“On my way to the shuk yesterday, one road was blocked by an ambulance. A woman was – shelo nedah – lying on a stretcher.” Perele sucked in her breath. This scene sounded too familiar, the Morah could not…could not be…. Morah proceeds unawares.
“People were crowding around; the sick woman was about to be put in the ambulance, when suddenly she asked for something. You will never guess what it was….”
A curious silence fills the classroom. The pencil clatters on the table as the Morah slams it down for dramatic effect. “The lady was sick. What was it she desperately needed at that moment…?! L.I.P.S.T.I.C.K…” Her hands shoot up. “LIPSTICK! Can you believe that? Women get so taken up with vanity they cannot think straight… even when their life depends upon it!” Letting out a loud sigh, she shakes her head and sinks to her chair, a deflated balloon. “Let this be a lesson for life, girls. Okay? Now, please open your chumashim. Where were we…?”
Perele’s fingers quiver as she turns the pages of her chumash and she can’t help but sneak an anguished glance over at Yudit. Yudit Weinberg, ever the quiet one, is biting her lips, staring past the teacher’s turban at a vague spot on the wall. “Tell her!” Perele pleads inwardly. “It’s your mother! You have to tell her – your mother’s not like that!” but even as she feels her lungs strain at the injustice, Yudit appears to be frozen in time. The lines on Perele’s forehead tense and she finds herself concentrating madly. “Tell her, Yudit!” Turning to Perele, Yudit catches her gaze. Revitalized, she swivels back to the teacher, shakily raising a hand. Morah is not in the habit of addressing fingers mid-sentence, particularly not one raised by a student as timid as Yudit. Today, however, the girl surprises her.
“HaMorah!” Yudit calls out once, then twice. “HaMorah!” Morah pauses mid-sentence.
She peers up from her chumash, interrupting a complicated Rashi. “What?”
“HaMorah, that was my mother!”
“Who was your mother…?” the Morah blinks. “We’re reading Rashi now. Is this relevant?”
Yudit’s voice falters. Glancing at Perele, she forges ahead. “The woman you saw on the stretcher was my mother. And she always wears lipstick when Father comes home. We had to find it quickly, you see, because she had to…” the words tumble out like a spilled sack of beans, hurtling in every direction. “She told us – when we went to visit – that she had to wear lipstick, she just had to. Abba would have seen her in the hospital all pale and in pain… he would have fretted terribly. He would have thought she was going to die.”
Morah, for once, was speechless.
****
The pomegranate tree is in full bloom. Taking her faded Tehillim out of her bag, Perele sits in its shade, reciting her kapitlach. There is half an hour before Goldie must be fetched from Gan, and this is still the best place in the neighborhood to enjoy some solitude. The words come naturally, worn and familiar. She finishes, placing a bookmark in place and straightening her skirt as she stands. Inhaling deeply, Perele enjoys the fresh summer air in the courtyard. Mameh seemed happy to see me. I really should visit more often. I wonder if Tatteh is watching me now from Above? She will never know. At least he is finally resting in peace! The neighbor’s door on the landing opposite is splintered and padlocked. The tenants moved when Mrs. Weinberg – her hero – moved on to a better world, too. Her weak heart gave her trouble for years, but you would never have known by just looking at her. Perhaps it was the lipstick effect.