In contrast to the sun-beaten streets, their house was thick with dimness all summer. They turned down the shutters during the mid-morning hours–because of the heat, they explained. Their days started early. By the time I’d wake up, they had already finished their breakfast, and Saba Ze’ev was leafing through the day’s newspaper on the enclosed porch or reading one of his yellow-paged history books.
I would go to the kitchen and stand quietly in the doorway watching Savta Tova hunched over the stove, stirring with energetic hands the entrails of two or three steamy pots. The sweet smell of compote wafted in the air. I imagined the stewing apples, raisins, and prunes chasing each other in the swirling liquid. Now rose the sour scent of borscht; a dish only the grown-ups liked.
Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Savta would hum a drawn-out tune. The lamenting melody, I sensed, was born in some distant part of the world. It traveled with Savta in a hidden fold of her heart. When mouthwatering smells began to drift through the kitchen door and into the rest of the house, she’d make herself a cup of tea. The dark liquid flickered inside a thin glass held between her wide palms, and she would turn away from the stove and look at me with her sad blue eyes.
“Boker tov, meydele,” she said with a warm smile.
“Boker tov, Savta,” I replied sleepily.
“Breakfast?” she asked as I walked into the kitchen and sat at the small table.
Munching on my buttered toast, I downed each bite...
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