I told this Story at two Storytelling events (Israel/1986 & Manhattan, 1994).

It seemed to be well-received, except for my brother in ‘94. He disconcerted me by continually shaking his head. He claimed it never happened. He wasn’t there.

 

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     It was the Summer of ‘47 or ‘48. I was three or four. Our family lived in a huge apartment house in  Crown Heights, a bustling post-war Brooklyn neighborhood.  There was a large courtyard In the middle of 715 St. Marks Avenue. The adults, mostly elderly women and young mothers, would gather in the courtyard, sit and talk. The countless children would play.

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     One day, in late afternoon,  I was playing by myself in the small garden. I was fascinated by a grating in the garden, the kind that is built over subways. I looked up and saw my mother, who everyone called Tootsie (after the song, “Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goodbye”) in animated conversation with an old woman. Everyone else had left for dinner. Just the three of us. 

 

     Curious, I easily put my legs over the miniature white picket fence and ran towards them. The woman was holding and excitedly waving a piece of paper. As I got closer I heard her proclaim that her wonderful son had sent this wonderful postcard from Florida. Florida! My mother was nodding and smiling. Then the woman thrust the postcard into my mother’s hands. My mother continued to nod and smile.

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     I got close to her and began to jump and shout, “Let me see! Let me see!” The old woman was upset, horrified. She told my mother how important the postcard was to her and that  I was too young to hold it. My mother gave back the postcard to her, but began to try to persuade her to let me see it, saying it was so beautiful and I just wanted to take a look (“givvakick” - Yiddish.)  Finally/reluctantly, the old woman put it in my hands eagerly reaching upward. 

 

     Initially, I gingerly held and studied the postcard. Indeed, it was very beautiful. On the front was a photograph of a Floridean scene. There were stately, long-necked pink flamingos on a blue lake with white puffy clouds in a blue sky, all fringed by lovely green plants. In the style of the day the photo had been touched up, colored. So the pinks, blues, whites and greens were intense/vivid. I was entranced, but it was the other side - when I finally turned the postcard over - that rendered me verklempt. The son had written to his mother in intricate/cursive writing with a bold black pen. Though I couldn’t read, I became almost hypnotized trying to follow the intricate curves. Gorgeous-to-die-for!

 

     I broke out of my trance and looked up. The old woman and my mother had resumed their conversation and forgotten about me. They didn’t notice when I slowly, very slowly, walked back to the tiny picket fence, climbed over it into the garden and hovered over the grate, holding the postcard between metal bars. I took another quick look. This time the Old Woman noticed me. She stopped talking to my mother and froze. I turned away from her, looked down and released the postcard. I watched the pinks and blues and whites and greens and black turns over and over as it landed on the distant bottom.

 

     She screamed. Tootsie tried to reason with her. “Why did you give it to him? He’s only a little boy.” This did not have a placating effect.  Pointing a long, shaky finger at me and my mother she yelled angry words that I didn’t understand. Tootsie called me to her. I ran. Her arms reached for me, embraced me and held me close. The two of us backed out of the courtyard. My back was pressed against her and I saw the Old Woman diminish, standing, continuing to rant and rave.

 

*            *             *

 

     That night Tootsie was getting me ready for bed. Our first floor apartment on St. Marks Avenue was seperated from the sidewalk by large hedges. I can still feel the buttons of my pajamas press into me as she buttoned me up. I told her that I was afraid. She asked me why. I told her that I thought the Old Woman was a witch and when I went to sleep she would open the window, come inside, pick me up and take me away.

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     She stopped with the buttons, bent down and looked at me. Then she said: “She is a witch, but I’m a witch, too. And I’m stronger than she is.