This time a year ago I dreamt that Aunt Berta was in my kitchen in Las Vegas, telling me she was rescinding my invitation to her “jubilee.”
“What jubilee are you talking about?” I demanded. “You just had your jubilee last year when you turned 100. But fine, go ahead and disinvite me. See if I show up to your funeral. Or if I do, see if I bring your beloved Lev (my husband).”
My father’s aunt just listened meekly as I berated her, and soon wakefulness dawned. What if Berta actually was referring to her funeral? Oh, but she couldn’t be dead. Berta doesn’t die. Besides, holding on until 100 is understandable, but what’s the point of 101? And would she really want to bring people to Baltimore — right into the middle of the riots?
The phone rang. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, and it was my mother.
“Eh, Lyusha?”
“Da. Is this about Tota Berta?”
“Someone already told you?”
“No, I just had a dream she was telling me not to come. You think she was letting me off the hook?”
My mother, only ever momentarily impressed by my sporadic ESP, answered, “It’s possible. Anyway, your father is in no shape to fly, but I’m going so let me know whether to buy one ticket or two.” We hung up.
It was hard to believe Berta was gone. Once someone makes it to 101, you figure that person just isn’t going anywhere. Clearly, God has forgotten about them.
The president, for one, did forget about Berta. She never got the presidential letter you’re supposed to get when you turn 100. Granted, she didn’t vote for Mr. Obama, and another Russian-American — a group known for conservative leanings — might have mused, “Forthis I lived a hundred years?” But Berta looked forward to that letter. I had assured her it would come to the Section 8 apartment building where she lived, which was situated between Park Heights Avenue and Reisterstown Road.