Lost Halos

Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Life and love, Muse and Flow, Reflections, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

She’d been surprised to find out there was property overseas. Grandma raised her, yet no word was ever said about it.

“You should go,” Abe said. “Check it out. See about selling.”

She took Daniel with her. Heritage for him. Distraction from grief for her.

The small apartment above the Shuk was dank and cramped. Her grandmother had bought it decades earlier. Investment in the Holy Land.

“We couldn’t pay much,” the ancient tenant said, tears and wariness in her eyes, blue numbers on her arm. “She was an angel. Kept saying we were doing the mitzvah on her behalf.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

 

48 thoughts on “Lost Halos”

    • Thank you Ceayr! I am always heartened to find out how most people are far better than they let on … Or that people seem to think they are. Generally speaking, more people are compassionate than are not. It’s easy to forget when perhaps more leaders are not-so-compassionate than are …

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    • Thanks, M K!
      I figured that the detail could be immediately recognizable to some, but would not be necessary for the underlying concept of the story … or the fretting of an elder about possibly losing their home … all while adding another layer of significance to it, for those who’d recognize the meaning and location and possibly connection to the heritage of the story’s character/s.

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    • Thanks, Jellico! I often think of the stories of all the people we don’t know, and the stories that people don’t tell – for all manner of reasons – and which maybe tell us more about who they are than the stories they DO tell.
      I have a feeling she won’t be selling this apartment any time soon. …

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      • I know what you’re saying. I’ve spoken occasionally about a Halocaust survivor that I once knew, Miss Sarah. Ahhh, such fond and sweet memories there. There were stories she told of her childhood, the happy times before the war, and she would laugh. There were stories she told of the concentration camps and the depravity therein, and she would cry. There were stories that her eyes told that her lips could not speak as she opened her cedar chest and brought out items… items like the striped uniform with it’s star, or the small little piece of carved wood that bore the same star, but with an entirely different meaning. Above all, there was the story of her faith in YWH (God)and how to live through anything this world can throw at you and not lose that faith. And yes, I do believe that your character will not sell that apartment anytime soon, but I hope she visits often and learns much.

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      • I’m glad you’d known Sarah, and that she had someone to tell – both in words and without words – her stories to, and found ways to do so.
        Having grown up where almost everyone’s grandparents were holocaust survivors in one way or another, and where most of those – including some in my extended family – had lost whole branches of their family to the holocaust atrocities, I know what you are describing.
        I hope we all learn and never forget. Especially important these days.
        Thank you for this comment,
        Na’ama

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    • Thank you, Rochelle! I hope she will continue, and that her son will learn, too, the power of Tzdaka, the simple measures of compassion, and the things that truly make people heroes, in seeing what others endured, in understanding how we need to humanize them to minimize the trauma however way we can. In how the decisions we make, matter.
      I love that area of Jerusalem. I also know that the reality of the story is real – the generation of survivors is dying and some of them have too little and worries that they should not have. If the story raised even a thought about being aware of what one might be able to do, in small ways or not so small ways, I will have done what the story intended me to do.
      XOXO
      Na’ama

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