Once I went to Father’s school and saw some graffiti written on the fence in the yard. It was written in big letters… I don’t want to write what it was exactly. One word was particularly insulting in that graffiti – Shushara. That was Father’s nickname.
In those days, we knew very well what Shushara was. Everybody knew the big, mean rat, a character from “The Adventures of Buratino” (Pinocchio) both from the book and from a recent very popular movie based on the book. I had to admit with sorrow that my Father’s students grasped quite precisely the similarity between him and that rat: both had a long nose and were quarrelsome and malicious.
Emma lay in bed with her outstretched leg in the cast talking nonstop. She loved to talk. In the heat of the conversation, she moved her leg awkwardly and moaned, biting her lip slightly.
“Does it hurt much?” I asked.
My sister nodded.
“Well, not all the time. It just aches most of the time. It’s important not to move it. It’s all right, but six weeks…”
My sister is a person in whom seemingly incompatible traits coexist. It’s impossible to predict which of them might manifest itself at any given moment.
Now, for example, I was struck by her patience. It seemed to be a time to be capricious, to cry and whine, and Emma could do that perfectly well. If someone dares to be unfair to her, in her opinion, Emma can bellow so loud that eardrums might burst. She could rebuff any boy who offended her or her girlfriend. And her rebuff would definitely be very loud. But here she had broken her leg – and no whining, no yelling.
Emma’s patience had struck me many times before.
During summer vacation, I usually visited Grandpa Yoskhaim in Tashkent, and Emma went to Grandma Abigai’s. To tell the truth, I didn’t envy my sister. When Aunt Rosa, Mama’s sister, had a daughter, no sooner did Emma arrive than she was “appointed” governess, nanny – call it what you will. That was not an easy task. It was especially difficult with Mira.
The world had never before seen such a reckless mischief-maker.
Sometimes, as we approached the house, we would hear her squeals, laughter, and even the crash of furniture. I remember how this five-year-old scamp once jumped from bed to bed in the bedroom, messing up and scattering all the sheets, blankets and pillows. That was Mira’s favorite entertainment. There was down flying around the room – one of the pillows had burst. That happened when Mama and I went to visit Emma. As we opened the door of the bedroom, we covered our ears right away for Mira’s squealing was unbearable.
But there was Emma, walking unhurriedly from bed to bed trying to catch the prankster by the hand and repeating with her tranquil smile, “All right, that’s enough, you’ve been jumping too long. You’ve played enough. It’s time to calm down.”
That was some “playing,” I thought, looking at my sister with sympathy and surprise. If I were Emma, I would pull this brat off the bed, shake her properly and give her a good spanking on her little behind. But Emma endured it, and not for an hour or so but from morning till night, day after day.
I thought it was patience. But was it perhaps kindness?
At that time, I didn’t have an understanding of such things, and Emma’s displays of kindness still amazed me. That’s why I remember them.
She had a friend, Vika Stepanova, who lived in our building. She was a clumsy girl, tall and thin. She walked unsteadily, almost as if she might fall down if someone blew on her. She wore glasses with thick lenses. I don’t know why she had no other friends either in our building or at school but Emma. That speaks for itself: the majority of children are conformists. They prefer to act like everybody else, but Emma was different.
Boys often mistreated clumsy unattractive Vika both at school and near our building. Emma was her main defender and comforter. The friends had different interests. Vika liked to read. Emma preferred playing with dolls to all other pastimes and entertainments. She had just two of them, and they were well-cared-for and well-dressed. In a word, we all knew that Emma treated them with maternal tenderness. They slept with her, and she groomed them more thoroughly than herself. Nobody was allowed to touch them. Vika was an exception, though Emma had many girlfriends.
Once Vika came running to Emma in tears. As they whispered to each other in a secluded corner of the living room, I eavesdropped: Server, a bully from our neighborhood, had snatched Vika’s eyeglasses and teased her for a long time before giving them back. Emma immediately devised a clever plan for revenge. Vika calmed down and was about to go home when Emma leaped to her feet, “Just a minute.” She ran past me to her room and returned to the living room with a doll in her hands, her most beautiful favorite doll. “You may keep her overnight.”
However, my sister wasn’t always so kind. Sometimes, she was an absolutely unbearable egotist. Suppose Mama and I are going to the bazaar. My sister expresses a desire to accompany us. “Will you help carry the bags?” I ask, for I’ve already learned from bitter experience what her promises mean.
Emma nods, which supposedly means “Of course I will.” But from the beginning to the end of our visit to the bazaar, Emma’s help consists of exclaiming now and then, “I want this, Mama! May I have this?” Neither raspberries, nor peaches, nor ice cream, nor another twenty tempting delicacies escape her greedy glance. She tosses her hair, which falls onto her shoulders and is no longer red but jet black, her pleading almond-shaped eyes stare at Mama, and she almost coos, “Mummy, please.”
And Mother’s heart gives in…
When, after buying everything we need, we set off for home, our small family detachment looks approximately like this. Mama and I walk to the bus stop, which is ten minutes away, bent over under the weight of the bags. After taking twenty or thirty steps, we stop to rest and set the bags on the sidewalk, but we continue holding them for it takes too long to pick them up again. So, we stand hunched over the bags, even though we very much want to rub our red, swollen palms. And our dear Emma, graceful as a young fallow deer, stands beside us waving her little paper bags of cherries, apricots and raspberries – everything she has managed to coax out of Mama.
No, excuse me, that’s not all. Emma holds a vanilla ice cream cone in her other hand. She licks it with her long, narrow tongue, chasing it down with a cherry or raspberry.
That’s her help. And when I can no longer stand the heat and the smacking of Emma’s lips, I ask, “Let me have a lick.” She answers unhappily, “I’ll leave some of it for you.” And she steps aside quickly.
“She’s just a girl,” Mama sighs as she calms me down.
I don’t argue, but I think about something else: the point is not that she’s a girl, the point is that she resembles her father sometimes. Fortunately, only sometimes. Besides, perhaps due to similarities in their personalities, the older Emma became the more often she expressed out loud her indignation about Father’s behavior and gave free rein to her feelings.
I remember the day when I rebelled against Father for the first time, with her help. Father, Emma and I were at home. I was doing my homework in my room when I heard shouting coming from the kitchen – first Father’s enraged voice, then Emma’s shrill shouts.
It turned out that as my sister was applying green liquid antiseptic to a scratch, she accidentally knocked it over onto the kitchen table. The table was new, and now it would have an indelible green spot. Father was ranting as if it were nothing less than a stain on his fate. In response, Emma was squealing for everybody to hear.
When I ran into the kitchen, she was standing in the corner by the sink, and Father was waving his fist and yelling, “Don’t shout!”