February 12, 2020
Shprintza
I met Siobhán Rooney on an Air Canada flight from Toronto to Tel Aviv in the summer of 1980. I was 21, had recently graduated with a useless degree in political science, and had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I figured a trip to Israel would be something I could do in the meantime. Siobhán, in a sense, was in the same boat. She had also just graduated, from Tufts in her hometown of Boston. Flying from Toronto proved to be cheaper than New York.
We spoke for about an hour before exchanging names. She had a pretty thick Boston accent. The ‘Southie’ brogue which Matt Damon and Ben Affleck later showcased in Good Will Hunting. Am a little embarrassed to say I tried to show off.
“Ah Siobhán,” I said, “the name which does not sound like it is spelled.”
“My cross to bear,” she said with a smile. “And it’s not even my first name. It is my middle name. My given name is even more difficult.”
“Wow, your parents really went to town.”
“You have no idea.”
“Ok, go ahead and hit me. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I could tell you but then I would have to kill you,” she laughed.
“Fair enough. I can wait.”
But I didn't have to wait long. Two minutes later the stewardess was in our aisle with our in-flight meals. What she then said gave birth to this story.
“I have a kosher meal for a Shprintza Rooney.”
“That’s me,” said Siobhán.
I looked at her. I guess gaped at her would be a better description.
“Irish Catholic,” she said with a shrug. “But I heard the kosher meals were better. For once I can take advantage of my given name.”
“Shprintza? Your given name is Shprintza.”
“Yup.”
“Go on,” I said.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“Well,” I said, peeling back the cover of my non-kosher roast chicken which did not look nearly as good as her schnitzel, “I’m not going anywhere.”
This is the story she told me.
**********
Boston, 1960
“Over my dead body,” Miriam declared, as she ladled the chicken soup into a bowl.
“A thousand dollars is a lot of money,” replied Reuben. “We could use the money.”
“Have you lost your mind, Reuben? Shprintza?!?! We are going to call our first born Shprintza?”
“It’s just a name. A name doesn’t define who you are or who you will be. Can I have another matzo ball?”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. Throw that newspaper out. What kind of crazy person takes an ad out like that? Mary Elizabeth dear,” she said, addressing the also-pregnant woman who was scrubbing a pot. “Just soak it overnight. It will be much easier to clean in the morning.”
Miriam’s mother-in-law paid for the cleaning lady. A favor she never forgot to remind her of.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Elizabeth said, only too happy to stop scrubbing and get off her feet.
“Just take the trash out and head on home. Your feet must be killing you. Reuben! Reuben! Give Mary Elizabeth the newspaper to throw into the trash.”
Mary Elizabeth took the trash and grabbed the newspaper. The trash she threw into the big grey garbage bin. But the newspaper, the Jewish Advocate, the newspaper she put into her purse.
**********
“Read it again,” Billy said, as he turned down Gunsmoke.
Mary Elizabeth put on her reading glasses and opened the newspaper to the notice on the second to last page which she’d circled and highlighted in yellow. “I will pay a $1000 honorarium if you name your first-born daughter after my late grandmother Shprintza Nachama Goldberg of blessed memory who perished in Auschwitz. Only serious applicants need apply. There’s a Boston phone number.”
“Crazy lady,” snorted Billy.
“A thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Mary Elizabeth said.
“Darling, no Jewish woman is going to give a Catholic $1000 to name her baby Shpinger.”
“Shprintza. I looked it up. It means hope.”
“Mary Elizabeth Rooney. You don’t think it’s hard enough growing up poor in south Boston, and now you want to saddle your daughter with some crazy name of some dead old lady?”
“It means hope. I kinda like it. We would be honoring her memory. Maybe bring us and her some good luck.”
“That first Shprintza,” he said, “sounds like she had no good luck at all.”
“$1000. That’s free money. She is already bringing us good luck. I am going to call in the morning.”
“Mary Elizabeth. If that crazy Jewish lady hands you $1000 to give your daughter the name of her dead grandmother then you can go ahead and call me Moses because our house is nothing but a house of miracles. Now come over here and I’ll rub your feet.”
**********
“I’m Janice. On the phone you said your name was Mary Elizabeth Rooney. Is it Mary Elizabeth or just Mary?”
“I wish it were just Mary. But it has been Mary Elizabeth all my life. It is my cross to bear for being Irish.”
“I get it,” Janice said with a smile.
“Irish Catholic ma’am. Janice. On both sides. On all sides. I didn’t know if that would be a problem.”
“It’s not,” said Janice, “we are all god’s children. And being a redhead is a bonus.”
“Well it’s about time that worked to my advantage.”
“Well come on in. Where did you hear about my situation?”
“In the Jewish advocate. I work for a Jewish family. I can even make a challah.” Mary Elizabeth did not know why she had said that. She was a little bit nervous.
“Well I would love to try it. Maybe you can even give me a baking lesson. Can I make you a coffee?”
“Yes please. Cream and sugar please.”
“When are you due?”
“Four weeks. But if the good Lord said today, he wouldn’t get any argument from me. You never had kids?”
“I wasn’t able to. Probably a good thing. My husband would have left me if I had called our daughter Shprintza. Although he did leave me. But for completely different reasons.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t be, Mary Elizabeth. Tell me, what were you thinking of calling your daughter before this?”
“Well Billy, he’s my husband. Billy is partial to Dorothy. It was his mother’s name. We would call her Dot.”
“Dot Rooney. That’s nice. A whole lot nicer than Shprintza Rooney,” she said smiling. “I mean, I understand why everyone is saying no. It’s quite a mouthful. But $1000 is all I can afford.”
“Well at least Shprintza is only one name. I have been Mary Elizabeth my whole life.”
“You might be right,” replied Janice Goldberg. “Here, let me show you a picture,” she said as she handed Mary Elizabeth a creased 3 by 5 black and white photo.
It was a family portrait. It looked like it may have been taken by an actual photographer.
“Here,” Janice pointed to a pigtailed ragamuffin kneeling in the front. “That was Shprintza. They said she was a real troublemaker.”
“What’s that next to her feet?” asked Mary Elizabeth.
Janice chuckled. “That’s her pet chicken Haman. My Uncle Rachum said that chicken followed her everywhere.”
“You see the boy standing tall in the back? That’s Rachum. My uncle. He and my mother are the only ones in the picture who survived the camps. Everyone else perished.”
“My lord,” said Mary Elizabeth.
Just then the phone trilled.
“Will you excuse me?”
“Yes, of course.” Mary Elizabeth examined the photo. It was too horrible to even imagine.
When Janice Goldberg came back, she had a pained expression on her face.
“I am so sorry, Mary Elizabeth.”
“That call was from a family in Boro Park. You know, in Brooklyn?”
Mary Elizabeth did not know Boro Park.
“Anyway, they are very orthodox. And very poor. They were thrilled to get the $1000. And although it isn’t their firstborn daughter - it will be their ninth kid - they are very comfortable with the name. It isn’t even that uncommon in the orthodox community. So, my grandmother’s memory will be honored. I am so sorry.”
Nine kids. Oh my Lord. “Thanks for letting me know, Miss Goldberg... Janice. I am real happy for you.”
Janice Goldberg pressed a $100 bill onto Mary Elizabeth’s hand. “Here, Mary Elizabeth. Please take this.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Goldberg. I’ll be alright.”
“For the baby. For Dot. You can buy her a nice crib. Please. It will make me feel better.”
“Okay, Janice. Thank you kindly. I will buy a crib. For Dot. Much appreciated.”
Then Mary Elizabeth got her coat, closed the door, and took the bus back home.
**********
“$100?” said Billy.
“She just went and gave you $100?”
“Yes, she was nice. She told me all about her grandmother. Well, the little she knew. She was from a small little village in Poland. Was very poor. Barely had enough food to eat.”
And then she whispered, not loud enough for Billy to hear, “And she also had a pet chicken.”
“Sounds like us,” said Billy with a laugh. “We are from a small village in Boston. C’mon now. Let’s watch some TV.”
**********
Mary Elizabeth loved to take Dot out for long walks. She proudly pushed her stroller through the streets of Boston every day. Dot was a beautiful baby and a day rarely went by without a flurry of oohs and ahs from fellow Bostonian denizens. Sometimes she liked to get on the bus with her stroller and baby and go for walks in the leafy gentrified neighborhoods many blocks from her home.
So it was just by chance, one unseasonably warm April afternoon, that she found herself right in front of Janice Goldberg’s townhouse just as she was walking out the door.
“Mary Elizabeth Rooney! I can’t believe it! And oh my goodness, is this Dot? She's an angel.”
“Yes, Mrs. Goldberg. Dorothy Molly Rooney. But we call her Dot. She is my bundle of joy.”
“Now Mary Elizabeth. You call me Janice. Can I hold her?”
“Of course you can, Janice. And we just love the crib. Don’t we, Dot?”
Janice Goldberg held the baby in her arms. “Well this just makes my day.”
Mary Elizabeth proudly watched Janice Goldberg coo over her baby. She could tell she was a good woman. “Janice?” She asked. “How are things over in Brooklyn? In... Boro Park. How is baby Shprintza?”
Janice handed Dot back to Mary Elizabeth.
“Well you’ll never believe it,” she said with a smile. “It was a boy. The doctors were sure she was having a girl, but boy oh boy did they get it wrong. So Shprintza is now Shmuel. They sent me a picture. A beautiful boy. But not as beautiful as Dot.”
“Oh, Janice, I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be. Can never be sorry about a healthy baby. Two healthy babies. They wanted to give me back the money, but I insisted they keep it. I think my grandmother, may she rest in peace, would have understood.”
“Am sure she would,” said Mary Elizabeth.
“Will you come in for a coffee or maybe something stronger?” Said Janice.
“Another time,” said Mary Elizabeth. “But I can’t have anything stronger,” she smiled and rubbed her belly, “because I am pregnant.”
**********
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You get Shprintza Siobhán and your sister gets Dot?”
“Yup, classic middle child syndrome,” she says.
“There is another?”
“Another girl. Elizabeth Mary.”
“But that’s...”
“The reverse of my mother’s name.”
“Wow. They really did a number on you.”
“It’s not so bad. Shprintza is only my legal name. On my passport and birth certificate. Even my driver’s license says Siobhán. Sometimes I forget it altogether.”
“Unless you need it for kosher food.”
“Right.”
“Btw. How was the schnitzel?”
“It was delish.”
“So Israel?”
“I’m going to work on a kibbutz. Do a little sightseeing.”
“So no conversion?” I asked with a smile.
“Nope. I am Irish Catholic through and through. I sang in our church choir.”
“Shprintza though, seriously? It is honestly kinda hard to believe. Your father must have been very supportive.”
“You need to understand the Irish and our superstitions. Everything is a sign. My pa couldn’t compete against a sign.”
“I thought it was good luck to be named after a Saint.”
And then Shprintza Siobhán Rooney, in her thick southie accent said, “Nah, that is a bubbe meise.”
The end.
This story is a new addition to the 4th edition of The Bubbe Meise. It was previously published in Not Book Club Material.