SAVTA: MY EARLY YEARS

It was Savta, my mother's mother, who first realized that I was blind. This was soon after I was born — in Levov, Russia, outside of Kiev. Savta (Savta is the Hebrew word for "grandmother") observed me closely for several days; when she was sure, she prayed to God for the strength and wisdom to accept this new tragedy: another handicapped descendant.

Both my parents are deaf. My mother, Ida, lost her hearing at the age of three, following an undiagnosed illness. My father, Avraham, was dropped by his family's maid when he was one year old, and he suffered brain damage that left him deaf. My parents met at a school dance in Levov, fell in love, and married. My father's mother was so afraid they might have handicapped children that she slept in their room to prevent them from consummating the union. But as consummating a union is impossible to prevent, my mother became pregnant with my sister, Bella.

Bella was completely healthy. Thus made confident, my parents had another child five years later. I was born cross-eyed, with glaucoma (excess pressure in the eyes), astigmatism (irregular curvature of the cornea), nystagmus (involuntary eye movement), and cataracts (opacity of the lens). In short, I was blind. My father was busy launching his photography studio, and my mother, being deaf, felt incapable of handling the special needs of a blind baby boy and an active five-year-old daughter. So my mother's parents moved to Levov to look after Bella and me.

My earliest memories are exclusively of my grandmother. My grandfather had been arrested by the Communist government in 1943, eleven years before I was born, for using capitalist business practices in running a department store. He was sentenced to eight years in Siberia, and the government confiscated his large home and moved seven families into it. After only six months in Siberia, Grandfather was released when all the Polish-born Russians in the camp were conscripted to serve in the Polish Resistance. But when the Polish general in charge learned that Grandfather was a Jew, he kicked him out. Although freed by this curious circumstance, six months of abuse and hard labor had broken Grandfather's spirit, and he returned to his family a bitter man.

Thus, it was left to Savta to take care of me. When I was six months old, she took me on a train ride to Odessa — nearly 500 kilometers away, on the Black Sea — to see a leading ophthalmologist. Savta tells me that I loved the train ride and hated the doctor. The doctor examined me, with a group of resident ophthalmologists looking on, and declared that I would need surgery as soon as the lenses of my eyes were hard enough. Holding me in her hands, she smiled at Savta and said, "He is such a nice baby. Such a big head — a genius like Aristotle!" Then, turning to the doctors, she said, "We'll operate." One of the residents muttered, "I hope I won't be working that shift." After the meeting, Savta sought him out and demanded to know what he had meant. "At this age, his skull is so soft," he told her, "and this surgery would surely damage him." "We're planning to go to Israel in a few years," she told him. "Could we wait that long?" "Yes," he affirmed. "In fact, I think it would be much safer to have it done by a Jewish doctor." Concerned that harm might come to her grandchild, Savta packed our bag and immediately took the slow train 1,000 miles back to Levov.

Over the next three years, I became aware of my blindness. It was an uncomfortable, shadowy world — always dark. Many sounds were sudden and unexpected. I seldom knew where I was. The world was all hard surfaces and sharp edges, and only Savta was soft and tender.

Savta soothed and comforted me. The world seemed a little brighter when she was near, and I clung to her, listened for her, and followed her everywhere. When she went shopping or to the library, even though she assured me that she was coming right back, I screamed the entire time she was away. My mother, of course, couldn't hear me; even when she saw that I was having a tantrum, she couldn't stop me. Only when Savta returned and I heard her sweet, loving voice and felt her warm hug could I calm down.

Leaving for the Promised Land

When I was four, my family began the process of emigrating to Israel. Although we lived comfortably in Levov, my father was always in danger; among other things, his shop sold photographs of church icons, which were illegal under communist rule. My grandfather was all too aware of the dangers from the authorities. As Jews, my family felt that it would be better to live in a country governed by our own people.

At that time, direct emigration from Russia to the West was forbidden, so we first had to cross the border into Poland. We managed this thanks to the paper Grandfather had received when he was liberated from Siberia, stating that he was born in Poland (and thanks also, I've been told, to a bribable border guard). We had to stay in Poland for six months before we were permitted to leave.

In Poland, I had my first eye operation for removal of cataracts, the opaque parts of my eyes' lenses. It was excruciating, and I couldn't understand what was happening. Each night, Savta lay beside me, massaging my neck and face. During the operation, I remember waking up for a moment and seeing a doctor's face — his surgical mask and his eyes. I don't know whether I dreamed it or if I really did see him, but it was the first intimation that I might actually see; that image and the hope it instilled never left me.

After the operation, both my eyes were completely covered with bandages. When the bandages were removed, I was able to distinguish light, shadows, and even some vague shapes. People generally assume that blindness means living in total darkness, but after experiencing absolute blindness with the bandages on my eyes, I realized that blindness is relative and that I did have a little sight.

I recovered from the operation at home. Then, after six months in Poland, my grandparents, parents, two uncles, Bella, and I took our Polish passports and left for Italy. There we boarded the passenger ship Shalom and sailed to Israel.

I remember the crisp sea air and its salty spray, the big diesel engines that I not only heard but also felt through the deck, and the swaying of the ship, which made it difficult for me to stand. And I remember the light — the brilliant silver sunlight that I could barely discern reflecting off the Mediterranean. I stood at the rail and stared at the light on the water for a long time. One time...