by Roseanne Freed (Burbank, CA)
for my Dad. Maishie.
When my Dad left Israel at nineteen he changed his name
and I was his link to the past as I look like his mother.
This is Dad’s story from the grave: Born in bed—
no need for details—we never had enough food
to eat. Like beggars we slept in the clothes
we wore all day. A religious man Tevya, my father
had nothing. God forgive me if I don’t praise my father—
but he never achieved anything, and I had to share his name.
I didn’t know people slept in special clothes
called pajamas—we only survived because of my mother’s
tenacity. Always hungry, you feel cold without food
and Jerusalem is cold in winter—a thin blanket on the bed
to cover us, we four children sharing the one bed.
His only job to sit with the dead, my father
earned a pittance, so our stomachs cried for food.
I’m the first one to change the name.
Cleaning houses of the rich my mother
worked for a dentist’s wife who gave us clothes.
We didn’t go to the dentist but wore his childrens’ clothes.
No furniture in our room except the two beds—
one night, falling asleep on top of the baby, my mother
smothered it. If he got carpentry work at night my father
bought us herring and pita. I didn’t want his name
when he’d wake us up after midnight to eat the food,
but not all of it — god forbid—we had to save food
for tomorrow. We were shnorers, our clothes
full of patches, I couldn’t wait to change the name.
My poor mother, I never saw her resting in bed.
I had to go work at thirteen because my father
couldn’t feed us. On special holidays my mother
cooked meatballs, oy such delicious rissoles my mother
made, my mouth waters to think of the food.
After I emigrated I celebrated my freedom from my father
and his religion with bacon on Yom Kippur. I bought clothes
for the trip —a double-breasted suit. I never went to bed
hungry after I moved to South Africa and changed my name.
When I married at thirty I had a successful factory making hospital beds.
My four children and their mother always had food and clothes,
and clean sheets. I hope my kids aren’t ashamed of their father’s name.
Roseanne Freed grew up in apartheid South Africa and now lives in Los Angeles, where she takes inner-city school children hiking in the Santa Monica mountains. A Best of the Net nominee, her poems have appeared in MacQueens Quinterly, ONE ART, Naugatuck River Review, Silver Birch Press and Verse-Virtual among others.
The Jewish Writing Project 