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The immigration began years ago. It was 1990, I was 9 and the city was hot and humid. Odessa, the pearl of the Black Sea was always humid, even during the chilly September evenings of the 90's, before the USSR collapsed and blood flooded the streets. Momma picked me up from school and asked we hop all the way home. It was always her way to apologise to me after a screaming session, or do something fun together when she felt sad. We passed the statue of my beloved atlases holding the sky on their backs and I waved to them. At home Papa waited in the "room" which is both their bedroom and our living room and dining room. On the table was a jug of tea and Baba Fanya's oatmeal cookies. Momma sat down on my side of the table and asked Papa to start talking. He started from afar, from the history of mankind, through quotes from books we loved together, and then told me that we, the whole family, are Jews. I had no idea. So Momma got into the conversation and said that as Jews, we have the opportunity to fly on a plane to Israel and go on interesting adventures on another continent. I wanted to go pee and think about it. Just before I got up, Papa said he wanted to stay in Odessa, for a short time, because there are things he could only do here. It was the best lie they ever told us, me and my brother "Piglet". That Papa will only stay a little longer in Odessa and join us very soon. Their divorce happened above our heads, when the humid autumn turned into wet winter, with no ginger leaves on pavement to soften our hops. Nore did we hope anymore, as sadness took away the pep of my Momma's step. For one year in my life I was a ‘stinky Jew'. The spring of 1991 it was already Ukraine and I would never again have a homeland, just a hometown that was still hot and humid and no longer welcoming. A second before we left, Grandma asked us to sit for a moment. An old Russian superstition. You must sit for a moment before a journey, for lucky travels and a safe return. I got up excitedly and ran outside. Momma and Grandma took out the last bags and the big men loaded them quietly on the bus. I never saw a bus in the middle of the night, let alone on Grandma's little street. Momma asked that both me and Piglet go to the bathroom before setting out, because the road is going to be long. I grabbed Piglet's warm hand, and we ran upstairs to pee. When we returned, more families were standing around the bus, and the big men were working in complete silence loading the bags. There were far more bags, suitcases, sacks, boxes and bags than there were people. There was very little light, and I was sure this is a sign of a great adventure, not of a quiet disappearance of my childhood. Except for me and Piglet, I only saw one more child. He cried and insisted not to get on the bus. Piglet and I got on quickly to grab the best spot, the first row on the right, just behind the driver. It is possible in this row to push with your feet and it does not hurt anyone, because the driver is behind a small wall. I was sitting by the window because I wanted to see and remember everything, especially the plane! After we sat down, me by the window and a Piglet next to me, they loaded more bags and boxes next to us. It was already a little less comfortable and fun, but at least the whining kid was sitting far away from us. I have not sat by the window since. Piglet fell asleep, and I missed the few pee stations that the stone-faced guards reluctantly offered us. 24 hours restraint. Papa drove in a car with a friend to the border with Moldova. The last time I hugged him I told him he had a year to come, after that I have no dad. He swore he would come. After that there was another drive to Bucharest and a hotel. Green ice cream that I did not get to taste but only to watch the whining kid eat with a grin, spilling it from the corner of his mouth. The long journeys in elevators with mirrors. Huge beds and hot tap water. First time in my life the water remained hot. As we approached our final destination, I was peeling off layer after layer of all the clothes they had me wear through customs, and Momma kept hissing that nice girls don't walk around in tank tops. Then the entrance to the huge hall at the Airport and the bag of sweets I have never seen before. The following years I was a ‘stinky Russian'. During the first week in Israel, I woke up crying every night because I dreamed that I was forced to call my Momma - Ima. I hated this stupid language so much that I had to learn it. I chose to keep calling her Momma. I chose to speak with my rolling Russian R's. I chose to ignore the advice to think in Hebrew to delete the Russian. I made a lot of choices at age 10, for me and for the adults who were supposed to be in charge of me. I met my father again at the age of 22. I dreamed he was going to die and decided to fly to meet him. I told him that I forgive him. He died six months later. My child started talking recently. He calls me Momma.
