September 10, 1972

Rosh Ha’Shana, my first holiday in Israel, the day after our anniversary.  The country has closed down, as far as transportation.  What did this mean to me?  These were the days before we could make our escape via our Fiat 125. So when we got to my husband’s father’s place in Givatayim, I was stuck.  Or, as I thought of it at the time, held prisoner, with no way to get back to Ramat Aviv.

Now, I came to love my husband’s family—in the end—but in the beginning with a cast of thousands—only slightly exaggerating—it was too much, as in too much screaming.  There was always some bickering back and forth and I had to depend on Abe to translate.  I don’t think he did the arguments justice, probably keeping the juicier bits to himself.

Now Abe had three sisters within walking distance of one another, two in Givatayim and one in Ramat Gan.  The Rosh Ha’Shana arguments were two-fold.  The sisters thought the father was favoring one grandchild over another.  Believe me, it wasn’t either of ours.  Then, and this was so incredible to me, they were angry at us because allegedly we spent more on one sister’s gift than another’s.  Good god, or g-d.  And they thought we were rich.  What a mistaken impression that was.  No, family members, not all Americans are rolling in money.

But for my children, this very extended family was wonderful.  They had so many cousins their own age to play with, something they didn’t have in the States.

Back in blessedly relative-free Ramat Aviv, my oldest son is still not in school because of the registration process.  Bureaucracy again.  But he visited and loved it.  My daughter is at the gan.  They warned me she should probably only stay for an hour because she might feel awkward.  I was to call and see if I needed to pick her up.  They told me not to bother, she was doing just fine.

When I came at 12:30, she was sitting with the other children on the bench, delighted that there was an accordion playing and they were singing holiday songs.  The teachers said she fit right in. On the way home, she skipped ahead, then called, “Boi, Imma,” which means “Come, Mom.”  Already an Israeli giving orders.

I have a maid!  It’s the first time in my life I’ve had a maid.  Her name is Mima, and she’s Moroccan.  She also works for Golda Meir.  This is my only claim to fame.

I tried to tell Mima how to clean things in a sanitary fashion. She totally ignored me.  Then she rearranged the entire household.  I asked Abe to explain to her—but he cut me off and said to let her do her thing. We would accommodate ourselves to her.

Mima and I grew close.  I think some of our Ashkenazi neighbors were very uppity with her.  When I learned enough Hebrew, she used to tell me about her son, who stole all her earnings.  And she didn’t make that much!