The Lemon Tree

by ILIL ARBEL

  “Aesop's Fables,” said Sasha.

  “No, Ali Baba,” said Feera.

  “Both,” said I, the peacemaker.

  Papa laughed. “Fine. We'll start with the stork that took the bone out of the wolf's mouth.” Aesop's fables required special arrangements. We cleared the table and brought paper and Papa's fountain pen. Feerasat on one of his knees, I sat on the other, and Sasha leaned on the table at a contorted angle. Palma sat on one of the padded chairs and went to sleep. “So, as you know, the stork met this horrible fierce wolf in the forest . . .” and as he spoke, his arms around us, he drew charming illustrations of the events. The stork had extremely long, skinny legs and a funny face with a long beak. She looked very much like one of Mama's friends, a tall, thin lady who happened to have a long, red nose of course only by accident!

  “And now Ali Baba,” said Feera.

  There were no pictures drawn for Ali Baba, but the story came alive in another way. Papa put everything in context of our own lives. For example, the nearest grocery store was owned by a Tartar gentleman, who habitually wore special, interesting ethnic clothes, and had large earthenware jars for oil, olives, pickles, and herring. So Papa insisted that all the shopping in the Ali Baba story was done at the Tartar's shop, and the thieves used the Tartar's jars to hide in!

  “Incidentally,” said Papa seriously, “I just did some research, and found out that the translator of the story made a really stupid mistake!”

  “What's that?” asked Sasha breathlessly.

  “Well, you know Ali Baba's daughter-in-law Morgiana, who saved the whole family?”

  “Of course we know Morgiana,” I said.

  “Well, her name was really Marusia!”

  We knew that he was joking, but the story came alive. When he told us about his life, family and adventures in the small town he grew up in, stories from One Thousand and One Nights, or any other fairy tale, somehow they always ended in a journey, pioneering to a golden country, with oranges, eternal sun, and beautiful sandy beaches. Papa's azure eyes became very dreamy, and I saw in them pictures of blue sky, orange groves and endless longing.

  Papa went to Siberia because he belonged to the rebelling party in Russia in this period. He first tried the location by himself, and to his surprise, found a city, a lively lifestyle, and even culture. He quickly wrote Mama, who was waiting with Sasha in the Ukraine, and soon they joined him; Feera and I were born there. Papa spent eleven years in Siberia, dreaming about a trip to Israel, and the family shared the dream.

  Hadassa (left) as a university student

  Hadassa as a young woman

  An invitation for the wedding of Hadassa Winitzkaya and Avraham Wissotzky

  Biysk, the Siberian town where the Wissotzky

  family lived

  Hadassa, Avraham and Sasha (sitting on the fence) with young relatives

  Ida as a baby

  Sasha, Ida, and Feera

  The children with friends

  CHAPTER TWO: THE SEED

  Drinking tea was a ritual. A fat-bellied samovar stood in the center of the dining room table. I believed that it actually lived its private life and ruled over the furniture in the dining room. You always heard the humming of the boiling water, so the dining room felt alive even when no one occupied it. You wanted to get warm? The samovar stood ready and available for your service, and hot rolls came from the kitchen accompanied by creamy butter and jams made of various berries. We didn't use cups or mugs. The fragrant, amber-colored tea was poured into tall glasses, each fitted into a silver filigree holder with a handle. You had to put a spoon into the glass to prevent it from cracking by the boiling-hot drink. Regular sugar was available, but you could also use the traditional sugar cones that hung on racks on the ceiling of every Siberian kitchen, together with sausages and dried herbs. You broke a small piece of sugar from the cone, put it between your teeth, and sucked your tea rather loudly through it. Mama considered it crude and vulgar, but we, the children, loved the giant sugar cones; Papa sometimes sneakily ate it while Mama pretended not to notice.

  Sasha always drank his tea with lemon. One day, he suddenly declared ceremoniously: “I will sow this lemon seed!” He fished the seed from his hot tea, sowed it in a small pot, watered it and said: “Here will grow a lemon tree.” His voice rang like the voice of a wizard and his hands made special hocus-pocus movements.

  I stood awed. I had never seen a lemon tree growing in Siberia; lemons were imported. Anyway, how will such a small seed grow after being submerged in the hot tea? “The heat may actually help the seed to germinate,” said Mama, enchanted with the horticultural experiment.

  A new interest entered our daily lives: the lemon tree. Sasha put the pot near the large stove in the dining room to keep it warm. He lit a small electric lamp directly over the pot, to simulate the sunlight it needed.

  We examined the pot morning, noon, and evening; the waiting seemed very long. Finally I gave up and stopped believing in Sasha's magic. But Sasha went on watering. One morning, when everyone gathered in the dining room for breakfast, I heard Sasha shout: “It's sprouting, the lemon tree is breaking the ground!” I ran to the pot, and indeed, tiny clumps of earth were spread in a circle around a minuscule green dot!

  Sasha looked at us proudly. His worries, which grew bigger with every day that passed without a sprouting lemon tree, completely vanished. His self-confidence returned and he reassumed the position of the grand wizard.

  “Some day,” he said imperiously, “we'll eat the lemons from this tree!”

  “Well,” said Mama, hesitating, “there may be a little problem here. Citrus trees don't bloom or bear fruit indoors. We don't have a conservatory, and if we plant it outside, the Siberian weather will certainly kill it.”

  “Ah,” said Papa mysteriously. “But who said that the tree will always live in Siberia?”

  Sasha looked at him with complete acceptance of the perfect solution, as shared by two dreamers who positively refused to ever let reality stand in their way.

  “You plan to do that?” he asked joyfully.

  “Why not?” Said Papa, looking at Mama for support in such a botanical matter. “Right, Hadassa? Can a lemon tree travel?”

  “It's possible,” said Mama, rising to the occasion. “When we go, we will certainly try. Citrus plants are tough, and I can sew special, padded coverings for it.”

  When Mama said she could do something, then that was that. You knew everything would be all right.

  The little lemon tree continued as our center of interest, as if we transferred a whole orchard from Papa's tales into the tiny pot in Siberia. Mama and Papa shared our excitement, and the maids and other servants that worked in our house came to admire the little miracle.

  And so the lemon tree grew and we grew with it. But a few months later a horrible illness struck; all three children contracted scarlatina. In those days, there were no proper medicines for many childhood diseases, and the cruel Siberian weather did not help. You could only nurse the patients, risk your own life, and pray, and that's exactly what our parents and Marusia did. I don't remember much of those desperate days, as I spent most of the time unconscious. The sickness was hard and long and Sasha did not rise from it.

  CHAPTER THREE: MOURNING

  The lemon tree was orphaned.

  Palma was orphaned.

  She never accepted Sasha's death. Feera and I were too ill to attend the funeral, but Mama told me later that Palma followed them to the cemetery and started digging his grave to get him out. They took her home, but she returned to the cemetery every day, and continued digging with her tiny paws. She could not withstand the separation, beautiful Palma, and died after a short time, still small. But the lemon tree went on growing. The entire family continued to take care of it with devotion and reverence.

  ***

  In the meantime, politics changed, and Papa became involved with Zionism. Constant danger threatened us because the police searched for him, so Papa star
ted devising ways to escape from Russia. His sister and brothers, who had already left Russia and lived in America, wanted him to join them. However, he was determined to follow his dream, a dream shared by the whole family: pioneering to Israel. Incidentally, at that time, long before the independent State of Israel was declared, people called it Palestine. However, as we are all accustomed to the new name, I will keep to it when telling our story.

  I do remember two moments when our commitment to pioneering wavered. One was caused by a letter, and experienced by Mama. The other was experienced by Papa, and strangely enough, was averted by another letter.

  Feera and I sat at the dining table, drawing pictures. Papa read the newspaper. Mama walked in with the mail and gave Papa two letters, one from his sister Rose in America, the other from an old friend in Odessa.

  “Aunt Rose sends her love, children,” said Papa. “She writes that the snow in New York this year was almost as bad as in Odessa.”

  “I miss them so much,” said Mama suddenly, “and Rose has always been like a little sister to me.” Most of Mama's own family passed away before she came to Siberia and she was strongly attached to her new relatives.

  “She is afraid Feera and Ida are so big now she won't recognize them if we decide to go to New York instead of Israel.”

  “Sometimes, Avraham, I wonder . . . we have no family in Israel, no family at all.”

  “Well, you know Rose. She has the courage of a tiny Cossack,” said Papa affectionately. “She'll visit us often.”

  “It's not the same as having her around. Having anyone around. We'll have no one.” Mama's voice, usually soft and calm, carried an unusual tone of panic. I dropped my pencil, scared by the mounting tension. Quietly, Papa picked up the second letter.

  “Hadassa, listen to what Bialik is writing from Odessa: 'Wissotzky, you must go to Israel at once, for the sake of your children. I recently received a letter from Dr. Mossinzon. I told you about him, remember? He is the headmaster of the Gymnasia Herzlia. Imagine, a school taught entirely in Hebrew! And the teachers! Mossinzon tells me that some of his teachers are great scholars, university professors, philosophers, artists, writers, and other intellectuals who have escaped persecution in various countries, and now teach the children.’ Let's see, what else . . . he goes on about his new book of poems, just published . . . then he says 'Wissotzky, the stars in Israel are huge, and the nights are warm. I think you and I should study astronomy together when my wife and I finally settle there. It will probably be only one or two years before we are there with you, sharing this miracle.’ He writes well, good old Hayyim Nahman, doesn't he? They now call him, he says, 'The National Poet' and it makes him laugh . . . we will have many friends there, Hadassa.”

  “I really should start brushing up my Hebrew,” said Mama and smiled a little. “But I suppose I'll have plenty of time on the road.” The first crisis was over.

  Later in Israel, Bialik and Papa spent many pleasant evenings stretched on the porch, watching the stars, and sharing poetic remarks about the beauty of the Mediterranean nights. But they never got around to really studying astronomy.

  The second crisis involved Papa's father. Grandpa Leib, a widower in his early sixties, lived and practiced medicine in the Ukraine. A towering figure with piercing eyes and a long beard, his life story could make a wonderful script for an adventure movie. To me, the most heroic part was his escape from serving in the Tsar's infamous army.

  The Russian soldiers cruelly persecuted the Jews for generations, but they appreciated the skill of Jewish doctors. Once drafted, the doctor served for twenty-five years. Conditions were harsh, and most doctors died before returning to their families. Objection to the draft meant immediate execution – but one loophole existed. If you had any physical handicap, the army didn't want you. So when Grandpa Leib received the draft papers, he calmly went to his medical office, locked the door, injected himself with local anesthetic, and amputated his own left thumb. He couldn't ask another physician to operate on him, because if caught, the surgery would be considered a crime punishable by death. The authorities did not catch Grandpa Leib and he was released from service.

  One afternoon I overheard Papa. “Hadassa, I can't leave him alone in the Ukraine and just go. What shall I do?”

  “What can you do? We asked him again and again to come with us. He feels he is too old to pioneer.”

  “All this nonsense about being a burden to us,” said Papa irritably. “Some burden! He is as strong as a horse, they need more doctors in Israel, and he will find patients immediately. I am so worried; we didn't get a letter now for three weeks – what am I to do?”

  “It's hard to leave a way of life when you are over sixty, and start all over again, Avraham. I understand his reluctance,” said Mama sadly.

  At this moment the mail arrived, including a letter from Grandpa Leib. Papa smiled. “Isn't it funny? Just as I am fuming over him . . . Ida, Feera, come here – a letter from Grandpa Leib!”

  “Dear children,” the letter said. “Forgive me for not writing for a while. You will be happy, though, when you hear the news. Just as my heart was broken over our loss, a miracle entered into my life. I met a wonderful woman, and after all these years alone, we decided to get married. As a child, Sheindle lost her entire family during the pogroms, and lived a lonely life, full of hardships and poverty. When I told her about your plans, her eyes lit up, and she said 'Leib, let's go with them. My lifelong dream was to pioneer to Israel, but I never dared to do it alone.’ I explained that we would be poor and have to start all over again, and she said 'do you think I care? I am used to being poor. I'll have a family! That's all I ever wanted, to have a big family and live in my own land!’ So I have changed my mind. When you are settled in Israel, let us know and we will come. And you know what else, children? Mark wrote me from America. He said that since his brother Avraham and his family are going to Israel, he will join you there soon with Yeva, his new wife!”

  When we were settled for about a year in Israel, Uncle Mark and Aunt Yeva came and lived close by. I was thrilled to have them, because Uncle Mark's hair was even redder than mine – the only other redhead in the family until my own grandchildren were born, and two of them inherited it. A few months later Sheindle and Grandpa Leib followed. We all loved the gentle, kindly woman, and her dreams were happily fulfilled. She truly became a part of our family. Grandpa Leib started to practice medicine, did extremely well, and lived comfortably to the age of ninety-three.

  After the illness. Ida’s hair had to be cut because of her extremely high fever.

  Grandpa Leib (center) with family

  Aunt Rose on a ship, on one of her many trips to Israel

  The girls with an uncle and his baby

  The girls with their uncle and a family friend

  CHAPTER FOUR: PREPARATIONS

  The year was 1919. Soldiers started coming back from World War I. The wounded and the prisoners of war also traveled to and from Russia. The military filled the trains to capacity, so civilians found it difficult, almost impossible, to find places. Indefatigably and stubbornly Papa continued his efforts and finally got what he wanted. We were going to travel to Israel.

  Not, however, in normal trains, Papa told us. Only cattle trains were available for civilian travelers. Empty coaches, no water, no bathrooms. The railroad managers installed two bunks on each side of the compartment, one above and one below. Instead of mattresses, they hauled sacks filled with straw onto these bunks, and that was the entire outfit they provided.

  Worse, if you wanted to leave Russia, your valuable possessions stayed behind. The officials warned Papa that the searches on the road were meticulous, and we should not take money, only food and clothes. Disobeying could cost you your life, but on the other hand, traveling penniless was impossible. No one could help us, and total secrecy regarding such matters was essential. You never knew who talked to the police in this time of suffering and strife.

  In the last few weeks before
the trip, our horses were sold, all the servants were dismissed, and even our beloved Marusia returned to her parents' home in a distant village, heartbroken over the separation. The curtains were always drawn shut, the houseplants given away to friends.

  Except for the lemon tree. It stood bravely under its little lamp, ready for the long trip. When Sasha died, Feera and I were too sick to see him, but Mama told us his last wish. Almost to the end he kept saying that when he got well, and we all went to Israel together, he would take the lemon tree and plant it in a beautiful orchard. So of course we now had to do it for him.

  Looking back, I admire my parents and how they involved us with all their tough experiences, dreams, joys, and tragedies. We never lived apart, wrapped in the artificial cocoon of childhood. We shared everything, and for that I thank them to this day. In those dark days of mourning we held together.

  One day when all of Papa’s patients left, I wanted to visit him in his office. I tried to enter and to my surprise found the door locked, something that had never happened before. Immediately I went in search of Mama to find out what was going on. Mama and Feera were sitting at the dining table, surrounded by an impressive array of loose wool skeins and wound balls. Feera held the wool stretched on her extended arms, and Mama was rolling a ball. She wanted to take a good supply of knitting and crochet materials for the long journey.

  “Mama,” I said timidly. “Why is Papa's door locked?”

  Mama looked at me wearily. “He is praying, Ida, and he does not want to be disturbed.”