by Helene Berton (Centereach, NY)
Flipping over the tape, I clicked the play button and smiled when “Modern Love” came through my headphones. David Bowie was the best flying music, I decided.
After finding the pack of gum in my overstuffed bag, I offered a stick to my mother and then unwrapped one for myself. While chewing exuberantly, I waited for my ears to snap, crackle and pop as we started our descent. Reluctantly, I clicked the stop button as the Sony Walkman couldn’t compete with the noise of the plane. “China Girl” would have to wait. China, my thoughts wandered, was the other side of the world. But then again, so was Israel, and that’s where we landed.
I looked at my mother. Even after the overnight flight, she was brimming with excitement. Why was this trip so important to her?
* * *
The girls with their machine guns slung across their backs startled me, gave me pause. I snapped a picture of them, lost in thought, winding to advance the film before taking another.
Like a tourist, I was gaping at them as if an attraction. “Are they in the army?” I whispered to my mother.
“Yes, the IDF,” she replied as we walked down the bustling Tel Aviv street.
“I’m surprised so many girls want to join.”
“It’s mandatory. Everyone goes directly from high school into the military,” she explained to me.
Mandatory? I thought of myself after high school graduation planning my great escape to college. All the stress and drama of roommates, meal plans, and boyfriends dominated my life that summer before I left. I heard my voice complaining that I had to take the bus when most of my friends had cars of their own. Meanwhile, these girls were nonchalantly strolling along with their machine guns, chatting in the sunshine with their cups of coffee. I suddenly felt small.
* * *
“Tell me again who they are?” I asked my mother as we sat down at the round table. The ceiling fan above us did little to cool the restaurant.
“My cousins.”
“How are they related to us?”
My mother looked at me for a moment longer than necessary. Maybe she had explained it already or assumed that I knew. “Your grandfather came to the United States from Latvia when the war broke out. His brother, Uncle Max, went to Israel. These are his daughters.”
I digested this information, trying to form the family tree in my mind. Having no first cousins of my own, I couldn’t relate very well. I felt disconnected, distracted by the heat. I squirmed in my seat, tempted to ask the waiter to turn up the AC. Looking around at the open windows and archways leading into the garden, I realized there was no air conditioning at all.
“That must be them.” My mother stood up as two older women entered the restaurant.
I was surprised by their age, having pictured them younger. How were these women my mother’s cousins? Realizing that my grandparents had my mother late in life, I put it together. It was as if a generation was missing, but it did add up.
The introductions were made, complete with hugs and kisses which left me feeling awkward, bringing out the shyness I had battled since childhood. I did not know these women, after all.
I sat quietly as the conversation swirled around me, looking at the food that the cousins had ordered for us. I picked at the unfamiliar meat and sauces presented to me, wishing for a slice of pizza and chips. My mind drifted to the shops we had passed in Tel Aviv as I made my mental list of who would be getting which souvenir. Maybe I would indulge in the boots I saw in the window display or even the leather jacket. I had some money saved from my new job.
Noticing my mother’s sudden look of sadness, I listened in, hoping to catch onto the conversation without embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, as I tried to pull up the dialogue that might still be hanging in the air or my recent memory.
“Yes, he was killed in the war,” Chana said, looking serious. “He was my youngest.”
Her son? Killed in the war? I brushed aside all thoughts of shopping and started listening. I felt like I should say something.
“I’m so sorry,” I quietly offered condolences to my cousin.
She looked at me then, and I couldn’t quite figure out the expression. Was it distaste or was I taking on a feeling of inadequacy? I felt like a spoiled child, and I didn’t like it.
After lunch we stepped out to the garden to take some photographs under the archways. I placed my hands on the cool limestone, letting my sense of touch help me file away the moment into my memory. My mother wrapped up the conversation with more hugs and kisses while I took in the views of the rolling countryside. It was quite beautiful just a short drive from Tel Aviv. I hadn’t expected such green lushness. But then again, I didn’t know what to expect, as I really hadn’t done any of the research.
* * *
“Did you enjoy meeting the cousins?” my mother asked me in the cab as we rode back to the hotel.
“I did,” I forced out, with an overly high pitch to my voice. I hoped my mother didn’t notice. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the get together other than it gave me a lot to think about. I was ignorant on too many topics, falling short on contributing to the conversation.
Looking down at my brightly polished nails and fringed boots despite the heat, I felt foolish. I looked at my mother who carried on a one-sided conversation with me and I started listening. For real.
* * *
Present day…
I bring the photo album and carefully balance it on my mother’s lap as she sits in her wheelchair. My two sons sit on either side of her, their cell phones on their laps but remaining untouched for the moment. I see a glimpse into the future, the day when they both have children, possibly daughters, who would be cousins. How heartbreaking if they never know each other. I finally understand the dynamic of cousins.
They look onto the photos covered in sheets of plastic with their undivided attention.
My mother points from face to face, announcing names questioningly.
“Cousin Chana?” she asks.
“Yes,” I smile encouragingly.
“And Rafa?”
“Yes, Rafa.”
“And this lady?” She places a long fingernail on her own image. “Who is she?”
“That’s you,” I say, not for the first time that day.
Native New Yorker Helene Berton has returned to her love of writing after a long hiatus. She has two short story collections, Away from Home ( https://a.co/d/czXOPef) and Beyond the Parallel (https://a.co/d/1SViCZj), available on Amazon. Currently, Helene is working on her first novella, Red Means Stop, and a children’s picture book, The Big Race. If you’d like to learn more about Helene and her work, visit https://heleneberton.wordpress.com .
Author’s Note: My story explores the dynamics between mother and daughter, a common theme in my writing. It was inspired by and takes place during my first trip to Israel in 1987. There is a bit of a naivety portrayed, which is how I felt as a young American girl visiting Israel (somewhat immature and self centered), but it was a wake-up call. The trip changed my outlook, inspiring me to fall in love with the country. I was fortunate enough to visit a second time several years later, and both my sons experienced Israel through Birthright. It is my hope to return once again.
The Jewish Writing Project 