Grandpa and Grandma also rejoiced. The birth of a boy was considered a blessing in any Jewish family, and Grandma Lisa and Grandpa Yoskhaim were devout Jews.
So, we sat at the table devouring our favorite choyi kaimoki, and Grandma Lisa sat on the couch looking tenderly at her son and discussing the upcoming event with him: the circumcision ritual. It would happen very soon, as soon as the newborn was seven-days old. They needed to think of everything, for many guests were expected.
The celebration, the guests, the sacred ritual – which we thought was also somewhat indecent – all that was certainly curious for us. But Yura, as always, had to scoff. Our new cousin became a victim of his wit simply because he was Forelock’s son.
“We’ll start saving money for a wig,” Yura whispered in my ear as Robert listened to his mother’s ideas about shopping for the sumptuous feast.
“Daddy is a bit bald, so the son will soon be bald.”
I chuckled, almost choking on my choyi kaimoki. Robert turned in our direction, but Yura looked at him innocently.
“We’re discussing whether he will look like you. You are, of course, quite handsome, except for the nose. Nothing can be done about that Jewish nose of yours.”
Robert waved this aside. He wasn’t touchy today.
The breakfast was over. Robert and Grandma left in a hurry. They wanted to visit Mariya, to at least look at her through the window. They would not be able to see the newborn before Mariya was discharged from the maternity hospital. My cousin looked over the empty table. Yura hadn’t had enough to eat and, for him, not eating enough was worse than being hungry. When he was hungry, he at least had hope of soon being fed.
Yura’s eyes lit up – there was a familiar luster to them – and headed decisively for the kitchen where the ZIL refrigerator shone bright white by the door.
That refrigerator had served Grandma Lisa faithfully for many years. It was the only one of Grandma’s belongings that hadn’t assumed any of her features. It probably felt that it didn’t belong to Grandma alone but to the whole household. Did it consider itself an animate being because it regulated the work of its own motor? Who knows? Actually, the refrigerator really did resemble an intelligent and amiable being. The inscription “ZIL” in steel letters diagonally across the door resembled a raised eyebrow. Its door opened and closed without noise, as if it wanted to serve you better. Its engine didn’t puff as it turned on; it worked quietly, tactfully, trying not to bother anyone.
Grandma took such good care of the refrigerator that it might have gotten a swelled head. She washed it like a baby and maintained perfect order on its shelves. A little rag hung from its door handle. Every time Grandma closed the door, she wiped the handle. It made Yura and me laugh: Grandma acted like a sophisticated criminal wiping away his fingerprints after committing a murder.
It goes without saying that no one but Grandma could open the refrigerator. God forbid anyone should take anything from the shelves. There was a strict refrigerator ban for all the members of the household.
And Yura was about to violate it.
“Stand guard!” he commanded.
Grandma mustn’t catch us unawares: she hadn’t left yet and was fiddling with something at the table in the yard. What if she needed something in the kitchen? But there was nothing you could do about Yura.
I took my post at the door, which was ajar. Yura was already digging around in the refrigerator. What was he looking for, I wondered. Each shelf had its function: one was for meat, another for dairy products; there were pickles and preserves on the bottom one. Judging by the clinking of jars, Yura was inspecting that very shelf.
“She thinks she can hide it from me,” he said, removing the liter jar of black current preserves from the refrigerator.
“Are you out of your mind?” I whispered.
Grandma claimed that these particular preserves helped lower her high blood pressure. That’s why she never treated anyone to the black current preserves. She had some when no one was around in order not to tempt anyone. Sometimes, she would have it in the presence of family members, and I was one of them.
Grandma moved the jar closer and ran a teaspoon around the upper layer of the thick, almost black, grainy preserves very carefully. The spoon filled, and the surface of the preserves remained smooth. After she had scooped out enough, Grandma transferred it onto her tongue and savored it with her eyes closed, moaning and rocking her head from side to side. Perhaps she did it only when I was around so I would remember that she was a sick person and ate preserves not for pleasure but for medicinal purposes.
If only she could see how Yura was treating her preserves.
“Is she the only one who has blood pressure? I also have it,” he groaned as he struggled with the tight lid. He dipped his spoon into the jar and almost reached the bottom, making a big hole in the preserves and leaving a wide trench on the side. He swallowed the preserves quickly, and the spoon went in for another serving. After compensating for what he had missed at breakfast, Yura magnanimously held the jar out to me. After I had a couple of spoonsful of preserves, I repaired all the damages – I cleaned the sides of the jar, leveled the surface and closed it up tight.
“Do you remember where it was? Put it there.”
We wiped the handle of the refrigerator with Grandma’s rag, which was quite appropriate this time.
Grandma was still busy at the table in the yard. There were large pieces of meat, just washed under the faucet in the yard, in front of her. Now, she salted each piece, which one needed to do a few hours before cooking. Then she transferred it to a big enamel basin. After putting another piece into the basin, she covered it with a wicker tray to keep flies away. She finished her work, placed a heavy stone on top of the tray to keep cats away and went inside to change.
“We’re leaving. Stay home!” she ordered.
That quite suited Yura and me.
Morning was almost over, and a sultry day was setting in. The tulle curtain on Grandma’s door didn’t puff up like a sail; it just quivered slightly. The hens were hiding under the eaves. It was time to refresh ourselves.
We were allowed to use the hose to cool off only if we didn’t use it too long and didn’t make too much noise. That’s why we were glad that Grandma was leaving. Otherwise, she was always running out onto the porch yelling, “That’s enough! You’ve flooded the whole yard!”
We hadn’t taken into account that another adult was at home: Misha, Yura’s father.
This summer, Uncle Misha was getting ready for exams in physics at the graduate school, and he was finishing his thesis. He studied by correspondence and was supposed to defend his thesis in Moscow. Now, Uncle Misha studied day and night before the decisive storming of the fortress called “master’s degree.” It was common knowledge that no Jew could defend a thesis and get a degree, even if he was brilliant. Uncle Misha spared neither time nor effort. Sitting in his study, he read out loud and committed to memory all the valuable information he planned to incorporate into his thesis dedicated to liquids and their properties. His well-trained teacher’s voice coming through the open window resembled the voice of an announcer giving an endless report on the radio. As we made our way past that window, we giggled quietly. We were going to conduct a practical study of the properties of a liquid called “water.” Should Misha watch us and use a few things from our experiment in his work?
Well, we weren’t going to invite him to watch. On the contrary, we warned each other, “Don’t yell. If he hears us, we’ll get it.”
The hissing and gurgling began in the faucet, then snorted as water filled the thick rubber hose and gushed, dousing the dried-out wooden gate. Sprayed with water, it looked cool. The poor thing must have been glad. We always doused ourselves at the gate, and we always shared with it the pleasure of a cool shower on a hot day. Yura would douse himself until late autumn. He was a real walrus. Neither shooting cats with a slingshot, harassing Forelock, nor even a delicious dinner – nothing gave him more pleasure than cold water.