“Is that all everyone knows me as? The granddaughter whose father was killed? The orphan?”

Elka

T

he walk to shul was cool and beautiful in the early morning. Even the busy streets were quiet, and we could hear our footsteps against the cobblestones. As the large building loomed ahead of us, Bubbe pulled me toward the women’s entrance and upstairs to the balcony. It was quiet and peaceful in shul, and I pulled out my siddur to daven. As I whispered each word, I wondered again how the people who lived here could daven when they barely understood what they were saying. But Bubbe had said she mostly understood the words, so maybe they did know more Hebrew than I thought they did.

“Gut Shabbos,” said a tall, thin woman to Bubbe when davening was over. “Is this your granddaughter?”

“Yes.” Bubbe smiled, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Elka, this is Mrs. Abelson.” The woman bowed her head in acknowledgement of her name.

“This is the one from Eretz Yisrael? The one who—”

Bubbe nodded quickly and the woman broke off, but I knew what she was going to say. The one whose father was killed. So that’s how everyone thought of me. I’d thought if I came here, I’d be able to get away from that. Get to just be me. Elka. Apparently the legacy left to me by my Arab neighbors in Chevron had followed me all the way to Riga.

A quick peek at my face was all it took for Bubbe to realize that I had understood what hadn’t been said. “Gut Shabbos,” she said to Mrs. Abelson, ending their conversation. She steered me quickly out of shul.