Livi is hanging over the balcony of her first-floor apartment, looking down onto Moshe Smilansky Street below. The street she has lived on for twenty-five years.
Her daughter, Dorit, and Oded’s wife, Pam, join her on the balcony to wave at the people below. Three generations of the descendants of the Meller family are making their way up the street, in a cacophony of hugs, laughter and the cries of children. Each adult is carrying either a large basket, or a tray of food.
‘Shalom, shalom!’ they call to the women above.
‘Odie is bringing the lift down,’ Dorit shouts.
At last, Livi sees her sisters. Magda is holding a walking stick in one hand, the other the hand of her eldest daughter, Chaya. Cibi is behind her, in the wheelchair she increasingly relies on since the day she fell and broke her hip. Her son, Yossi, pushes his mother along the pavement. Magda and Cibi both look up and spy Livi. Magda waves her stick, Cibi blows a kiss.
‘Go and help them with the food,’ Livi urges her daughter and daughter-in-law.
Livi knows she will have less than two minutes before her home swells with the people she loves most in this world: her family. She spends one of these minutes looking at the building across the road, to its rooftop where, seventy years ago, she stood with her sisters, friends and a rabbi, and married the man she loves.
Ziggy is in the bedroom, preparing for the onslaught that is part and parcel of marrying a Meller sister.
‘Ema, Ema!’ the cries of her grandchildren snap Livi’s attention to the present and away from the memories of her wedding day.
She remains on the balcony as the sisters’ extended families stream inside to receive her special kisses and hugs.
‘What about me?’ Ziggy calls out as he enters the living room. ‘Don’t I get a hug?’
The younger ones rush at him, and he leans back against the wall to welcome their onslaught.
Livi hears the lift door ping open. Who will it be first? Cibi exerting her oldest sister rights, or Magda, who will have pleaded the right to sit down because, unlike Cibi who is already sitting down in a wheelchair, her need is the greater?
Cibi is wheeled in by Yossi.
‘I thought you would let Magda come up first,’ Livi says, as she bends to plant kisses on her sister’s cheeks.
‘She’s younger than me. She can afford to wait,’ Cibi says, with a flick of her wrist.
‘Come in. Come in! You want to stay in that thing or sit in a proper chair?’ Livi asks.
‘I’m fine where I am. And, this way, when I have had enough of you, I can wheel myself out of here.’
‘If only I didn’t love you so much, I would push you down the stairs for that.’
‘You keep on like that and I’ll push myself down the stairs.’
They both hear the lift door ping open once more.
‘There she is! How long is she going to keep reminding us she is the eldest?’ Magda says, joining Livi and Cibi.
‘All the days of our lives,’ Livi answers.
‘All the days of her life, and then it’s my turn.’ Magda kisses Livi.
‘What? Your big sister doesn’t get a kiss?’ Cibi says, indignant.
‘I gave you a kiss in the street, or have you forgotten already?’ Magda snaps back. ‘Livi, where’s Ziggy’s chair? I need to sit down, and his is the most comfortable you have.’
‘Did I hear someone say my name?’ Ziggy asks, as he takes his sisters-in-law in his arms.
‘Magda wants to sit in your chair,’ Cibi says. ‘Tell her she can’t.’
‘Do you want my chair, Cibi?’ Ziggy asks.
‘No, I’m happy in my own chair – one I can run away in.’
‘Come on, Magda, come and sit down,’ Ziggy says, taking her arm and escorting her into the living room.
‘I have to go back to the car to get some drinks. Are you OK now, Mumma?’ Yossi asks Cibi.
‘I’ve got her, Yossi. I’ve always got her,’ Livi says, taking the handles of Cibi’s wheelchair and pushing her into the living room, dodging children and coffee tables as she goes.
‘Put me in a corner somewhere,’ Cibi says.
‘No, I will not. This is a party and you’re to enjoy yourself. Come and say hello to Odie and Pam. They arrived all the way from Canada only two days ago.’
‘Aunty Cibi, how are you?’ Oded kneels to hug and kiss his aunt.
‘You look older,’ Cibi tells him.
‘I am older, Aunty. It’s just that you don’t see me enough. I wish we could afford to fly over more often.’