The Tar Pit
My friend turned to me and said, “Debbie, you would never believe this story. One Shabbat afternoon…” and I had no doubt what story she was about to relate, since it was mine…
Some family stories can only be told years after they occur, when children are grown up and can look back and laugh. This is a true family saga.
One Shabbat afternoon I was surprised when a special visitor knocked at my door. It was an older Rebbetzin who had graciously come to welcome me to the neighborhood. I straightened my tichel, grabbed my bawling infant and went outside to entertain my guest in our small garden. There were napping children in almost every corner of our home.
Sipping tea and nibbling sponge cake, we made small talk about absolutely nothing. I opened a small folding table and set it with my finest china, hoping that the Rebbetzin had overlooked the stacks of plastic childproof dishes piled next to the kitchen sink. I felt it was important that I make the proper impression. No one had to know that I was human and that we actually ate off (ugh!) unbreakable plastic.
Just as the Rebbetzin was about to leave, a stranger appeared in my garden grasping what appeared to be two little black boys by the scruff of their necks. “Do you know these children?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” I quickly blurted out, before realizing that they were my own two little darlings.
The boys had been playing at the far end of the parking lot adjacent to our house, next to where the municipality had fenced off an area for major road repairs. When the guard decided to take a nap (after all, it was Shabbat …), the two boys grabbed the opportunity to get a closer view of the huge tractors parked there. When they noticed an enormous vat behind one of the tractors, they decided to climb to the top to see what was inside.
The vat was filled with liquid tar. One of the boys tried to show his brother how well he could balance on the rim of the vat, and slipped into the thick black fluid.
The other brother thought that looked like great fun and jumped in after him. It only took a few more minutes for both boys to become unrecognizable. Only the whites of their eyes attested to the fact that they were really human.
The Rebbetzin scrutinized the two boys from head to toe, before turning to me with a look of pity. “Does this happen often in your house?”
“N…no. This is the first time. Really. They’re usually very well-behaved children.”
One of the boys kicked his brother in the shins while both snickered simultaneously.
“Well, it certainly is a pity that they had to ruin their nice Shabbat outfits,” commented the Rebbetzin as I walked her to the front door. I didn’t even bother trying to hide the plastic dishes.
None of my books on child rearing had ever mentioned this possibility. I realized that it would be dangerous to leave the tar on the children’s skin for very long and contemplated taking them to the nearest emergency room. But the idea of walking through the center of Yerushalayim with two tar-black children in tow was not very appealing.
I recalled that criminals were often tarred and feathered in colonial America. If so, I reasoned, tar could not be dangerous, just messy. Several weeks later, I found out that this punishment usually resulted in death.
We were living in a renovated Arab house, not far from Mandelbaum Gate. In the days prior to the intifada, every Shabbat afternoon throngs of Jews passed our home on their way to the Kotel.
The boys were literally dripping tar, so I did not allow them to step foot in our house. Our front door was in full view of the street, and a crowd of curious spectators had already gathered to get a closer view of my little angels.
That was when the guard finally woke up from his Shabbat nap. He noticed the open gate and the two tar-black boys, and put two and two together. He had been remiss in his duties.
“No problem,” he explained in his broken Hebrew. “I will take care of everything.”
The guard returned a few minutes later shlepping an enormous Jerri can brimming with gasoline. He told the children to strip to their underwear and proceeded to wash the boys from head to toe. Everything, but everything — shoes, tzitzit, yarmulkes — was thrown straight into the garbage bin.
I still have vivid memories of the circle of onlookers watching the guard carefully remove every trace of the black tar. When people started asking where the children’s mother had disappeared to, I kept quiet, and pretended to be as puzzled as the rest of them. The boys just snickered.
At one point, I noticed two young couples out for a Shabbat stroll. The two women were sauntering along, proudly pushing their baby carriages, while their husbands appeared to talking in learning. One of the wives asked her husband to find out why there was such a large crowd in the parking lot. The two men returned from their investigation laughing hysterically. Both women soon joined in their merriment. I was very glad that no one realized my identity.
That Saturday night, my husband and I somehow managed to clean up the remnants of the tar, and the story went into the annals of our family history, or so we thought.
Many years later, I met an old friend on the bus. Stuck in rush-hour traffic, we had plenty of time to catch up on each other’s lives. Our conversation turned to children, and we began to recount stories of their antics.
All of a sudden, my friend turned to me and said, “Debbie, you would never believe this story. One Shabbat afternoon, as I was walking past Mandelbaum Gate on my way to the Kotel, I saw …”
I had no doubt what story she was about to relate. I laughed at her description of these two little tar-black boys, and clucked my tongue in sympathy for that poor anonymous mother, all the while praying that my friend would not notice the blood rapidly rushing to my cheeks.
But despite the ruined clothes and the enormous mess, these two boys eventually grew up. And yes, they even became fine outstanding members of their communities. And yes, they have children of their own. And no, I have never wished that their children would do things like that to their own parents.
After all, my darling grandchildren are perfect angels. They would NEVER do anything like that. Right?
(More of Debbie Shapiro’s stories can be found in Bridging the Golden Gate)
