Losing It

It occurred to me the other day that of all my husband’s immediate family, there are only three of us left.  Twelve of us to begin with, his six siblings and their wives and husbands.  How I loved this family.  At first they were a shock to the system.  Their disagreements—and agreements—could break the sound barrier.  But I soon found them warm and loving, so unlike my birth family, who were cold and damning.

I didn’t meet all of my husband’s family until our first trip to Israel in the summer of 1967, right after the Six Day War. The only introduction before that was to his older brother, who lived in New York City, the one we came to call Uncle Monster.

What a piece of work Uncle Monster was.  While he tried to woo me as an ally, he treated his wife like shit, even the first time we met.  She was already six months pregnant with her second child, but that didn’t stop him from belittling her at every turn.  I felt so sorry for Nora—names will be changed!—as she struggled to make the best of it.  Ever since that first encounter, I despised Uncle Monster and sadly saw how his children learned from him to treat their mother in a similar fashion.

It comforted me that Nora went back to work and had a life away from that odious man.  Also, she took a lover.  Good for her!

The poor woman died of dementia, while Uncle Monster lived on until the ripe old age of 93.  Or, as he would have it, 83.  Aside from being a master manipulator, he was a pathological liar to the very end.  How well I remember him getting a form letter from Moshe Dayan and parading it to all and sundry.  “Look, he’s communicating with me personally,” he boasted.  I think people like Uncle Monster are put on earth to make the rest of us look better.

After meeting his brother, I expressed doubts to my future husband Gil about marrying into his family.  Being the youngest of the six siblings, he didn’t see the problem. Until much later when Uncle Monster tried to sue him for some stamps he gave him when my husband was twelve.

But, despite my misgivings, married we got, and off we flew to meet the rest of Gil’s clan.  At that time I spoke not a word of Hebrew, except perhaps “shalom,” so I was left to smile politely at everyone and help pass out the gifts we brought from America—on a list we were sent, the most important one being hair dye.

That first night we were sitting in his father’s apartment on Katznelson Street when all of a sudden there was a volcanic eruption of emotions.  Please remember that I came from a family that snarled instead of shouted.  I was terrified.

It was all because Gil’s father had turned up a few months previously at the synagogue with Reba in tow.  A woman he then married.  The sisters weren’t happy.  Yes, Gil had three sisters and two brothers.  Reba just sat there while the sister railed at their father for marrying her.  After all, their mother had only been dead for four years.  But in retrospect they should have been glad.  She took care of their father, kept the apartment semi-clean.  Of course, nothing could beat the way their mother cleaned, and even I would have eaten off the floor.  But she was a nice woman, very kind to me and my children.  And she had children of her own for solace.

The sister closest to Gil in age and education was Adi, in whose apartment we stayed during that first visit.  We were both pregnant, although I was farther along.  Her apartment in Ramat Gan was a climb, first up a plaza from the main street and then a further three stories within the building.  (There was a elevator.  It didn’t work.).  She always said she felt that climb more than I did because she wasn’t as pregnant as I was.  It defied logic, but I kept my mouth shut.  Yes, I can do that occasionally.

Adi didn’t particularly like me.  I have no idea why.  We should have been friends.  After all, she and Gil had always been a pair growing up.  (She also fudged on her age, but that’s besides the point.)  Her feelings shouldn’t have mattered, except Adi possessed the evil eye and she directed it at me.

It was just little things, really.  My husband bought some expensive jewelry for me when we were in Israel.  Before going out, I proudly showed it to Adi.  I came back minus one gold earring.  It was a sign.

There was a lot to admire about Adi.  She had held down a good job in the defense ministry; she was curious and well read.  She liked to travel.  But she also had a close bond with Uncle Monster, and that wasn’t a good sign.

In any case, it seemed every time I got pregnant, she did too.  In their culture, in my husband’s, having sons was very important.  I happily produced a son as a first born.  As did she.  Second child, we both had daughters. Third child?  By then I was leery of her for so many small, niggling reasons; and I said to Gil, “Let’s not tell anyone I’m pregnant.”  Nor did we.  I had a son.  We let the family know.  Her response was, “I didn’t know you were pregnant.  So am I.”  Several months later she had a daughter.  Point to Carolyn.

Poor Adi died way too young of breast cancer.  By then she had been a widow for a number of years, but was still enjoying trips and cultural events.  So unfair.  She was almost the youngest and the first to go.

Gil’s oldest sister was Sara.  What can I say about the best person in the world?  Except that she had the hardest life of any of the siblings.  Why?  Marrying the wrong man of course.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, he died of cancer, leaving her with four kids and a basement apartment that flooded every time it rained.  To make a living, Sara had to work at a kiosk, selling candy and newspapers.  This was my first taste of a krembo, when she brought one for me.  Also my last.

Sara was finally able to move on to a fifth floor apartment in Givatayim.  No elevator of course.  But it had two bedrooms and a balcony.  Whenever we came with the three kids, we always stayed with her.  She was a great cook and always worried about my children not eating enough.  She would chase them around the room with a spoon, ready to shove food in their mouths if she could catch them.

Sara was to suffer further tragedy in her life when her second son died right after leaving the army.  He had great plans to come to the States and then see the world.  But he got sick and a Russian doctor, new to the country, gave him a medicine that destroyed all his white blood cells.  Nothing happened to the doctor.  Her son on the other hand—  This is why I have no sympathy for doctors from backward countries like Russia, when they complain that they can’t immediately practice elsewhere.  And why I check the background of doctors I do use.

After her son died, Sara would never make his favorite dish.  I thought that was ridiculous until my grandson was killed.  After Ilan’s death I never made pancakes again.  And I never will.

As Sara got older, her eyesight diminished.  But she still insisted on cooking for those who came over—like Uncle Monster.  He arrived at her apartment once with someone he was trying to impress.  Sara served Uncle Monster his favorite dish.  Too bad he found a rubber band in it.

A caregiver helped Sara in her final years.  And also helped herself to Sara’s jewelry when Sara died.

One of my favorite in-laws was Izla.  Was this because she found Uncle Monster annoying too?  Izla’s story is long and involved.  She was the mistress of Gil’s second brother Ehud, but no one knew it for the longest time because they didn’t leave Iraq when the rest of the family headed to Israel.  And she was a Christian.  After Ehud was arrested, he decided it might be best to leave Iraq as quickly as possible.  So surprise, surprise, they arrived in Israel with four children no one knew anything about.

Due to the family’s less then friendly welcome, Izla and Ehud didn’t stay long in the bosom of that family.  Instead they moved on to Queens, New York, and made their life over, as so many immigrants have had to do.

Gil’s family made a mistake, not being as welcoming as they should have been to Izla.  She was a delightful, earthy woman.  I saw her only occasionally, as after Queens they moved to Florida and then Michigan, but every time we got together, it was fun.  And she was also a very good cook.

Izla’s one failing was that she was a hypochondriac.  Something was always wrong with her, and I kept having to tell her that no, nothing was wrong.  Until she and Ehud visited us once, and I saw that she had become very thin.  I told her she should really get herself checked out.

It was cancer.  I spoke to her then only over the phone and told her how much I loved her.  I think in a way she was relieved that there was something finally wrong with her.  We went to her funeral and saw all the hypocrites from her church who hadn’t visited her when she was dying but came out in force for the funeral.

After Izla’s death, Gil’s brother Ehud moved back to Queens to be near his family.  I will say nothing about his children because I don’t really know them.  But one of them you might have heard of because of the big stink she made when Hillary Clinton’s daughter was getting married.  For the Clintons the road was closed, and this had somehow affected Ehud’s daughter’s wedding at a nearby venue.  Hillary Clinton was gracious as usual and tried to make amends, but this daughter continued to rail.  Perhaps she liked seeing her name in the paper?

What amazed me about this whole experience was that the family in Israel read about it and they showed me the article when I visited.  They seemed to have no sense at how very tacky the whole episode was.  I guess for them any publicity is good publicity.

Ehud spent the rest of his life being supported by his children.  He thought it was his due.  This surprised me because I sure as hell don’t expect my children to support me.  And I’m sure they don’t expect it either!

So now there are three of us left, me, Gil and Leah. Leah is like a sister to me.  My daughter and Leah are a pair, very mercurial, but slender.  Yes, I mention that because I would like to be slender.  Never going to happen.

Leah’s life was also hard in one very important respect.  She married an educated man and produced three educated sons, but for too many years of her married life she had her mother-in-law living with her. I remember this woman, sitting in her chair, with her hands resting on her belly, her hair in a bun.  She drove Leah crazy.  Why?  Because she would insult Leah in a very quiet voice that Leah’s husband couldn’t hear.  Then Leah would explode and the husband would blame Leah instead of his mother.

Leah was also an excellent cook. I mention this about Gil’s sisters and sisters-in-law because I’m not a good cook, never enjoyed it, but I do appreciate someone with this talent.  Leah in her nineties just had to move to a new apartment so hers of so many years could be ripped apart in order that a massive apartment complex can rise in its place.  No surprises there in the expanding Tel Aviv area. But my sympathies of having to clean an apartment after all those years.  I suppose the same fate will befall me at some point.  Hopefully not too soon.

The second one of us left is my husband Gil.  What’s to say?  A brilliant man until ten years ago he fell on his head and had a brain bleed.  Ever since then there’s been a slow deterioration, so that he now has caregivers.  But apropos of our meandering conversations, I asked him if he could still remember his army serial number and he reeled it off immediately.  But what he had for lunch?  That’s harder to remember.

And me?  What am I doing?  I write still, but I’m so out of fashion.  Not that you shouldn’t invest in my books.  I’d recommend “A Mother’s Secret” for a tear-jerking family saga and/or “The Wanker,” for a good time, full of laughs.

At 81 I’m finally getting a cleaning service for the first time.  The dust buildup says it’s time.  I look around my house and realize at some point I’m going to have to stop expanding and start contracting, as I have way too much stuff.  I find that the little annoyances in life irritate the hell out of me.  But what can I do except endure.  Until the time comes.  Or rather the end of time as I shall know it.