Louise

I woke up in the morning.

“Mom!” I called her, but she didn’t answer me. She was lying on her back, and her mouth was slight opened. I ran to my neighbors.

“My mom died! Please come to us! Help us, please!” I cried. One of them came in.

“Your mother has to be buried.” She said and then left.

I was sitting next to my mom. Sometimes, I was calling her, “Mom!” thinking that something could be changed.

In a couple of hours, I got very hungry. I found something. I ate, and then went to my neighbor again.

“Can you help me, please? I don’t know what to do.” I asked.

“I have a big family and too many problems of my own. I don’t have time to take care of your mother's funeral. Let’s men take care of it.” She said.

Though, there were no men left in the house. There were only three old men in different families. I went to every family, but nobody wanted to help me. Nobody asked me, if I was hungry. Nobody offered me to stay with them overnight.

I was sitting next to my mom the entire night.

In the morning, I went to a graveyard. There was only an old man, gatekeeper, sitting there on a bench.

“Can I bury my mom here?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer at first, and I decided that he didn’t want to talk to me. I was about to leave.

Then, he suddenly said, “Only adults could do such serious matter, not children. A coffin cost money. To dig a grave also is not free of charge.”

“I don’t have adults.” I said. “I’m alone. My mom died yesterday and lay in our room alone.”

He thought about it a little, and then said, “I won’t do anything without money.”

I didn’t have money with me, so I went home to look for it.  

I found some money, but it was not enough even to dig a grave. I went outside to look for some wooden planks to make a coffin myself.  I went through all the dumps of our streets, but found just one plank. I took it and went home. I was hungry and tired. There was no food in the house. I drunk some water, and started to think how to attach this plank to my mom that it would look like a coffin. Finally, I decided to put her on this plank, and tie her legs and body to the plank with a rope. But she was very heavy, and I was not able to push the plank under her body. I didn’t know what to do. I set on the floor right next to her, and cried. I didn’t call her anymore.

I was desperate and went to my neighbors again.

“Could you help me, please, to put my mom on the plank.” I asked them, but nobody came.

The next morning, I went to a graveyard again and begged the old man to bury my mom.

“Here all the money I found in the house. “ I said and gave him the money. He took them, counted. ”It’s not enough.”

“Please! I don’t know what do to!” I begged him. “That’s all I found. I don’t have anymore.”

He looked at me, and then gave me my money back. “Come back afternoon.”

When I came back to him, he silently took a horse from a shed, geared it up into a cart, and we came to my house.

“I don’t have a coffin.” I said on our way. “But I have a plank. I was trying to tie it to my mom, but she is too heavy.”

He didn’t answer. He was just smoking, and cursing. I was very afraid that he would change his mind.

He took my plank, looked at it for a couple of second.

“Call your neighbors to help me caring her out of the house.” He said.

I ran to my neighbors, but nobody came.

I came back alone. He cursed again.

“Then you help me!” He said.

He already tied my mom’s body to the plank with a rope.

“Take the plank from the other side.” He ordered. But I didn’t have enough strength to lift it.

“Ok! Come over here. Let’s pull it together from my side.”

We pulled the plank with my mom’s body together, and the other side of the plank was drugged on the floor and then on the ground.  

Then, we silently walked after the cart that carried my mom’s dead body tied to the plank, covered with a cloth. German patrol stopped us. A soldier opened up a cloth, said something loudly. The old gateman bowed, “He is an orphan. This is his mother.” He said. The German soldier listened scornfully, than turned around at let us walk.

We came to the graveyard late a night. The gateman already dug a grave. He tied another big rope around my mom, and slowly pulled her from the cart. Then, he pushed her to the grave and filled the grave with dirt.

Then, he stood right next to me and said some prayers.

“You have to remember this place, where your mom is buried.” He said.  I did.

It was already dark, when I left the graveyard.

Many years passed. I came back to this graveyard many times, and still can’t find her grave. I thought that I would remember it for the rest of my life. I also forgot the name of the gateman.

I wrote a book. I didn’t do it for publicity to become famous or to make money. I wrote it for my children.

My father was dying to cancer.  He came to me from Israel to say good-bye. He showed me several pages of the manuscript that he wrote.

“I was going to write a book about my family. But I don’t have enough time. I also wanted to write a book based on your letters that you mailed to us for ten years. You wrote them so beautifully!” My father was a big fan of literature and art. Also, he was very tight with compliments, and what he said meant a lot to me.

“I planned too many things to do, but instead I have to die.” He passed away three months later.

At the same time, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  

For me, a Russian immigrant that came to America just four years ago, the word “cancer” had only one synonym - “death”.  

In Russia, it was customary to keep a sick person uninformed about his or her condition, and I thought, that my doctor didn’t want to tell me all the truth. I felt beater and desperate. I knew I was dying. I thought about my father with jealousy. At least, he had a privilege to raise his children, and see his grandchildren. And I didn’t have enough time to give my children all my love, knowledge and experience. I wanted to tell them so many things, but they were too little to understand all of it yet. So, I decided to write it down. I started to write stories about my family that they knew who they were, that they wouldn’t take for granted the freedom, and privilege to live in the greatest country in the world.

My children didn’t read Russian, and I had very primitive English. What choice did I have?

I wrote in English, doing the best I could. Also, I asked my older nine-year-old son to fix my stories, and he did. English was his second language up till then, though, he knew it much better than I did. He was a child, and converting my writing into a readable script was very boring job for him. But he helped me anyway. Sometimes he laughed at my mistakes, sometimes he got mad at me. However, little by little, my writing was forming into a book. It took us about three year.

I lived in constant agony during all these time. I went to the doctor every six months, and every time, he found new cancer cluster in my breast. He made a biopsy, and in six months I came back to him, to have the same test, the same result, and the same procedure to wait for another six months. Though, I was still alive, and I thanked God for this.

Another six months passed, and my regular checkup showed the worse result I had ever received. The doctor offered me to get rid of my bad breast. I signed permission, and after this for already eleven years I am a cancer survivor.

I had my life back, my children, and my book. I put the book away with all the family picture albums. Sometimes, I took it out, just to be proud of the project that my son and I did together for several years. I wanted to share my work with people, but I realized that neither grammar nor sentence structure was good enough for publishing. My father image always confronted me; he wouldn’t permit any neglect in grammar. Therefore, I had no way to publish my book.

I met a lady that was a professional editor. Once, we had dinner together, and I mentioned my writing to her.

“Can I read it?”

I hesitated. “Susan, you don’t want to read it. You know how bad my English is.”

“Oh! I do want to read it! Please!”

I felt very uncomfortable, but couldn’t resist. She was my first reader, and I was trembling to hear her criticism, though I knew it was bad.  

At six o’clock of the following morning, my telephone went on. I startled from the bed, trying to understand what was going on. “Who the hell is calling me this earlier?” I thought with irritation, and picked up the phone.

“Lou! Lou!” I heard Susan’s exciting voice in receiver. “I just finish reading your manuscript! I read it through the night! It’s great! My God! I love it! I’m so emotional! You have no idea!”

I was thrilled but confused.

Even though I understood about 90% radio and TV, I understood only 75% of what Susan was telling me. She used very sophisticated vocabulary, and usually, when I talked to her, I had to guess very often, trying to understand what she was saying.  And she, a professional editor, told me that my writing was good! It didn’t sound real.

“Susan, how in a world can you like it, when it’s written in absolutely terrible language?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter how many grammar mistakes you’ve made!” She said. “It matters what you wrote, and how you delivered your thoughts to a reader.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Nobody ever taught me how to deliver my thoughts.   

She motivated me, but not enough and my manuscript went back to picture albums for another decade.

As Russian say, a lot of water poured away for this period of time. I mastered myself in computer programming. I mastered myself in American accounting and taxation system, opened my business, and grew it. I also found time for the hobby of my life. I learned American songs, and made public appearances, entertaining people. I learned that even though I still had Russian accent, and not always spoke the correct language, people enjoyed my entertainment. 

About a year ago, I was introduced to a new coworker; a young man that had passion for music, theater, and moviemaking. We had very nice conversations together, and he said to me a very simple thing, that I always knew, and I always taught it to my children, but never took into a consideration for myself.

“If you don’t try it, you will never know if you can do it.”

I was wondering, how it happened that I lived for a half of century, and never tried to publish the book that I wrote a long time ago. I had no idea. I decided to try.

I talked to people, and heard that publishing was very difficult thing, and that it’s almost impossible to publish a book today, at a century of Internet.

Though, I made a couple of clicks on my computer, and my eyes captured Publish America. I clicked it, and learned that this was exactly what I was looking for. I didn’t have to invest into something that I was not sure about, and they took care of everything, or so they presented. (I’m trying to avoid a word “promised” because they didn’t. They presented their proposal the way that made me believe that they would do it all.) Though, after talking to bunch of my friends, who told me that nobody would publish my book, I was absolutely sure that it’s not going to work, but submitted my manuscript anyway.

Then, my life turned into a dream comes true for another couple of months.

The very next day I received an agreement from Publish American to publish my book! I wrote a letter to them, apologizing for my bad English, explaining that I’m an immigrant, and English was my second language. They wrote a letter to me, stating that my voice had to be heard, and that my writing was special. I was on ninth heaven!

Later, I received another letter that stated that my manuscript didn’t need substantial editing, and this letter popped out my eyes from the orbits.

I was reading and rereading the letter over and over again, not being able to believe it… instead I should take a better look at my manuscript again. But I didn't.

“They are professionals!” I thought. “They know what they are doing!” Though, little did I know.

They mailed me a proof.

Following other authors’ advice, I started reading it, trying to catch the publisher's mistakes. Oh, boy! How naïve I was!

I was surprised, reading the first page. I was shocked reading the second page! I was outraged, reading the third page. I stopped reading. I realized that nobody ever read it, and all those letters that they sent to me were just business letters, that they mail to everybody.

They gave me just 48 hours to check the proof. I looked at the contract, and realized that they may, but didn’t have to edit my writing for me. So, it was my fault that I let my excitements took over me, and I didn’t read the contract carefully enough.

Shame on me! I was a business woman, dealing with IRS, state treasuries, different government organizations, reading and writing contracts for my clients on a regular basis, and I failed to review the most important part of my own contract.

Oh well, I’m not that type who is crying over the spilled milk.  

I called them, and they extended 48 hours to “anytime you are ready”. 

My older son was already a medical school student, and had two jobs, so I couldn’t ask him for help. He already had 36 hours in his daily routine. I engaged my younger son and a couple of my American friends to help me out.

When I felt like I knew my book word by word with every punctuation point, I submitted it for publishing, and in a few months the book was published.

So, here it is my book “From Jerusalem to Jerusalem.” I received five stars review, and as of now I receive only positive and exciting fits back from different readers. I’m very pleased.  

I learned a lot about Publish America. I learned that a lot of people are not happy with a “trick” the company plays, high book prices, little to none promotions, and therefore symbolic author’s fee. At Publish America blog, some author said that we can expect to receive a check for a nice dinner. Regular people do not understand all the twists in contracts, and the fact that Publish America is a business, and therefore it behaves like one. There is nothing strange and unusual about it. As I said, I’m a businesswoman myself, so I forgave them. After all, they showed me the publishing road, and also taught me the business part of it!      

I love writing. I have a lot of ideas and thoughts that I’m sure would interest people. No wonder! I have greater life experience. I lived in different parts of Russia from far north, where snow never melts, to sunny warm Azov see, where I was able to catch flounder with my bear hands.  I lived in America and traveled to many countries just to learn that the best place to live and travel is America. I lived through Chernobyl, and September 11. I made more that million of dollars performing my job, and I lost them on stock market. Though, it didn’t take away my always joyful spirit, because I know much worse days than just a stupid money market crash.

And after all, I’m an entertainer. I can sing for you for hours, and I’ll make you cry with me.  

All the spectrum of human’s emotions is very well-known by me, because I had them all.  

I discovered myself. I write nonstop just because I love it. I bring you these emotions in my writing, and make you feel with me, taking you away from your reality into my world. 

I’m thinking about a publisher to pick for my next books. Even though I already have some experience in publishing, I still don’t fell comfortable to invest money in it.

Can anybody share ideas with me?  Can I publish a book that wouldn’t cost me fortune, but at the same time would be delivered to mass readers?

 I’m happy to announce that my book ”From Jerusalem to Jerusalem” received five stars review at Ghost Writer Reviews

http://ghostwriterreviews.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=2_497_509&products_id=483

and was announced a book of the week at Publish America http://www.publishamerica.com.

 It made me the happiest Russian author in the entire world!

The book is now available for purchase at Amazon

Http://www.amazon.com/Jerusalem-Louise-Prister/dp/1606106406/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1220360181&sr=1-1

Barnes & Noble

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/From-Jerusalem-To-Jerusalem/Louise-Prister/e/9781606106402/?&tabname=custreview

http://www.publishamerica.com/shopping/shopdisplayproducts.asp?search=yes

To learn more about the book and the author please visit www.usfinances.net/book

Enjoy reading!

Louise

Riva was dying. She almost lost her vision due to cataracta. Podagra chained her to the bed, and terrible pain in the stomach made her life a nightmare. Sara and Samuel exchanged looks

“What kind of secrets do they have from me?” Riva though. ‘Did they found out about my stone, and want to still it from me! Or maybe I have a cancer?”  None of these thought bothered Riva before. She lived a long and pitiful life. 76 years was more than enough in Russian. Rive was tired to live, and she truly wanted to rest from all worries.

She moved her hand to the collar, and felt the hardiness. 

“Who do I give it to?” The question that she continuously asked herself all her life.

The cloth on the collar got thin and broken at some places. and Riva touched it with her old bonny fingers, realizing that the stone started to show up through the holes. If only she wouldn’t have cataracta, she would repair it, then nobody would find it.

Suddenly chest pain nailed her. She was trying to get up, and call somebody, but her tong didn’t obey.

Sara and Samuel took care of her as well as they possibly could, and suddenly Riva felt relief.  Though she knew that it was temporary, and she suddenly realized that it was her last chance.

“Sara!” She called. “I’m so sorry, Sara! Forgive me! Please!”

 “What are you talking about, mama?” Sra was surprised by unexpected repentance.

“Sara... Here... Diamond...”

“What?”

“A treasure... In my collar...” Riva moved her eyes to her black dress that was hanging on her bed, that as a blurry dark spot was gaped at her sight.

“What do you want?” Sara was trying t understand. “In…collar… Diamond… Take it…”  Sara She took Riva’s dress, touched the collar, and saw through the collar holes a grey pebble.

“This is your inheritance, Sara.” Rive said, and felt such a relief. Sara thou the dress on the same place, and left the room.

“Samuel, you mother is getting much worse. She started to hallucinate. She is talking about some treasure, diamonds. KLook what I found in her collar. She sewed pebble inside, thinking that it's some kind of  talisman or something.  Do you have any idea?"

"Nope! I don’t. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow."

Riva died the next day, with a filling of 

 ***

Jehiel was my grandfather.

  When I turned eighteen, he took me to the jewelry store and asked me to choose a gold ring. I chose a gold ring encrusted with a big pink stone, not realizing that I had a very expensive taste. It cost much more then he could spend, but he bought it anyway. It was crazy for him to spend this kind of money, but it was the only way for him to show how terrible he felt, and how much he wanted to share everything he had with me.

  I still have his ring, and it reminds me of him.

  Five years after Jehiel immigrated to Israel, his children, Liat, Boaz and Meital, one after another immigrated to Israel too, becoming one big family.  They all live on the land of Jehiel dream.

  ***

   Sara also came to Israel with her children, and united with her brother.  He husband Samuel died in Russia.

 When Sara turned 95 years old, more that 50 ancestors came to celebrate her birthday.  That was a great celebration, and journalist from the local newspaper came too.  There were a lot of people and a lot of joy.

Sara was smiling. I sat right next to her.

"Granny, are you happy?" I asked.

“You bet I am! What else do I need, when all my children are having fun!”  She said.

Everybody left. Sara came back to her room, and shot the door.

There were several pictures standing on her bed stand. There were Feiga, Meyer, and Samuel. 

Sara touched the picture of Mayer, like stroking his hair, looked at Feiga’s eyes, said, “Good night, sweet heart” to Samuel, and went to bed.   

Let me know if you want to read it. I'll post it here for you.

Let me know if you want to read it. I'll post it here for you.

Let me know if you want to read it. I'll post it here for you.