A piece of "Witness"

I'm going to have to subject you to this (if you choose to continue reading) because I did it all by myself and I'm proud. While it may not seem like a big deal, since it's based on a true story, imagining parts of the short story I've been working on has been difficult. Because parts of it are true, I've felt the need to include the actual details of the story itself. It's during those times that I become most frustrated with writing, when I impose limitations on my imagination. I feel the obligation of remaining true to the original story, wanting to keep the memory of Saba alive. And then something happens to move me forward, to compel me to imagine. Whether it's an impending deadline or a vivid dream, I'm not sure. But here, mostly unadulterated, is my imagination at work. I hope you enjoy.

Saba and Savta’s house faced south at the top of Cascade Loop in the Sierra NevadaLake Tahoe on the border. foothills, half a mile south of Scotts Flat Reservoir. It looked the same as it had when I’d been there for Yom Kippur, driveway ascending toward the sprawling house at the peak and then sloping downward toward the front entrance, which stood tucked between the front hill and another in the back. From street level, only the upper halves of the cathedral windows were visible, indicating a ranch style design. In the middle of the house, however, the roof peaked with the mountains in the distance and poured squares of light in through windows that dotted the sloped ceiling, illuminating the kitchen and living rooms. The bedrooms extended from the back of the house toward the northeast, providing, on a good day, a view of the sixty-odd miles of the Sierra landscape that preceded Lake Tahoe on the border.

The cab dropped me off at the bottom of the front hill and I made my way toward the house, stirring up dust on the wide, worn-down path that had become the driveway. Grass sprouted in patches across the front yard, coarse and crunchy beneath my feet. Saba had given up planting an orchard some years back in the narrow valley behind the house, and toward the edge of the driveway sat the boxy shed with white siding, containing olive and plum seeds that refused to flourish in the rocky, shallow soil.
The warm, rust-colored wood beckoned like a deceptive smile, shielding the stained ground in the back yard. The storm door was open, the inside protected by a screen door that I had often been accused of slamming shut. Two smaller windows flanked the front door like black, expressionless eyes, abrupt rectangles that were once covered by rich amber and persimmon drapes.

The air inside the empty house was thin and cold. After more than thirty years in the Sierra Foothills, Saba and Savta had planned to move. Saba sold the piano he’d purchased for my mother and aunt before the family had a car. He sold the Oldsmobile and both shoe repair businesses. The faded yellow walls had been stripped, leaving brighter, cleaner patches of squares where pictures of our family once hung, the framed false passports Saba and Savta that had paid for with jewelry in order to leave Prague now in a box in the garage.

Several years ago when Saba was in the hospital with a kidney infection that appeared to be life-threatening, when it was suggested to me that I spend all my free time with him, he had shared with me the abridged version of how he met my Savta. “We were on the boat, the last out of Czechoslovakia before the Nazis closed the borders. She was on the boat, for brothers in Israel. We get to Israel together, we get married. We have Leah and Ruth, Leah has you,” he said with a shrug and a smile. I smiled at him, the ease with which he regarded his escape of the Nazis, his tours in the British and Israeli armies, how he cheated a second time by trading places with another officer. “In Egypt, I wanted to stay two more days. There was a bus to leave later, and another guy, he wanted to go home, see wife and kids earlier. So we trade.” He managed a smile but his eyes shone; he knew I was aware of the other man’s fate, that the other officer’s bus was later captured at the border. The passengers were taken to DP camps, the Jews to concentration camps. [Saba's military history and his narrow escape of death are true].

I dropped my duffel next to the front door where an end table had been. I placed the garment bag in the hallway closet and walked through the house. In the kitchen, I stood at the sink with my hands in my pockets, looking out the window toward the tree where Savta had found him. The faded Formica countertops were bare and clean, recently wiped. Containers of leftovers sat scattered across one shelf in the fridge; the rest of the condolence food had been to my Aunt Ruth’s house a couple blocks away. Before we buried Saba at the cemetery the next morning, I would carry the few pieces of Saba and Savta’s furniture to the bottom of the driveway and put them in the U-Haul. Then we would bury him, and then I would load the boxes. That night we would sit shivah at Aunt Ruth’s.

I stood at the sink staring outside, imagining the funeral, holding hands with my family and reciting the mourner’s prayer from now on at services. At the bottom of the sink, two coffee mugs sat next to one another. I turned on the water, filling the pale yellow cups to the brim and let them spill over.

I thought of Saba years ago in the hospital, happy despite the threat of death as he wiggled his long toes that protruded from the crisp, white sheets. The nurses claimed he was the happiest, most polite patient they’d ever known. I remembered when I brought him a box of salt-water taffy and he was paler than usual and couldn’t speak. I wondered if I should call my mother or Savta, if it was the end. He motioned me toward his bed, gesturing at his gown. It had come undone and he lacked the strength to pull up the blankets. I stared at him from the doorway, his exposed groin wrinkled and ashen. He dropped his head back on the bed, rested his arms on the bed and pressed the nurse’s “call” button. I remembered his eyes, shiny and grey, as he watched me, scores of crow’s feet etched into the corners. My footsteps dragged as I walked to the bed, pulled up the blankets, and set the taffy on his bedside tray. He placed his cool hand on top of mine and smiled. After that, I visited him every day until he regained enough strength to come home.

The sink filled with steam. I bent down toward it, closed my eyes, inhaled. I reached into the sink and gripped the cups by their handles, emptying the water.

I heard muffled voices further down the hall; my mom and dad had arrived before me. My mother’s cries echoed against the bathroom tile, blending with my father’s words of comfort. I touched the chipped molding on the doorframe and watched as he embraced her.

They hugged for a long time before he looked up at me, brushing his fingers over my mother’s hair. “I love you,” he said to either of us. “I love you too,” my mother said.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Sweetie,” she whispered. My father and I held her. He brushed her hair with the back of his hand and squeezed my shoulder. He looked up at me and we nodded at each other, blinking. I swallowed and my mother tightened her grip on me and cried.