Yemma’s Legacy
I did not meet my great grandmother, Yemma, until I was nineteen years old. She had known me when I was a baby, but since I was just that, I really had no memory of her. There is a photograph of her holding me in her lap by the front of a door leading into the garden at the family home in Baghdad. We left Baghdad when I was a toddler and therefore I had no recollections of her. The stories I heard of her were stories that legends are made of. Mama adored her. Yemma was Papa’s grandmother. She wed when she was ten or eleven years old. Her husband was sixteen years old. They were not married for too long; long enough for her to become pregnant with my grandmother. Unfortunately the great influenza that swept across the world felled my great grandfather as well. In a few days he was gone from this world. Can you imagine a young girl such as this becoming a widow and a mother by the tender age of twelve? How tragic and frightening it must have been for her. Because Rifka, my Yemma, brought an impressive dowry when she married, they did not allow her to go back to her original family, after her widowhood. That she was pregnant ensured that. She came from a very enlightened family, the Tweigs. She was married into the same family, but not as enlightened as her side. She could read and write in Arabic and in Aramaic, a form of Babylonian Hebrew. Later on, as my grandmother grew older, Yemma was able to assist her brother in becoming the accountant of the family business. She was obliged to live with her in laws until the time came for her daughter to wed. Ummy, my grandmother Rosa, wed at about the same age as Yemma had been. In Yemma’s new home they refused her daughter, my grandmother, education. They felt it was not necessary for a female to be able to read and write. That was a very bitter pill to swallow for both the ladies. Years later, as my grandmother sat with her children to do their homework, they never realized that she was illiterate. It was many years later that they caught on to that fact.
Yemma’s brother passed away somewhere along the line. I am not quite sure when. He was an extremely wealthy man. He was married but he and his wife were not able to have any children. I am also uncertain if his wife was alive at the time of his demise. What I do know is that Yemma inherited a large sum of money. To me it shows her character, that she wanted to honour his memory. With the help of my grandfather, they built a synagogue which still stands. It is called the Synagogue of Meir Tweig. It was quite an endevour that became an important fixture of the community.
When it was time for my grandmother to marry, she received a part of her mother’s dowry. Finally Yemma was allowed to leave her in laws’ home. ’She accompanied her daughter to her new home. She ran the household and helped raise the children. There were six boys and one girl. They were a rambunctious, lot and quite a handful. They got into all kinds escapades. They were smart, witty and full of beans. They loved operas and classical music. They loved literature. Their home was filled with records and books. My father instilled that love in us. It was a great gift to impart, for which I am grateful to this very day, for I cannot imagine what my life would have been like without books and music.
It was a large house where all the extended family lived. Friends and family casually dropped by at all hours of the day. Papa who was a great storyteller, liked to tell a tale of Yemma’s cousin, Aziza. Aziza was a widow with only one son, Abraham. As Papa told the story, he tied a headscarf over his bald pate. He lowered the scarf to right above his eyebrows. He stuck a hair pin, on each side of the scarf. He borrowed an apron from the kitchen and stuffed two tennis balls underneath the apron. He borrowed one of Mama’s petticoats and wore them over his trousers. He sat with his legs wide open. On his lap he placed a straw basket to copy her shopping stance.
He pretended that there was a live chicken in there. On his feet he put on flip flops, except he put the right one on his left foot and vice versa. He tucked his lips over his teeth to give the impression of a toothless old woman and spoke in a dramatic high pitched voice of a hard of hearing elderly one. My sisters and I knew what was coming and howled hysterically with laughter in anticipation. Through the years we begged him to recount the tale over and over again. We never tired of it. Even now as I am writing about it, l am grinning ear to ear.
Now the summers were hot in Baghdad. Everything started much earlier to beat the heat. Aziza entered their home just after six in the morning.
She walked to where Yemma was doing her household chores, perhaps preparing breakfast for her grandchildren. Some of them had to go to their offices and the others had to go to school.
‘Greetings, my cousin Rifka. I just came back from the souk. I had to shop for our midday meal. I thought I would drop in for a quick hello. I can just stay a short while. I bought a chicken for my son, Abraham,’ Aziza said. As if the chicken understood that Aziza was talking about her, she squawked indignantly. It was a hot morning and she did not like being confined in a basket on Aziza’s lap. Aziza paid no heed to it but continued to sit and chatter on. Yemma nodded her head every once in a while as she continued with her chores. She offered Aziza some cold refreshments, but Aziza assured her that she had to leave soon, as she had to slaughter the chicken and cook it for her son Abraham’s meal.
Time passed. My father and the younger ones left to work and school. Yet Aziza continued talking non stop. The poor chicken was fading very fast. It was very warm on Aziza’s lap. It was just a very warm day, period! The chicken’s eyes began to glaze. Her tongue hung out of the corner of her beak, gasping for air. Soon her neck began to droop over the edge of the basket. She looked like she would give up the ghost at any minute, but still Aziza continued her monologue. She did not need anyone to answer her. My great grandmother’s occasional nod of the head sufficed. Yemma prepared the midday meal. Everyone was anticipated to be there for lunch.
Soon everyone began to come home for lunch, including Abraham, Aziza’s son. ‘I have been looking all over for you!’ he exclaimed. Aziza told him she had gone to buy a chicken to cook for him. They all looked at the poor chicken on her lap. The chicken gave a weak pitiful squawk. At the appearance of Abraham, Yemma felt obliged to offer them lunch, but Abraham, somewhat peevishly, dragged his mother home. Yemma heaved a sigh of relief.
By then it was past one. I don’t know the fate of the poor chicken, or what they ate that day, but I can certainly say that when my father told the story so dramatically, everyone’s peals of laughter rose to a crescendo!
Times were getting very difficult for the Jews of Iraq. There were many arrests on trumped up charges.It was becoming quite difficult to earn a living. The family wanted to leave Iraq. The Iraqi government was giving out sporadic exit visas. As families left, they sadly locked up their homes and pretended they were going on a holiday. They were never to see their homes again. If they were lucky enough, they were able to sell their property at ten cents on the dollar. By the early 1960’s the family was able to get exit visas to leave. My family began to trickle out in small little groups. My grandmother left with my Aunt Flora and her daughters. They stopped in Tehran to visit us. Somewhere along the line they boarded a ship to New York.
Uncle Eddy and Uncle Harry had lived in New York since the the start of WWII. Uncle Maurice was there also, but there was a rift between them. I am not sure if he met his mother and grandmother when they arrived. In the meantime it was arranged for Yemma to fly straight to New York all by herself. At that time she was in her late nineties. Flying was not something she had ever experienced. Throughout her life, she had not ventured too far from her home. She observed kashrut. Although they reassured that her meal on the plane was kosher, she was not convinced. She ate apples across the continents and drank milk.
Upon arriving in New York, she and Ummy lived with Uncle Eddie. Aunty Flora and Uncle Selim and their families each rented flats in the same building. They felt comforted to be living near each other. As an aside, a very interesting thing occurred. Those were gentler years. Because both my grandmother and great grandmother were getting on in years, an immigration officer came to Uncle Eddie’s flat to swear them in as citizens. Yemma told him with great pride that two of her grandsons fought for America in WWII and her other grandson was a doctor. This was translated for the officer. The immigration officer was impressed by her dignity and pride in her family. I was told that the officer was impressed by her quiet dignity. She was almost a hundred years of age, she became a US citizen!
When I finally got to meet her in 1964, she was sitting on a couch by a window in their Rego Park flat, reading her prayer book. She asked me to sit beside her, which I did. She held my head with her two hands which were gnarled with old age. She looked intensely into my eyes. ‘I knew you would grow up to be a good girl,’ she finally said. She was as frail looking as she was in the picture of her holding me as a baby. That picture was taken almost twenty years prior.
I considered myself to be quite fortunate to spend those few months with her. It was the only time in my adult life that I got to be with her. In Tehran our family was very small. We had my Auntie Marcelle, Mama’s sister and her family, Mama’s cousin, Auntie Semha and her family and my Uncle Albert and his family. That was it. When we came to New York we became a part of a tribe. It is quite impressive and overwhelming. I take it foregranted now, but then I was awed. I was not used to have so much family. I was part of a tribe!
A short few years later Yemma passed away. My Uncle Eddie told us that by his reckoning, Yemma was a hundred and two years old when she died. She had sensed that her end was near. She took a shower, washed her clothes, changed into a fresh nightgown and got into bed. She held her prayer book in her hands and called her family to her. She announced that she was about to go. Uncle Eddie began to sob. She chided him. ‘What do you want? I cannot last forever. I saw my grandchildren, my great grandchildren and my great great grandchildren. I have lived a good life and now I have to go meet my Maker.’ With that she passed away; or so the legend goes. I was not there, but I like that ending. It goes with the quiet, dignified manner she had lived her life. From being a twelve year old widow with just one daughter, she created a clan. In my mind, that is in itself, makes her a legend. But there was more to her. She was wise. There was an air of dignity to her. She considered each word before she uttered it. In our family, we felt honoured if we were compared to her.