Grandma, Schnitzel and Politics :: Personal Narrative Profile

Grandma, Schnitzel and Politics I strolled the streets of Tel Aviv taking in the smell of fried falafel mixed with the salty ocean breeze. I watched people hurrying, lunging for bus doors before drivers pulled away. Then I realized that if I didn't get to my grandmother's in ten minutes, I'd be late - an offense that could provoke the dreaded silent treatment. I ran from the beach to her apartment on Bet-Lechem street and flew up the stairs two at a time, jumping over the Arab lady who sat scrubbing the floor. I arrived at the fifth story apartment breathless, wondering how the old lady climbed the stairs carrying five kilos of fruits and vegetables in each hand. She opened the door and squeezed me hard reminding me how she managed the stairs. She offered a wrinkled, rubbery cheek to kiss and then immediately ushered me to my place at the table, assuring me that lunch was all ready. I sat down and skimmed through her copy of the Post, vowing not to let her sucker me into a political discussion. She returned with the first course. "I made a chicken soup with canadelach special for you," she said. "Grandma, next time write me a list, and I'll go shopping for you." She snorted, "You know how to pick vegetables." "Then, I'll just carry the bags," I offered. "Darling, when I can't take care of myself, I'll write a big Shalom on the wall," she made a sweeping gesture indicating the whole dining room wall, "and that's this: I'll take all my pills." Then on her feet again, she plunged out of the room with her gray head down. A minute later, she returned with a full tray of salad, tehina, fresh bread, schnitzel, peas, beer and apple compot. The schnitzel itself left little room on my plate for other food. "I also made blintzes for you special, darling because I know you love them," she said. As I sat, she told me stories I'd heard before. She told me how when she was a girl in Poland, they hadn't had cars yet. They rode in horse and carriage. And when she came to Israel, the men stopped and stared at her. She told me for the nine-hundredth time that it was her father who had built the building we were sitting in.