The Nurse in Kaifeng

There exists only one photograph of my paternal grandfather—a still made from a home movie, with him in top hat and formal wear. He was American born, unlike all my other grandparents, and of Hungarian stock, went to Cooper Union in New York City, died young, and was revered by his eldest son, my father—a man who admired no one.

From what I gather, there was simply no discussion about my name during my mother’s pregnancy. It was to be Peter, for my father’s father. After all, there would be no grandchildren from my father’s brothers, Ruby and Bernard. The former had been shot down over Italy during the War, and the latter, completely incapacitated from birth by cerebral palsy. My mother had no problem with calling me Peter. Although she might have wanted her first child named for her mother, there would be many children born to her siblings who could easily honor their matriarch.

There was a problem, though, when it came to my middle name. My father also wanted me named for his late brother. Meaning no disrespect, my mother put her foot down, not because she was keeping score, but rather out of superstition. She was not about to name her firstborn after two men who had died so young. But, mindful of the unlikelihood that her late brother-in-law would ever have a namesake, she suggested that only his “R” be kept, thereby honoring his memory without burdening the baby with such unfortunate karma. Thus, I became Peter Rupert and not Peter Ruben.

Three decades later, I had the good fortune of making my first trip to China. The Cultural Revolution had just ended, and rare tours were tentatively venturing into a country long cut off from the outside world. These were the days before posh excursions catering to sniffy travelers. Rather, we were a random bunch of adventurers defying type who simply had to be in China.

On a long coach ride in the environs of Kaifeng (we were the first foreigners to visit this former capital and center of Jewish life in China), I was seated beside an enormous nurse. Despite all of our outings along the way, we had never been in each other’s company. I had heard only that her suitcase was filled with special scotch that she was taking to some nuns in Hong Kong, where our tour would conclude.

We chatted leisurely on a bus wandering through a bleak winter landscape, and she mused at just how far away she felt from home. Anyone on that bus could have made the same comment, and I