Frozen Brazilian Delight E-Book

CeCe Rubin

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

It's 1988, and our heroine is leaving Brazil for the US with her new husband: an Argentinian clergyman with a roving eye toward women.

Frozen Brazilian Delight is the story of a newlywed couple, brought together by the protagonist's sense of duty toward her Holocaust Survivors' parents, who urged her to choose the religious man as a husband instead of the simple man she had fallen in love with.

Stories of the holocaust intermingle with the newly married couple's journey, as they land in Cincinnati, Ohio, and attempt to learn English and the Midwest culture. Through situations both hilarious and heartbreaking, the two navigate their way in their new home.

A riveting historical novel mixed with Jewish mysticism and Brazilian folklore, CeCe Rubin's 'Frozen Brazilian Delight' offers a glimpse to the life of an immigrant after the Second World War.

Leseprobe

Frozen Brazilian Delight

The Frozen Brazilian Series

Book 1

CeCe Rubin

Copyright (C) 2023 CeCe Rubin

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Contents

1. Delight

2. Buy A Car, Win A Friend

3. Redemption And Broken Homes

4. Driving Level Expert

5. Laws, Not Suggestions

6. Jerry Springer And The Chili Show

7. Sheets

8. The Place I Don’t Belong

9. The Ranch

10. The Gray Dog

11. Ohio Samba

12. Love In The Listing Ship

13. Sorry, Ma’am, We Had To Deploy An Aircraft…

14. Lawn And Order

15. Overalls In Tall Grass

16. Scorpion’s March

17. The Goblin

18. Duty And The Ties That Bind

19. The Clergyman

20. The Exit Flu

About the Author

Chapter1

Delight

Growing up in the sweltering heat in my home in Brazil, I dreamt of the snowy mountains depicted in one of my favorite movies, The Sound of Music. I would run and twirl with my arms outstretched, my head facing the sky as I belted my version of the "The hills are alive" song, rolling my tongue in what I believe to be English.

I would twirl and sing for two minutes under the hot January sun before collapsing on the grass breathless, looking for any vestige of water molecules leftover from the morning dew.

My face rested on the cool grass, giving me some relief as the sweat poured down my face. As I lay in the grass, I would summon the image of the snow-capped mountains in the Swiss Alps, seen in the background where Maria, the lucky nun, got to run and play.

My mother would see me on the grass through the open windows of our first-floor apartment; she would yell for me to get up "this instant" in her exasperated tone of voice, mostly used when she addressed her youngest and "wildest" child.

I would then get up and slowly make my way up to our first-floor apartment, using the elevator to avoid any more physical strain. I would imagine myself as a nun, even though I wasn't sure of Jewish nuns living in convents, certainly not in Brazil, where the heat would have made wearing a full habit very uncomfortable.

My parents, who had immigrated from Poland to Israel and later Brazil, never thought of installing air conditioning; they enjoyed "the warmth," as they used to call it. The heat relieved them from the memories of the relentless cold in Poland as they tried to survive The Second World War and the concentration camps. They would smile in delight at my reddened sweaty face, and, in their childhood dialect, they would say to me, "Ah Mehaie," what a delightful life.

Seeing their smiling faces through my sweaty bangs, I would try to match their joy. I would say, "Yes, absolutely," while gulping huge quantities of Hawaiian Punch. I was determined to deliver hydration to my brain to plot my escape from the humid tropical heat the moment I turned 18.

"If I make it," I would grumble, lying down by the opened window, waiting for the "cool breeze" my parents swore they felt in the constant 90-degree weather.

My parents worked together all day long; my siblings, much older than me, busied themselves all day with their studies and romantic pursuits.

That left me with hours of solitude with the opportunity to explore the world around me; Geralda, the live-in maid, was my constant companion. My exploits frazzled her nerves. She would reluctantly agree to sit on the sofa and watch my latest theater performance, which was preferable to her than having to look for me as I disappeared into the building complex, looking for adventures, tired of watching cartoons and Zorro. Geralda would invariably fall asleep, her mouth open, apparently unmoved by my carefully choreographed versions of the American musicals I would watch on tv.

Geralda's naps during my "shows" ended one day after she found herself with a mouth filled with the peanuts that I had carefully placed in her open mouth, thinking that she most likely was falling asleep due to lacking enough nutrition.

Geralda gasped, spitting out the peanuts and her set of dentures that landed on the sofa next to her. I looked at Geralda's teeth, horrified by my first experience of seeing false teeth. Geralda quickly retrieved her teeth and left me alone as she walked into the bathroom, closing her door.

Seeing the scattered peanuts led me to check my teeth, fully expecting to be able to remove them, gums and all. I found my teeth to be entirely secure to my gums. For several days after that experience, I would slowly chew my food while intermittently checking that my teeth were still in place until my mother told me to "cut it out."

Food was abundant in my childhood home due to my parents’ trauma of hunger and starvation during their time spent in the concentration camps in Poland and Germany. My parents kept themselves trim and fit. They ate without excess, offering their children, Geralda, and anyone who crossed the threshold of our home beautifully arranged platters of food. My parents would eat a small amount while encouraging others to eat, their eyes slanting as they smiled, happy with their ability to feed others.

Geralda's loyalty toward me kept her silent about my latest exploits.

I was lonely, bored, and curious. I would walk around the apartment checking my mother's trinkets. I soon became fascinated by the clocks of all sizes we had all over our house. I had no idea of the clock's utility at that age. Despite my young age, I would feel a twinge of guilt as I plotted to take the table clock apart. Still, my intense curiosity had me sneaking kitchen utensils to my room, where I would dismantle the clocks, piece by piece, looking for the source of the ticking sound and watching the moving parts, fascinated by the mechanical magic.

Once the sound and movement ceased, and the pile of gears and screws lay on my bed, I would start the reassembling attempt; inexplicably, there were always some leftover pieces that would not fit. I would tell myself that such tiny pieces couldn't possibly cause the clock's mechanism to fail. But they all did, falling silent, the hands immobile as it showed the exact moment I had initiated my exploration.

The mystery of the clock's loss of functionality joined the other mysterious occurrences in my home, including the missing Mercury from the glass thermometer. I would break the thermometer, collecting the silvery Mercury in my hands before transferring it into an empty matchbox. I entertained myself for hours, fascinated by the silvery Mercury's ability to divide itself into smaller sizes at the touch of my finger; I would run Mercury races inside the bottom portion of the matchbox. I would pretend that the shiny droplets were little bugs racing each other to the finish line I drew with my Bic pen. I lifted one side of the box slowly, creating an incline that would cause the silver droplets to tumble down to the "finish line." My parents never found out about my "Mercury pet" collection. I always wondered if handling the deadly chemical with my bare hands and storing it in an empty box with phosphorus residue contributed to my fertile imagination and short attention span.

One day during Carnaval, my mother returned home early from work, tired and nursing a nasty migraine. She found me wearing the living room curtains, the silky fabric carefully arranged around my body, secured by pins to one side of the shoulder. I saw her and raised my arm, holding a flashlight. I hoped to show her my best Statue of Liberty impression; I had decided on that custom for the Carnaval celebration in our club that evening. My mother stared at me, apparently at a loss for words, which was a rarity for her.

That was the day my enrollment in the all-day Summer camp during vacation and after school. My parents had decided for my sake, for the integrity of the house furnishings, and for my safety.

My afternoons were now busy with ballet, piano, and art classes. A tutor helped me with my homework even though I completed my assignments without his help. The tutor, a quiet and shy Math teacher, made extra money by keeping myself and the home in one piece while my parents worked.

He was kind and appeared to be thoroughly amused by my keen interest in science and my preference for Classical music due to watching Looney Tunes. He took me to museums and landmarks around São Paulo, my town. One day he arrived with tickets for a Classical concert that night at the beautiful "Teatro Municipal" in the town center. He was sure he had a child prodigy in his hands as he led me to our Burgundy velour seats close to the orchestra. I arranged my favorite organza dress around me, and, pulling my socks up, I spent a minute admiring the sheen of my patent leather shoes. That was the last thing I remember as minutes into Beethoven's 5th Symphony for piano and orchestra; I fell asleep.

São Paulo is an 18 million-people behemoth of a town, where the skyscrapers compete for space in the skies that are frequently grey, the sun peeking through the heavy smog and pollution. Not exactly the mental image you would conjure up when thinking about Brazil. The tropical paradise with gorgeous beaches and scantily clad people, laying in the scorching sun, bodies glistening with sweat and homemade tanner, a mixture of Coca-Cola and baby oil.

The lush forests shown on NationalGeographic specials, where monkeys jump from tree to tree, the forest teeming with life and sound is the Brazil of people's imagination. Those lucky enough to leave São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro for the beautiful small towns and villages lining the coast, all the way to the Amazon forest, would see the lush generations, blue skies, and miles and miles of fine white sands and blue-green ocean water. The trees in São Paulo grew restricted in small parks where the only wild things to be found were stray cats and the occasional drunk, sleeping off the party from the night before. I lived in one of those skyscrapers; our apartment was on the first floor, and there were 27 more floors, with two apartments on each floor above our unit. Two elevators whizzed up and down, carrying the residents all day long. I sometimes rode in the elevator before my "tutor's" arrival. I was curious about the lives of those who lived above me. I would get off on a random floor, inspecting my neighbor's choices for decorating their hallway between apartment "A" on the right and "B" on the left.

I would imagine their day-to-day lives behind closed doors until I heard approaching steps at their front door. I quickly used the stairs to evade detection, listening to their goodbyes, "Tchau, see you later!" to the other people inside as I silently walked down to the next floor. I would think about the families that resided in our building, "Would their lives be much different than mine"?

As a budding social scientist, I wondered about humans and their habits.

My parents had immigrated from Israel to Brazil looking for warmth and peace as they tried to leave behind Poland, the concentration camps, and the Second World War. They had spent seven years in Israel right after the war. They fought in Israel's Independence War, and soon after, they left for Brazil, where a distant cousin, also a survivor, lived. The cousin invited my parents to her new home country—my parents left for Brazil in an old ocean liner; they had a total of thirty-five dollars to their names and two little kids, my sister and my brother.

Brazil, with its warm climate and slow pace where everyone had time for a chat and "cafezinho," the strong expresso served in tiny cups all day and night, was like a salve on my parents’ many wounds.

They never installed air conditioning, as the chill of the nights spent in the concentration camp barracks would creep back into their memories when they had "bad days." We had small fans in a closet for the "real hot nights." In Brazil, the median temperature was in the high eighties day or night. During June and July, Brazil's short Winter season, the temperature fluctuated in the 70s and upper 60s; anything below that would be considered a national emergency. Brazilians would have canceled their plans to stay home bundled up in wool blankets near their electric heater, hoping the cooler temperatures were not a sign of the world's end.

My parents quickly immersed themselves in the culture, befriending the easygoing Brazilians; their Polish accents became barely noticeable after a while, and they had full command of the Portuguese language. They loved the warm climate and the warmth of the Brazilians.

They admired the importance of social connections in Brazilian culture. A Brazilian would gladly interrupt an important meeting or errand to offer a helping hand or to engage in a quick chat, offering the obligatory "cafezinho" and a bite of "pao de queijo," a delicious cheesy bread made with Cassava flour and parmesan cheese, lots of it.

A good-natured chat with relatives, friends, and strangers is often seen as a unique opportunity to potentially meet your "best friends for life," as long as the stranger isn't a smiling robber or pickpocket.

Brazilians have always been enthusiastic in their greetings to each other. The "oi” or “oiiii" salute is delivered with a broad smile, full eye contact, and two kisses, one on each cheek.

Friendliness is expected in all encounters, creating opportunities for easy laughter and connection. My parents and siblings, born 18 months apart in Israel, thrived in Brazil.

My sister was thirteen, my brother was twelve when I made my presence known to my mother, who had thought for months that she was experiencing early menopause until she felt my first movements in her womb.

At that point in their lives, my parents led busy work and social lives. They were intensely committed to charity work geared towards social justice and culture. Finally, my mother felt my first movements consistently enough to consider her belly sensations may be something other than gas. She described her symptoms to the doctor and asked him about the possibility that early menopause and a case of food poisoning could be the reason for her symptoms. The doctor confirmed she would have a "pause" for about five months until my delivery. I made my arrival into this world in January 1962.

I was happy and easygoing as a baby; my parents were delighted with the chance to experience parenthood in a time of peace and stability. Life continued at the usual pace. My mother returned to work with my father. They hired Dona Olga, a sweet elderly lady that became my second mom.

Despite the oppressive heat, I made it to my 18th birthday, and by 27, I had run out of excuses regarding finding a mate.

I married my first husband, whom I met on a blind date arranged by my father and the chief rabbi in our congregation. The matter regarding finding me a husband was now at the hands of the famous long-haired American rabbi of the biggest Temple in São Paulo.

My ex and I met at the restaurant of the highest building in my town. The tall windows surrounded the dinners, offering a breathtaking view of the city; looking at things from a great distance can, at times, trick the eyes into seeing beauty. At close inspection, however, the gritty nature of life in the concrete jungle is exposed.

My ex met me at the restaurant; I recognized him from our temple; he was glowing from a bad case of sunburn that his turquoise short-sleeve shirt made even more pronounced, as well as the white slacks and the white suspenders that completed his outfit.

After a year of courtship, we married and moved to Cincinnati, "Ohaio." I later learned that the correct spelling was Ohio, pronounced as "Ohaio", which made no sense to me.

I thought about my opinion shared by all Brazilians regarding all things American. All Americans are brilliant; a lesson learned by growing up watching American movies dubbed into Portuguese, witnessing the moon landing, and crying in despair when the greatest president to rule a nation, President Kennedy, was assassinated. Americans had gone to the moon and created Hollywood and Coca-Cola; they could have made spoken English as it's written or vice versa.

We arrived in Cincinnati in late October, and the houses clad in Halloween decorations lined the streets. We were in awe and somewhat terrified seeing the ghoulish decor that depicted cemetery scenes at people's front doors!

My Brazilian/Jewish superstition-laden upbringing caused me to shiver in horror. I laughed nervously at the sight of the ghoulish decorations, scaring myself with my laugh. I tried to appear calm and casual about the scene. I knew that my then-husband would have shown minimal sympathy for my fears. My future ex seemed unperturbed by the witches on brooms and skeletons hanging from the trees. He had been raised in a secular Jewish home in Argentina by Argentinian-born parents, where nothing scary ever happened other than Evita Peron becoming president.

My ex drove us to our first American motel, talking excitedly about the "smooth ride" as he drove his first automatic transmission car. I would nod and smile, looking at him with the bright-eyed attention of a newlywed. I would turn my attention to the dismal scenes as my ex would pause to take a long drag from his cigarette. The nine hours spent on the plane had prevented him from enjoying his habit of inhaling big puffs of nicotine, a habit that never made sense to me. Oxygen was free and readily available; purposely inhaling air pollutants seemed foolish to me.

The car rental hummed quietly; the smooth asphalt of the well-kept roads and the car's great suspension made me sleepy. My last conscious thought before falling asleep was about hope; I hoped that our arrival in America during Halloween would not be foretelling a grim future in our new home. Thinking back, I must have experienced insight regarding the future demise of my first marriage.

I jumped headfirst into the American language and culture. The supermarket tabloids helped me learn English. I remembered "needing" desperately to learn the fate of the alien baby found in a field in Minnesota and other such fantastic news. Johnny Carson would become instrumental in my acquisition of the English language, I would hear how the audience laughed at his stories, and I wanted to laugh with them.

My introduction to American cuisine was fascinating. My first meal consisted of a pile of crumbly meat in an oily colorless sauce that spilled from under the spaghetti that made its base. The server said that the dish was a "Cincinnati delicacy." I approached the task of tasting the food with the same enthusiasm I had for everything American. I chewed and swallowed the gray-brown meat and retreated to my internal dialogue, where I tried to convince myself that this dish was a gastronomic miracle.

The Cincinnati Chili saga is described later in this tale of adventure and regret for assuming that "everything" in America would always be of my liking. The dessert, two slices of apple pie "a la mode," arrived with another American delicacy only available during Halloween, according to our server. The pretty yellow and orange pyramid-shaped candy was set on the table in a little bowl and placed next to the pies. I reached for the sweets, my mouth eagerly anticipating the deliciousness of a piece of candy corn.

The problem must have been my expectations. I stopped chewing the candy, my brain attempting to locate a similar taste in my memory bank. The taste and texture confused me; the words "candy" and "corn" did not belong together. It was just "so wrong," I thought to myself. I looked at my ex as he chewed handfuls of the candy; his taste buds must have lost their ability to discern yummy from weird, most likely due to his cigarette smoking. I gave him a sympathetic look as I discreetly spat the offending candy on a paper napkin, finally relieving my mouth from the weird taste.

Great expectations can be a source of heartache, as it was in this case. The taste of my first American treat, which I had hoped would blow my mind, did, but not in a good way. I tried to regain my enthusiasm but could only feel doubt creeping in as I started to fear that this first disappointment for an American original would spell trouble for my desire to one day join this exceptional nation as one of their own. I let out a sigh, piercing the flaky crust of the apple pie with the fork and dipping it in the rapidly melting vanilla ice cream on my plate. As I placed it in my mouth, all of my doubts and fears disappeared; I finished the apple pie, scraping the plate, looking for any remaining morsel of the American pie. I knew then that my dream of being an American would come true. I leaned back in my seat, feeling satisfied and nurtured; the feeling brought back my and my parents’ words to me, "h Mehaie," I whispered to myself; what a wonderful delight.

Chapter2

Buy A Car, Win A Friend

Back in Cincinnati, where my first experience in America started, I was enthralled by what I thought to be the fantastic American ingenuity and its greatness as a nation.

My ex and I exited the car dealership driving our first automatic car. We moved slowly, my ex at the wheel. We shared our thoughts regarding our first experience at an American car dealership. We were thoroughly impressed by the attentiveness of the car salesman, whom we felt was now our friend for life.