Uncle Mendel was invited to the celebratory events because it would have been unbefitting not to. And anyway, it was difficult to get around Uncle Mendel. He had managed to position himself both as a relative of some sort and as Grandpa Yosef’s neighbor, and he lay in wait for any family gathering, so that circumventing him was both unpleasant and impossible. At family meals he took his place at the edge of the room in an observation armchair, vigilantly watching for any transgression. People examined their words carefully, omitted details that might set off Uncle Mendel, and gingerly approached the buffet table to take their fill. Sin could be lurking anywhere, you never knew. When Uncle Mendel himself finally drew near the buffet, he acted like a man preparing to dismantle an explosive device. He walked from his holy throne of an armchair to the table, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Mumbled assurances of “It’s all kosher, it’s all kosher,” would be uttered righteously all around him when the crowd saw the patron of Godliness going to sample the food. Uncle Mendel, sternly dismissing these heretics’ oral oaths, stood breathlessly surveying the bounty. This Buchenwald survivor, in whose hut people driven mad by starvation had gnawed on the dead as they lay on their bunks, stood within arm’s reach of sin: golden-brown chicken thighs, cuts of beef, dumplings. Pink radishes, mounds of peas and bowls of sautéed cabbage winked at him from the side. Potatoes up to their chins in sauce, squares of quiche notched with a knife. Uncle Mendel stood there, temptation enveloping him like a prayer shawl.
The bridge of mercy, more often than not, was Grandpa Yosef. Somewhat embarrassed, his fork busy with a full plate, he would remark in Uncle Mendel’s direction, “The cholent is excellent.” Beneath this culinary judgment ran a subterranean confirmation of kashrut, and Uncle Mendel would begin to forgive the world. First a mound of cholent. Then a second helping. He shovels the piles into his mouth and helps himself to more. Walking this way and that in front of the table, heaped dishes set out before him, rich and dark as a Dutch still-life, he perspires. His jaws move too quickly. He coughs. Holds a pickle and clears his throat. Other people approach the buffet to demand their rights. Uncle Mendel bumps, clashes. His plate wobbles. People pass him left and right, rushing, the signs of his authority blurring. A mass of camp prisoners carries quivering plates piled with knolls of food, exhaling hot ashes and smoke through their nostrils. Grandpa Lolek uproots mountains of dumplings with his fork. Grandma Eva’s strength is restored, her face glimmers with a copper tone as she clenches her jaw to defeat a stubborn bone. And Uncle Mendel, still there, waves a red napkin like a matador and burdens his plate further. Elbows jostle around the table, retiringly, politely. They will not let anyone beat them to it — not today, not here too. Conversations. Public opinion on the kreplach. One man talks, the crowd listens with joyful apprehension and a hesitant heart. They listen and pile on food. The brisket elicits cries for help. The plates are already dizzy. They rub against each other, shoving. No thoughts except seconds, the next course, and dessert.
Dessert was always compote, and it brought with it a quiet time when all was comfortable, shallow, at the end of the ends — the river’s estuary. The compote had a ritual structure that permitted no deviations. Swollen cheeks of sugared apples drowning in compote syrup. Purple plums with stems removed, looking as if their flesh has been shredded by a Doberman. Grapes floating palely like skulls at the bottom of the bowl. That was the compote and there was no other. Afterwards, there was coffee for those who were allowed. The guests were exhausted by this time, their faces expressionless. A slight sense of suffering. And inside they would embark on glorious journeys, Mongolian horsemen whipping time away in their memories.
Eventually we would detect the softened look and slight quickness of breath that signaled the awakening of their nostalgic yearning for jam. They would open the cabinet, lips puckered, and take out sickening plum or blueberry preserves, holding them out for us to taste. We would flee in horror.
The family meals wandered from one house to the other by order of a secret code of generosity. But usually we met at Grandpa Yosef’s. He was the uncontested focus, a patient host who served tea and home-made cakes — huge rounds of dough from which we pulled out raisins in disgust. At his home the Sabbath was desecrated almost every Saturday. Four generations happily watched soccer on TV, but Grandpa Yosef did not protest. He disappeared once in a while to take care of Feiga, Moshe, or a neighbor. At noon he went to synagogue. But in between business and caretaking he was an exemplary host. He bought the television himself, so the Sabbath desecrators would not be bored while he was busy. Television was permitted, he explained. They show educational programs and documentaries. But we caught him watching current affairs and the evening news. “Well, news is important,” he responded.
When the anarchy increased, the television found its way to Feiga’s bedroom. She tolerated only afternoon soaps and children’s programs, which were important. And once we caught her cheering on Maccabi Tel Aviv, blessing the star player Miki Berkowitz and his family for generations to come. Grandpa Yosef bought another television to put in the living room for the Sabbath desecrators.
Grandpa Yosef was no saint. As proof, there was his support of the Maccabi Haifa soccer team. The family tradition was one of illogical support for HaPoel Haifa, a support that nurtured in us all the appropriate character traits. We learned how to lose honorably — it became our specialization. We learned to bear disappointment, to settle for less. We acquired modesty. And against these virtues, earned through our unwavering support of HaPoel Haifa, Grandpa Yosef infuriatingly fell under the spell of Maccabi Haifa. It was all those Saturdays when he let us turn on the TV at his home, desecrating the Sabbath with live soccer broadcasts, that gave rise to the calamity. He himself, of course, never participated openly in this public sin. But here and there his gaze lingered on the screen for just a moment. Unable to reveal that we had noticed his interest, we left him without guidance, without instruction. And so Grandpa Yosef, as a soccer fan, grew into a savage. The one man who might have been able to turn God’s favor toward HaPoel accidentally became a fan of Maccabi. He won the championship with them, and the state cup final. He cheered and glowed, disinherited from all the characteristics we had attained through our love of the underdog.
Over the years, the rift grew. In Grandpa Yosef’s heart, the halfback king Reuven Atar battled the Shabbat Queen. When we watched the Saturday match on TV, he lurked between the couches. When Maccabi Haifa worked its magic against helpless opponents, he could no longer pretend. The King had outdone the Queen. We were good to him. In the early summer days of soccer, when Grandpa Yosef was buried in prayer in the synagogue or on his veranda, we would pass by with a transistor radio playing the weekly soccer broadcast and yell out to an anonymous listener, “Maccabi Haifa still leading, three minutes to match time!” A holy rustle would sweep through the congregation. Grandpa Yosef was not the only one who secretly furrowed his brow. Three minutes! They have to make it! May the Lord be with them.