Yankele

Dad's bed is 2nd from the large window at the end of the room. All other 3 occupants are religious Jews, all of them of the moderate type, not orthodox. They seem to be of different diaspora. Nearest the door is (I think) Yemenite, very old, frail, but mobile (more than can be said for my poor daddy), then another geezer, origin not clear as yet, then dad (from Poland), and finally an eldery man from Hungary. He is receiving blood transfusions, and is recovering from some cancer - I am still too squeamish to let the full detail (eagerly described in glorious technicolor) sink in just yet. Keeping him company is his son, a portly man of around 40, perhaps older. Yankele. They are very gregarious, while I try to stay aloof, without offending anyone. Forget it. This is Israel. If someone decided to be your friend, you might as well play along. Resistance is futile. Yankele wants to know all there is to know about me. Kids? No, bachelor. What do you do? I tell him. You work for London Underground? You're kidding, right? After some more questions I tell him he might devise a questionnaire for me to fill in. Ah, you're making fun of me now, he says cheerfully, without a hint of dismay. My dad and his dad are already pals. They both survived WW2 through different experiences, but they both made their way to Israel soon afterwards, and my dad, usually full of stories but now too weak to be talkative resigns himself to the role of listener. Captive audience. Bad news, I mistakenly thought at first. The vitality of a genuinely sick person in the next bed has some life-affirming effect, and it uplifts, not just irritates... Later on more family members arrive, and before we know it we know all of them. Big sister, a large, boisterous "modern" religious woman called Shoshy (Sue?) is there to keep night vigil at her dad's side. The ward doesn't allow it normally, but they crumble in front of her. Does she love her father more than I do mine? She is, like the rest of the clan friendly, cheerful, and she declares that she is going to look after my dad as well. "Don't you worry about a thing", she roars, "if he needs anything, anything at all, I am going to see to it that the nurses are here like a shot. You go with God, and I will see you in the morning, God willing". But staying overnight in the cramped ward with her dad, with only a chair to sit on? Surely he is well looked after by the staff here? "Me, leaving my father's side? I should kill myself first! That is how I was brought up, and I raised my son the very same way. My one and only son. He is getting married soon, you know. He tells me: mum, you don't seem too excited about my approaching nuptuals. I tell him: You're crazy! I have a sick father, not to mention a sick mother to look after as well, I hardly have time for anything else, including my own son, the one thing I love most in the whole world. What else have I got to love more than him, huh?! Huh?!!"
I am totally melted in the white heat of that woman's emotion. I tell her I think she's a wonderful daughter. She dismisses my words with a splutter. "Good daughter, pah!". I say: "you're too modest to see it yourself". We wish everyone in the room a speedy recovery and leave.