And after that Rena never again spoke to Vera.
—
Vera Gold also was a chain-smoker. Now, the Julius and Rebecca Home for Jewish Seniors is what you call a smoke-free premises. It is even against the law to smoke there. Vera was a heavy smoker when she arrived, and only reluctantly did she agree to the rule that smoking was not permitted, even in her room. This is because it is almost impossible to keep the smoke, or at least the smell of smoking, confined to the place where it is coming from. It is always making its way out to where others have to enjoy it too. Therefore the only place at the Home where smoking is permitted is in a certain area outside, to the left of the front doors. There the management has set up a nice wooden bench and a large container with sand in it. People who absolutely must have cigarettes are able to go outside to this area, sit on the bench, and smoke as many cigarettes as they wish, only putting the used ones into the sand and not on the ground for others to step on. It is true that when they come back inside they smell like walking cigarettes, and their clothes might have on them schmutz from where they are dropping their ashes, but most residents are too polite to ask them to take a shower and change their clothes. This smoking area is a pleasant enough place during warm weather, but not so much in the winter.
So one day about a month after the incident with the cat about which I was just telling you, Mr. Pupik is walking by Vera’s door and his nose begins to twitch, like my son’s always did when I tried to serve him gefilte fish. I know it was twitching, because as it happens, Mrs. K and I were passing in the other direction just then. Pupik stops us and says, “Do you ladies smell anything peculiar?” We twitch our own noses, and then Mrs. K says, “To me it smells like cigarettes smoking.” I add, “To me, also.” Because that is exactly what it smelled like.
Pupik nods, says, “Yes, it does,” and proceeds to knock very loudly on Vera’s door. Mrs. K whispers in my ear, “This should be interesting.” I had to agree. So we just waited. We weren’t in any hurry anyway, and a little drama livens up the afternoon.
It took a long time before Vera answered the door. She was not holding a cigarette, but as soon as the door was open the smell got much stronger, so it was obvious what she had been doing.
Pupik asked if he could come in, and although I could not hear exactly what Vera said or what excuse she made, evidently the answer was “no.”
But Pupik does not give up so easily, especially where a possible violation of his rules is concerned. He said to Vera, loud enough so we could hear quite clearly, “Mrs. Gold, it is obvious you’ve been smoking in your room again. I’ve had several complaints about it lately. It is disturbing the other residents, particularly those whose rooms are nearby. As I have repeatedly told you, smoking is a health hazard for those who have a sensitivity to the smoke, and in any case it is against the rules of the Home. It will have to stop.”
Mrs. K raised her eyebrows to me and we waited to hear what Vera would say, expecting her to apologize or at least promise not to smoke in her room again. But we were very much mistaken. Even though there was a smell coming from her room like the inside of a saloon—in which I have never been, but I am sure it can be pretty farshtunken—Vera actually denied she had been smoking, and she even accused the other residents of making up stories against her. In fact, she used a Yiddish word to describe her neighbor Rena that I will not repeat here in polite company.
“So if you were not smoking, what is that smell of smoke that is coming from your room?” Pupik demanded.
“I have burned a pot on the stove, that is all,” Vera replied.
You have to admire the chutzpah, do you not?
By now Pupik was getting very red in the face—in fact, even the back of his neck was red, as Mrs. K and I could see. But he somehow kept his voice under control, for which I have to give him credit, and said to Vera, “Mrs. Gold, if there are any more complaints about your smoking in your room, you will be asked to leave the Home. As I have said, it is a health hazard and a violation of the rules. Good day.”
And with that he turned, gave us a very unfriendly look—as if we were part of the problem—and continued on his way.
“I would not like to be Pupik’s next appointment,” I said.
I do not know whether Vera was afraid of being evicted, or maybe she just wanted to avoid any more visits from Pupik—who would not?—but as far as I know there were no more complaints, and after that Vera did her smoking only on the wooden bench by the front doors.
She did not look happy out there.
—
Just to show you that Vera was what you might call an equal opportunity pain in the tuchis, she did not confine her abuse to residents or management. Ordinary employees came in for as much mistreatment as anyone, perhaps more. Vera could make a waitress cry, the gardener swear—it seemed to come naturally to her.
I remember the morning I heard a commotion on the lawn at the back of the Home, just behind my bedroom. I peeked out my back window and there was Vera Gold, standing in front of the machine that mows the lawn—it was one of those funny-looking contraptions, like from a marriage between a big tractor and the little push mower my father used to have, with a seat in the middle and handlebars like a bicycle—waving her arms and yelling at the man who was sitting in the seat. I could not tell what she was saying, but it was obvious she was not wishing the man good morning. The driver, a very large man whom I did not recognize, looked like he was trying to get in a word for himself but was having no success. Finally, Vera stalked away, still looking angry, and the man went back to his mowing, but not before he made with his hand a rude gesture. One she could not see, of course.
When I passed Vera in the hallway about an hour later, I asked her what the kerfuffle on the back lawn was about.
“That idiot had the nerve to run his infernal machine right under my window this morning and wake me out of a sound sleep,” she said. “So I got dressed and went right out there and told him in no uncertain terms where he could put his lawnmower.”
I suppose Vera would have been justified in being so angry, if it were not for the fact that this mowing about which she complained took place at maybe ten o’clock in the morning. Not everyone can conform to Vera’s sleeping schedule, but clearly she did not see it that way.
Another time an employee named George Bennett, a quiet, good-natured gentleman whose job it is, among other things, to make the rounds of the residents’ rooms each day to empty the wastebaskets, accidentally left one of the wastebaskets in Vera’s room just inside her bathroom door instead of in the corner where it belonged. Vera was not there at the time. When she returned and apparently was in a hurry to do her business, she tripped over the wastebasket.
Fortunately, Vera was not hurt, and apparently she even got to the toilet in time. But you would have thought poor Mr. Bennett had deliberately tried to injure her, and that she had fallen and broken several bones, to hear the way she berated him as soon as she found him. “You idiot,” she said in front of several of the residents, “I could have been killed. How much saichel”—common sense—“does it take to put the damn wastebasket back where it belongs?” And other kind words.
Now, everyone would agree that this man made a mistake leaving the wastebasket where it did not belong, and he probably deserved a warning from his supervisor to be more careful. But it was obviously unintentional and something anyone might do during a busy day, and that should have been the end of it.
Not for Vera, however. After finishing with George, she marched into Pupik’s office and demanded, loudly enough that several nearby residents heard her, that the poor man be punished in some way. In the end, he lost a week’s salary, a significant amount for anyone, but especially for a man raising four children. And maybe the worst part was that it was still his job to empty those wastebaskets every day, and whenever Vera was in her room at the time she would take the opportunity to remind him of his mistake, and not in a kindly way.
Everyone felt sorry for Geo
rge, except Vera, of course, who probably considered his punishment a victory for herself. But there was nothing we could do to change Pupik’s mind. So as usual, it was left to Mrs. K to come up with at least a partial solution. She collected a little money from several of the residents, including the both of us, and gave it to George. It was not the full amount he lost, but I am sure it helped and he appreciated the gesture.
“When I tried to give him the money,” Mrs. K told me, “at first he refused to take it. But I convinced him that we all wanted him to have it, and that we thought Vera’s overreaction to what he had done was unforgivable.”
“I imagine he is still quite upset at Vera,” I said.
Mrs. K laughed. “ ‘Upset’ is not the word. I could see he was trying to keep his words under control, but I would say it is a good thing he is not a violent person. At least I hope not. When I mentioned Vera’s name, he became very angry and burst out that ‘God will punish her.’ ”
In retrospect, maybe God did.
—
So you can see what kind of person was this Vera Gold. Not easy to live with, and making enemies faster than Mrs. K makes matzoh balls, which is very fast indeed. Vera also had mood swings that were hard for others to predict. Sometimes she could seem happy and friendly, other times almost depressed. Nevertheless, most of us made the effort to get along with her, as we all live close together and it is better to put up with occasional troublemakers than to let them poison the atmosphere for everyone. And when she was not making trouble, Vera could actually be quite an interesting person. She was well educated, spoke several languages, and had traveled to many unusual places when she was younger. Her stories about these travels were fascinating, even though Mrs. K and I both suspected she was maybe embellishing them a little.
“The storyteller must keep his audience interested,” Mrs. K once said after listening to one of Vera’s reminiscences. “If he strays a bit from the truth to do so, well, he is not, after all, under oath.” And I had to agree. It may be that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, but it is usually more interesting to hear from a person’s imagination than strictly from his memory.
Chapter 2
It was in June, I think, a few months before Rosh Hashanah, that Vera Gold became quite ill. I do not know exactly what was her ailment, but she took to her bed and Dr. Menschyk called in a specialist of some kind to examine her. Whatever it was he prescribed, it seemed to do Vera much good and, although she still spent a lot of time in bed, or at least in her room, most days she was able to join the other residents at meals and in the lounge or the garden. “I’m much too tough an old bird to stay down for long,” Vera said to Mrs. K and me one sunny day in the garden. “I’ll go down kicking and screaming, I can tell you.” I think we all believed her. It certainly looked like whatever had tried to knock her down had failed miserably.
Almost from the time Vera arrived at the Home, her son, Daniel, a pharmacist, would come to visit her regularly. In fact, he would be there almost every afternoon after leaving the pharmacy and before going home. “If it weren’t for my Danny living in the community and working so close to the Home, I never would have come here,” Vera said shortly after she moved in. Of course she then had to add, “There sure isn’t much else to recommend this place.” Nu, that was Vera. Would it kill her to say something nice? Perhaps.
As he was at the Home nearly every day, we all got to know Daniel quite well, including Mrs. K and myself. He seemed to be a real mensch, a good person, very friendly. And he was very attentive to his mother, even before she fell ill. Vera, in turn, never said a bad word about Daniel, at least not that I ever heard. She obviously loved her son very much.
Mrs. K and I both enjoyed talking with Daniel when we had the chance and found he had both saichel and a nice sense of humor. But Mrs. K always took a special interest in him. I believe it was because he reminded her of her own son, named Adam, who had planned to be a lawyer. He joined the Air Force, which after he served would have paid for his law school tuition; but he never got the chance: he was on a reconnaissance mission somewhere overseas when his plane went down, with no survivors. (Zikronah livrakhah—may his memory be for a blessing.) Mrs. K seldom speaks of her Adam, whom I did not know, and I do not ask. But I have seen pictures, and Daniel Gold has a close enough resemblance to make me feel certain she sees a lot of her son in him.
Even before her illness to which I am referring, in fact as long as we knew her, Vera had a whole alphabet soup of pills that she took in the morning and evening. She was one of these people who, when they travel, have to carry an extra suitcase to hold all the medicines. Generally the Home’s nursing staff would help residents with their medications, but Daniel had decided from the time his mother moved into the Home that he would help her with her evening pills.
“I’m here every afternoon anyway,” he told Mrs. K, “so I might as well be useful. And I’m sure my mother would rather I give her her meds than have a stranger do it.” This was no doubt true. Vera clearly appreciated his looking after her that way, rather than some busy staff person. Daniel became very familiar with what Vera was taking so he could be sure she got the right medicines, in the right order, at the right times. And of course being a pharmacist himself, he would know better than anyone about such things. But despite this, they actually made him and Vera sign a paper saying that the Home would not be responsible if Daniel gave his mother the wrong medicines. “Isn’t it ironic, Ida?” Mrs. K said. “As a local pharmacist, he has probably filled most of those prescriptions himself, maybe even these very ones for his mother. I’m surprised they don’t make us all sign a paper before dinner saying we will not blame them if we swallow our dentures and choke to death.”
“Not so loud,” I said, “or you will give them ideas.”
And so Daniel became what you would call a regular fixture at the Home, sometimes even staying for dinner with his mother. It was good to have a younger man around as almost a part-time resident.
About a month before Rosh Hashanah, Vera’s illness—or maybe another illness not related to what she already had, I do not know—became much more serious. Mrs. K and I went to see her in her room, but she was too ill to talk to us. It was probably the only time since we had known her that we could be sure she would not speak ill of anyone.
This time, whatever Dr. Menschyk had given her before did not seem to help, and he had to call in a specialist, with whom he conferred several times. The specialist prescribed some new medicine, which she was to take every evening with, or just after, dinner, together with the medicines she was already taking. Daniel of course insisted on being the one to give Vera her new medicine with her other pills and potions when he came to see her in the late afternoons. Given the seriousness of Vera’s illness, the Home was more reluctant than before to let Daniel do this, but both he and Vera insisted. “I think I’m capable of helping my mother take a few pills,” Daniel would say, and of course he was.
They made them sign another paper.
—
Now, living also at the Home for perhaps two years before the time we are speaking of was Vera’s younger sister, Frances Kleinberg, of whom I have already spoken. Fannie, as everyone called her, was in her mid-sixties, almost twenty years younger than Vera. In fact, she was probably the youngest resident of the Home when she arrived, having just lost her husband and wishing to be closer to her remaining family, as she told us. Other than Fannie, Daniel, and Vera, apparently there was only a cousin who, I thought I had been told, was living in Singapore. But no one had heard from him in many years.
Fannie lived in one of what are called the “independent” units at the Home, a separate building with nice big apartments that are meant for people who can take care of themselves but don’t mind someone else preparing their meals, cleaning their apartments, and so forth. They also might prefer living with other people, particularly Jewish people, rather than by themselves. There are maybe twenty such apartments at the Home.
&n
bsp; Fannie was quite different from her sister, Vera, like maybe honey cake from gefilte fish. I was telling you earlier that here at the Home there are all types of people among the residents, and a good example of this is the contrast between Vera and her sister. Where Vera could be abrasive and mean-spirited, Fannie Kleinberg was, like her nephew Daniel, a nice person: friendly and helpful. Like most of the residents, when you think about it.
There was quite a difference between the sisters physically, also. Vera was tall and thin, always looking like a strong wind might blow her over. She had a sharp nose and a narrow forehead. She generally wore her hair fairly long and was always well groomed. The overall impression was, however, as Mrs. K put it, that “all she needs is a pointy black hat to play a witch on Halloween.” I guess her looks fit her personality.
Fannie was tall, but she was not particularly thin. She had a round face and rosy cheeks, with short blond hair. She didn’t seem to worry much about her appearance, often wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit, that seemed too loose. I have noticed so many ladies of my age wearing clothes that are just a bissel too small or too big, because with age they have somewhat expanded or shrunk, and either could not afford or could not be bothered to buy a new wardrobe.
Given these many differences, no one would guess Vera and Fannie were sisters just to look at or speak with them. Or to live with them. But sisters they were. I only learned later that Vera was adopted, which helps to explain her being so different from Fannie.
A few days after Vera became so sick and took to her bed, we got to talking with Fannie in the Home’s library.
She turned to Mrs. K and said, “You know, Rose, I’d really like to help take care of my sister, to help her with her medications. Do you think they’ll let me?”
A Pain in the Tuchis Page 2
