A Papa Like Everyone Else

by Sydney Taylor

  Gisella continued with her rolling. “Why is it coming out so funny?” she complained after a while. “It’s not round like everybody else’s.”

  She frowned. It had seemed so easy when she had watched the others. But just look at her piece. First one corner stuck way out, then another. She rolled and stretched—rip—she had stretched it too much. The dough tore! There was a big hole right in the middle! “Ooh!” Gisella wailed.

  Zali Neni burst into laughter. “Oh, Gisella, now you can wear it around your neck!”

  Everyone laughed, even Gisella.

  “Try again and I’ll help you,” Mama said, giving her a fresh piece of dough. She placed her hand over Gisella’s and guided the rolling pin. Presto! There was another smooth round circle ready for baking.

  Presently, down the length of the table went the man with the pricking wheel. Skillfully he kept running it across the flat circles, making even rows of needle holes.

  “The tiny holes let the air escape while the matzos are baking,” Mama explained to Gisella. “That way they won’t curl up or break.”

  “And it makes a pretty design,” Szerena added. “Especially after it’s baked.”

  “Ready for the baking!” the women called out. Immediately the helper brought over an especially long, flat wooden paddle. Scooping two of the dough circles from the table, he draped them over the paddle and carried them to the oven. Gisella trailed after him.

  “One of those matzos is mine,” she informed him. “I have to watch it so it won’t get mixed up with the others.”

  The helper smiled. “Don’t worry, Gisella. I’ll put a mark on it with my wheel. Then we’ll know positively it’s your property.”

  At the oven, the shoveler took over. Placing Gisella’s circle on his long-handled wooden paddle, he slid it into the oven on a bed of hot ashes. In no time at all, it turned into a firm, crisp, brown-flecked matzo with a big “G” dotting its white surface.

  Gisella was delighted. “My own matzo! It came out just perfect!”

  By this time, a second paddle was on its way over the ashes. One after the other, the shoveler kept feeding the dough into the hot mouth of the oven.

  On the floor, near the stove, fresh straw was already spread. Mama had covered it with one of her large tablecloths. As each matzo was baked, the shoveler gently deposited it on the tablecloth. Bits of gray-black ash still clung to the cooling matzo. An elderly man stood by and carefully brushed the ash away with a large goose-wing brush.

  Mama placed another tablecloth inside her basket, and she and the elderly brusher began stacking the matzos. Gisella counted out loud as each matzo was tucked into place. There were just two hundred of them, filling the basket to overflowing. Gisella’s initialed matzo was placed right on top.

  “Mama, so many matzos!” Gisella exclaimed.

  “We’ll need plenty. Don’t forget Passover lasts for eight days. And if there are any left over, we can still eat them.”

  It was time for cleaning up. The table was cleared, and the utensils washed. The fire in the oven was banked. Tomorrow Mama would be helping some other family bake their matzos.

  Szerena helped Mama carry the basket home. Mama wrapped a second cloth around it and bound it securely with rope. This was to make sure that no trace of hometz (non-Passover things) would touch it.

  The next day, after school, Mama and the girls went to Anna Neni’s house for the final fitting of their new clothes. Anna Neni, the village dressmaker, owned a sewing machine. She was very proud of it. No one else in the whole village had a sewing machine.

  Gisella and Szerena never ceased to marvel at the way it worked. They watched, fascinated, as Anna Neni’s feet pedaled swiftly, while her hands guided the material past the dancing needle. “It’s so fast, you can’t see how it’s done!” Szerena cried. “A million times faster than sewing by hand!”

  “Look at the tiny, even stitches it makes!” Gisella added. “Not zigzaggy like mine.” She sidled up to Szerena. “Wouldn’t you just love to try it?” she whispered in her ear.

  “Yes,” Szerena whispered back. “But she won’t let us. She never allows anyone to even touch it. A machine like that must cost an awful lot of money.”

  “I wish we had a sewing machine,” Gisella said, sighing.

  “Maybe when we’re in America, Papa will buy us one,” Szerena said, her eyes lighting up at the thought.

  Gisella had a sudden feeling of uneasiness. That’s no reason for going all the way to America, she thought. She shook off thinking about it. Nothing had been settled yet. Were still right here in Helmecz.

  Anna Neni pushed her chair away from the machine and stood up. She was middle-aged and thin; her shoulders were stooped from long hours spent bending over her sewing. Silently, she helped the girls into their dresses and examined her work with a critical eye.

  She hardly ever talks, Gisella thought. Maybe that’s because she always has pins in her mouth.

  “Hmm.” Anna Neni finally grunted, with a little nod of her head. She turned her gaze upon Mama, awaiting her verdict.

  “Beautiful, Anna! Just beautiful!” Mama enthused. “They fit so well! Tomorrow the girls will bring you a bushel of potatoes and a dozen fresh eggs in payment. You’ve done a fine job!”

  Anna Neni lifted her shoulders slightly as if to say, “It’s nothing,” but a faint smile fluttered on her lips. “Wear them in good health,” she mumbled to the girls.

  Gisella nudged Szerena. “Anna Neni,” Szerena spoke up, “is there any material left over?”

  The dressmaker nodded. “Yes. I saved the scraps for you.” She rummaged through her bag. “Here you are.”

  “They’re for my sister’s doll,” Szerena said. “We’re going to make her some new clothes.”

  Gisella hugged the small pieces of cloth to her. “My doll must he dressed up for Passover, too.”

  At home, Mama laid the clothes away in the shiny black chest. “Till Thursday,” she said, shutting the lid.

  Often during the next few days, the girls raised the lid to catch yet another glimpse of their new clothes. “I can hardly wait till Thursday!” Gisella kept repeating.

  It was the afternoon of the day before Passover. Mama and Szerena were working in the vegetable garden. Gisella had sneaked into the house, and once again she knelt before the chest and looked rapturously at the outfits Anna Neni had made.

  How pretty they were! Lovingly she fingered the rows of tiny tucks, the puffed sleeves, the little underpants with their lace ruffles. The petticoats were beautiful with their delicate eyelet-embroidery insertions and straps made of dainty lace. Never in her life had she had anything so exquisite!

  Tenderly she lifted the petticoat and held it up to her. What a shame to hide such a beautiful petticoat under a dress! Before she knew it, Gisella had shed her pinafore, dress, and her petticoat. The next minute found her in her brand new petticoat. Holding the skirt out, she danced around and around the room and out the door.

  The late April air had a touch of chill, but Gisella didn’t notice. Proudly she paraded up and down the road.

  Old Mr. Czatordoy came strolling by. He grinned broadly at her as he passed, and Gisella was very pleased. Oh, she told herself, he likes my petticoat. Others who came along seemed equally entertained. Some even laughed.

  All at once, Gisella heard Mama call. “Gisella! Come into the house this very instant!”

  Before she even had time to obey, Mama was already outside, grasping her by the arm and steering her toward the door. “How could you!” she scolded.

  “But, Mama—”

  Mama wouldn’t listen. Quickly she pushed Gisella into the house. “What’s gotten into you?” she gasped as soon as the door shut behind them. “Standing around in the street like that where everybody can see you!”

  Gisella couldn’t understand why Mama was making such a fuss. “But, Mama,” she pleaded, puzzled, “everybody admired my petticoat. It’s so beautiful!”

  “Oh, Gisella
!” Mama’s mouth was puckered up with displeasure. “Before all the neighbors in your underwear! What will they think?”

  Szerena laughed. “Maybe people thought it was a new style.”

  FOUR

  Passover starts tonight, and there is still so much to do,” Mama declared in gay complaint. “It’s lucky that this year Easter and our Passover holiday come at the same time.”

  “Why?” asked Gisella.

  “Because with the school closed, you’re both here to help me.”

  “What shall we do next?” Szerena inquired.

  “Strip the beds,” Mama replied.

  When this was done, Mama refilled the bottoms with sweet-smelling fresh straw from the barn. Over the straw, the girls spread handwoven linen sheets. Pillows were plumped into place on top of the full, down quilts, and the freshly-laundered red spreads were smoothed over the top of everything.

  Earthen floors were swept, windows cleaned, furniture polished. The Passover dishes were set out in the front room, on the shelves on either side of the big wall oven. Underneath the shelves, they hung the pots and pans scoured to mirrorlike brightness. So much water was used up in the scrubbing and cleaning that the rain barrel was nearly empty.

  In between, Mama managed to attend to her cooking. In the big room, all kinds of delicious things were bubbling and boiling on top of the square black cookstove. A special Passover cake was slowly baking in the oven. Such heavenly smells filled the air!

  Mama cast a glance at the nearly empty wood pails beside the stove. “Szerena, better bring in some more wood,” she said. She looked down. “We swept the floors, but we haven’t wet them down yet.

  “I’ll do that! Let me do that!” Gisella begged.

  “All right,” Mama nodded indulgently.

  Gisella skipped off to the storage room for the watering can which she filled with the last remaining water in the rain barrel.

  As she sprinkled, the ground upon which she stood no longer seemed an earthen floor. It became like an enormous sheet of drawing paper. Slowly she moved from one corner to another dribbling the water up and down, crisscross, and round about. What fun to see the ribbonlike designs taking shape!

  The moist patterns stood out sharply. But alas, not for long. The greedy earth sucked in the water, and the outlines paled and vanished. Once again the ground, now hardened and smooth, was just dark brown earth.

  By this time, Mama had two plump chickens prepared in the roasting pan ready to pop into the stove. “It’s a little early yet,” she remarked. “I guess I’ll roast them this afternoon.”

  “Two chickens, Mama?” exclaimed Gisella.

  “Don’t forget about our guests, Estzer Neni and her little daughter Juli. And old Bela Bacsi who will conduct the Seder for us, and you know how much he can eat.” She laughed, but the laughter turned into a sigh. “Please God the day will come when Papa will sit at the head of our table and conduct the Passover service.”

  Gisella tried to imagine a Seder table with a papa reclining in the big chair, with pillows behind his back, like a king. And Mama as his queen. That would be nice she had to admit.

  “That reminds me,” Mama broke in. She went to the chest, took out then holiday clothes, and laid them out neatly on one of the beds.

  Gisella jumped up. “Can we put them on now?”

  “Not yet,” Mama said. “Right now I’m going over to the widow Salomon’s to see if there is something I can do for her. I heard she is not feeling well.” She poured some soup into a jar and took a large piece of the still-warm cake. “I won’t be too long. But remember,” she held up a warning finger, “I don’t want either of you to leave the house. A band of Gypsies is in our neighborhood this week. They’re camped out in the meadow at the foot of the hills. So don’t you go wandering off by yourselves, you hear?”

  “We won’t, Mama,” the girls promised. They seated themselves on the porchlike shelf outside and watched Mama going off. After a while, they got up and strolled in the little garden following the path of a whistling bird.

  “Wouldn’t you like to go over to Mari’s house and see her new doll?” suggested Gisella. “All the other girls have seen it already. They say it’s just marvelous!”

  “I know. Her mother got it from those rich people she works for in the city,” Szerena said. “I would like to see it.”

  “Well—let’s go,” Gisella promptly decided.

  “Mama said not to leave the house.”

  “But it’s just across the street. We don’t have to stay long. We’ll just take a quick look and run right back.”

  Szerena hesitated. “I don’t think we ought to.”

  “Oh, come on,” urged Gisella. “We’ll come right back.”

  “All right.” Szerena gave in.

  Hand in hand they dashed across the street and into Mari’s house.

  Mari was ten years old. Gisella thought she was very pretty. She had long brown hair hanging down her back, and rosy cheeks, and wide-open blue eyes. “I guess you’ve come to see my doll,” she gloated. “Right now she’s sleeping there on my bed. I’ll get her.”

  She lifted the doll and held it in her arms.

  “Oh!” Gisella breathed. “How beautiful!”

  They gaped with awe at the doll. She was more than a foot long and dressed in red calico sprigged with tiny blue flowers. She wore a stiff, white organdy petticoat and cunning little shoes on her feet.

  “See! She has real hair,” Mari said boastfully, stroking the doll’s curly brown locks. “Watch!” She tipped the doll’s head gently backward and forward. “She opens and shuts her eyes! Just like a real baby!”

  “I never dreamed they could make dolls like that!” Szerena cried. “Look, Gisella,” she put out her hand, “her face is like porcelain.”

  Mari backed away. “You mustn’t touch!” Her arms tightened possessively. “I can’t allow anyone to touch her. She’s much too precious.”

  She held the doll up tantalizingly high, laughing up at it. “Oh, I just love her!” she cried. Then she cradled it in her arms and swayed as if rocking it to sleep.

  Gisella’s heart was filled with immense yearning. If she could only hold the doll for just one moment! Her arms reached out. “Mari, please—could I . . . ?”

  “No!” Mari swung away from her, holding the doll out of reach. “She’s too delicate. She could easily break.”

  “But I’ll be so very careful,” Gisella pleaded. Mari shook her head.

  “Well, then, can I at least touch her?”

  “No!” Mari repeated stubbornly. “I’m sorry. But you can come over and look at her whenever you like.” She sat down with the doll in her lap and began fussing with it. She spread its dainty skirt and caused the eyes to open and close. “My doll is getting sleepy,” she said. “I have to put her to bed.”

  Szerena tugged at Gisella’s sleeve. “Come,” she coaxed, “we’ve got to get back.”

  Gisella found it hard to tear herself away. “Just another minute,” she begged.

  “Mama’s bound to come home soon. She’ll be angry if she finds we’re not there.”

  One last wistful, lingering glance, and Gisella permitted herself to be led away. As they crossed the street, she muttered. “I only wanted to touch it. She could have let me touch it. If I had a doll like that, I’d let all my friends touch it. I’d even let them play with it.”

  Szerena felt sorry for her little sister. “I don’t mind for myself,” she said. “After all, I’m already too grown-up for dolls. I was just anxious to see it. I’ve never known anyone who had such a doll. But not letting you play with it, that’s really mean. She’s mean and selfish, that Mari. That’s what she is!” She gave Gisella’s hand a little squeeze. “Never mind. Just don’t think about it.”

  But Gisella couldn’t be consoled. Never would she forget that lovely doll. She vowed to Szerena, “Someday when I grow up and marry and have a little girl of my own, I’m going to buy her a doll just like that, no matter how mu
ch it costs!”

  The door of the house was wide open. “You left the door open!” Szerena cried.

  “But I didn’t!” protested Gisella.

  They poked their heads inside. “Oh!” Gisella shrieked, clapping her hands to her head. “The whole barnyard’s in there!”

  Chickens were everywhere, scratching and clucking away contentedly as they wandered through the house. Two roosters were leaping at each other, fighting for possession of the bed. A goose had managed to get onto the table and was greedily pecking away at the remains of Mama’s Passover cake. Several others were floundering about in the open chest. Even their one turkey gobbler was resting in solitary majesty on top of a wood pail. Immediately the girls scooted about, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Shoo! Shoo! Out! Out of here! Out!”

  The bewildered fowl, squawking and cackling, went flying every which way trying to escape. For a few deafening moments, all was pandemonium. But finally the house was cleared of feathered folk, and the door slammed shut. The girls, out of breath, flopped down onto the wooden chest.

  Ruefully they surveyed the room. “What a mess!” Gisella wailed. “After all our hard work this morning, too.”

  All at once both of them stared at the beds. One of them was lacking its red spread! And where were their new clothes?

  Gisella gripped Szerena’s arm. “Oh, Szerena! The chest is open!” Her face blanched. She dared not voice what she was thinking.

  Szerena felt a flutter of fear cross her stomach. Where was Mama?

  In a panic, they made for the door. But before they could reach it, it was flung open, and they were caught up in Mama’s arms. She held them very tight. “Thank God!” she sobbed. “Thank God . . . you’re all right!” The words seemed to tear out in gasps. “I was so afraid. Oh—thank God!”

  Shaken by Mama’s frantic manner, the girls clung to her, whimpering, “Mama, Mama!”

  How strange and disheveled Mama appeared! Her kerchief was gone; her hair straggly over her anguished face. Her white blouse was stained a dirty brown and had pulled loose from her skirt belt. Through a tear on one side of her skirt, they could see a blood stain. “Mama,” they screamed, “you’re hurt!”