slid softly into place.
    In the kitchen Mother was setting the table. Hot, white steam rose from the bowls of grits. A large loaf of bread, sprinkled with seeds, lay on the table. Mother cut off big slices, which Father broke into tiny morsels and ate only after dipping them in salt.
    A few flies escaped from the bread and settled on the rims of the bowls.
    From time to time Father put down his spoon and stared intently at the flies, wondering where they would land next. Mother kept chasing them away with her spoon, with her hand, all the while urging Father to eat.
    I knew why she was rushing him. There was no greater sorrow in our house than Father finding—God forbid!—a fly in his food. No matter, it might be the tastiest capon, he might be ravenously hungry, but should a fly alight, he would no longer so much as touch the food.
    But this time the flies flew off. Mother squashed one with a towel, the rest flew up to the ceiling where they remained, watching from on high as the grits disappeared from the bowls and the bread from the table.
    In our new place, Mother decided, except for the Sabbath and festivals, during the week we would eat all our meals in the kitchen. She had already put things in order. She placed the table in the middle of the room, not near the window like in the old place. The table was covered with a splendid colored cloth, decorated with headless birds and large, embroidered flowers. Over the dresser, surrounding the greenish mirror, Mother hung photographs of her sons and only daughter, Tsipele, the one who just got engaged in Warsaw. She also spread on the dresser a crocheted cloth of thick, gray cotton with braided loops and fringes, to which she added a cut-glass bowl resembling a small boat. In it lay mother-of-pearl buttons, thimbles, pins, and above all, Mother’s white brooch, which, ever since her return from Warsaw, she wore every Sabbath under her soft double chin.
    But nothing on the dresser took greater pride of place than the two greeting cards, standing upright, that Mother had received from her two sons living elsewhere. Both cards glittered with gold and silver. Both had little arched gates that opened to read, in gold German lettering: “ Hertzliche Glückwünsche zum Neuen Jahr —Heartiest good wishes for the New Year.” Next to the gates, like watchmen standing guard outside the Garden of Eden, hovered two white doves, holding sealed letters in their beaks.
    This was something new for Father. He had never laid eyes on these cards before. Now, after their sudden appearance on the dresser, Father first looked at them from a distance, wrinkling his forehead. Then, like someone holding a delicate glass object, he grasped the greeting cards in his two frozen