Through the little window, things seemed more distant — quieter and still, as if I were looking from the outside. As I held it I could feel its heaviness, the cold touch on my cheek, and its good smell … leather maybe, and something else… sweet… mysterious from foreign countries, where he had come from — before I was.

I watched my dad taking pictures. He would squint one eye, ready to push the button. For a moment, he looked like he was smiling, then the magical sound, and the moment was gone. Gently and quietly, he would put the black box inside the leather cover, back into darkness. He looked pensive and distant as if he were back in his foreign countries. He left me behind.

“Six weeks,” Mr. Eisenberg said. He was a photographer during the “evil war”. People said that he photographed Hitler. “You know, it’s so busy after the holidays… “ He said looking at my dad. “I hope this time the film is not so dark… I had to use special paper to print it last time, a special order from America… Check the light before you shoot, a camera is not a toy,” he said shifting his gaze to me, “not for little children… here….” he said with his German accent handing my dad a receipt, “take this so you won’t forget when to pick it up…”

While holding my hand, my dad put the receipt in his pocket, our two hands operated together like one, swinging up and down. His hands were big and dry; at times our palms were glued together and separated with a squeezing sound. I thought it was funny, but I didn’t laugh, to keep Mr. Eisenberg and his commentary out of it. Acting serious made it funnier, and as I held my giggle in I could hear my dad chuckle.

Six weeks we had to wait for the pictures to return. It was a long time to wait. I learned to name the continents of the world – all five of them; I saw America on the map, where the special paper came from, it had a boring shape, like a smashed box, not like the long elegant boot called Italy; my dog had five puppies, but four of them died; and I got my brother’s coat for the winter – it was really big and it was a boy’s coat, black with big brown buttons. Six weeks passed, my dad took the receipt out of his wallet, and we walked together hand in hand silently.

Mr. Eisenberg handed us a pile of pictures… “Don’t touch… careful… it just came out… let me put it near the ventilator… let it dry…” I was trying to reach over the high wooden counter when Mr. Eisenberg yelled, “it is not going to run away… patience … heaven’s sake… patience… this young generation has no time.” He pointed his finger at me and said to my dad, “no manners… no manners…” He sighed, “Where are the days when children knew how to behave?”

All his family had been killed, and he had a blue number on his arm — that’s why he was talking like that — we used to call him crazy-berg. Once we threw a dead lizard into his shop so we could see him standing outside yelling in that ugly language Hitler spoke. In the summer, he wore a shirt with one sleeve longer then the other so no one could see his number. I kept on trying to guess the number.

Going back home, while we were holding hands, I told my father about Mr. Eisenberg’s blue number. He didn’t say anything; he looked straight ahead and squeezed our hands tighter until they made that funny sound but he didn’t laugh. I knew what I said was wrong, but I couldn’t stop guessing the number. I was sure it was five digits, just like our telephone number: two numbers, a dash and three more. There were so many possibilities; I muttered them relentlessly hoping to somehow know when I reached the right sequence.

The picture we took is still with me. Mr. Eisenberg was right, it didn’t run anywhere… I look at the picture every morning; it hangs here, on my bathroom wall. It looks back at me every time I brush my teeth – the photo is here but the rest is gone. Mr. Eisenberg was left with a secret blue number, and I with a silent black and white picture.

Sometimes, I wish my dad were in the picture, so I could look at him. But every morning I get to look with him through the black box window at this picture — we freeze a black and white moment together. I can feel him standing close behind me, the cold touch of the camera on my cheek, the sweet leather smell, his hand covering one of my eyes, and my eye lid brushing against his palm — like a white sleeve brushing against a blue number.

Her words would escalate into shouts and her shouts into sobs. Was she desperate? Was she cruel? I could not decide. And how could he stand there and say nothing? Was he desperate? Was he cruel? My senses, like Lily our cat lurking at her prey, would heightened to predict my mother’s next move. Alert, vigilant, ahead of her game I would try to anticipate the future. Would she break a vase, the radio, shake the shelves into a book avalanche letting the new 32 volumes of the Hebrew encyclopedia crash down? Would she slam the door and leave with a look of contempt, or rather would she meticulously plan her flight with her black suitcase full, leaving empty open drawers behind looking cold and resolved? Would she stay with her younger sister and drive their beautiful Vauxhall car on an overnight trip, or would she disappear forever.

Either way my dad would look the same: beaten, shrunken, depleted and worn. If I said anything bad about my mother, he would look to a distant place and utter with effort, as if it hurt when he spoke, “she is right, it is not easy for her, you know.”

It was only the previous weekend, on Saturday morning, when my dad asked us to go and play outside and not to come back before lunch. He then shut the shutters and locked the door with a rare look of anticipation and enthusiasm on his face. As we were leaving, my mom’s favorite opera, La Traviata, was playing on the gray phonograph. I could not tell if I was happy or mad. Somehow I could tell that something really exciting was going to happen without me, yet that spark in my dad’s eye made me feel so happy and hopeful. When we came back, their hair was wet, the bed neatly made, and a warm soft silence wrapped around them — so different than the usual one.

I was sure he would get her the car she wanted the next day, a boxy Vauxhall with a mixture of wonderful smells of leather, oil and gas — just like her sister’s – with an ivory steering wheel and gearshift attached. There would be three round dials on the front with phosphorescent green numbers measuring speed, temperature and oil. Or at least he would take her far away on an overnight trip with packed suitcases and dress up clothes leaving us with his mom or sister and ask us to act like big kids who might get a wonderful surprise at the end of their trip.

My mother, still content and fulfilled, stood in the kitchen staring at the Swiss calendar hanging above the table “lets get out of here,” she said as if looking out the window into mirror-like lakes, mountains topped with white icing, wooden houses spread like cherries – and no trace of human presence. “Let’s just pack and go now.” she said it a bit louder while reaching for the cigarette pack in her pocket.

My father methodically collected the dishes from the table, wearing her apron, piling all the leftovers on one dish and washing the rest. My brothers were busy exchanging cards and sneaking food from the table to the dog. 
Was I the only one who heard what she just said? I looked at the blue lake and tried to imagine us there; without the harsh sun, without the stone houses, without the big garbage dumpsters on the street corners, without noise — I could tell from the picture it was very quiet without people — only expansive open vistas. It was far, foreign, frightening and so beautiful. I was already packing in my mind, wondering if Stila the dog and Lily the cat were coming too.

But Switzerland, the Vauxhall car, the long trip all dissolved into clouds of blue cigarette smoke while the cozy warm serenity between them was turning into sharp glassy silence. He finished the dishes and she finished her cigarette. He then took the ashtray from the table and asked her in a troubled voice “do you think I should throw these?” Pointing to the pile of leftover salad, chicken bones and watermelon rinds. Ever so slowly, she turned towards him and said quietly “did you just take the ashtray?” He was standing there looking at her like a deer skewered by a beam of light. We all knew he was not going to say anything. “Did you hear me?” She said in a piercing voice holding a cry in. “Tell me did you or did you not?”

She left when we were at school. We came back to a cloud of sweet tobacco smell. My dad was sitting in the living room with the radio on, half a cup of cold black coffee on the edge of the armchair and the long curly pipe in his mouth. “Mom needed to rest for few days”; he murmured holding the pipe with his teeth like I used to do with my pacifier.

I knew better than my mom not to ask questions, especially why questions, like why she can’t rest at home, why are you not going to bring her back, why can’t we buy a car or go on a trip for her, and why, why do you never say anything?

So I left to play in the yard with the ant trap I had made the day before. Circles of salt disguised as sugar would entrap the ants in small areas creating havoc among them. In places where they were brave enough to cross the salt walls I directed them with lines of dry weeds set on fire to a dead end. I remember how they were able to figure out the way out by retracing their steps back. What a relief it was when they made it out.

My mother also found her way back a week later, equipped with a legitimate reason to return. She couldn’t buy a car, couldn’t go on a long trip, couldn’t leave to go to Switzerland, but she could get pregnant.

Although worried, my dad seemed a bit more alive. He ran around the house putting out clean ashtrays, pairing single shoes together, and brushing the dog’s hair mindlessly.

The next month was seemingly quiet. My mother visited the furniture shop. She wore looser cloths and tried to eat more cheese and eggs but ended up staring at the food with a mixture of disgust and boredom. Each morning she pushed the full dish away, lit a cigarette and gazed at the new picture on the calendar. The picture for the month of April was not much different than the one of March and the months before. They all looked clean and cool and bounded by still serenity. My mom would blow the smoke towards the picture as if kissing it or whispering secrets. My father hovered around the house with anxious dexterity. He would open the refrigerator frequently making sure there were at least two full bottles of milk. He fixed the lock on the front door, and glued the crack in their bedroom window, broken in a previous fight. They did not talk much, or rather my mother did not ask much of him and the days went by ominously pregnant.

It was a few days after we turned to a fresh new May picture on the calendar which showed a house with a red chimney, a lavish greed field with numerous black cows and feathery white clouds in the vast blue sky. That day my mom told us to hurry up and go to school then go directly to my grandma for lunch. We all sensed it was a time for absolute obedience.

Late in the evening when we returned she was in bed sleeping. My brothers helped me with my homework and included me in their games. We stuck together in fright. Waiting.

Late at night I heard my mom sobbing, “I killed my child… I killed my child… but how could I bring a child to this home… how bad do I need to be to do that…” Then, I could hear her last whimper “you killed my child… do you hear…” and then, silence.

She stayed in bed for days after. We did not see much of her. When she walked to the bathroom she held onto the walls and looked down at the floor. Dishes of food entered and exited her room untouched. My dad continued to do household chores as before, only his hyper dexterity changed into slow laborious effort. He kept on repeating even when we were very quiet “be quiet your mom does not feel good…”

When Dr. Gampel, our family doctor, came to visit, he stayed in her room for long time. When he came out he tried to be nice to me and asked me if there were any left over red spots from my German measles but I did not smile. He tussled my hair and said, “Your mom is going to be just fine, nothing to worry about – now, go play.”

Soon after, my dad was called to the army reserve for a whole month of service. It forced my mom to function — almost normally. My dad never came back. He died from a bullet in his head. All I knew was that he did not die during combat, that his watch stopped at 9:00, and his ID had a few bloodstains. Some say it was an accident some said it was hard to tell.

It was June. On our calendar the picture showed a path wrapped around green hills with endless red and blue flowers. June 30 was circled and underneath was written in small letters “dad comes home”.

We were back to the summer clothing that we missed — smelling like the soap bars that had laid amongst them all winter long. A new page had turned.

Yaron, with the first signs of a moustache, wore his white tee shirt and khaki short pants revealing his wintry pale limbs. In an unexpected burst of kindness he asked me to come along with his friends Beni and Victor to catch monarch butterflies or maybe a Painted Lady. I grabbed my magnifying glass in a hurry and stood quietly at the door hoping that there wouldn’t be a change of heart.

He brought his net and a brown bag and said as a leader delegating tasks, “you can carry this.” Empowered and reassured I held onto the accessories as if holding a ticket for the day. He scanned his room making sure nothing was forgotten and with an elegant jump leaped down the stairs out to the garden.

Avi was waiting outside with a rope wrapped diagonally around one shoulder and his waist. He wore a khaki shirt with two pockets in the front filled with stuff. His loose khaki shorts were held up by a belt with a dangling pocketknife on the side, his light brown socks drooping loosely, and on his high black boots were still traces of winter mud.

It was Shabbat morning and the day seems to burst with endless possibilities.

We walked briskly out of the neighborhood towards the mountains. On top of the second hill, about a mile in, was an abandoned old structure, built by the Turks; our meeting place. We called it the ‘white house’. Scattered around it were nails, screws, corks, cartridges, paper clips, clothespins, and pieces of hand grenades from the last war, all painted by the winter in rust colors.

There, I could see Beni with his brother Victor waiting for us.

Beni was tall, handsome and serious — six years older than me — as old as my brothers. Every time I saw him my stomach would sink inside in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure. “He makes me fly,” I wrote in my first journal in scripted letters. At times, his serious expression would melt into a sweet shy smile, which seemed hidden from all and directed to no one but me.

Victor, who had had polio as a baby, had to use crutches to walk. His legs would fold like rag dolls hinting at a metal structure under his pants. Victor would lift his unruly legs with his hands to the desired direction in an uninvolved manner.

When we arrived, Yaron asked Victor “how did you get here so fast?” and Victor, looking at Beni with admiration, said, “He carried me.”

In the same breath Victor continued, “I brought two match boxes.” After what seemed a long pause, he said dryly, “We can build a bomb with it.” Avi’s eyes and mouth opened up as he was leaning over towards Victor, as a snake would to a flute.

Yaron, holding his excitement pending practical investigation asked, “What else do we need to really make it?”

Victor, although three years younger then my brothers and Beni, became the center of the circle.
In a spontaneous act of selflessness, to help Beni, I broke the conditional rule for my partaking – to be mute and invisible – and I said glumly, “but we came to catch the Painted Lady.”

Yaron, gazing vacantly in my direction, too excited to get angry at my audacious comment, asked Victor urgently, “But can we make it today?”

Leaning his crutches on the half wall of the “white house” then sitting on its edge, Victor took his time to answer, “All we need is a small metal container. We cut all the match heads and push them tightly into the metal container… we then drop a big rock…” His speech got faster and higher, losing his poise as he continued, “…and the whole thing blows up with enough force to make a rocket reach the outer atmosphere.”

Beni seemed to contemplate the situation. He stood outside the circle staring at the ground, kicking a rock out of the hardened mud with the tip of his tennis shoes.

“Say something Beni” I said to myself the way my mom would encourage my dad to be more vocal.

“Lets start with a search for a metal container,” Yaron said full of zeal.

Beni, still looking down said quietly but firmly, “And what if it explodes in your face…?”

Yaron replied quickly, making eye contact with everyone around – even with me – “Well, we’ll make sure it won’t… come on… lets start”

“I want nothing to do with it” Beni said looking at Victor, “I am leaving.”

“Me too,” I said almost to myself, but was caught by Yaron’s piercing look conveying the ultimate threat: I am never taking you again.

“But it is too scary” I said to him trying to justify my betrayal.

It was Avi who wanted to keep the group together and dissipated the building tension with a new idea. He suggested an experiment– a way to determine how smart the ants were. Everyone was listening. As he noticed the others’ interest, his voice turned into a series of whimpers, his face scrunched up while his fists curled in. Often, I had to repeat what he said to people, but not for Beni and Victor, they understood.

“Let’s make a triangle with two slopes one made of sugar one made with salt. We’ll put some ants inside the triangle and the rest outside. Lets see how long it takes them to get out or break in. Then we’ll repeat the same thing and measure their time again. See if they can improve. I brought both salt and sugar. If they pass this test…” He continued struggling with his speech; breathing and swallowing his saliva at the same time “We can put a pile of sugar and surround it with a circle of fire … I also brought matches and rope to create a circle.”

Beni said, “I can see a nest near the pine tree.”

Victor said “lets not get too close before we have everything ready”

Yaron insisting on the leading role said, “O.K but first let’s search for the biggest nest around and map all the holes they can run into.”

Avi, exhausted yet elated, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and struggled to release his tight fists. He was rarely acknowledged for his ideas due to his laborious delivery.

As we were scanning the area, learning about the underground interconnection of the ant’s tunnels, I yelled with excitement and pride “Look… look what I found … a metal container…” As I was saying it I realized the immensity of my mistake.

It was too late. Victor, leaning on his crutches as closer to the ground as possible examining my finding said, “This is perfect … look at this…”

Yaron mumbled “whoa” and even Beni stopped and stared at it intensely.

“It’s a bombshell!” Avi said, stretching his hand towards me, begging for the shell. It was an empty bombshell the size of a tall cup. I dropped it into his hand reluctantly.

“This is a sign from God,” said Victor, “its perfect”.

With no further discussion Victor and Avi got their matchboxes out and everyone, even Beni, but me started cutting off the matches red heads, filling the shell up.

“We need to be further away when it goes off” Beni said in a conditional and yet conciliatory tone, looking at Yaron.

“But what about the ants?” I asked with a plea but was totally ignored.

Avi said, “I have an idea” almost choking with excitement. “It will make it really safe…” The match he held fell a few times from his hand. He finally gave up curled his fists in, and spoke:

“Lets fill it up and place it under the tree, take a big rock and then tie it to the tree exactly above the shell. We all hide behind the wall and with a long rope release the rock which will fall on top of the shell…”

Everyone was listening raptly suddenly looking all alike, open jaws, big eyes, and vague smiles. 
Avi did not bother to wipe his mouth; he gulped some air in and released his fingers one by one.

In a few minutes Beni was on the tree tying the rock up while Yaron drew on the ground the circumference of where the rock would land. Victor moved his crutches behind the wall while Avi tied a few ropes together into one allowing it to reach our hiding place.

Finally, the full bombshell was placed in the middle of the circle. We ran and hid behind the wall. Victor counted down from ten and Yaron released the rock.

Nothing happened.

On the second time, in spite of some adjustments, nothing happened.

The third time Avi suggested we tie a bigger rock to a higher branch, which Beni did quietly and efficiently. Another count down, short but intense stillness, and the whole wall trembled with a huge explosion.

A cloud of dust landed on us, which added an extra layer to the already pale faces. After a long moment Beni led us to see what had happened to the shell. At the center of the blurry circle laid the rock, dark and burned, with a few metal pieces scattered about.

Mixed with the light of the setting sun and the echoing hollow blast, an unexplained but tangible sadness connected us all. Almost silent we walked home as I was wandering where do the butterflies go at night.

I was barely able to buckle my leather backpack stretched by an oversized atlas of the world, a notebook with a note to my dad in lower case letters, my yellow shirt from PE shoved on top of it all, and a pencil case with a new scented eraser in the front pocket.

It was half an hour after they had all left and my dad had not yet arrived.

He was supposed to come from his army service dressed up in his paratrooper’s uniform carrying a big gun, and wearing a red beret. I wanted everybody to see how he picks me up in the air after he hasn’t seen me for a month and how his eyes smile at me.

The classroom appeared big and still. I stood behind the teacher’s desk and started to read the kids names, marking pluses for their attendance in the teacher’s notebook. After a few announcements I began teaching a geography class, pointing to all five continents with a long stick naming them slowly and clearly. I then asked the class why the five continents fit together like puzzle pieces. After taking a few suggestions I explained how the world was united in one piece many years ago and how it split.

As my voice got higher with excitement I was startled by a noise behind me.

She stood there with a bucket, rags, and bottle of blue ammonia. I was caught. I wanted to disappear, vanish, to undo it all — but she stood at the door blocking the only exit.

How much did she see? How much did I show?

She stepped into the classroom, and her warm gaze melted my frozen shame. Somehow I felt that it was ok, that it was going to stay between us, that she was on my side.

She walked slowly and quietly over to the other side, sprinkled ammonia on the windows and began to wipe in circular motions creating rhythmic squeaks. Reaching high up the window, she revealed between her dress and her shoes, intricate groups of blue veins spreading like spiders webs. I wondered if it hurt. Her shoes were black and old. One had an extra layer on the bottom to make her legs even. She was breathing heavily, wheezing and panting.

Now I knew secrets about her.

The little hand on the clock seemed way past the time we would usually end the day.

I did not want to go home. I did not want to see my mom. I still felt my scalp pulled from her braiding my hair that morning. She had tied it in a hurry with a rubber band around my crooked braid, pulling more hair out mumbling “What’s wrong with you; can’t you stand still for a moment?” Then, gracefully, she lifted her cigarette from the brown ashtray I made in ceramic class for mother’s day. She softly held it between her fingers and slowly drew in smoke closing her eyes for a long moment.

Like a gentle lullaby, the squeaks on the window, her heavy wheezing, the clock ticking, the clanks of the metal bucket – made my eyelids heavy and watery. I wanted to bury my face in her light blue apron and sleep.

I knew she had her own kids at the school and when they saw her they would ignore her. She pretended not to know them either. I thought that tomorrow I would say hi when I saw her in the corridor. I had never heard her saying anything. Maybe she was mute.

And then I saw him; not with his striking army uniform but with his black shorts which were too loose and the worn white tee shirt that I disliked. He looked at the janitor, trying to pick up clues. He had the same look that he had when my mother yelled at him.

I still wished he would take me in his hands lift me high and say proudly “Thanks for waiting, my big girl”. I wanted her to see how big and strong he is, how his big blue eyes get shiny when he laughs, and how his big low voice is soft and confidant.

But his eyes were only half open like shooting slits; his chin was tucked in almost touching his throat, his knees bent. He was unreachable.

I could feel my throat clogged. I pushed my tears down, a taste of ammonia in my mouth. I looked away — on the wall was a picture with four squares; a boy holding an umbrella in the rain, a girl picking flowers, a few kids in a swimming pool, and a girl with a gray scarf standing in the wind. Despite my effort to concentrate on the four seasons, it got blurry, and a warm tear landed on my cheek.

She held the bucket in her hand and watched us.

We were both paralyzed.

I heard no squeaks, no breathing, no wheezing, just the clock ticking louder than before.

It was her voice — broken Hebrew in a foreign accent. Her words were floating and coming from above “I knew you no forget and come for her.”

As if awakened from a deep sleep he said without looking at her or me, “…. thank you… aha… thanks for watching her… my wife said… just a few minutes… and…”

I looked for the first time at her face, foreign and sad. Her eyes were dark and alive, big and open — like a child’s eyes — framed by old wrinkled skin as if popping through a mask.

He said “Let’s go now, your mom is waiting” still not looking at me, still squinting…

I wanted to stay with her; to look at her cleaning the glass windows till I wasn’t sure there was any glass there.

My backpack on his back seemed small. He grabbed my hand and turned towards the door “Mom is waiting” he said as the metal bucket clanged behind us.

On the way home I refused a Popsicle, and did not answer any of his questions about my day, about the last month he was away, about my brothers. Even questions about the dog went unanswered. I held his big warm hand only when we crossed the street.

He gave up, and we walked in silence for a while.

I suddenly stopped, stared into his eyes and asked “Why did you go to see her first?” Like two shutters slamming shut he squinted and asked “Who?”

Again, I felt the familiar scratch in my tonsils and the thick taste of unwelcome tears. I said quickly before the cry would burst out, “You promised to see me first … with your uniform… before you went home… you promised…”

“I just went to check on your mom before…” he said with almost no voice. “You know how she can get…”

I heard my mom’s voice in my head screaming at him. “You promised the kids to go on vacation this Passover… you promised to fix the cracks on the wall since last summer… you promised to get tickets for the circus… for the last three years you said we’ll get a car …you promise… you promise… you promise…”

We arrived home. A few steps before we got to the door I stood still. He also stopped and waited. It was my last chance to have my dad back, my strong-big-handsome dad. The dad I had a love letter for in my backpack, illustrated with hearts and bleeding arrows.

Like pulling a rusty nail from an old wooden board I heard myself say, “Daddy, can you pick me up tomorrow from school with the uniform? …Please?” I looked up at his blue eyes ready to be swirled in the air as he spun the world, him and me into one.

I stood there with my eyes shut whispering my wish like Hanna, who stood at the temple with her eyes, closed muttering her prayer to god — begging.

I wished he would not shrivel his eyes and hunch his back as I saw him do with my mom so often. I wished not to see him hiding his face as he tucks his chin down revealing a spot of thin hair on the top of his head.

I kept my eyes shut to hold the tears in, and I saw her big and tired black eyes, her little smile that uncovered crooked teeth, her light blue apron with an ammonia bottle piping out, a hint of the blue spider web below the edge of her dress and her worn, uneven shoes.

I could hear the wheezing in her breath and her low voice whispering, “come here… I make your hair loose”.

My dad woke me up as he was opening the metal shutters with their high pitched squeak. He was breathing onto the glass and wiping the steam with the back of his hand. It made high squeaking sounds like ducks racing for a new piece of bread. I stood up on my bed, threading my head into the warm loop he created with his body, his two big arms and the steamy window.

Outside everything was shockingly white. I could barely recognize my own neighborhood. The familiar yellow, busy, angular view outside my window was replaced with a monochrome, silent color of unknown texture. Everything, the porch, the fence, the dog house, the cars, the trees, the road, the roofs, even the top of the electricity poles, everything was covered with untouched, pure white. And everything stood still as in a life size black and white photograph. It looked awesome and grand; it looked astonishing but it did not look pretty. Something scary and alienating accompanied the white cover — a feeling I still get when I watch planets in outer space or think about men on the moon.

I was not as happy as my brothers were to hear that there was no school. It was the beginning of my first grade year, and I loved going to school. It was a reminder for me and everyone else how independent and mature I was. Naomi, my teacher, with her immense patience for my endless questions and her quiet smile was my new avid love. Where was she on this white day? Who would answer all my questions today?

Thirty years later I was driving with my boyfriend to New Mexico for my first ski vacation. He appeared in my little studio apartment full of energy and excitement, “no school today” he said a bit too loud. I felt an unarticulated twinge; something awakened — a memory — frozen and raw. We drove for hours in the snow as the blinding white leaking through the edges of my sunglasses. His chatty and eager flow subsided while my compulsive search for words to understand my displacement grew louder in my head. We arrived before dark and hastily rented frozen ski boots while warming our hands with caps of hot chocolate. The snow, thick and bulky, had a different quality than I remembered it.

In the Jerusalem of 1966, the streets were blocked and no one could go anywhere even though the snow was only a few inches high. My dad did not seem happy to stay at home either. He had feared that some of his employees would walk to work only to find him not there. The unfamiliar snow threatened him. He already envisioned it melting and entering through every opening in the house. The only thing left to do was to calculate how much food we had at home and how much gas we had to feed our one and only furnace.

My mom’s childish, celebratory enthusiasm, once met with my dad’s anxiety soon turned into vicious anger — he failed her again. No festivity for him, no silly playfulness, and no snowmen with ludicrous carrots stuck as a nose. When disaster is knocking at the door, there is no time for silly games. I remembered one of the fairy tales about the butterfly who played during the summer while the ants worked hard preparing for the winter. My mother with her immature wish to have a party seemed as reckless as a flitting butterfly. Her anger made our small house seem even smaller and his anxiety made it as big and empty as one of Grimm’s ghost castles.

He skied on the fancy blue and black trails all day long while I practiced, falling as gracefully as possible in the beginner’s area. I wanted to tell him that I hated the unstable snow, that it might melt and flood us all, that I was cold and lonely, and that I wished we could just build a snowman. But I didn’t. 
Taking our shoes off was harder than putting them on as our fingers and toes were frozen. I wanted to cry without explaining; wishing my dad was holding me tight with his big strong arms. We went to our heated cabin in silence.

My brothers soon left to play with the older kids. It was only my dad, my mom and me in the house. The air was thick and heavy; it smelled like wet wooly clothes left too close to the fire.

Looking at both of my parents it was impossible to take sides. They both seemed ludicrous and pathetic. The big arms of my dad and the ominous look of my mom were reduced into insignificance. Like seeing for the first time that puppets have strings. They looked for the first time small and pitiful. 
I wanted to get out of the house. It was the first time I felt that my life was separate from theirs, that all their desperation, looming catastrophe and seething anger were not inevitable. I could make different choices. This kernel of hope for my future did not last long before it was wrapped with guilt at leaving my parents behind.

On our way back from New Mexico he drove in silence making sparse remarks about not arriving before dark. “Nasty storm” he said, while wiping the window with the back of his hand making little squeaks. Yes, its the ducks, I finally remembered, the ducks in the little pond squeaking enthusiastically when I would through a piece of bread at them. The hail whipped and lashed at the car threatening to demolish our precarious, rented envelope. “All I want is to build a snowman before dark”, I suddenly said. An enclosing cloud of steam rose from our wet clothes pushing into the remaining space, filling the car with a damp bitter smell.

I opened the door and walked out, like I was lifting a page to a brand new month on the calendar. I started to walk. I saw my brothers’ footsteps going up the hill, lonely and estranged as Neil Armstrong’s footsteps in the moon’s dust. I did not want to follow. Instead, I veered towards the flawless untouched snow.