Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life (11 page)

“What happened here?” Father asked, shooting a glance at Mother, who was taking off her woolen shawl.

“Nothing. That fool of a
goy
… he wanted to warm his feet with a lighted bundle of straw.”

“Why do you let him into the house?”

“Well, he sometimes fetches water for us, he takes out the garbage …”

Mother had retrieved her glasses. But the corner where she was sitting, to which Father was directing his glances, must have been too dark, so she moved over to the other side of Grandpa’s worktable and resumed reading her book.

Hadn’t she noticed the mute, dreamy look Father was sending her way?

She sat at Grandpa’s worktable, her head slightly raised, like some rich lady, her pretty face tense, her warm, soft double chin quivering slightly.

“So … Warsaw seems to have agreed with you.” Father’s mustache smiled faintly.

No one responded. Grandma stuck her needle quickly into her white muslin, Grandpa pulled some thread from between his lips. I stood leaning against Father and looked straight up into his face.

“So, Mendl, you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, I’m all well again.”

“And when are you going back to the
kheyder
?”

“Tomorrow, God willing.”

The silence hung thickly in the room. Father slowly drummed two fingers on the table. My throat constricted and my clothes felt tight. The golden spectacles on Mother’s nose glittered so brightly from the distance that they almost pierced my eyes. Mother’s face shone.

“So, Leyzer, how are you?” Grandpa cut into the heavy silence.

“God be praised.”

“And how’s the business?”

“Not bad … Nothing to complain about.”

It was silent again. A cricket chirped incessantly, angrily, under the stove.

By now Wladek had cleared away the last wisps of singed straw and seated himself in his customary corner, sucking on his unlit pipe.

“Aren’t you glad to see your wife?” Grandpa tried to get the conversation going again.

“Hah?” said Father, looking straight into Grandpa’s mouth.

“Your wife … aren’t you glad … ?”

“Yes … but she doesn’t seem to see me.”

At that moment, Mother raised the book higher to her face and the golden spectacles stopped glittering.

“Frimet!” Grandpa put aside his sewing. “Leyzer’s here.”

“So he’s here!”

“Stop reading that book,” Grandpa said harshly. “At your age one doesn’t read books any more.”

“And how old am I, then? In Warsaw people older than me read books.”

“Warsaw again! But you don’t live in Warsaw. You have a husband here and a child …”

“Some husband! A yoke! That’s what he is, not a husband!”

Tears welled up in my eyes. Father looked glum. The fingers which earlier had drummed on the table now hung limply.

“What did I do? What did I do to her?” he finally spoke up.

“All those curses he sent me in Warsaw? They count for nothing?” said Mother, lowering the book. “I can’t go to Warsaw without his permission for the engagement of my only daughter?”

“Alright, so he was a fool,” said Grandpa. “But how long are you going to stay angry?”

“Who’s angry?”

“Then what are you doing? You sit down and read? What good will reading do you?”

“And what good does he do me?”

“What do you mean? He’s your husband, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s not.”

“You fool! Stop that nonsense!”

“Father, what do you want of me?”

“Not to make a fool of yourself! You have a home, a house … What kind of a life will you have living here?”

“Don’t worry, Father, I won’t be a burden to you. I can always earn my own living.”

“What can you do?” Father broke in.

“No need to worry your head over that.”

“But, really, what can you do?” Grandpa pointed his beard at her.

“Never mind, I’ll do just fine. I can read, I can write. I could give lessons to earn my bread.”

“You want to teach girls?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

At that point Grandma, who had kept quiet the whole time, got up from her seat on the wooden chest.

“I didn’t want to mix in,” she began, “but listening to all that foolishness of yours, I must tell you, Frimet, you’re wrong.”

Grandma spoke very softly this time. Her little head kept shaking.

Father must have made out what Grandma was saying from the way she shook her head. It seemed to raise his spirits.

“I’ve had the heat in the house turned on,” he said, as if talking to the table. “I’ve also made sure we have milk and butter …”

“Thank you very much, big spender! And whenever I needed some extra money, the heavens would open up!”

“If it’s a matter of more money …” Father shrugged a shoulder.

“No! It’s much more than that! It’s the way he treats me! With Berl, of blessed memory, I had brass handles on every door. And what have I got with him?”

“With God’s help, I’ll give you brass handles too.”

“And what sort of a place did he find for us to live in?” said Mother, as if speaking to Wladek. “Gloomy, cold …”

“Whose fault is that? You were the one who wanted the place.”

“I wanted it! How could I have wanted it when my Moyshe, alas, took sick there?”

“It must’ve been God’s will. But if you like, you can rent us another place in time for Passover.”

“Oh, please …” Mother snorted.

“How long is it to Passover?” Grandpa chimed in. “Don’t you see, Frimet, he’s come to make up? What more do you want?”

“A fine way to make up!”

“If that’s what you want,” Father gestured helplessly. “Do you want me to apologize? Then I apologize.”

A fresh silence descended on the room. Wladek sucked dreamily on his pipe. Grandpa lifted his needle to the lamp and threaded it rapidly.

“Who turned on the heat?” Mother broke the silence.

“I told someone to do it. There’s milk, bread, butter … I didn’t want to get any meat … I didn’t know …”

“And has the bedding at least been changed?”

“Yes, I took care of that, too. Everything’s warm, clean …”

Father’s voice was also warm and clean. He got up and moved closer to Grandpa’s worktable, where Mother was sitting.

“Do you have any things?” he asked, “I’ll get a droshky.”

“Where are you going to find a droshky at this hour?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find one.”

Mother put aside her book. I don’t know if she indicated where her things were, but Father went straight to the Warsaw parcel and picked it up.

“A drop of whiskey, maybe, Leyzer?” said Grandpa, putting down his sewing and already rummaging in the kitchen cupboard, where he had hidden his precious store.

Father’s yellowish-gray mustache grew bigger and thicker as a smile spread across his beard.

“
Lekhaim
!”

“
Lekhaim
, to a good and peaceful life. May we drink only at celebrations! N-n-a!”

Wladek woke up from his nap. He removed the pipe from his mouth and stood up. He smiled when he saw Grandpa’s bottle, gave a little dance, and shook his matted beard.

“
Khaim! Khaim! Pan krawiec!
”

“You want a drop, Wladek?”

“Mmm, mmm …”

“Here you are!” Grandpa handed him half a glassful. “Drink to the health of that Magda of yours, the one that slapped you on the face with a fish.”

“No! A pox on her! To the health of
Pan krawiec! Khaim! Khaim!
”

Mother also took a sip. I myself, given the chance, would have finished off the whole bottle.

“Nu, it’s getting late.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, good year, good fortune!”

Father walked ahead, carrying Mother’s parcels in both hands. Mother and I followed a few paces behind. Wladek was still dancing. Grandma and Grandpa stood at the open door, Grandma holding the kerosene lamp high above her head, and Grandpa, a thread dangling from his lips, seeing us off with a song:

Let’s be friends again, friends again,

And buy me some oranges, while you’re at it.

It was the custom in our town, a sort of unwritten law, that moving could take place only on the feast day of Saint John, coinciding with the week of
Shabes Nakhamu
, the Sabbath of Consolation, that falls in midsummer. During those days, the streets were littered with straw from ripped mattresses and other bed stuffings. Doors and windows stood wide open, young boys raced in and out, dogs scrounged in fresh garbage, and Jews, respectable householders all, could be seen, on an ordinary weekday, walking alongside carts packed tightly with their belongings.

Mother, however, didn’t want to wait that long. She couldn’t bear looking at our old place any more. Every corner seemed to haunt her. So, soon after we left the grandparents’ house, she began her search for a new dwelling, made inquiries, and finally rented a place in the center of town, a palace compared to our old place.

We waited till after the Sabbath and, on the following Tuesday—considered a lucky day—we moved out.

The Gentile who came every morning to wake up Father knew nothing of this, and that morning, too, he knocked on the windowpane, calling, “
Pan kupiec
! Mr. merchant!” But
Pan kupiec
, that is, Father, was already up and dressed. He let the Gentile in and told him that they wouldn’t be making the rounds of the villages that day, that today we were moving to a new place, and could he stay and help out.

That day I didn’t go to the
kheyder
. First Father said his morning prayers, then we snatched a quick bite, and, no sooner than Father finished reciting the Grace after Meals, we set to work.

Groaning and straining, Father and the peasant together shifted the wardrobe from the wall, leaving a large, dark patch covered with spiderwebs and dust. The cold, disordered room was strewn with cigarette butts, bent spoons, a wooden, moldy frame for making Hanukkah dreydls, and a pair of the late Moyshe’s stiff, dirty shirt cuffs. When the mirror over the dresser was taken down, a huge spider began to scurry away. It ran up the wall and from there to the ceiling, from which vantage point it could look down on the havoc below.

Father himself took apart the beds. When the peasant offered to help, Father puckered his lips, revealed two rows of white, healthy teeth, and said in Yiddish, “No need, I’ll manage alone.” Father had always been rather finicky about beds. A bed, he maintained, was like a wife, the touch of a strange man could defile it.

Mother, her head wrapped in a kerchief, covered in feathers, looking nothing like her Warsaw self, was pouring pots of boiling water over the dismantled bedsteads. We stepped on damp, half-rotted wisps of straw, which stubbornly clung to our shoes. The place reeked of unaired bedding, of the moldering rags scattered under Jusza’s cot. From where the dresser had stood, several squashed sardine boxes—no one knew how they got there—looked up at us.

All of that stayed behind. Also left behind was the echo that reverberates from corner to corner across the dark emptiness that lingers on in a room after its inhabitants have departed.

Everything lay on the sleigh in a jumble, ready for the move. The four carved legs of the large table stretched up toward the sky, like a bound calf. The stripped red bedding was jammed into the upturned table. The large mixing bowl and the chipped black pots were shoved into drawers of the dresser. All of this accumulation creaked and glided over the soft, deep snow.

Father walked on one side of the sleigh, carrying the wall clock in his arms as though—forgive the profane comparison—he was holding a Torah scroll in the Simhath Torah holiday procession. On the other side, Mother was carrying the standing lamp, which was lit only on festivals.

I sat in the sleigh, facing the street, gripping the tarnished brass candlesticks in my fingers. At my feet stood the mortar and an old flatiron, a gift from Grandpa in honor of my recovery.

And that is how we arrived at our new home.

One house stood out on the street from among a row of identical wooden cottages. It was made of yellow brick, with a sloping tin roof. A white cat, whiter than snow, looked down at us from the roof, with quivering whiskers. It stretched its head, no doubt in astonishment, opened its whiskered mouth wide, and gave a great, gaping yawn.

The sleigh with our belongings had to remain in the street, for the entryway was too narrow and the little courtyard even narrower. There was no pump to be seen. The air was filled with the stench of pigs and the musty smell coming from the row of cubicles on the overhead wooden porch.

Under that same porch lay our new home. It was smaller than our previous place. The kitchen was painted blue, with a crooked ceiling and thin, crumbling walls. The main room itself was square, with two windows looking out onto the narrow yard, but dark for all that. On the other hand, it had a red-painted floor, which could have been the only reason why Mother decided on this particular place.

“In Warsaw,” she said, “all the floors are painted red.”

Father wrinkled his nose.

“It’s a little dark in here,” his eyes swept across the walls.

“It’s winter,” Mother apologized. “In summer, God willing, it’ll be brighter.”

Personally, I liked the new place. It was bare and clean, no stains on the walls, no damp straw all over the floor, and no mice. A red floor, it would seem, keeps them away. No Moyshe was going to die here, and no Jusza was going to disturb my dreams.

A gray, misty evening filtered into the room. A pair of footsteps could be heard running along the porch. It sounded as if someone was banging on our ceiling with sticks.

The house was now warm and bright. Mother, in honor of the occasion, lit the large lamp, usually reserved for holidays. Father, still in his work clothes, put the wardrobe together again. He twisted the right corner of his mouth, exposing his white, healthy teeth, and gave a little sigh. I held the small kerosene lamp up to him, and every time he sighed, I did too.

It was altogether different here than in our old place. In the kitchen there was already a fire going, and the black, chipped pots with their open, hungry mouths, having settled in on the burners, seethed and simmered, just like at Grandma’s. One side of Mother’s face was red, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to the elbows, like bagels.