Our Gentile Neighbors

In the Fall, one of our gentile neighbors invited us - along with all the other neighbors - to his house to attend his daughter's wedding. I asked my parents if could go to the [Pandur] family for the wedding. "You may go," they said, "but don't eat any of the food there." Everyone looked at the beautiful bride. Among all the guests, I recall one other Jewish friend, and our landlord's son, may he rest in peace. When Mrs. Pandur went around with the mouth-watering yellow cake and offered me a piece I graciously turned her down. But a few moments later I could not overcome my desire to taste the cake, and took a small piece. Shortly thereafter, I went home.

And now, a different episode. We played with some of the gentile children in our neighborhood, who were quite nice. But others acted in a hostile manner towards us. They would throw stones at us, pick fights with us, and call us humiliating words because we were Jewish. I could not stand this - I wanted to be a proud Jew. I wanted to look strong even if I was only a small girl. These enemies often faced me when I walked alone in the street. I did not fear their words, at least I did not want them to think I feared them. If there were only one of them, I would fight back; if there were more, I would try to run away or choose a different street.

One summer day I was walking home with a silver five pengo coin in my hand. Suddenly, a bunch of my enemies appeared all at once. If I run away, they will ridicule me - they will follow me and beat me up. I had little time to think. So I decided to overcome my fear and paraded before them with my head up high. Nobody said a word. They stood there paralyzed by fear, or by wonder. My own heart beat quickly from fear. Some heavenly force must have taken hold of my enemies, and of me, giving my legs strength to move on. Perhaps my own fear hypnotized them. Did they feel the same fear that I did? I thought about this encounter many times since then. Sometimes I think Elijah the Prophet came to my rescue.

© David Muskal, 2001