A Life Worth Living

by Pnina Baim

  “Off-the-derech? At-risk? Arse?” Shira supplied.

  “Sure, any of those.”

  “I don’t know.” Shira shrugged. “It was hard for me when we moved to Israel. I was only six, and supposedly I should have adjusted quickly, but I didn’t. I missed my friends and my school, and I didn’t learn Hebrew easily, so school was difficult for me, and my parents kept pushing me to try to make new friends, try to do better in school…” She was silent for a minute. “It isn’t that I want to be this bad person. I’m not a bad person! I just don’t want to do exactly what everyone else thinks I should do at the exact time they think I should do it.”

  “You’re not a bad person,” Gaby assured her. “You’re honest, and genuine, and dependable.”

  “Really? You think I’m dependable?” Shira asked.

  “Yes,” Gaby said. “I forgave you for that one time you abandoned me in a stranger’s apartment.”

  “That sounds like a song,” Shira mused. Then she added, “I guess I sorta just fell into this habit of not doing what everyone else was doing...” She looked away, somewhere over the Arab village. “Sometimes,” she said in a quiet voice, “it gets tiring.”

  “I know,” Gaby said. “I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Gaby, Henny needs a babysitter, do you think you can do it?” Mrs. Kupfer asked.

  Her tone was neutral, as was all communication between Mrs. Kupfer and Gaby these days. Mrs. Kupfer hadn’t said anything over the phone when Gaby called to say she was on her way home. She just gave a non-committal grunt of acknowledgment, and, saying she was tired and going to sleep, hung up. In the past few days, the two of them had avoided each other, which was fine with Gaby. The one serious conversation Gaby had with her mother had been about Rafi’s bar-mitzvah and the issue with the tefillin, and that, too, her mother had pushed off, saying she was too tired to talk about it.

  “Yeah, sure!” Gaby said, jumping up from the daybed where she had been lounging, reading an out-of-date Jerusalem Post.

  She had thought of finding a job either in Shiloh or somewhere nearby, and had vaguely asked around if anyone knew of anything for her, but hadn’t gotten any affirmative responses.

  There was a chance Henny might know of a job, or at least she would pay her for the night. She didn’t care about creative work anymore; now she just wanted to make some money. She had about a hundred dollars from the month she worked on the kibbutz. If she could just earn a couple hundred more, she could buy the tefillin herself.

  She walked over to Henny’s home, hoping they would have an opportunity to talk. She pressed the bell of the charming ranch-style home, and Henny opened the door immediately. Henny gave her a hug and apologized for running out, muttering something about being late for a play, and rushed out with her husband and three oldest children, rattling off a list of instructions over her shoulder as she left.

  Gaby waved goodbye and turned to look at the three children left under her care. They sat on the couch, in matching pajamas, holding their soft blankets and sucking their thumbs, watched her. They looked like three matching munchkins.

  “Hello,” Gaby said as she knelt next to them. “What’s your name?” Henny had reminded her of their names when she left the house, but she had already forgotten them.

  The oldest one took her thumb out of her mouth and said, “I’m Shayna.”

  “Hi, Shayna. What about you? What’s your name?” Gaby asked the next one in line.

  The small boy just looked at her, his soft blond curls framing his face. “His name is Yehuda,” Shayna said, helpfully.

  Gaby smiled, remembering the time she had met someone named Yehuda, that last night out with Rikky and Serena. Those days seemed so long ago. “Thank you, Shayna. What about your baby brother?”

  “He’s Noach. He isn’t even one yet.”

  “I see. How old are you?”

  “I’m five. Yehuda is two and a half.”

  “That’s nice. I’m Gaby.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m eighteen,” Gaby said. “Okay, now that we got that out of the way, what should we do?”

  “Ima said we could watchy.”

  “Watchy?”

  “Rebbetzin Tap.” Shayna pointed to a DVD player on the side of the room.

  “Sure.” Gaby bent down in front of the console to figure out which button to press, something that always confused her.

  Shayna jumped off the couch, still holding her blanket, and said, “I can do it.” She pressed the power button, then the play button, and the screen came to life. Shayna ran back to the couch and placed her thumb firmly into her mouth, careful not to miss a single word.

  Gaby sat down on the couch and watched the cute singing/tap dancing production with the three of them. When the children’s movie was over, the kids marched upstairs into their room like good little soldiers. She made the baby a warm bottle and rocked him to sleep in the rocking chair in the bedroom. When he had stopped sucking and his eyes were closed, she laid him down gently in the crib. Shayna and Yehuda were already sleeping in their beds. She smoothed their blankets and kissed them softly on their foreheads. She left the room and closed the door, leaving it open a crack so the light of the hallway could come in, just in case they woke up and were afraid of the dark.

  What lovely lives these children had. If only she could give Rafi some of that same security. There had to be some solution to this problem. There just had to be.

  She sat down on the couch and looked around the silent house. It was a spacious home, painted in sunny, bright colors, and furnished in light wood and soft textures. Gaby idly picked up her phone and thought about calling Hillel again, but she hadn’t spoken to him since she first came home, and she wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear from her. It would be better to let him be the one to call.

  She flicked through the DVDs lined up over the DVD player and pulled out The Notebook, a movie all her old friends back in New York were crazy over.

  The movie was decent, not as heart-strings-pulling as everyone said it was. The girls had said it was the most romantic movie ever, but while the cute young couple in the picturesque 1941 set were busy playing wrong-side-of-the-tracks romance, millions of people across the ocean were being sent to their deaths.

  Henny came home before the movie was over, but insisted that Gaby stay to finish watching it while she shepherded the big kids upstairs and into bed.

  Mark said a quick hello, how’s everything, and before Gaby could respond, disappeared into the home office.

  A few minutes later, Henny came back downstairs and sat down next to Gaby as the movie wound down.

  “Ah, The Notebook. I love that movie.”

  Gaby looked at her, puzzled. “Everyone says that! What’s so good about it?”

  “Oh, all that unrequited love.”

  Gaby wrinkled her nose. “I kept thinking about all the people being killed in the Holocaust while they were busy dancing.”

  “Hmm. That’s true. You have a sensitive soul. Most people forget that the world ignored us while we were being sent to concentration camps. But still, true love will conquer all.” Henny sighed dramatically, waving her hand over her head and collapsing back on the couch, and Gaby giggled.

  “Want to join me for a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “Sure,” Gaby said. “Tea sounds great.”

  Henny went to the kitchen, and Gaby followed, settling herself down at the butcher block island.

  “How’s it going at home?” Henny asked.

  “You know,” Gaby said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Henny busied herself with gathering mugs and teabags, and Gaby wondered if Henny would launch into a speech about being nicer to her mom. Instead, when Henny came back to the island with the kettle of hot water and the tea things, she asked, “Are you missing New York?”

  Gaby wavered. “Somewhat. I’m not really in touch with my friends anymore. When I call them, they’re always so busy. Plus, the calls ar
e really expensive.”

  “Well, maybe you can get an American number soon. That would make it easier, no?”

  “Maybe,” Gaby said. It wasn’t likely her mother would spring for that expense anytime soon.

  “You’re welcome to use my computer for e-mail or whatever you want to do,” Henny offered again.

  “Thanks,” Gaby said perfunctorily. At this point, there wasn’t really anything to gain by keeping in touch with the Brooklyn crowd. It was clear from the little she did speak to her friends that they had moved on.

  Henny tapped her spoon on the edge of her mug. “Tell me, what do you want to do with yourself?”

  Gaby shrugged. “I don’t know.” She stirred her tea, watching the water turn a deep shade of amber. “Something meaningful. Something that I enjoy. I just don’t know what that is.” She laughed awkwardly. “All I know is, I need to do something. I really need money.”

  “Hmm. You know, in the car we were listening to a class by Rav Noach Weinberg, may he rest in peace, and he was saying… hold on, I think I wrote it down somewhere.” She looked around for her large purple purse, and rummaged through it, pulling out a few sheets of wrinkled paper. She plucked a pair of reading glasses from her bag, propped them on her nose, and smoothed out the papers. “Here, he says that if you don’t know what you are willing to die for, then you haven’t begun to live.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if you figure out what you’re willing to die for, then you’d know what you want to live for.”

  “I have no idea what I’m willing to die for,” Gaby said. “What are you willing to die for?”

  “Oh, I can say it easily. My kids, my family, Israel, the Jewish nation…”

  Gaby blew on the hot brew and took a tentative sip. “That sounds nice. I guess the same for me. But the truth is, I have a bigger problem, and I was hoping maybe you could help me with it.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  “I need to find a real job, but my Hebrew isn’t that great, and I don’t know of anything I can do. Do you know of anything?”

  Henny eyes widen. “This is incredible. I never would have thought of this, but I think this is amazing divine intervention.”

  “You thought of something?” No matter what Henny was thinking of, Gaby was going to act as if she was capable of doing it.

  “While we were at the play, I was sitting next to a lovely woman who works at Yad Vashem. We got to talking and we exchanged numbers so I could invite her for shabbat sometime,” Henny said excitedly.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”

  “This is what we’ll do. I’ll call her to invite her for shabbat, and you could meet her. Maybe she’ll have something available for you at the museum or at their research center. You said you were looking for something meaningful. Working with Yad Vashem helps commemorate the millions of Holocaust victims and survivors. What could be more meaningful than that?”

  Gaby thought it over. “You think she’d like me?”

  “Everyone likes you, Gaby. She’ll love you.”

  “Okay,” Gaby said, not fully convinced about the everyone-liking-her part.

  “Listen,” Henny said, placing a hand on Gaby’s arm. “Just talk about wanting to do something positive for the Jewish nation. She’ll love that.”

  “Actually, I don’t know if my mother ever told you, but my real name is Gruna Brocha. I was named after my mother’s cousin who died in one of the concentration camps. I always felt connected to Holocaust victims,” Gaby said, evoking her little ghost to help her case.

  “Great. Just talk that aspect up. I’ll call her tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what she says.”

  “Wow. Okay. Let me know what happens,” Gaby said, starting to feel slightly hopefully about her prospects. Maybe it was due to some intense divine intervention that put her at Henny’s house just after she met this lady from the Holocaust center. If that was the case, some divine intervention would be really nice right about now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gaby was outside on the cement patio, nursing yet another cup of coffee, watching the slow bustle of the morning rush in Shiloh, when she thought she heard the phone ring inside. She cocked her head toward the house to listen. It rang again. She dropped her mug on the floor, and ignoring the breaking of the crockery, ran inside.

  “Hello,” she said breathlessly, hoping it was Henny calling about the woman from Yad Vashem.

  “Hello, can I talk to Gaby?” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m Gaby.”

  “Hello, Gaby. This is Elanit Ben-Shimon. Henny Hoffinger gave me your number. I hear you’re interested in working for Yad Vashem?”

  “Yes,” Gaby said, ready to launch into a passionate speech about how she felt linked with the victims of yore, starting with Baby Gruna and all of the six million dead.

  “Good. We actually are in need of some extra help right away, if you’re available. We had someone, but then she went back home. I doubt she’s coming back, and we are backed up here.”

  “Okay,” Gaby said hesitantly. Elanit wanted to hire her without asking any questions? She didn’t even have a chance to say her I’m-named-after-a-Holocaust-victim speech. This seemed too good to be true.

  “Can you come in today, and we’ll get you started?”

  “Okay,” Gaby said again. She dutifully wrote down the directions to the research center’s office, and hung up the phone. If she would hire her that easily, there had to be a catch. What had she gotten herself into?

  Whatever it was, this was a chance to earn money for Rafi’s tefillin and bar-mitzvah. She was not about to pass it up.

  Without any idea of the type of office atmosphere it was going to be, she picked the safe route, and dressed in the most professional outfit she could find amongst Serena’s castaways; a baby blue sweater set and a black pleated skirt. She brushed her hair into a half-pony and put on the most minimum of makeup.

  After sending a quick text to her mother, she caught the bus to Jerusalem and settled in for the ride, wondering what would be expected of her.

  At the Central Bus Station, she took the bus to the office, located in a gleaming glass building on Shazar Boulevard, in the business district of Jerusalem. Gaby walked into the marble lobby and asked for Elanit. She was directed to an office down the hall. The door was half-open, and Gaby cautiously poked her head inside.

  Elanit was on the phone talking in rapid Hebrew, taking a break only to gulp some coffee. When she noticed Gaby, she waved her inside. Gaby gazed around the small, cluttered room while standing awkwardly against the doorframe, waiting for Elanit to get off the phone. Iconic posters of the Holocaust fought for wall space with touristy promotional pictures of Israel.

  Finally, Elanit got off the phone and smiled broadly at Gaby, motioning her to sit on one of the black office chairs facing her desk. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, with wild curly hair and olive-toned skin, unmarked by any makeup. “Hello, you must be Gaby,” she said in fluent English with just a hint of an accent.

  “Yes,” Gaby said, smiling politely.

  “Na’im Me’od. I’m Elanit, the director of the Recovery Project here at Yad Vashem. I want to talk to you about Yad Vashem and what we do here. Afterwards, you can tell me if you’re interested in working for us.”

  Gaby nodded, waiting for Elanit to elaborate.

  Elanit looked straight at Gaby. “Yad Vashem is the number one stop for Holocaust education. We are working on a huge project right now, and we need all the help we can get. One of the main missions of Yad Vashem has been to identify every victim of the Holocaust. The Recovery Project has identified 4.2 million victims so far. What makes our job so difficult is that in many of the areas of the former Soviet Union, some 1.5 million Jews were simply shot to death where they lived and there were no lists or records. Now, your job will be to assist in the research effort; whether it is with interviewing survivors, cataloging victims, or
updating our research engine.”

  Gaby nodded and Elanit continued, “Right now, we are dealing with complaints from the Chareidi community that they are not represented accurately in Yad Vashem, so we are working on fixing that. I thought you would be a good fit, because Henny told me about your Orthodox background and that English is your native language. I would like you to work on transcribing testimony from religious survivors that was recorded in English. How are you with that?”

  “Good, that sounds good,” Gaby said quickly. Whatever the work was, she wasn’t going to turn it down. She would have said she could do the work even if the transcripts were in Hungarian.

  “Okay.” Elanit looked at her critically. “Now, some people might characterize our work as depressing, but it’s important to remember that this is essential work for many reasons. Firstly, to chronicle the evil that occurred to make sure it never happens again, and to commemorate the victims so that their lives will not be forgotten. But it’s more than that. It’s about documenting the survival of the human spirit, how even in the depth of despair, there can be moments of greatness, the will to overcome evil and the desire to live against all odds. However, there is something you need to be aware of. Some people can get…” Elanit tapped her fingers against her desk, as if searching for the word. “I hope you are aware of the health hazards of the job, so to speak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will be dealing with a lot of graphic material, covering many painful topics, such as the genocide of entire communities, the death of young children, family separation, and public humiliation.” Elanit looked at the ceiling as she rattled off the list. Then, she looked at Gaby, appraising her quizzically. “Your youth could work for you or against you. Would you consider yourself as a sensitive type?”

  Gaby shook her head. She needed this job, no matter how morbid it might be. “No, not at all. I can handle this. I learned a lot about the Holocaust when I was in school. I’ve always been very interested in the lives of Holocaust victims and survivors. I’m actually named after a child victim, so…”