’Sova-Sava’ and ‘Bee’, you’re family.

In 1900s America, many families were poor especially those with an immigrant father. But I had always felt like the richest boy in existence; being born in 1900, I had three parents and in 1911, I’d gained a sister that I loved more than anything in the world. I loved how different my parents were; each in their own way, teaching me something different about life. My mom, Anna Katherine Williams, was a Christian American; my dad, Mikhail Uri Feldman, was a Russian Jew; my Nan, was a Christian Mexican, Bernadette Renata Ortiz; my little sister was named Sarah Renata Feldman; and my own name was Joshua Uri Feldman. Though I was proud of my family, certain things needed to be kept secret. Like my name; ‘Joshua’ was for the outside world while ‘Uri’ was for home. That’s just how it was.

Now the year was 1935 and things had changed. I stood in my family living-room – now a tall man at 35 years of age. A shiver ran through me as I considered what was left of my family­ - a single living relative. That very relative was currently across from me, in a bundle on the sofa; from inside, a deathly voice, hissed – its quality thin, raspy with every exerted breath. The honey-toned skin seemed deathly pale, bathed in the cool glow of the moonlight. A chill pooled at my stomach; I couldn’t believe what had become of my sister.

The heat of her, scalding against my cool fingers, splayed on her forehead. Even with the sickness, my milky skin and the contrasting, darkness of the girl’s features were unmistakable. The curls that once boasted loudly of her unique heritage, now lay thin and lifeless. I tried not to notice the clumps of hair around the house, reminding me that my sister won’t last if she isn’t seen by a doctor soon.

It was a Mexican holiday, Día de los Muertos. The decorations were up and food was made, though not to be compared to the likes of any creation from our nan, Bee. That was our dad’s name for her, due to her boundless positivity. She would always say ‘Al mal tiempo, buena cara.’[*Be positive]. Her real name was Bernadetta Renata Ortiz. The wild culture that ran through her blood seeped into everything she did. She went beyond her duties as a housemaid, teaching me more about life than either of my working parents.

Myths about not coming too close to the lakes (la Llorona), sayings about life, how to respect its process. I could tell that my dad saw nan as one of the family – glowing when he spoke of her. It was not a surprise that one day, ‘creación de amor’ occurred. ‘Bee’ was pregnant and that’s when the ‘trouble’ started. His mother became cold, spoke less to dad, and began to take extra duties at the church and nursery where she worked. Later, I overheard, ‘once the baby arrives, the housekeeping sl*t will have to go’. He had never heard such words from his mother but he could tell by how her voice broke that something bad had happened.

Dad explained, ‘Uri, nan will have to leave, but you’re a big boy now. Cheer up, soon you will have a sister to look after.’ At another moment, I would catch my dad up in the attic looking after his rescue birds, I would hear him talking, saying ‘What a shmendrik [* fool] he had been, what a shanda [*shame]…’

Another time I caught both Dad and Bee in there.

“I can hear my mom saying, you have to be a strong as bear, Bernadette, it’s in your name. I’ve suffered too long – I’ve carried way more than my shoulders could bare. I’d always wanted to be called Renata. I wanted a re-birth. After what’s happening now to my people… a child shouldn’t have to face that.”

“I’m sorry Bee…” It was the first time I’d ever heard my dad cry.

“The baby, I want it to stay with you… Ahogado el niño, tapando el pozo.” [* it's better to plan before tragedy happens]

“You’re right, I know I’m selfish but I just can’t see you go.”

“Mikhail, no you have been good to me. You’ve welcomed me into your home, you’ve given me work – you saved me at my toughest point. After all you’ve done, I cannot break up your family. Your wife, your Anna, is a good woman. And she’s right - me staying here will only stop the baby having a better life. “

"Please Bee" I heard a whine break out from my dad. Some birds cawed in the background muffling some of his speech.

“I will leave and not turn back. Teach the baby about my culture. But don’t look for me. It will only cause more pain for the family.”

"- but you are family.”

Birds cawed.

"I know. But it’s for the best."

I left, as I couldn’t bare hearing my father’s crying any longer. It didn’t feel right, to let him expose himself that way. It felt like I was overhearing something all too private.

The days felt shorter after that. At any point nan might vanish. There was an unescapable need to hold on and draw out each moment. I could tell that dad felt it too. By the way, his hand seemed to linger over nan’s when she cooked; how he insisted she rest and lessen her housekeeping duties; how his eyes tear up with laughter at Bee losing her temper, especially at him coddling her, which was often. The evenings grew longer, as dad and Bee stole time from the night. During that time, mom kept disappearing to church – in her own way, she was waiting for nan to vanish, too.

When day came, dad went to work. His work at the police station was where he had first been able to help Bee. He was forever dealing with riots of which there were many in Bisbee, Arizona. As a first-generation immigrant Russian Jew, from 1880s, he knew all too well how difficult it was for the poor worker, the immigrant, and he felt many were unfairly treated. His roots didn’t allow him to turn away, when he saw Bee. Her golden skin, her curls, her hopeful eyes – he saw the good, the love, the heart. The stress, the violence, the lack of work were dimming her spirits, and Mikhail had decided to put her up and pay her for housekeeping duties.

Those days, I had begun to take more and more time off school with earaches, toothaches, anything– I was happy to be sick if that meant more time with nan. When the moment came, my dad had run home. He found her in the living room; mom had called in the midwife. Her expression was of cool observation. She didn’t even react to dad holding Bee’s hand the entire time. The birth was easy; the midwife had complimented Bee, on how well she pushed. The one odd thing was that a barn owl had flown in through the window at the exact moment that the baby came. It hit the wall and seem frazzled by the ordeal.

Dad laughed.

Bee looked frightened – muttering something about a bad omen.

Dad squeezed her shoulder, commenting on it being one of his rescued bird babies, returning home.

Mom kept quiet, thanking the midwife, who smiled, commenting on the beautiful baby and asking what it would be called.

Bee looked at Dad, her eyes pleading; her eyes the same as they’d been the day he’d acted as her savior and welcomed her home.

‘Her name will be Renata,’ Dad said kissing the top of her head, guiding the baby from the midwife and into Bee’s arms.

Mom breathed heavily, tears streaking down her face as she left the room in silence.

-

Under dad’s insistence, mom allowed nan to ween baby Renata. Once baby Renata went happily onto eating solid foods, we were filled with a heaviness. The joy for the milestone, was to vanish with our nana. And it did, the very next day. The farewell was short, and a greyness took hold; it filled the rooms, clung to us, in place of the brightness that seemed to follow, our ‘Bee’.

‘Oy vey, where’s your chutzpah?' my dad tried to encourage me but appeared vulnerable himself so didn’t force the point.

-

For a while we found we could still visit nan, occasionally, but even that became dangerous. Dad didn’t want to hurt mom. And even nan, felt like this ‘in-between’ hurt more than just keeping to the promise. Dad knew where Bee lived and kept checking in on her to know she was safe. The anti-Mexican riots were becoming more violent and he feared what might happen to her.

But as it happens, one day his shift was covered by someone else and the next day his Bee was no longer living at that home. She had ‘vanished’ but this time it felt more painful. Like this time, she was unreachable. It seemed to break Mikhail; dad had returned to spending long nights talking to his birds and the frazzled barn owl, who he’d nursed back to health (its wing had broken from Renata’s birth ordeal). After a week and some visits to a rabbi, dad seemed to brighten up - some of his old hue had returned.

Mom had completely taken over looking after Renata, who they called Sarah outside of home. It was the same for me; Uri was the name to be used at home and Joshua was to be used at school and at church. I soon learnt that I needed to juggle two worlds. There’s my home world, the secrets and celebrations we keep and then there’s the outer mask we show to the world to be accepted. Dad explained it as it’s good to keep things to yourself. He taught me a lot of sayings just like nan did; saying things like ‘Who is wise? He who learns from every man’, which I took to meaning that I needed to learn from all cultures. I found it difficult at times, at times wondering if it would have been easier if we were all Christian Americans, then nan wouldn’t have had to leave and then we wouldn’t have to hide heritage in our middle names, reserved only for the weekends.

When I voiced my frustrations to my father once, I was surprised to find my dad’s response to be not that of anger but full-body laughter. The kind I often saw when dad and Bee talked. It warmed me to be reminded of the woman that Renata resembled so much. ‘One day you’ll understand’ dad would say cryptically. Not everything that dad did or said made sense – and I prayed to g-d that one day it would. The candles on a Saturday, the shul, the Sunday school, the Mexican celebrations, the candles round the room.

-

My reverie of memories dissolved, with the sharp coughing that had snapped me into a perfected set of actions. The bowl, the water, the tea, the soup, the candles; I ran to the kitchen fetching the items and returned to Renata’s bedside. I held her loose, frail strands out of her face, as she upended her breakfast into a bowl. The rancid smell didn’t bother me anymore; the speckles of blood that decorated the floor, well, that did.

"You’re bleeding again." I wanted to cry.

"Yeah, I know, I’m terrible." She laughed. ‘Can’t even hurry up and die already. Taking my time.’ She wiped her mouth, took a swig of tea and lay back down’

"Don’t say that."

"You know that’s what mom would’ve said."

"She didn’t mean it."

"You know she hated me."

"Yeah." I held up the soup, brought it up to her as she sat up, trembling as she tried to prop herself up. "- but she didn’t mean it."

I forced a spoon into her mouth cutting off any argument.

"It’s what your birth mom used to make for Día de los Muertos."

Renata rolled her eyes. "I’d never even met my birth mom, why should I care, she left me. And my adopted mom, hated me. I don’t think anyone really cared whether I made it in this world." She threw her hands up. "Even my body is rebelling against the idea."

Before Renata could say anymore, more soup landed in her mouth.

"You don’t know much about you parents, do you?" I laughed echoing my father’s laugh. "You will understand when you’re older."

Renata scowled which only made me laugh more.

"Fine finish your soup without argument and I’ll explain."

Renata sighed but began to eat.

"Both your mothers cared about you very much. Your birth mom was protecting you; she wanted a better life for you than she ever had. Your adopted mom protected you with all her heart even though, you were a reminder of her husband’s love to another woman. You are old enough to understand ­- that things are not black and white. Things aren’t always simple. Sometimes even love carries pain."

I prevented her interjecting. More of her words were lost to soup.

"Really think on this, Rey-rey. I know it might be hard for you to understand but you’re over bat mitzvah age [*13]. I thought you ought to know."

Renata relaxed, hitting her head back on her sofa, releasing the empty plates to my waiting hands. After tucking her in, leaving a clear sick bowl, water and tea, I then proceeded to arrange candles around the room. Out of all the cultures I’d been exposed to, I couldn’t figure out where this custom originated. Russian, Jewish, Mexican, American, Christian? - I didn’t know. Maybe it was something unique to this family. A dozen candles surrounded us, casting a warm glow over the room. The warmth made me feel like everything would be alright, that my family was with me, always. Suddenly that made me realize that I didn’t care to find out where this particular custom came from.

-

With my sister asleep, I set off to figure out how I would make up the money needed for her medical care. It was 1932, and times were tough now with the American depression. It felt like only yesterday I’d buried both of my parents, dying only a few years apart. I cared for them dearly and sat with separately as they told me about their regrets.

"Mom, please rest ­-" I would say.

"It was your dad’s mistake that brought my ruin, you know. He never knew how much I loved him."

Even in her old age, it surprised me, at how honor-bound her mom was; she resisted the fact that, after all the hurt her husband caused, she was still deeply in love. “I loved him more than anything. I took in Renata not for Renata’s sake but because I knew there was a piece of him in her.”

"Mom ­-" I would say, watching her turn glassy eyed.

"I am foolish. There’s no treatment for that." She snapped, as if berating herself, burying her face in the book at her bedside table.

-

Dad tried to regain the relationship with mom. "My Ann," he would say. Sometimes she would allow it, and other times she would howl, as if he was reopening a wound that was just too deep.

"I am at fault," dad laughed a little sadly. "I loved them both."

"But dad… " I tried to say.

"I know what you might say, but love is unlimited and I really did love them equally, and in their own way.’ He smiled as if remembering something to himself, his eyes glazing over. ‘Your mother doesn’t need to know this son; it’ll break her heart – I had known Bee before Anna."

"She was my little Bee… we had immigrated at the same time, we found jobs together. She worked in a clothing factory and I, in construction. She laughed at how I contributed to every strike for better working conditions, fighting for civil rights and against immigrant prejudices. I think my dear Bee saw me as a trouble maker. She was scared, very scared. And I know in some part, I failed to protect her, too."

"I was so busy back then that I was not interested in getting married. We never really spoke of it. I think on some level we both knew we were going to get married to someone our parents would have approved of. She was the first to get married - he was a good man. But I found that I couldn’t trust myself to not come between the life she was trying to build."

"I forgot about her when I met you mother. Anna was so honest and beautiful and always tried to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt. I know that if there’s anything I regret in my life it would be that I hurt Anna. That I hurt Bee. I loved them both. But somehow, I hurt them both. I am a foolish man. Give me my life again – and I probably do the same thing all over. Maybe hurt is unavoidable in life. What do I know? I am but a foolish man. Helplessly in love with life and my family."

He lent back into his seat, and slept. Most days my parents would retell similar sentiments, similar murmurings of regret and delight. Often, I would find my dad in the attic with the birds. He would occasionally bring Anna up there. On those days I would hear his mother cry, as my dad whispered sweet nothings trying to sooth her.

Around this time, I was writing my first book, I sold it and found the earnings were a sizable sum – enough to cover the entire cost of their mortgage. It was later that year that Renata was finding herself more tired but with the decline of both parents, I couldn’t be on top of it all. I let things slide and by the time both parents were safely buried, I couldn’t believe I’d ignored the seriousness of my sister’s condition.

Put it simply, she was forgotten. Family life was chaos. The cultures all needing voice; the broken hearts; the love not voiced; the regrets; the transitions to the afterlife. Poor little Renata was pushed aside. At the core of it, maybe her feeling that she’d be better off gone, was justified. She was in a big way, neglected; treated secondary to other issues and left to fend for herself.

Things could be explained away to an adult and even that, didn’t detract from the pain. But to a child, lack of love and attention was equivalent to torture. I knew that to be true, especially when my dad and mom retreated into themselves busy with ‘adult things’, lost in their own pain; I was in luck to have had nan, who regaled me with stories and filled my childhood with a colour that makes every day since, pale in comparison. I was daunted to think what things might have been like for Renata, a child who seemed to be forgotten about altogether, aside from cursory checks and perfunctory duties of teaching, prescribed through bible study and school. Anything else about the world was left cloudy. Collecting a picture of culture and her heritage took considerable time; details dropped down to her in meager amounts, like particles of sand. The picture of herself that she held was fragmented, and fragile, like it could be blown away, even with the smallest of winds.

Church and School never let her forget, the mirror never let her forget. The curls, the shade of her skin. The teachers and the students. There was a welcome, but in that welcome there was a coldness. It told her, ‘We will allow you in, but only this far. Only to an extent.’ It hurt Renata. She couldn’t understand it. Calling herself Sara on the outside only reminded her that there was more to her history that she didn’t know and yet it felt lost to her. Her parents weren’t forthcoming. Her usually cold mom, turned to a flying rage whenever she brought it up – ‘Have you done your homework already? Why are you bothering me with this nonsense?’ Dad also evaded her – ‘Little meshuggeneh, don’t bother with it. You’ll understand when you’re older.’ He would laugh, when she found things anything but funny.

When we were alone, I would sometimes tell her about the nan I had. The Mexican lady that taught me a lot about the world. One day I let it slip that the nan had been her birth mom. She thought it would be great if I could take her to meet with her. But I felt my face cloud over. ‘She’d gone missing,’ I’d explained. ‘Please don’t mention anything, I really shouldn’t have told you anything.’ Since that day I refused to talk about Bee. Renata would stand in front of the mirror, and imagined that there’s a woman, called Bee, that looks like her, somewhere. Her mother, ‘Bee’. She was warmed by the idea and at once, tears spilled over her cheeks.

Life didn’t make sense. And it hurt. And she felt alone. Even with a family, she felt incredibly alone.

I had been dealing with my own life pains; I had completely missed the level of pain Renata had been going through all these years. That is until she became sick; until the mark of her suffering from all these years, came up clear on her face. Unmistakable; the dark under-eyes that shone darker than even her honey skin, the blood that appeared in her coughing fits. Her thin hair, ashen skin, fragile frame; hid nothing of her condition. She was gravely sick. Her nightly wheezing and coughing fits were a constant reminder of how he let his sister down. I cried softly at her side, whilst she slept; I prayed for her recovery, promising I would be a better brother to her. That I wouldn’t keep secrets from her, that I would help her find herself, and her mom and give her anything she needs to be happy. I couldn’t lose her.

-

This is how I found myself here. Sat before a clear sheet again. About to write, after years of complete writer’s block.

I hear my nan saying – ‘Quien no espera vencer ya esta vencido’ [*He who does not expect to win, is already defeated]

I hear my dad laughing and saying – ‘Gam zu l’tova’ [*this too is for the good]

I hear my mom saying – ‘I can do all this through him who gives me strength.’ [ Philippians 4:13]

I bring my tea and bread with me. Eating felt impossible but I knew that I needed to do it, if he were to make sense of the swirling voices in my head – all desperately willing me to write.

I didn’t even taste the bread as it scraped past my throat and fell like a heavy load in my stomach. I washed it down until there was nothing left. I found myself staring into the empty mug; my pitiful reflection staring back from the semi-reflective ceramic surface.

I was in a pitiful state. My mind was empty and full at the same time. It was full of all the wrong things. The stuff it was full of weren’t going to help me come up with a story to sell.

I felt my food coming back up, my anxiety was overtaking me. I got up and forced myself out for a walk. The local area in Bisbee, Arizona had really started to develop into something special.

When I was growing up it was mostly barren, aside from the copper mines and taverns with illicit dealings that no one was meant to talk about. Immigrants were forced into the worst kind of work, not all of which was on the right side of the law. Uri was thankful to his father for rescuing Bee from all of this.

As I walked past, I saw the only synagogue, that in its modest way, couldn’t be told apart from any other rundown building. The church was more majestic and was located nearby. There was a school and many new buildings. Some said there would be hotels and new cafeterias. It gave me hope. Times were changing, things can get better. Just over my 35 years, I had already seen the great change that’s come over my hometown.

-

As I walk, I will the universe to take me to a miracle, with every step I pray to find some marker of g-d’s grace. I find myself gravitating along, my feet taking me down a known path to the farmer’s market. There I find a constellation of unfamiliar shops.

I wander into a pawn shop. With my book tucked under my arm, my eyes catch the sight of a barn owl, not unlike the one that crash landed at my sister’s birth. It was named ‘Sova-sava’. The merchant explained it’s the Russian for owl, ‘sova’ followed by the Mexican, how are you, ‘ça va’.

I place my book on the counter for the merchant to inspect. The book was one of my last copies from a batch sold a long time ago. But a treasure to me, may not be one to another.

‘The most I can give for it is an owl. Don’t have much money to give- these are the years of the depression, after all – no one has a need for books right now.’ The merchant remarks roughly.

I hesitate.

"I’m doing you a favor, lad."

Finally, I take the owl - dejectedly, agreeing it’s probably worth more to me than my book right now.

When I return home my initial fervor fizzles out at the sound of my sister’s hacking coughs, and the sight of the blank sheet, alone at the desk of my writing room. I sit down to figure out what to do. I’m in tears, once again. A single ray of light enters through a crack, illuminating a path on the table; I watch it - head bowed, cradled in my arms. I don’t know what to do.

I recall the twinkle in the merchant’s eye and the mysterious name ‘Sova-sava’ of the magical barn owl – and decide that maybe this was the sign I was looking for from g-d. Except I don’t understand how in the world the owl was going to help me in his predicament.

I carried the bird onto a perch, built by my dad years ago to stand beside the working desk.

‘What am I going to do with you?’

Suddenly, I understood my father’s fascination with birds. They were very calming to observe.

But the money issue reared its head again. I became exasperated, ‘If only the bird could talk or do tricks, at least then it could perform and I’d earn something.’

‘You’re a stupid bird aren’t you!?’ I turned sharply and growled at it. It squawked in response, opening his wings fiercely.

‘Okay, okay.’ I settled back down on his seat, defeated. I brewed more tea and kept draining the contents of countless mugs, as if the liquids would aid my writing flow.

Eventually, an unusual idea came to me, inspired by the owl’s name tag, ‘Sova-sava’. I tried speaking to the bird in Spanish and then Russian, using my childhood reserves of knowledge; I picked up a considerable amount from just observing my nan and dad talking. As I spoke, telling the bird my story in alternating languages, I felt the words came out different; they were reaching deeper and with it, so did the story. It flowed, natural, like honey.

The last thing I remembered before I drifted off that night was staring into the honey glowing eyes of the barn owl.

*

The next morning, I woke to find I’d written a short story. It’s the best thing I’d ever written. I wonder how it came to be. Had I channeled it? Was it a credit to my circumstance? The desperate prayer that drove me to this unveiling of talent? I kept wondering.

In less than a week, I’d sold the book and the profit was more than enough to pay for my sister’s medicine, multiple times over. Even enough to carry us through these hopeless times. In this same month, I was awarded writer of the year in the New York Times, and writer of the century in Arizona.

My mind reeled from my stroke of luck.

To honour my parents, I arranged to receive my awards near their burial site. I was excited to share my moment with the people that allowed for this to happen.

The sun was high, the heat was dizzying. The award glowed with the colour of honey. It felt cool against my overheated skin. As the ceremony came to a close, I found myself racing down, running with the thrill of a young child about to see their parent. Reaching their gravesites, I came across something that puzzled me. There were three coloured skulls on the tombstones of my parents. It read:

Mikhail Uri Feldman (1957-1928)

Anna Katherine Williams (1967-1926)

Sarah Renata Feldman (1911-1930)

Before I could think further, I feel a hand on my shoulder, I look up - it’s the pawn shop merchant. “I’m sorry for your loss, it must have been a tough 5 years.” Silence was interrupted by a hooting. We look above to see a bird swoop in overhead; it was my new pet owl, ‘Sova-Sava’. As I look back, a jolt overcomes me - my mind morphs the merchant’s face to one of clear recognition.

"Bee?"