From the Imagination of Dr. Nicki: Real Life - Stories I Never Knew... Part 11

Only two more installments left from my current blog feature, "From the Imagination of Dr. Nicki"… Spotlighting original fiction by me. These stories never happened… They are original fiction pieces from my imagination!

Over the course of these past two weeks, I've been presenting "Stories I Never Knew...", a 12-part fictional blog story. I hope you are enjoying it. Today, I present PART 11. If you missed any of the previous parts, here are those links to read first:

PART 1 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_19.html

PART 2 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_20.html

PART 3 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_21.html

PART 4 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_22.html

PART 5 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_23.html

PART 6 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_24.html


PART 7 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_26.html


PART 8 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_27.html

PART 9 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_28.html

PART 10 - http://drnickimonti.blogspot.com/2016/09/from-imagination-of-dr-nicki-real-life_29.html

Perched on that worn wooden bench in the middle of the Polish Temple, watching my family somehow reminded me of an earlier time. 

I must have been only around six or seven the day I first came in contact with my Grandfather’s great, dank pain. Really, it seemed bigger than him. As if it actually belonged to many. Even after that day I never really thought about it much, but if I had I surely would have realized how thoroughly the agony struggled through him. Looking closely you could see it like a midnight blue twinkle in his eye.

That first young day, though, I was caught entirely by surprise. Cuddling my tiny hand in his broad palm, Grandfather led me into a barely lit Temple. I squinted as we entered this new place, wondering what my beloved adventurer had in mind this time. 

Right away Grandfather took us to an inner room. It was small and held no furniture at all. I wanted to ask where we were and why we’d come, but Grandfather’s soft silence told me to wait, so I made no sound. I even kept my breath as still as possible, making certain no loud escaping air gushes were allowed to disturb the moment. 

Then Grandfather did the oddest thing. Letting go of me, he began to move forward towards a further wall. At that moment he looked dazed - seeming to forget about me altogether, as if I were a tissue he’d been holding and mindlessly dropped. 

Then I saw Grandfather’s hands moving gingerly along the wall, like a blind man tenderly reading brail. I strained in the dim light to see what he was doing. Now I could tell there were writings on that wall. Little sections of Hebrew letters marching together in neat rows. And soon Grandfather was pressing his strong face against the letters. His chest heaved heavily and his eyes pushed shut. Copious tears splashed down his darkened cheeks and landed on his wild beard. He stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity.

I waited silently in the shadowed space. Finally, Grandfather emerged from wherever he had traveled. He came and knelt down in front of me. His face still shined salty wet. “You must always remember child.” “What, Grandfather? What must I remember?” I whispered. We were always talking about this remembering business and sometimes it got on my nerves. But not now. Now I just really wanted to know what he meant. He took me over to the wall, then, and told me to close my eyes as he had done, and place my small child fingers upon the carved letters. 

Getting up close like that I realized the letters were carved not directly upon the wall, but on squares of tin or copper or something like that, which were then attached to the wall. So, in fact, there were numbers of separate plates affixed there. “What are they Grandfather?” I murmured carefully. “Prayers,” he breathed, still staring at the wall and not at me. “What kind of prayers?” I braved. But only silence answered my question.  

To tell the truth, I never did have any idea what was really going on, or what the letters said or meant. But as I touched the mysterious wall I did feel the smallest tingle bump through my fingers and travel up my hand and arm. A little like the way I later felt with my back against the cracks and lines of the Polish wooden Temple bench, watching the men of my family sitting together in the string of pearls row. Maybe that’s why I was reminded of that earlier time as I sat there that day. And maybe there’s some connection. 
A connection between personal memories and ancestral remembrances.
     
Which brings me full circle back to that loneliness business. Yesterday I met a young Jewish girl who had my eyes exactly, so that when I looked into them it was like seeing into a hazel tinted mirror. Throughout my life this has occurred often. Sometimes it’s because I actually see myself in some part, like yesterday, but more often it’s just a feeling I get. A strange thrill of knowing. As if most certainly we’ve met before.

When I was a young girl and something like that would happen I’d naturally tell my Grandfather. Inevitably he would say, “Being Jewish is like being a tree with roots that travel far into the earth. Some roots feel thin and seem barely to take in the rich earth’s resources, while others appear more hardy and through those you can nearly see the thick minerals flow. But thin or hardy, all are connected to the wondrous tree that reaches deep into the earth and then yearns surely towards the great sky. So, whenever you encounter another Jew you can feel a kinship beyond understanding. A knowing of the way real dirt feels sliding against your traveling feet, and how the heart lifts up when the Canter sings. You can feel the call of your history. Pray for these understandings and the understandings will occur.”

Maybe those were the prayers upon the wall. I don’t know. But still, if today I close my eyes and pretend to be feeling the dark lit letters again, the same small tingle moves through me. And every time I remember my family. And sometimes I remember more.