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her own generation was dying out, the younger generation grew increasingly distant, everyone was busy with their own problems, and what would become of her? She moved to the armchair on the front porch and sank into it. She lit another cigarette, sighed deeply, and leaned back. Tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow the grandchildren would come. A tiny smile buoyed her lips when she thought of the two children and the noisy laughter that would fill the emptiness in her apartment, the emptiness in her heart.
     

Chapter Six: Violet
     
    Wednesday, October 17, 1986
     
    T he ten days that followed my father’s decree—my “Ten Days of Repentance”—were not too bad. I spent my time daydreaming and getting excited: my nephew Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah was fast approaching. Eddie was thirteen—it was hard to believe he was growing up. I wondered whether he would still play with me and Farida.
    Eddie was an object of adoration for us. His kindness, intelligence, wildness, everything about him thrilled us. I was a year younger than him and one-and-a-half years older than Farida, and the two of them were my whole world.
    Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Whenever I think of him, my heart aches with the same intensity as when we discovered we had lost him.
    Eddie always knew exactly what to say. He was the only one of us kids allowed to attend movies by himself (we were girls, and the other boys in the family were too young), and when he returned from a film, he would describe every scene, every detail. Eddie made his own movies, too, just for us. He’d cut pictures from newspapers and project them onto a homemade screen; he was so good at cycling the images it felt like watching a real movie. He sewed a cloth curtain to cover the screen, and he’d wait until we all sat down, breathlessly waiting for the movie to begin, before removing it. He even made sure there were snacks at intermission: something sweet made by one of our mothers.
    Eddie had a marvelous sense of humor, an uncanny memory for jokes, and a gift for impersonation. He mimicked teachers at school, Ima ’s friends . . . nobody could resist his magic. Whenever I cried, Eddie made me laugh, and when I was bored, he entertained me. He was my best friend, and he, Farida, and I made a joyful trio.
    When the evening before the big event finally arrived, we stood on the roof and kept a vigilant watch for my father’s sister, Aunt Madeline, and his mother, may she rest in peace. Grandmother—I must write about her—was unique. Many years ago, when her kids were still young, my grandfather was sent to fight the Turks in World War One. Although he returned alive, he wasn’t the same man. He contracted tuberculosis and could no longer take care of his family. He died when my father was just a boy. My grandmother, a young woman with three small children, did her best to support her little family.
    During the war, Grandmother raised chickens in her backyard. She used some of their eggs to feed her children, and the rest she sold. On rare occasions, they ate the birds. When she realized she couldn’t support the family with chickens alone, Grandmother went out and bought inexpensive jewelry, material, and lacework. At night she embroidered garments, and during the day she went from house to house and peddled her wares.
    Grandmother traveled through the villages on foot, her merchandise packed on the back of a donkey; she frequently encountered vicious highway robbers. Whenever she heard about a celebration in one family or another, she would find out what the mother wanted, and she would make that wish come true. For one woman, she sewed a dreamlike wedding gown based on a drawing in a British magazine; for another she made a ball gown out of lace and muslin. She fashioned clothes for men and children as well. I must point out that in those days, women like my grandmother were considered peculiar; wandering through villages and selling one’s wares was not considered suitable work for women.