Poor Fish (Part 1)

Every year at Passover, Nana Lena used to tell us the story of Poor Fish.

"I remember coming home from school. I was six, maybe seven years old. I was chasing my sister Goldie up the stairs when I heard the sound of laughter coming from the bathroom. I thought my brothers were taking their bath; so I was surprised, when I burst into the bathroom, to find Mike and Pete fully clothed, leaning over the edge of the tub poking at a very large fish, which was swimming nervously back and forth in Mama’s new porcelain pedestal bathtub.

I knew how much Mama treasured her bathtub. Indoor plumbing had only recently been introduced into the neighborhood and Mama was proud to have one of the first houses in Berkley with an indoor bath. Mama regularly led tours of her new bathroom, for our less fortunate neighbors, so I was having a hard time imagining her approval of this situation. “Irving Goodman, you tell Papa to get that poor fish out of there before Mama finds out.”

“Poor Fish,” two-year-old Mike mimicked.

Four-year-old Pete turned to me and in the sweetest little voice said, “Mama says we’re gonna eat him for Pesach.”

“We are most certainly not.”

“Yes, we aaaa-rre. Momma’s gonna make Gefillupte-fish.”

“Gefilte fish.” I corrected him.

“That’s what I said… you fill it up with…something.”

“But Mama said….”

“I don’t care what Mama said,” I told my brothers. “We can’t
eat him; we know him. He’s practically family. For gosh sakes, he’s swimming around in our bathtub.”

Goldie poked her head in the bathroom. “I see Mama got the
fish.”

“You knew about this?”

“Of course I did.”

“She never brought a live one home before.”

“We never had an indoor bathtub before.” Goldie flicked a towel at me and darted out of the room, cackling. I turned back to my brothers, “We’ve got to think of something, or tomorrow he’s gonna be…“

“Dead,” Pete nodded sadly.

“Poor fish.”

I joined Mama and Goldie in the kitchen. They were in the process of making horseradish. Goldie was seventeen months older than me, so Mama let her handle the more dangerous tools.

Goldie grated the radish while I was assigned to baby duty, like crushing walnuts or sorting rice. This time it was raisins, good from the bad, dark from light. Mama preferred yellow raisins, so any raisin bold enough to turn dark or shrivel up had to be eliminated. I obliged by eating the dark ones and pushing the shriveled ones aside. I had completed my task and was presenting my handiwork to Mama when Goldie screamed, “Darn it!”

“Goldie! Such language!”

“What’s the matter? “

“I cut myself.”

“Run it under the water, quick.” Mama dragged Goldie’s thumb over to the sink and then squeezed it hard until it bled.

“Owwwwh. What you do that for?”

“To make sure the wound is clean.” She looked at Goldie’s thumb, which had two deep cuts from the grater, and shook her head. “This is not good. Lena, get me the iodine and a bandage.”

She turned her attention back to Goldie. “Now you won’t be able to make the gefilte fish.”

I ran to the pantry to fetch the iodine and then stood and listened to their conversation, breathless.

Goldie said, “It’s just a little cut, Mama. I’ll be fine…”

“You can’t put your hands in the fish with a cut on your finger. Not in my kitchen and definitely not in your Bubbie Sareva’s kitchen.”

“But, Mama…”

“Lena will make the fish.”

“Lena’s still a baby.”

“Not so much anymore. She will take your place.”

“But, Mama…

“Lena will help this year. And next year, you will both help.”

I stood there trembling, knowing how furious Goldie would be with me if I helped make the fish, and knowing what an honor it was to be invited to my grandmother’s kitchen. Then again, there was Poor Fish.

(To be continued...)