After our escape from Russia, Adam Andersen helped us get settled in growing city of Ramat Gan, suburb of Tel Aviv. I was about to be enrolled in summer school at Moshe Dayan Elementary which would include students of all ages (including my parents) and was mostly focused on Hebrew language and English. Adults mostly attended night classes since it was assumed they were working during day. However, there were many older Iraqi Jews in daytime classes and I was exposed to Arabic during breaks. Everyone seemed to be trying very hard to master modern Hebrew. Not all Jews understand Biblical Hebrew. Even if we can read it, that is to say, we can say the words, we don’t always know exactly what we’re saying. Since I was fairly facile with Biblical Hebrew, I was kind of resource for secular Jews from other lands.

Speaking in Hebrew, “Mama, I love studying this new language but if we’re only going to be in Israel for a short time before moving to America, what is the point?”

“Rivka, you should welcome this opportunity to be immersed in Israeli culture and language. When will you have another opportunity to learn Hebrew like this?”

“Da, da, da! Listen to your mother.”

“Izzy, Hebrew please. You think they will let you teach at Bar Ilan University speaking only Hebrew from bible?”

 I was happy I’d had whole summer to acclimate to being in “Jew Central” before starting pressure cooker of Fourth Grade. I joke. I started Fourth Grade on Monday, September 1, 1958, and on that day I met Yael Barak. She was about 10 centimeters taller than I (about 4 inches) and so pretty with olive skin, black curly almost waist length hair and eyes so dark it was sometimes hard to tell when her pupils were dilated. Her papa was doctor, trained in Iraq and her mama’s family was Moroccan, having been expelled in 1948 after Israel declared itself country. She and I shared lunch first day and almost every day thereafter.

We endeavored to speak English whenever we could. “Ach, these falafels are not so good,” Yael said.

“From where . . . do they come?” My English was not so good. Yael’s was much better. She had older brothers who studied English in Middle School.

“My mama made them, but I think she cooked them a little too long. She makes them,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Every day.”

“Mm, may I?” Looking at her expectantly.

“Of course, Rivka. Please. I’m begging you.” Offering me whole basket of falafels.

We both laughed. I took an offered falafel and bit off half of it. It was amazing. 

“I never tasted anything like this. It is my new favorite food.”

                                                                                              ***

It is difficult to explain to non-Jewish people what it felt like to move from place like Soviet Union to place where almost everyone you see, everyone with whom you interact, is Jew. It was like we were dropped on different planet, or maybe more like, alternate universe. In this new universe we changed our name back to Koen. That was Papa’s family name. My parents were very happy with that change. I think it took me several years to really understand what that name change meant to them.

I was seven years old for real. My parents lied about my age when we were granted asylum in Israel because they didn’t want me to be bored in school. I was doing Calculus at home in Moscow and Papa had taught me great deal of Physics as well. Home in Moscow. I am thinking the idea of “home” has great deal of nuance. Is it home because that’s all you know? Is it home because that is where your heart is? All I knew was Moscow, but it was not my home. My home was in that tiny apartment with my mama and papa, which just happened to be in Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. So, now my home was in much bigger apartment with my mama and papa, which was now in Israel. And I thought that maybe home could be bigger than that apartment in Israel. But not yet.

                                                                                              ***

There was piano at school. We could not afford one but I could play at school. I had to sign up and there was lot of demand. Compared to piano in Moscow, upright piano at school was beautiful. And in tune. I missed that old piano though. I could play it whenever I wanted as long as Mama was home so we could pretend she was playing. Playing piano well would not fit with my public Moscow persona. With my schedule for remedial Hebrew and football practice, piano was only available to me for one maybe two hours each week. I loved playing.

“Zvyozdochka, daughter . . .” He spoke Russian to me when Mama was not around. “How are you liking it here?”

It was October. “At first . . . I was not sure. Don’t get me wrong, Papa. I knew we had to leave and I was determined to make best of it, being in Israel, I mean, you know, instead of going directly to America. I really liked summer school with Hebrew and I met few kids. No one my age.” I sipped my orange juice, sitting with Papa by pond in park. Papa sat silently, listening patiently. “When I started school in September and met Yael . . . oh, Papa, that was when I knew I was in Israel. I had Israeli friend.”

“That is . . . wonderful, solnewshka [little sun]! Do you speak with her in Hebrew?”

“Da, Papa, and English. And she is teaching me Arabic.”

“Really? So she is Arab?”

“Umm, I don’t think her family thinks of themselves as Arabs. Her papa is from Baghdad and her mama is from Morocco. They met here in Israel. I think that’s really romantic, don’t you, Papa?”

“Oh, yes, very romantic. So, they are Mizrahim.”

“Da, Papa. Or Sephardim.”

“I thought Sephardim were from Spain and around Mediterranean.”

“Well, Mrs. Barak is Moroccan Jew and Mr. Barak is Iraqi Jew. I think those terms, “Sephardim” and “Mizrahim” are becoming very close in meaning.”

“Oh, my, you’ve really been paying attention in school, da?”

“Of course, Papa, and Yael is schooling me.”

“And are you schooling her?”

“Da, Papa. I’m telling her all about Russia, about Mama being Anthropologist and you being Mathist.” I looked at him pointedly, holding a very tight smile. Still acting like we might be overheard. In the park.

“Did you tell her about escape from USSR?”

“Da, but only in general terms. No details. No CIA, for heaven’s sakes . . . you know how accomplished I am at subterfuge, Papa. I am like, you know, James Bond.”

“I don’t know this person.”

“He is fictional character in books by Ian Fleming. British. James Bond is master spy.”

“Oh, so you think you are master spy? After one caper, one escape?”  He was smiling very tightly.

I looked at him with quiet dignity. “Every spy had to begin somewhere.” I turned away and had great deal of trouble not bursting out laughing. I could feel my papa laughing on inside but trying to be so cool.

                                                                                          ***

I had fallen in love with Israel. I didn’t want to leave. I knew I would have to one day. I didn’t want to tell my parents. I knew they were feeling very unsettled and stressed. Every time Soviets came up in conversation with them I could feel them tense. I could feel their fear. When America came up I could feel their yearning. My parents had been through so much. Their lives had been unbearably hard. Their love for me was fierce. And I guess my love for them was pretty fucking fierce too. So, I just enjoyed being in love with Israel, privately.

Our school went on field trips frequently. Historical sites? Well, you couldn’t throw a rock in Israel without hitting one. Little bit of exaggeration, but you get idea. Mama didn’t feel confident enough with Hebrew to try to teach at Bar Ilan University, though she was extraordinary Anthropologist. Uncomfortable with Hebrew was story she gave. I realize now she just wanted to maintain low profile. Her Hebrew was fine. She volunteered to go with my class often on field trips to Historic sites. She researched sites before going and asked our guides insightful questions. And had no problems with Hebrew. My classmates thought she was total brainiac. And in that place, at that time, “total brainiac” was cool.

Adam Andersen advised Papa and Mama not to try to teach at Bar Ilan. In his words, “They would be nails. Moscow was hammer.” He was trying to find us good place to be in America. CIA couldn’t operate in America . . . legally, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t keep eye on us, protect us if necessary. He said, “Once you get to America, you, Itzak and you, Rakhel can shine like the sun. And you, Miss Koen, may become the brightest star.”

I knew he was bullshitting me. He was just trying to be like sweet uncle, encouraging his niece. Sweet CIA spy uncle. I mean, I knew how bright my parents were. He didn’t completely know about all I could do. I was blossoming in the sunshine of Israel. It didn’t matter where I went from here. I was going to shine.

Papa became tutor for Maths at three different high schools. He was brilliant mathist. You needed brilliant Maths to be Theoretical Physicist, which was what he was, privately. So, he tutored Juniors and Seniors in Calculus and Linear Algebra. He said it was alright, but I could feel his disappointment. My papa had big brain and needed to be challenged. He needed to be doing Physics.

In April, 1959, we celebrated Passover, Pesach, at home of Baraks. First night is called Seder with reading of story of flight of Jews from Egypt. Yael had two older brothers and two younger sisters. Compared to our home, theirs was chaos.

Yael’s papa, David, welcomed us into their home. Of course, Mama and Solika, Yael’s mama, had spoken and met before Seder and planned interesting mix of Sephardic and Ashkenazic rituals and food. In terms of food, blending of traditions just added things we could eat. I had never experienced Seder before so it was all new to me. Yael and I sat together and she coached me when necessary. But it wasn’t that rigid. In Israel, I found most holidays and rituals to be loud, raucous affairs, with not much in way of admonitions.

Four questions were asked and answered. Yael’s younger brothers were six-year-old fraternal twins who looked very much alike to me. When Seder plate came out David held it just above his head and said prayer, “In haste, we went out of Egypt with our bread of affliction and now we are free.” Then he passed it around table and each of us repeated his action. Solida held it over twins’ heads, not wanting to have contents spilled accidentally, or on purpose. Those twins were full of trouble. My parents had experienced many Seders in their lives, and this was their first since before War. I could feel Papa struggling with his emotions. I could feel him on verge of weeping. Memories of past Seders. But mostly what I felt from him was joy.

Leg of lamb, brisket, matzo ball soup, two kinds of maror, two kinds of charoset, plentiful salad with candied berries. Bread! I’m joking. No bread. Matzoh! Escaping Jews in Egypt didn’t have time to let bread rise. It was huge feast. Earlier, when ten plagues were listed Solida and Mama poured little wine and little water for each plague into special bowl, recreating what happened when Nile turned red with blood from first plague. When all plagues were named, we followed mamas out into yard and they poured mixture onto ground, touched soil and said silent blessings for their families for year to come.

At home, in blessed silence, doors to balcony were open, letting Spring air in. I walked out, looking out from our fourth floor height and thought of ancient times, of how this seder ritual had lived on through several millennia. My heart was so full. I didn’t even notice my tears until they fell on my arms resting on the railing. I self consciously wiped them off my face and turned to go back in where I found my parents, sitting on sofa, holding each other so tightly and silently weeping. I kneeled down, my knees on floor in front of them and put my head on someone’s leg. They each put hand on my head and gently stroked my hair.

                                                                                             ***

We hadn’t seen Adam Andersen in months so it was jarring when I walked in from school, very hungry and looking for food, and finding him sitting with both my parents at kitchen table and all three speaking softly, very intensely. Noticing me, they all looked up and froze, then smiled, recognizing me. I thought, So, who could they have been expecting?

“Hi, Rivka.”

“Hello, Adam, Comrade Kabanov. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There is trouble, my love. It’s time to leave,” said Mama calmly.

I closed my eyes and took deep breath. “Ok.” And I went to my room to pack.

Half hour later Papa came in. “Zvyozdochka . . . we knew this day would come. You knew we couldn’t stay here forever. Adam has heard from Israeli Intelligence that Soviet agents are in the country. And they don’t know why.”

“I understand, Papa. It doesn’t make it any easier,” I said, slowly shaking my head.

“I know you love it here. I know you have friends. I’m so sorry, my sweet darling.” He lowered his head and sat down on my bed. “I need to keep you and Mama safe. That’s my only job. And I’ll do whatever I need to do to make that happen.”

“Can I call Yael?”

“I don’t know . . . but just do it. We’ll ask forgiveness later if we must.”

I called Yael and we both cried. She wanted to come over. I said no, but I promised to write when we got settled. I couldn’t tell her where we were going because I didn’t know. “I’ll see you again, my sweet friend. You are best friend in whole world.” She said goodbye and I rested phone gently in cradle.