Among American, Canadian, and British expatriates in Israel, it’s the custom to give the year of their immigration when introduced. “I came in sixty-seven just before the Six Day War and never left,” says one. “Seventy-eight here,” says another.
So when Shoshana and David proudly proclaim “We’re forty-niners,” a round of WOWS follow and hats are tipped in homage.
“Yes,” Shoshana always adds, in case anybody doesn’t get the connection with the American west, “and we struck gold here too.”
“You call that gold?” David asks, with a roll of the eyes. “Maybe a little anthracite, when we were lucky.”
Being a forty-niner didn’t used to be that unusual, Shoshana reflected as she added some brandy-soaked raisins to the dough for the challahs. But lately, with the deaths of Azaria and Batsheva within three months of each other, in addition to those of so many others of Kibbutz Hayigal in recent years, it had become so. To be a survivor, it would seem, had become in and of itself an achievement. A lifetime achievement, as it were.
Maybe I should get an award?
She sprinkled a little more flour on the mound, and turned it first one way, then another, to knead it well.
Who would ever have thought that the nebesh Canadians—she of the chronic backache and he of the perpetual outbreaks of impetigo—would be among the last holdouts?
The children and the grandchildren, and lately, keyn ayn hore, even the great-grandchildren, were always urging her to write her autobiography. When it came to family lore, she knew they all considered her Clearinghouse Central. You want to know when and where so-and-so was born, got married, had children, went into the army, bla...
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