Against My Will Read online

  “Who?” Nana’s voice asked from the intercom speaker in the lobby at about three million decibels.

  “It’s me, Nana,” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  “Vaht?” she blasted back.

  After three or so tries, during which I alternated shouts of, “It’s meeeee!” and “C’mooonnn Nana,” she buzzed me in.

  I took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked past three apartments that all had the same aroma of chicken soup seeping through the walls until I reached the end of the hallway, rang the bell, and waited for Nana to look through the peephole.

  “Who’s there?” she asked even though we’d just spoken on the intercom. My Nana was never a very trusting soul and justifiably so considering that she was a Holocaust survivor who lost her entire family to the Nazis. But when I felt weak, she gave me the words to be strong and I often wondered where her strength came from. Regardless, I enjoyed kidding her that, after all, the big bad wolf could have killed me on the way up, donned my clothes and then figured out which was the correct apartment door to approach.

  “It’s Danielle.”

  “Coming, coming, coming,” My Nana replied as the sound of the whistling tea pot on her stove quieted and was replaced by her shuffling feet as she approached the door.

  “All these knobs,” she said as she slowly turned the three locks.

  Nana was less than five feet tall but someone I always looked up to.

  “Look at you, so beautiful, my Shana Madela,’” Nana said as she reached for my face and gave me a kiss. “So sweet you are.”

  “Oh Nana, you always say that.”

  “What. I can’t tell my granddaughter how beautiful she is? Come, come,” she said as I followed her into the kitchen.

  “Here is your Challah from Schwartz’s.”

  “Smells good. Put it in the kitchen in the bread box.”

  “Breadbox,” I thought to myself. “Where? I don’t see a breadbox,” I said searching the kitchen. And then I realized. “You don’t mean the microwave?”

  “Yes, that’s now the breadbox.”

  “Nana, my brother just bought you a microwave so that it would be easier to heat up things.”

  “Well it works just as good keeping my bread fresh. Anyway, I can’t figure out how to use it. And who needs all that radiation. I read this article in the New York Times that those microwaves are not safe. You’ll see.”

  “Nana, you read too much.”

  My Nana has always said that you cannot begin your day without reading the paper.

  “And the article also said the same thing about those cell phones. You hold them long enough against your head and you going to get a brain tumor.”

  “Nana, everyone has them.”

  “And everyone will soon have brain tumors.”

  “Nana. What are we going to do with you,” I said hugging her. “You want me to show you how to use the microwave?”

  “No, it works great as a breadbox,” she said as she walked away.

  I put the challah on the counter and opened her refrigerator to make sure she had plenty of food.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked taking inventory of what was in the refrigerator.

  “I have food. Don’t worry. Come. Let’s play cards.”

  Satisfied that everything looked in order, I walked into the living room where Nana was seated in her favorite over-stuffed chair that sat angled in the corner of the room and faced the window. The cards for our weekly gin rummy game were already dealt and the New York Times was in her lap. For 85 years, she has remained extremely alert and up on current affairs.

  “You have so many things in here,” I said as I passed the ceiling-scraping curio cabinet. It was filled with her prized collection of assorted cups and saucers that she received as gifts from all her friends who would bring her back a cup and saucer from wherever they traveled.

  “What do you want sweetheart? Everything I have is yours.”

  “Nana. You’re being ridiculous. You love looking at everything. And what I am going to do with it?”

  “I rather you have it now. Anyway, it is better to give while your hands are warm.”

  Sitting in the center of her dining room table was her Shabbat candlestick holders. They were wobbly and brass but Nana kept them well polished. I paused to admire them and remembered every Friday night, to commemorate the start of the Sabbath, Nana would cover her head with a shawl. With my brother and me standing beside her, she lit the white candles and waved her hands over the flames and covered her eyes and prayed.

  “Someday they’ll be yours,” Nana said with her sweet smile as she caught me looking at the candleholders.

  “Stop talking that way Nana,” I snapped back.

  “Ah, my kindelah, even at 85, I do not feel old. But I know my time is soon.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “You’re right. I am not ready to go.”

  “Then you won’t go.”

  “But I look in the mirror and I see someone I do not recognize. Who is this old face? I do not feel on the inside the way I look on the outside.”

  The rest of her furniture was circa 1950 though it has held up amazingly well. Family pictures covered the faded wallpaper with some hanging so close together that the frames overlapped. Nana also collected needlepoint doilies which she draped over the four foot stools that were in front of the matching couch and which elbowed each other for breathing space in the small room. In the living room was also a very small mahogany table with more family pictures on it.

  “Look at this,” Nana said, pointing to the article in the NY Times about poverty in Appalachia. “It is shameful that a country as rich as the United States allows poverty to exist. It is sad.”

  “It is Nana.”

  As I watched her read the article, I thought about what an amazing person she was and how this world would be so lost had she not survived the Nazis. She had a great will to live; someone who found meaning in life despite the pain of her life. But it was not only this strength of will but also this great, hard-edged determination to survive. When I was seven, I remembered falling off my bike and my lip was cut and bleeding. Nana bandaged me up. But a week later, she pushed me back on my bike and taught me not to fear.

  As we played cards, I inhaled the sweet smell of hydrangeas; her favorite flower reposed in a sparkling glass vase on the dining room table.

  “Those flowers smell so wonderful, Nana.”

  “That’s what I worry about. Who will water my plants when I am no longer here?”

  “Stop it Nana or I am going to hit you.”

  “All right.”

  “And it’s your turn to pick a card.”

  “Ouch!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Something hurts.”

  “What hurts Nana? What’s going on?”

  “My tuchas. It’s my tuchas.”

  “Something hurts there?”

  “Feels like a stab, like someone is jabbing me in the tuchas!”

  My Nana rarely ever complained about anything.

  “Let me check.”

  “Ahhhhhh, that hurts!”

  “Nana, you are sitting on the telephone handset. That is why it hurts,” I said as I picked it up and put the phone back on its cradle.

  “No wonder why nobody calls me.”

  “You’re very funny. So, you had a good time with David?”

  Nana had been visiting my brother and his family for the past few days.

  “He worked, and that sister-in-law of yours. She has this punim and never smiles. She doesn’t even offer you a cup of water. You could die. She’s no baleboostah. But she’s busy with the children. Such beautiful kin-da. And they wanted to take me here and there. They think I am a young girl. But I don’t have the koyach like I used to.”

  “They just want to do things with you.”

  “I have aches and pains but I don’t tell anyone. I make the best of it. But you remember the show the ‘Go
lden Years’? Fe. They should call it the tarnished years!”

  I smiled.

  “I just hope God loses my address for many years. I have too many things I still want to do.”

  We finished our card game. And just like every other week, we walked into her bedroom which she always kept clean and tidy. Inside her room was her bed, nightstand, dresser, and her beautiful cedar hope chest that was covered with a lace shawl. Next to the window was a plain slat back rocking chair under a standing lamp where she loved to sit and look out the window that faced the park. On Nana’s dresser was her silver hairbrush sitting on a glass tray. The back of the brush was made of mother of pearl and the handle was silver plated with the initials I.O.

  “For years Nana I have asked you. But you never tell me. What do the initials stand for?” I asked, pointing to the initials on the brush.

  “The brush was a gift.”

  “I know Nana. You’ve told me that. But from whom? Was it a boyfriend? Who was it?”

  “That is all I can tell you now. But someday you will know.”

  From the time I was a little girl, Nana would rock in her chair and we would talk while taking turns brushing each other’s hair. But in recent years, I mostly did the brushing. It also allowed Nana and I time to talk about everything and anything. And the world outside was forgotten.

  “So. What is new with my Danielle?” she asked as I took the comb out of the side of her head, releasing her long, thick, wavy white hair.

  “You have the most amazing hair Nana. I hope I have hair like you.”

  My Nana laughed. “You have a long time before you will have hair like mine. So, vooz?” (What’s new?)

  “Nana, remember how we would talk about the man someday I would marry.”

  “Yes, and we said he would be tall and handsome with eyes that would be brighter than Times Square. He would have a kind, sweet smile and soft hands, like butter so that he could hold you tenderly. Your husband would be hard worker with his mind, not his body.”

  “Well I have some news,” I said as I continued to brush. “You know the man I have been seeing?”

  “Yes, I think. And he has a name?”

  “Jacob, Nana. His name is Jacob.”

  I cherished my visits with Nana and selfishly did not want to share them with some guy that I was seeing. Besides, I was not really serious with any of my past boyfriends. And my relationships always provided interesting stories to tell Nana. But with Jacob’s proposal, it was different. To put on my dad’s thinking cap for a moment, I am now the manager of the Yankees. And I have to decide whether to let the batter swing and take my chances that he gets a hit or sit him down and call someone else up to bat.

  “It’s a nice name.”

  “And where did you meet this man with the nice name?”

  “Remember a few months ago. I came home and he was in our apartment.”

  “A stranger was standing in your apartment. Did he rob you?” Nana asked.

  “No Nana. Mrs. Nadel knew him and told my father,” I reassured her.

  “That Mrs. Nadel should mind her own business. You don’t need her help to meet someone.”

  “I know, but my father thought I did.”

  “So now he’s Tevye!”

  I laughed. “That’s what I said. Anyway, he stayed for dinner and we talked and…”

  “And, vooz?”

  “And two nights later we went to the ball park.”

  “He’s a ball player?”

  “No. Nana,” I laughed.

  “Then what does this man do?”

  “He works for Morgan Stanley. He apparently has a good job. And, he has asked me to marry him.”

  Nana put her hand over my hand that I was brushing her hair with and said, “So, what did you say?”

  “It was so sudden.”

  “Go on,” she said releasing my hand so that I could continue brushing.

  “You know we went to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And right after dinner, he stands up, he says he has something to say, and next minute I know, there’s a ring on my finger.”

  “And where’s the ring? Is it a good stone?”

  “It was his grandmother’s and it is being sized.”

  “Ok, so I’ll see it soon. But did he get down on his knees?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ask your father first?”

  “He did. Dad told me he came over a few weeks before and they talked.”

  “Well that was the right thing to do. Your grandfather would have asked my father before we were married, if he…”

  “I know Nana. I wish I had met my great-grandparents.”

  “They were wonderful people.” Nana momentarily turned her head away from me. I felt that if I were not in the room, she would start to cry. “Well, I have only one question. Do you love him?”

  I did not answer.

  “Danielle, do you love this man? You can’t marry him unless you love him.”

  “I don’t know Nana.” “Vooz.”

  “He’s not the best looking guy. He has the worst manners. But I am almost 30. And he has a good job so maybe….”

  “Danielle. When you first saw him, did your heart go pitter patter?”

  “What?”

  “Hand me that photo.” Nana pointed to the picture frame sitting on her nightstand.

  “Look at that man. Your grandfather was such a good looking man. Tall, big shoulders, and strong. That is where your brother gets his looks.”

  Nana then took my hand and puts it over my chest.

  “When I first met your grandfather, before he could even say hello, my heart did this little dance. A flutter,” she said as she demonstrated with my hand over her blouse. “And that was a sign. I knew, when I met my husband, let him rest in peace, that he was the one. “

  “I don’t know Nana.”

  “Well, is he a good kisser?”

  “Nana!”

  “Vooz. You don’t buy a cow to put milk on your table unless you already know that the cow can make milk. And you can tell a lot about a man from the way he kisses. If he is gentle, and takes his time, this is good. If he rushes you to get to the finish line, you need to slow down.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about this,” I said as I continued to brush her hair.

  “So, did you give him an answer?”

  “No, not yet but…”

  “You have to milk the cow before you buy it.”

  “Nana!” I screamed, startled that she would use such a phrase.

  “What do you think, that I was born yesterday? You think in my day we just walked up to the Chuppah and…”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

  “So when are you going to give him an answer?” Nana pressed me.

  “Tomorrow night. He’s taking me out for dinner to Bacchus, the Italian restaurant.”

  “Oh, fancy shmancy. You order the veal. It is the best. Your grandfather loved their veal.”

  “So what should I tell him Nana?”

  “Well, if you love him, you should marry him. But if you don’t, there are plenty of other boats in the sea and they are building new boats every day.”

  “Ok Nana, where did you hear that?”

  “On Oprah. She knows everything.”

  “Yes she does. But what if I don’t love him? My father said I will learn to love him.”

  “What? You have to go to school to learn? You’ve been in school long enough!”

  As Nana spoke, there were the voices of children coming from outside the window.

  “Look, look,” Nana pointed to the window. “Look at all the little children playing. See their smiles? They are so happy.”

  “They are.”

  “And someday you’ll have little ones just like those.”

  “I hope so. Nana. What if I am wrong? What if Jacob is not the right one?”

  “We don’t talk about that now.”


  I resumed brushing Nana’s hair. And as she rocked in her chair, she softly sang:

  Tambala, Tambala, Tumbalalaika

  Tumbala, Tumbala, Tumbalalaika

  Tumbalalaika, shpil balalaika

  Tumbalalaika freylekh zol zay

  Rose’s Sixth Diary Entry

  The gates closed behind us. Holding on to my mother’s hand, I watched my father being pushed along with a group of men into one room while my mother and I were marched into another and told to remove all of our clothes. As we stood naked, anyone who tried to shield their body parts was beaten with the butt of a soldier’s gun.

  After a humiliating examination to make sure we were not concealing anything, we were taken to a dimly lit room where we showered with freezing water. In the showers we were given soap where I heard someone say that the soap was made out of the fat of the bodies that were burnt and that combs were made from the bones and purses from the skin.

  From the shower, we were ushered to still another room where the air was stuffy and foul. We were told that our old clothes may have carried infections and we had to quickly select new clothes from a pile of clothing that was on a table. I grabbed the first things I could find along with a pair of shoes, hoping that they were a left and a right, not giving any thought whether they were wood or leather; just that they would fit.

  From there we were led into a huge room filled with German clerks. We were told to stand in line and push up our sleeves. We had a number tattooed on our arms with an electric pen. My Mama told me to be brave and not cry. I tried to hold back the tears as the hot needle of the pen burned into my arm a small triangle and the number 44117.

  A soldier started shouting at us and pulled me from my mother’s grasp as other officers pulled other girls of similar age. There were probably twenty of us; all blondes with fair skin. My eyes remained fixed on my mother who was only a few feet away but far enough to know that if I crossed that distance I would be killed. As I gazed at her face, her eyes were dulled and she looked white and sickly and filled with fear. In only days, the woman with the voluptuous figure had become gaunt and pale. It was as if my mother knew she was already dead. I tried in vain to mouth words but my mother appeared to look through me and not at me.