Teaching Music
December 1 ,2015
Playing with Fire
This story is very difficult for me to tell. It’s about how I lost respect for Mom.
Uncle Moshe just joined the army. Uncle Moshe Mom’s youngest brother was tall now and very strong. His army base was close to our town. He was in the “intelligence”, shahs, don't tell anyone. He learned to read and write Arabic and was involved in something secret. Anyway, every time that he had an afternoon pass, he would hitchhike his way for a visit and have some of Mom’s cooking. We didn’t have a telephone so we wouldn’t know in advance when he was to come. But mom always had a few moments warning. You see, the bus stop was a few blocks up the road. Avi and I would play outside and the moment we would spot his tall figure coming off the bus or the ride he just got, Avi would run back home yelling all the way home, “Uncle Moshe is here, Uncle Moshe is here.” Mom then would rush and put some water on the fire and rush to the bathroom to make sure she looks presentable. I would run to great Uncle Moshe and skip around him with questions and tells that I had waited to tell him since his last visit.
Uncle Moshe was a funny guy. As much as I didn’t like the fact that we were never allowed to touch any of his stuff, we still enjoyed his company. Every visit he would come with a new joke or a new prank to show us. Once he brought with him a whoopee-cushion and placed it under Mom’s seat. Another time he got a fake throw up and placed it in front of Avi and made him almost throw up for real. This time he showed us how to make a tower with matches. He pulled out his match box from his pocket and emptied it on the table. Carefully, he would place the matches one on top of the other. Slowly but surely, we had a match tower.
We played for a long time and before we went to bed, I asked Uncle Moshe to leave the tower as is so I can play with it the next day.
In the morning right after Mom has left for work Uncle Moshe realized that he didn’t have matches for his cigarettes anymore. “Can you go buy me some matches? He asked me. “Here are ten Agorot, go buy them while I get ready.
“Sure” I said and ran down to Sa’adya’s groceries store.
When I came back, I gave the box to Uncle Moshe and his 5 Agorot change. “Keep it” he said, buy yourself some candy.
Avi and I walked Uncle Moshe to the bus station and waited to bid him goodbye before he left. As soon as he climbed the bus, I ran back calling Avi to follow me to Sa’adya’s groceries store. We arrived there out of breath, and I asked Sa’adya for another box of matches. “Didn’t I sell you another box just ten minutes ago?” he asked.
“Yes” I said, “it was for my Uncle Moshe, but he wanted one more.” I lied. I knew he wouldn’t sell me the matches if I told him it was for me to play with.
“Hmm,” he said, I don’t like it, but here you go, be careful!”
“Come let’s make the tower bigger,” I said to Avi.
“No,” he said, “let’s make a Koomzits.” Koom-zits is a Yiddish word for a campfire. It means ‘come and sit’. We, kids, loved to go to a Koomzits. There’s singing and dancing around the fire and the best part is the roasted potatoes.
“But we don’t have a place to do it” I said.
“We can do it in the living room” Avi suggested.
“No that could cause a fire and burn the house. We can maybe find a safe place in the back.” I said. We went to the backyard and then I saw the hut where Grandma Okev lived. It was a small house built out of tin.
“See?” I pointed to the house in front of us. “This is a good place. Grandma Okev’s house is made of steel and it won’t burn. We can try making the campfire next to her house.”
“Good!” Avi cheered.
We gathered some small kindling and some paper and placed them next to the back wall of the hut. I tried to strike the match and light it, but it didn’t work. They were either wet or I didn’t have the knowledge of how to do it.
“Let me try” Avi said.
“Sorry, you are too young” I said.
“No, I’m not!” He yelled. “If you can do it so could I.”
“No, you can’t.” I said again but then he started to cry and yell so loud that Mrs. Okev came out and to the back and asked; “What are you two doing behind my mother’s house?”
“Nothing” Avi and I answered in unison.
“Are these matches in your hands? Don’t you know a ‘five years old’ shouldn’t be playing with matches? Give them to me! Where did you get them from?”
“I’m not five years old.” I said angrily. “I’m six, and I bought them at Sa’adya’s.” Reluctantly I extended my arm and gave her the matches.
In the afternoon when Mom came back, she walked in the house as we were playing with the match tower. “Come on kids!” She called, “it’s time for lunch and a nap.”
We came to the kitchen where she served us lunch and right after that we went to our rooms to sleep.
A few minutes after I got in my bed, I saw Mom coming in with something that looks like a butter knife in her hand. She approached the bed and asked me to extend my left hand forward. I did so and as she grabbed it with one hand, she pressed the knife’s flat side on top of my hand with her other hand. It was hot. No, it was burning hot. I felt the pain instantly and it took me by surprise so that I couldn’t even cry.
“Now you’ll learn never to play with fire.” She almost whispered.
Next, she went to Avi’s bed and shortly after I heard his cry, and I knew he was getting the same punishment.
It took a long time to heal. We had to go to the nurse at the medical center so she could spread some ointment and cover it with bandages. When she asked us, how come we both had the same wound at the same place I was too ashamed to tell her that I had a mother capable of such a thoughtless deed.
Avi’s wound took longer than mine to heal. But he forgot about it before too long. Yet, the scar lasted with me. It was not the scar on my hand. I swore that no matter what, my kids, when I have them, will never feel about me the way about my mom.
***
Yemenite Wedding
The big day for Tova Okev has come. She is getting married. I remember, just a week before, they had the “Henna” party for her, something like an engagement party, so the parents can agree that the couple may marry and so they can wish their children good luck on their wedding day. Sometimes I think, a Yemenite Henna party is a bigger party than a wedding party.
For Orthodox Jews a co-ed party is not permitted. The men must be separated from the women. As for us children, it wasn't important. We were allowed to be anywhere we wanted. First, I spent some time with the men. They had some musicians playing Yemenite music, and they all were singing together.
At the women's side of the party, on a big chair sat Tova the bride. I couldn't recognize her. She was full of makeup. She was wearing a long red silk dress decorated with golden flowers. The dress covered her from neck to toe. On her feet she had golden pointy slippers curled up with tassels decorating the point in front. What she wore on her head was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. It was a tall tower, maybe two, maybe three feet tall, all covered with flowers, row by row, every row a different type. There was a row of red roses followed by a row of yellow daisies, followed by white carnations, and so on, and on, some twenty rows of flowers up to the pointy tip of the hat. On the sides of Tova's face I saw colorful straps holding the hat down. They were wrapped under her chin so tightly that she couldn't talk. It was even difficult for her to smile.
"Hi Tova," I said, "congratulations!"
Poor Tova couldn't even nod. The hat was so heavy it weighed down her head. All she was able to do was move her cheeks a little to show a crooked smile.
Grandma Okev, a very old lady, was young again. She was singing and yelling from happiness, "lulululululu," in a very high pitch and at the same time drumming on an empty oil tin can. She surely wasn't herself. Usually, she was slow and nasty. Every time when we, the children, came to see how she made the pitas in the round stone wood-burning oven, or how she makes the “mlawah”, the fried flaky dough, she would wave at us with her walking stick and yell something in Yemenite to get us out of there. But not today, today she was happy and silly, maybe drunk. She even offered me some of her pita and humus.
"Hot, hot, very hot!" I yelled, running out of the women's section for water. The humus had some red-hot sauce in it made out of small red peppers and lots of garlic.
"It's good for you! Ha ha ha!" the silly old lady yelled after me, but I couldn't stay to listen to her. I ran to the men's section and grabbed the first glass of water I saw and poured it straight down my throat, only to spit it right back.
"Yak!" It wasn't water, it was “arrack”, a homemade Yemenite alcoholic drink.
All the men laughed at the sight of my agony. I grabbed a pita and shoved all of it in my mouth and ran out of the room.
***
Mi BaHoser
The next day after Tova’s wedding when I returned from school, I picked my brother from the kindergarten and we both walked home sharing the experience of the Yemenite wedding. Behind the Okev’s house we found two crates of empty glass buttles. Remembering that Mr. Okev got us in trouble before I sent Avi to ask him if it is ok for us to play with them.
“They are empty, you say?” I heard the voice of Mr. Okev. He didn’t sound like he had time for silly questions. “I am not going to drink them, am I? He said, “Go ahead play with them.”
“He is so mean!” Avi complained “let’s play with them, see how they explode against the wall.”
I put my bag on the floor and drew a line on the ground two yards away from the floor.
“Let’s see who get the bigger explosion if we throw them from here.” I said, picked up one buttle and aimed at the wall. The buttle exploded mediately as it hit the wall. Avi’s buttle did the same. We kept on throwing them one after the other. Some exploded big and some didn’t right away, we had to throw them again a few times.
“What is going on there?” I heard Mr. Okev yell as he was walking out of his house. “Put that buttle down!”
“You said we can play with them!” I said as I was replacing the last buttle into the crate.
“Play with them, you stupid kids, Not break them!”
“I told you he was mean,” Avi said as I picked up my bag and walked home.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go to Nehemiah’s house. He has a “Mi BaHoser”.
Purim was and still is my favorite holiday. We get to dress up like our favorite characters, we get to act silly. In fact, everyone dresses up. Not only kids; the bus drivers, the bank tellers, the teachers, and everyone in the street. We all walked up and down the main street showing our costumes. We had parties at school, at friends’ houses and little celebrations at home. My friends from school would have “Homan Tashens” - little triangle folded cookies stuffed with sweeten puppy seeds we call them in Hebrew “The Ears of Haman” - “Oznei Haman”. My Mom would make her Tunisian pastries. “Orellets” - deep fried pasta like dough dipped in honey. Or “Yoyo” - hard donuts, also deep fried and dipped in honey. My dad loved them, and he used to dunk them in his morning coffee. Yet, one of our favorite things to do was the games we played.
Purim comes in the beginning of the spring in Israel, and we all get to play outside, either with our toy guns being cowboys and Indians. Or for those of us who didn't have the money to buy toy guns who make real explosion noises we made our own home-made noise maker. There were two ways to make a noise maker (don't try it at home, these toys were banned because of many bad accidents). It depends on how connected you are to tools. The more complicated one to make was a bent steel rod with the long part as the handle. At the tip of the short side, we drilled a hole the size of a thick nail. We got a nail, cut the sharp tip off and made sure it fits well and snug in the hole. Next, we scraped the tip of a match or two and stuff them in the hole. And cover it with the nail.
The way the game was played is simple. One of the kids would yell “Mi BaHoser” and as soon as we would answer “Haman” the kid with the toy would smack the nail hard on the concrete floor. An explosion would surely sound. As you know, the whole idea of making noise on Purim has to do with the “Megillah” - scroll, the story of queen Ester and when we read the name of Haman, we drowned his name with noise. “Mi BaHoser” was heavily Yemenite accented line from the scroll of Ester when the King asked his servants “who is in the yard” Mee BaHatzer” or as the Yemenite would pronounce it “Mi BaHoser” when we answered “Haman” you would hear an explosion.
The other version of this toy required a brave venture to your house and steal the drawer's key. You see, the key had a hole already in the tip. It fits exactly to the large nail. We would attach the nail to a metal string and the other end to loop of the key. Fold the wire in the middle and when time comes, we would smack the key while holding the wire from a distance. “Mi BaHoser” became the name of this dangerous toy. We played with them for a few years until it was banned, and people were arrested or paid fine for playing with it. Some kids like most kids were trying to make bigger and bigger noise by stuffing more match powder in the hole. And more than a few times the toy just exploded and hurt the kids.
“Mi BaHoser?” Boom!
***
1962
Hairy Day
"Tomorrow, children," Hagit, the first-grade teacher, said, "We will do some artwork. Bring some old magazines, some flour, and scissors."
Finally, something interesting! You know, I didn't like this school. When I was in the kindergarten, we made things. We built with blocks, painted pictures, played with play dough, and did constructive projects. But that year it was awful! All that we did was copy from the board and recopy at home. When the teacher wrote on the board on the first day "Shalom, first grade" and asked us to copy it in our new half size notebooks, I tried, really, I tried. It took me half an hour to draw the first letter on half of the page. Then, before I had the chance to finish the second letter, the bell rang. The second period I usually spent bothering naive Yemima or Rina, Margarina, the big girl with the long braids. I remember when one Friday I had to stay after school with her to clean the classroom. I almost burned her braids with the Shabat candles. That was after I realized I couldn't set the blackboard on fire. Lucky for us the candles went out.
Anyway, I asked Mom for some of her old French magazines and the scissors.
"Be careful with them," she said. "Those are my only pair. I need them for sewing." Mom just bought a used – almost new Zinger Sawing machine with the money she saved working with Dad.
"We will make ‘Happy New Year’ cards today, children." Hagit, the teacher, said. "Here you have blank cards. Let's make glue with water and flour. Be careful not to get dirty. Then I want you to cut flowers from the magazines, and we will glue them onto the cards."
And so, we did. I cut flowers, I cut cartoons, poppies, babies, I cut everything. I made thirty or more cards. Thank god, the bell rang. I didn't know if I could continue for one minute longer.
"O.K. everybody," I announced, "Who wants a haircut?"
All the boys lined up in front of me, and while I stood on my chair, I started shearing everyone’s’ hair. Before the bell rang for the next period, I managed to snip all the boys' hair. I started to cut my own when I felt someone grabbing my arm. Hagit, the teacher, did not know what to say. She pulled me by the arm, turned me around, and spanked my behind. Well, this was nothing compared to what Dad did to me when he heard about it.
***
Nono Victor’s Disappointment
It wasn't easy to get Meme Julie to tell us stories. She was always busy preparing food or cleaning the house. But when she came to visit, which was very rare, we were able to get her to tell us some. We were always curious about our history, where Meme came from. What did they do in Tunis and all kind of stuff.
“Israel has been and still is a wonderful country. It is the only real democracy in the middle east. It has people from around the world and everyone is equal. But some people equal more.” Meme July started her story. “I never wanted to come to Israel. We had a good life in Tunis. Your grandfather was a very respectful man, he was a successful accountant. Nono was the town mayor's accountant and even your uncle Albert had a nice job, he owned a locksmith shop. It was nice until the Nazis showed up.
Everything had changed. Nono had to go to work at the loading dock for the German army and Albert was sent to another camp. I had to dress Robert with shorts, so they will think he was still a child. Lucky for us the war ended before we were sent to be exterminated. We had to start over again. And then then the emissary from the 'Sochnut' - the Israeli agency - came to Nono's office and promised him a good position if he leaves everything and move to Israel. ‘We will give you a respectful job a place to live and your kids will have a nice school to go to’. They promised.
Nono was an active Zionist, he believed that we all should move to Israel the land of the Jewish people. Nono took a big part in the Jewish Federation and was very involved. But we still had a problem. Tunis had a law that prevented the Jews from living the country. Jews who wanted to emigrate will have to leave all their belongings in the country. They will lose everything. They were permitted to take only what they can carry in their suitcase. I am still not sure how I agreed to move. Even after the Nazis we managed to pick up. Tunis was under the French protection and the new Arab government wasn't full in force yet. So, we packed as much as we could all nine of us and we boarded a ship to Marseille, France.
Problems have started as soon as we arrived there. We were not permitted to continue to Israel for a whole year. We were put in a quarantine camps in cramped barracks – until they were sure that no one has some made up African disease. All the kids got the flue and we had to send Albert to the hospital. Once we finally arrived at Israel, (your mom was very seasick the whole way there) they put us in, yet another, camp. This one was in a Moshav in the south of Israel. Each family received a tent with water supply in the center of the camp. 'Until we build your housings' they promised. When Nono went to acquire about the promises he received in Tunis he got nowhere. He needed a letter of recommendation from an official who knows his work, ethics, and experience. Unfortunately, all the officials were from eastern Europe. Of course, they didn't know him. They would rather give the jobs to people they knew in Poland, Romania, Russia, Germany or Hungary, people with much less experience or credentials. “Protexia” we called it and it followed us for many years.
Nono had to take a job away from us, paving the roads south to Eilat. In the heat with hard labor, he wasn't used to. He would come home (to the tent) only on Fridays afternoon for Shabat and leave early morning every Sunday. Until he got a mild stroke. He was sent to the hospital and lost site in one eye. We were offered a small apartment in Beer-Sheva and Nono was hired by the town to be the town's gardener. You see? That public playground in the middle of our neighborhood, where you and your cousins play every time you come to visit was built by Nono.
***
