Cover art by Erin Halfelven
©2026, SammyC

As I sat still on the bench, with pungent wisteria vines hovering above our heads, my body tingling as unseen changes were taking place, some in my most discreet precincts, I listened to Elena. Her eyes were closed, as if scanning a landscape spread out in her mind, from a place and time miles and decades far from The Catskills in the summer of 1972.

“I was born and raised in Alba, a middling-sized town in the principality of Transylvania, which, before The Great War or The War to End All War, was a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, not of Romania. It became part of Romania after The Treaty of Trianon was signed in 1920. My parents indeed were Hungarian. I grew up among Hungarians, Germans, Romanians…and, yes, Romanian Jews.”

“Of course you did, Elena. You’re Jewish, after all,” I laughed.

“No, Lindsey. I was not. When I was in my teens, the War broke out and Transylvania was caught between The Allied Powers, to which Romania was aligned, and The Central Powers, led by Germany. My father was conscripted into the Hungarian army, where he was killed in action within the first 6 months of the war. My mother, who suffered from what in that era was labeled ‘hysteria,’ fell apart completely and had to be sent to a sanitarium. Family from both sides were scattered across Central Europe. Because of the war, I fell through the cracks of even the rudimentary social safety net of that time. I became a street urchin. A 13 year old child with an unruly mop of matted hair and dirt-streaked face, foraging for food among the trash bins in the wealthier parts of the city. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, wary of being accosted by a constable on patrol.”

“Oh, Elena. How did you manage to survive?”

“One day, I was in the Jewish section of town. The richer Jewish section, that is. I came upon an open box of women’s hats, apparently discarded outside of a house built in the style of fancy homes in Bucharest. My hair had gotten very long and a hat would both hide the overabundance on my head and provide some warmth when winter came around. A red satin and straw braid number caught my eye and, after fingering the smooth fabric with unabashed delight, I placed it on my head at what I thought was a dashing angle.

It was then I heard someone clear their throat. I turned to see an elderly woman, dressed all in black after the manner of a widow in mourning, leaning on a walking cane, her expression more inquisitive than threatening.

‘I do admit that color suits your ruddy complexion,’ she declared in heavily accented Hungarian. ‘Of course, I’m presuming its ruddy beneath the patches of dirt that spoil your pretty face. How did you come to this…this unwashed condition? A girl as beautiful as you—’

‘I’m not a girl…madam,’ I interjected, doffing my hat like a gentleman. My hair tumbled out from underneath, framing my face and, at the least, covering up some of the dirt on my cheeks.

‘Oh yes you are, little girl. You can’t be more than 12 or 13. What is your name? And where do you live? Do your parents allow you to roam the streets like a wild animal?’

‘My name is Elek Szabo. I’m…I’m an orphan. I don’t have a home. My father was killed fighting to keep the Allies from invading our homeland. And my mother…my mother is sick. She’s in a sanitarium—’

‘Why would your parents give you a boy’s name? I will call you…let’s see…I will call you Elena. That’s a name that suits you better, pretty girl.’

I put the hat back in the open box and turned to walk away. I was beginning to think this old woman was showing signs of senility as she insisted on believing I was a girl. She even went as far as to give me a girl’s name.

‘Are you hungry? You’re so scrawny. Almost skin and bones. My name is Sofia Herskovic. Come with me. I live here. This is my house. I can warm up some leftovers for you. It’s Romanian cooking but you look famished enough to eat just about anything. No?’ She held out the hand not holding her walking cane. I rushed forward to take her hand, not because I was salivating at the thought of eating her food but I was afraid she would lose her balance and fall over.

As I helped her into the house, she explained that her husband had recently passed away. He had been a very popular milliner in the city. The hats in the discarded box were the last of the inventory she had taken from the shop. She lived in the house by herself. Her adult daughter had married a Hungarian man and she and her family lived in Budapest. As we walked past the wood-burning stove in the kitchen, she stopped and asked me to place some Beechwood logs and kindling into the stove’s belly. Then she tried to lift a large pot of water onto the stove top. Seeing her difficulty, I took the pot and did it for her. She thanked me, caressing my cheek. As she put a match to some rolled up newspaper and threw it in on top of the wood, I was curious.

‘Why are you heating up so much water? That’s enough to bathe a large dog in.’

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Now, little puppy, off to the bathroom. You desperately need a good wash. I’m afraid the only clothes I have that’ll fit you are my daughter’s clothes. They’re a few years out of style but it’ll have to do. After your bath and a change of clothes, we can sit down to a proper dinner. I haven’t eaten yet either,’ she noted as she stood by the stove, waiting for the water to heat up sufficiently. ‘I used to have a household staff when my husband was alive and before the war started. They were Hungarians. They decided to move back to the old country. They thought they’d be safer while the fighting was going on. I’m old and feeble, Elena. I don't know how much longer I can manage living here on my own. Oh, the water’s nice and lukewarm. Let’s carry it to the bathroom together. That’s a good girl.’

After I emptied the water into the tub, I expected her to leave me to my own devices but she began to help me out of my sodden clothes. I tried to parry her hands away but to no avail.

‘I’m very modest, Sofia. Please.’

‘Oh, nonsense. I birthed a girl child just like you. I’m a female myself. Haven’t you noticed?’ She stopped chattering the moment my underwear slipped down to my feet.

‘I told you I wasn’t a girl! Stop calling me Elena. I’m a boy named Elek.’

‘But you look so much like a girl. A very pretty girl too. Well, get into the tub anyway…Elek. There’s soap and a scrub brush right there. Use them…liberally. I’ll bring you a towel and those clothes I mentioned.’

‘Your daughter’s clothes?’ I asked, hoping against hope.

Later on, as we were sitting at opposite ends of a long dinner table, having some of her delicious, re-heated goulash, I couldn’t help but notice she was staring at me, her lips curled up in a sly smile.

‘I must look silly in these girl’s clothes.’

“I was right about your ruddy complexion. Rosy not ruddy. The blush on your cheeks really makes you look stunning. Pity you weren’t born a girl, Elena. I mean Elek. Sorry.’

‘How can I go out dressed like this, Sofia? The other kids will laugh at me and call me rude names.’

‘Are there so many of you homeless children?’

‘Oh, yes, very many. The war has orphaned hundreds like me. Of course, living in this section of town, you wouldn’t be aware of that—’

She dropped her napkin onto the table. ‘It’s decided. Elena, you will live here with me. I need someone to help me maintain the house, run errands, and perform some chores. At least until the war ends and my former staff returns. Would you like that? It’s better than living outdoors, foraging for scraps in trash bins.’

‘Would I have to dress like a girl and be called Elena?’

‘Those are my non-negotiables, Elena. As a Jewish widow living alone, it would be scandalous for me to have a non-Jewish boy in my household. As a girl, you would be perfectly acceptable. You could be my Shabbos Goy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a non-Jewish person who would help a Jewish person perform some basic chores on the Sabbath. You see, in our religion, we are forbidden to do work of any sort from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. A Shabbos Goy will do things like chop wood for kindling, collect water from the town’s central pump, light and extinguish candles, run errands, etcetera, etcetera. Do you think you could do that?’

I took a long time to give her an answer. My life, all thirteen years of it so far, flashed before my eyes. I had to admit it was tempting to be a girl. To be given a girl’s name. To dress like a girl. To be complimented for my rosy complexion. Finally, like a defendant receiving their sentence from a judge, I nodded my head as if to accept my fate. Sofia smiled and dug into her plate of goulash with added fervor. I gulped audibly but put another spoonful of goulash in my mouth. For what it’s worth, my mother had always wanted a daughter as her first-born.”

“Go into the bathroom, Lindsey. Undress and look at your new self in the full-length mirror,” Elena urged.

We had come back up to my room. I was anxious to see if all the tingling as I sat on the bench in the garden had amounted to my complete transformation into a woman, as Elena promised. I was still a bit dubious.

“Elena, you haven’t finished the story. How did you turn into a woman? Was Sofia a witch? Did she cast a spell like the one you’ve cast on me?”

“It was 1921 or 1922, I forget exactly now. So many years ago. Anyway, Alba was part of Romania then and Sofia was nearing 80. It was clear that she didn’t have much time left. She had grown to love me like her real daughter…even though I was still a 17 year old boy. One day, she came to me with a plan. It turns out the son of a cousin of her husband’s had immigrated to the U.S. and was looking for a bride to bring over from the old country. That would be me, she announced. I, of course, pointed out I was a boy. This man would be sorely disappointed if I showed up on Ellis Island as his prospective bride. Sofia cackled and said she could remedy that situation. She asked me if I really wanted to be a girl, now and forever. I surprised myself by immediately admitting it was my most fervent wish. If only it could be granted.

That’s when she enunciated an incantation in some cryptic language and, with a wave of her hands, I became a real live girl. She slumped into a chair and needed a few minutes to recover her strength. She told me it had taken the last bit of magical power she possessed to transform me. ‘Now I can die in peace, my child.’ Less than a month later, Elena Herskovic boarded a ship to America, carrying two small bags of luggage. She was going to meet the man who would become her husband for the very first time. I found out later that Sofia had passed away while my ship was halfway across the Atlantic.”

“Elena! It’s true! I’m a real, complete woman. Every inch!” I rushed out of the bathroom, wrapped in the robe The Lodge provides to all its guests, and hugged a startled Elena.

“Of course, Lindsey. Why are you surprised? I said I’d make you a woman and I did, sweetie.” She kissed me on both cheeks. “Happy?”

“Deliriously!” Then I thought about what had happened to Sofia when she turned Elena into a woman. “You’re…you’re not going to die on me now, are you? Like Sofia?”

“No, silly girl. Her powers had diminished with her advanced age. The effort it took to turn me into a woman all but depleted her magical energy. Along with my transformation, she gave me magical powers of my own. In short, it was her time. She died of natural causes. It was how she wanted to go.”

“You still have your magical powers?”

“It’s been diminished but there's still some juice in the old gal. Now, as a bonus, you’ll discover you have magical powers too. Use your powers wisely, Lindsey. Don’t go around turning people into frogs. OK?”

“Oh, what’s the use of being a witch if you can’t have some fun…once in a while,” I cracked.

“Being a witch isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Lindsey.”