*
I focus on the children, on the things I can do to make all of us feel
secure and accepted and happy in our new home.
ere are the daily rituals, the hallmarks of the week and seasons,
the things we do for joy, the things we count on: Béla’s unusual
practice of shaving his bald head in the morning while he drives
Audrey to school. Béla on a shopping run to the Safeway that was built
in the vast desert behind our house. Inevitably, I’ve forgotten to add
something to the list, and I call him at the store. e grocery clerks
know my voice. “Mr. Eger, your wife’s on the phone,” they call over
the PA. I tend our garden, I mow the lawn, I work part time in Béla’s
office. He becomes the loved and trusted accountant for all the
successful immigrants in El Paso—Syrians, Mexicans, Italians,
European Jews. On Saturdays he brings the kids along to meet with
clients, and if I didn’t already know how much Béla was adored, I
would see their love for him in the affection they shower on our
children. Sundays, Béla drives to Juárez to buy fresh fruit from Chuy
the grocer, and then we have a big family brunch at our house, we
listen to Broadway musicals albums, we sing along to the show tunes
(Béla can sing without stuttering), and then we go to the YMCA for a
family swim. We go to San Jacinto Plaza in downtown El Paso on
Christmas Day. We don’t celebrate Christmas with gis, but the kids
still write letters to Santa. We exchange practical gis—socks and
clothes—for Hanukkah, and we bring in the New Year with lots of
food and the Sun Carnival parade—the Sun Queen, the high school
bands, the Rotary Club men riding by on motorcycles. In spring, there
are picnic outings to White Sands and Santa Fe. In the fall, back-to-
school clothes shopping at Amen Wardy. Running my hands over the
racks, I can feel the best fabrics by touch, I have a knack for ĕnding
the ĕnest garments for the lowest price. (Béla and I both have these
tactile rituals—for him, choosing produce; for me, choosing clothes.)