Getting Old Is a Disaster by Rita Lakin Read Free Book Online Page B

Hanukkah parties. But after he died she didn't pretend anymore. She wanted nothing to do with celebrations, religious or otherwise. She's eighty-four now but it seems that, as far she's concerned, she died with her entire family in 1942.
      Her home is laid out as all of our apartments are: tiny entry hall, equally small kitchen, dining area and living room next, and bedrooms off to the side. But unlike the rest of us, who've decorated our homes to our taste, Enya has kept hers sparsely furnished. She has never bothered to adorn it in any way. She still has the few pieces of basic furniture she bought years ago when she and Jacov moved in. There is no artwork on the walls. However, there are books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere—both in English and German.
      Ida arrives and joins us.
      Enya is shaking, though the apartment has the heat turned up high and the weather outside is warm and muggy. Now that I can look at her more closely, it seems as if she's aged overnight. We crowd the spotless kitchen. Evvie immediately starts boiling water for tea. I find a shawl on one of the kitchen chairs and wrap it around Enya's shoulders. Ida brings in a throw blanket from the living room couch. She places it across Enya's knees.
      When the water is ready, Evvie prepares a pot of chamomile tea. She has to hold the cup for Enya, who can't control her tremors.
      "This will warm you up," Evvie tells her.
      "It was a terrible dream. It woke me."
      I ask, "Do you want something to eat?"
      "No, I only want to sleep and I can't anymore."
      Anymore? That sounds ominous.
      "Why not?" Evvie asks gently as she pours a little more tea.
      Enya clutches the shawl tightly around her and bows her head. She doesn't want to speak, but we wait. Finally she lifts her head, her eyes glazed, as if we aren't there. "There was a storm the night they came for us."
      She stops, lost in her troubled thoughts.
      "A storm?" Evvie prompts. "Like the rain tonight?"
      She shakes her head. "No, so much worse. They pulled us out of our home, without coats or hats and clutching only a few small personal things. We sat in the open trucks, wet and shivering."
      Evvie, Ida, and I look at one another, distraught. She has never spoken to any of us of the horrors her family went through. Jacov did when she wasn't with him. But that was so many years ago. Why now? It's as if I'd asked the question out loud.
      "I haven't had these dreams for such a long time." She shudders. "It's the storm. I can't bear the rain."
      I remember Jacov telling us that Enya was a college professor in their native Prague. He was an architect. They were both married to other people, but they lost everything and everyone in the camps—Enya and Jacov were the only survivors in each of their families. They met in America after the war.
      "I'm so tired." Enya pushes the teacup away and lays her head on the kitchen table.
      We are at a loss to know what to do to help her. "Do you want me to call your doctor?" I ask.
      "No, no doctor," she whispers.
      Ida leans down and says softly, "Come back to bed, Enya dear."
      She helps her up and Enya doesn't resist. The three of us walk her down the short hallway and into her bedroom. There is only a small light on the wooden chest of drawers next to the double bed, but it is enough for us to witness a shocking sight.
      The entire wall opposite the bed is covered with photos and papers. From top to bottom, old, crumpled, torn family photos and documents. Jacov's smiling face and his equally smiling first wife in a marriage photo. Various happy shots of their four children before the monstrosity that took their lives. Enya's collection of her dead—her husband and two children, standing in front of an obviously expensive house, the two little girls in ballet outfits. Documents, possibly in German. Maybe marriage licenses. College degrees. School report cards, it's difficult to tell. The