מילים חדשות

When Maya Benhamou arrived at her new school in Netanya, she did not know a single person. She had lived in Lyon all her life, and three months earlier her family had moved to Israel. Her Hebrew was still weak, and in class she understood about half of what the teacher said. At break time she sat alone on the stairs and pretended to read.

Then, one Monday in November, she found a small yellow note inside her locker. It was written in French: "Courage, Maya. The first year is the hardest. It gets better." Maya read it five times. Someone at this school knew her language, and her name.

After that, a new note appeared every Monday. The notes always arrived early, before the first bell, and the paper smelled slightly of lemon. Each one was short and kind. One said, "Your Hebrew is better than you think." Another said, "Sit with the girls from the choir. They are nice." She did, and they were.

Maya decided that the writer must be Eitan, a quiet boy in her class whose mother came from Paris. But when she thanked him, he looked confused. "Notes? What notes?" He had never written a word to her.

So Maya made a plan. One Monday she came to school at half past six, an hour before anyone else, and hid behind the door of an empty classroom. At ten to seven, she heard footsteps in the hall. Somebody stopped by her locker. Maya stepped out.

It was Mrs. Levi, the school cleaner, holding a bucket in one hand and a yellow note in the other. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I was born in Casablanca," Mrs. Levi said finally, in perfect French. "I came to Israel alone when I was fourteen. Nobody had told me how lonely it would be. One day a teacher left me a note, and I have never forgotten it." She smiled. "I thought that somebody should do the same for you."

The next Monday, there was no note in Maya's locker. Instead, Maya left one in the cleaners' room. It said, in Hebrew, "Thank you."

When Maya Benhamou arrived at her new school in Netanya, she did not know a single person. She had lived in Lyon all her life, and three months earlier her family had moved to Israel. Her Hebrew was still weak, and in class she understood about half of what the teacher said. At break time she sat alone on the stairs and pretended to read.

Then, one Monday in November, she found a small yellow note inside her locker. It was written in French: "Courage, Maya. The first year is the hardest. It gets better." Maya read it five times. Someone at this school knew her language, and her name.

After that, a new note appeared every Monday. The notes always arrived early, before the first bell, and the paper smelled slightly of lemon. Each one was short and kind. One said, "Your Hebrew is better than you think." Another said, "Sit with the girls from the choir. They are nice." She did, and they were.

Maya decided that the writer must be Eitan, a quiet boy in her class whose mother came from Paris. But when she thanked him, he looked confused. "Notes? What notes?" He had never written a word to her.

So Maya made a plan. One Monday she came to school at half past six, an hour before anyone else, and hid behind the door of an empty classroom. At ten to seven, she heard footsteps in the hall. Somebody stopped by her locker. Maya stepped out.

It was Mrs. Levi, the school cleaner, holding a bucket in one hand and a yellow note in the other. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I was born in Casablanca," Mrs. Levi said finally, in perfect French. "I came to Israel alone when I was fourteen. Nobody had told me how lonely it would be. One day a teacher left me a note, and I have never forgotten it." She smiled. "I thought that somebody should do the same for you."

The next Monday, there was no note in Maya's locker. Instead, Maya left one in the cleaners' room. It said, in Hebrew, "Thank you."

When Maya Benhamou arrived at her new school in Netanya, she did not know a single person. She had lived in Lyon all her life, and three months earlier her family had moved to Israel. Her Hebrew was still weak, and in class she understood about half of what the teacher said. At break time she sat alone on the stairs and pretended to read.

Then, one Monday in November, she found a small yellow note inside her locker. It was written in French: "Courage, Maya. The first year is the hardest. It gets better." Maya read it five times. Someone at this school knew her language, and her name.

After that, a new note appeared every Monday. The notes always arrived early, before the first bell, and the paper smelled slightly of lemon. Each one was short and kind. One said, "Your Hebrew is better than you think." Another said, "Sit with the girls from the choir. They are nice." She did, and they were.

Maya decided that the writer must be Eitan, a quiet boy in her class whose mother came from Paris. But when she thanked him, he looked confused. "Notes? What notes?" He had never written a word to her.

So Maya made a plan. One Monday she came to school at half past six, an hour before anyone else, and hid behind the door of an empty classroom. At ten to seven, she heard footsteps in the hall. Somebody stopped by her locker. Maya stepped out.

It was Mrs. Levi, the school cleaner, holding a bucket in one hand and a yellow note in the other. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I was born in Casablanca," Mrs. Levi said finally, in perfect French. "I came to Israel alone when I was fourteen. Nobody had told me how lonely it would be. One day a teacher left me a note, and I have never forgotten it." She smiled. "I thought that somebody should do the same for you."

The next Monday, there was no note in Maya's locker. Instead, Maya left one in the cleaners' room. It said, in Hebrew, "Thank you."