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| My mother, Tova Hacohen Wachtfogel, at age 72 during a visit to the United States for my son's bar mitzvah |
A few weeks before my mother died in Jerusalem, she told me in a
telephone conversation that stretched all the way to the United States about
sitting down with her sister Sarah and reminiscing about the past. That day
they had talked about the time they spent in Tel Aviv in the late 1950s, two young
and beautiful ladies in a young and beautiful country—all three with ancient
histories and fascinating stories—sipping coffee in a café.
My mom worked back then as a journalist, a children’s page editor, and
a publishing assistant for the newspaper owned and run by her father and
brothers. Her work didn’t make the front page, but, there in that café and
everywhere she went, she had a front seat to history.
“You need to write your stories down,” I told her over the phone. “I
want to read them, and I know I’m not the only one.”
Several years earlier, I had interviewed my mother for a book I was
writing, which was a fictionalized version of her life in Jerusalem before,
during, and a few years following Israel’s War of Independence in 1948. My
mother had been twelve years old at the time of the war—a bat mitzvah girl—and the
book was a project I was working on for a publisher who specialized in gifts
for Jewish girls. The publisher had loved the story . . . until
she asked me to add historic facts. The historic facts didn’t agree with her
less than Zionistic friends, and her demand that I rewrite history to suit them
didn’t agree with my principles and journalistic integrity, so the project fell
through.
But I still had all these stories I had gathered when I was researching
the book, and they were wonderful stories.
Perhaps it was for the best that the project fell through. Even before
I started working on it, I had wanted to write a book about four generations of
women in my family that spanned from the very early 1900s until the present in
the Holy Land. I wanted to write that
book, Bathsheba's Daughters, because these women had great stories, stories that deserved to be
shared. And a few weeks before my mother died, when we still hoped she might be
with us for at least a few more years, I wanted her to share more of her
stories. It was the greatest inheritance she could possibly leave behind.
“I’m not a writer,” my mother replied, this from a woman who was a
journalist for decades.
“But you’re a good storyteller,” I told her.
“I’m not that good a storyteller,” she replied. “You know who’s a good
storyteller? Your Aunt Sarah.”
“You are,” I said, although I
suppose modesty prevented her from admitting it. “And if you don’t want to
write your stories down, you could hire someone to write them down for you.”
She told me a great aunt of mine was doing that, paying someone to listen
to her life’s story and turn it into a book for her kids and grandkids. “You should
do that, too.”
She said it was a good idea and implied that she would think about it.
I’m sure she did. I’m sure it gave her a reason to want to stay around
just a little longer. My mother was the kind of mom who would do anything for
her children. Anything.
But God had other plans.
So now it’s up to me, the daughter who writes, the collector of
stories.
When we were sitting Shiva for my mom, a few people came to me with stories.
Stories about my mother, my grandmother, and my great grandmother. And I
grabbed those stories with both hands.
I knew, for example, that my grandmother had been a bit of a rebel when
she was a teenager, but I didn’t know that she would lean forward when the
seamstress was measuring her for dresses, because she wanted the hemline to be
higher than her parents would permit. I knew that my great grandmother was
funny, creative and smart, but I didn’t know that under her bed in her old age
she kept a green plastic shopping basket that contained a chess set, and I didn’t
know that she would pull out that basket and play chess when a young distant
cousin came to visit. Even in her old age, she still had a playful side.
I shared the stories I had collected, too, but there were so many of
them. I couldn't possibly tell them all.
I told them about the book I had worked on and the book I had planned to write.
“I want to read that,” they told me. “Publish it, and I'll buy a copy.”
I promised to post the stories on my blog, and that is what I hope to
be doing from time to time over the following weeks. Maybe if I write enough of
them and collect enough photos and other material from my family, I’ll put it all together as
that book I was planning to write, the one about four generations of women in
the Holy Land.
I hope you’ll forgive me for this little detour. I know I usually write
about writing, designing books, comedy, and geek stuff. But these stories about
the women in my family deserve to be told.
