petting zoo - english translation

A short story published in the Israeli literary magazine Hamusach, translated by David Aronshtam.

From Unsplash

Original story in Hebrew Here.

When I need to relax, I go and visit the nanny goats. There is a petting zoo near my house. Right in the middle of the city. It’s not that the nanny goats are particularly soothing, it’s just that the air behaves differently around them. It’s slower somehow. Each thing in the petting zoo has a purpose: the pool in the middle - for drinking and for the ducks. The area in the back for the little ones, when it gets cold. And when everything is in its place, the nanny goats are calm, and then the air is calm as well. And you feel relaxed.

“There’s no need, mom, the kids don’t eat greasy food, they feel bloated afterwards and I don’t want them to get fat,” says my daughter while tapping away on that phone of hers. I only smile, without answering. Be’eri has already finished half a plate. “Be’eriki, enough, eat your vegetables,” my daughter tells him. Children snatch food from the mouths of their children, every week is the same. “Mom, did you forget?” she whispers. “We’ve already talked about the greasy food.” I put on my forgetful face. It’s a trick Ahuva, the neighbor, taught me. When you don’t feel like doing something, put on your forgetful face. At first, they’ll think you're pulling a fast one. Then, they’ll get frightened. In the end, they’ll pity you and leave you alone. Only don’t do it too well, or they’ll send you to the old folks’ home.

I take the kids every Shabbat to visit the nanny goats, so they’ll learn to relax, and also learn what the nanny goats like to eat. Nettle - sure. Sweet potato - no. They say you shouldn’t give them bread, because it gives them gas, which disturbs the neighbors. But when I have some leftover challah, I give it to them. What do I care? I don’t live there. When we go, I hear the relief in my daughter’s and her husband’s voices, when they get a half an hour without the kids. I want to tell them, children are a blessing. What are you sighing like that for? Why did you have them, if you didn’t want to? But I stay quiet.

The chief nanny goat is recognizable in an instant. We came over one evening, and he was giving a sermon to the herd: baa-baa-baa, baa-baa, baa-baa-baa-baa-baa. We tried giving some leaves to the nice white goat, but he signaled us to give them to the little black goat instead. And sure enough, the little one was hungry. How can you tell it is the chief? He hops from the bench to the rock, so that he can be the highest every time, so that the others can’t say nothing. Besides, you can tell by his hair that he’s the oldest.

They come over some time before the Havdalah, and immediately turn on their phones. “You’re playing on your phone all day long,” I say to them, “the kids learn this from you and instead of meeting friends outside, they meet them on the phone.”

“We’re not playing, mom,” my daughter thinks I need it explained to me slowly, “we’re just quickly going over the calendar, checking the schedule for next week. Besides, kids today meet friends on the phone too, that’s how it goes. I can’t pick up Amalia on Monday,” my daughter says to her husband, “I’ve got a conference with the CEO until six at least, and knowing the persons involved, it will not end before seven.”

“Bring her over,” I suggest. Her gaze is locked on me. It will help her, bringing Amalia over, instead of her running around like one of those homeless kids. But then, she will have to eat my food, my greasy food. “Do you want gizzards and noodles?”

“Yes,” Amalia jumps up and down, “red macaroni?”

“Sure, the red noodles,” I laugh. “Why are you scowling?” I ask my daughter, “you used to like it too.” I go over to the kitchen to take out another cake. “Maybe we should pack lunch for her to take to school?” My daughter thinks I don’t hear what she says to her husband. If it was up to her, she would have packed her daughter’s lunch every time she came here. But they don’t keep Kosher, and this is something I cannot allow.

Once, we were returning from a visit to the nanny goats after it was already dark. I didn’t have my phone on me, since it was still Shabbat when we went out. And when we reached the stairwell, I felt the air get dense, so dense you could give it a good bite. It was all because of my daughter’s stress. She wanted to return quickly and I was “delaying the schedule.” And my being late on Saturday night created “a chain of delays,” she was shouting: they will not go to sleep on time and they will not wake up in time and she will be late to the office and she can’t be late to the office tomorrow, and she started fiddling with her phone again, because I was late. “You’re not the prime minister,” I told her. She ignored me.

She called me on Shabbat once. I don’t call during Shabbat, but if someone calls, I pick up. She said that Be’eriki had a homework assignment for school, she had a ton of work, her husband didn’t want to get out of bed, so they wouldn't be able to make it. I went to the nanny goats by myself. I gave them the leaves of the radish I grow in tin cans on the balcony, and I felt relaxed.

“I had an idea, mom,” she told me when they visited me on the following Shabbat. “You offered to have them over after school, right? So, instead of them coming here and making a mess, why don’t you come over to our place? We’ll pay for your taxi and give you a lift back to your place.” I glared at her. “I don’t work for you,” is what I wanted to tell her, but I was afraid she wouldn’t bring the grandkids over anymore. So I got up, grabbed the back of the sofa, and climbed on top of it, and opened my mouth, and said “baa-baa-baa, baa-baa.” I knew Ahuva wouldn’t approve if she found out, because I’ve moved too fast from the stage when they think I’m pulling a fast one on them to the fright stage, but I was past caring, and so I climbed from the sofa to the table and yelled, “baa-baa-baa, baa-baa.”