Family Feud

I had some failings as a child, and this was not the only occasion where I misbehaved. During winter, my mother used to make her own matza-like crackers that we used instead of noodles in soup. Once, when we ate our Shabbat dinner, only one cracker remained on the table. My brother Shlomo and I reached for it at the same time, and neither of us expressed any willingness to let the other have it. Naturally, a fight broke out by the table. Shlomo, my favorite brother, scratched my left hand, while I scratched his face - utilizing my usual self-defense.

We each carried our scars; Shlomo's face featured several scratches, while my left hand had two deep lines. When I came to school on Sunday, the teacher walked between the pupils and came to a halt when he reached me. Looking down at my hand, he asked me, "Irene, who scratched your hand"? Too embarrassed to admit before the teacher and the whole class that I got into a fight with my own brother, I told a white lie, that the cat did it. The teacher pounced on my answer, smiled and looked at my brother as he said, "a cat with two legs". I felt so humiliated as my face turned red. In my opinion, my brother should have been more considerate on Shabbat.

One more embarrassing episode in school comes to mind. Early one March, I walked home from school with my sister Yolan. The school had started rehearsals for the annual March 15 Independence Day celebrations, with teachers selecting only the outstanding pupils to participate. Yolan told me with great outrage that one of her classmates, Hedy, did not receive a part in the play, and that she cursed the teacher, saying that he should explode. I tried to calm Yolan down by saying, "so what if Hedy said the teacher should explode". The following day Yolan's teacher called me over and asked if it was true that I said he should explode. I turned angry and embarrassed as I tried to explain my side without naming the real culprit. My sister did me a great injustice and made me feel very shamed, singling me out as the wrongdoer instead of pointing to the real sinner.

Late spring that year, my maternal grandmother passed away. We all felt sorry for losing her, but mostly we felt sorry for my Mother - for her sorrow. I could never express my deep feelings in words; instead, I felt all her pain and sorrow in my soul. I so wanted my mother to be happy.

© David Muskal, 2001