Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life (39 page)

“N … n … a …” Father slowly raised his face from the prayer book and, even more slowly, pushed his spectacles onto his forehead.

“Without a groshen of dowry,” Little Shoemaker repeated, somewhat abashed. “I’m even willing to make do without any trousseau on her part.”

“How old are you?” Father pointed his beard at him.

Father’s abruptness caught us all by surprise. I began to blink and Mother, it seemed, did likewise.

“What do you mean, how old am I? Does a man tell his age?”

“And what about making a living?”

“A living? I’m a craftsman, thank God.”

“You’re a craftsman, that’s true. But a wife is, forgive the comparison, like a horse. You have to keep feeding it, otherwise it will collapse on its feet.”

“Toybe, God forbid, isn’t a horse,” Little Shoemaker smiled broadly, “and as far as making a living is concerned, I’ll go on working and, with God’s help, I’ll be able to support a wife.”

“But tell me,” Father drawled out each word separately, “who are you? I don’t know anything about you.”

“What do you mean, who am I? By now, Reb Leyzer, you ought to know me a bit. The fact that I’m a shoemaker is my stepmother’s fault. My father, the head of a yeshiva, wanted me to be a shoykhet, a ritual slaughterer.”

While he was telling us all this, Father examined him afresh and looked straight into his thin, bony face. Then he turned his quiet, dreamy eyes to Mother.

“What do you say, Frimet?”

“I don’t know. One also has to ask Toybe.”

“Of course, you’re right.”

Father removed his spectacles from his forehead and turned to Little Shoemaker.

“Tell me honestly,” he asked, “do you ever lose your temper?”

“God forbid!”

“And you’ll treat her well?”

“What do you mean, well? A plate from heaven wouldn’t be too dear for her.”

“So long as the plate isn’t empty.”

“God forbid, Reb Leyzer! What are you talking about?

“Well, so be it.”

With that Little Shoemaker left. The blue flame on the table flickered, now and then flaring up in a dying gasp. Toybe came into the room and silently turned down the beds. Father and Mother kept shooting her glances, which may have been why she mixed up the pillows. Or, maybe Little Shoemaker said something to her on his way out? One could see that Toybe was restless, just like a sick hen that runs around frantically looking for a place to lay its egg.

Father undressed slowly and lay down on his bed. Mother lit another candle. Toybe put away the pots. It didn’t take long for Father to begin snoring. It was then that Mother called out.

“Toybe!”

“What is it, Auntie?”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“What was he supposed to say?”

“I mean, you went for such a long walk.”

“He told me …”

“That?”

“That he wants me …”

“Nu … ?”

“I don’t know myself. He’s so short.”

“That shouldn’t bother you. What good does it do me that your father’s tall?”

“If only I were short myself …”

“Yes, you’re tall, thank God, and everyone should be tall like you. But it seems to me that he’s a decent person.”

“You’re right, but he speaks Litvak Yiddish and I won’t be able to understand him.”

“And do I understand your father?”

“My father isn’t a Litvak.”

“So he’s different. The main thing is, do you like him?”

“He’s so scrawny, a shoemaker …”

Toybe’s voice sounded as though it wasn’t coming from her own throat. It was alien sounding, strangely low.

“Listen to me, Toybe,” Mother also spoke in a low tone. “God is my witness that I want only what’s best for you. But not everything works out the way one imagines it. You can see that he’s a decent fellow, he seems to be a good earner. He comes from a good family, with a father who’s the head of a yeshiva, and he’s no boor, either. You heard what he said. Take my advice …”

Mother stopped in mid-sentence. Toybe’s shoulders sagged.

“Auntie dear,” she sighed, no longer able to hold back her tears.

“Enough now, what else can one do?”

Mother stroked Toybe’s shoulder. “I know, under different circumstances …”

Toybe’s tears only increased. Her shoulders continued to heave until late into the night.

In the middle of the week, Little Shoemaker raced over again. Sweat, grime-streaked, poured down his bony face. He had come to find out what was happening.

There was, he said, an opportunity to rent a place in the village, with a small garden. He also planned to buy a goat—milk from one’s own goat never did anyone harm. If he knew with certainty that his proposal was to be accepted, he would rent the house, lay in some furniture, and put down an advance payment on the goat.

Toybe, as usual, had her face stuck in the pots. She didn’t say a word, nor did she turn around to look in from the kitchen.

Mother heard him out to the end and then said that she didn’t understand why he was in such a hurry. Toybe wasn’t, God forbid, an old maid. Furthermore, a wedding requires proper preparation, new camisoles, new shoes. Her advice? To wait until the High Holidays, which weren’t that far off, were out of the way. Let him then come and stay with the family in town, during the intermediate days of the Sukkoth festival, when they could talk things over.

Little Shoemaker stood there, looking crestfallen.

“Not until the intermediate days of Sukkoth … ?”

“So what? How long is that?”

“If you count right, it’s a very long time.”

Naturally, he couldn’t understand why the long wait. Hadn’t he offered to take Toybe just as she was, without dowry or trousseau? And if, with God’s help, there was any money left over after renting the house and buying the goat, he himself would be responsible for everything Toybe needed to set up the house.

At supper, he continued trying to persuade Father. His sibilant Litvak
s
’s buzzed around the room like restless flies.

Father didn’t say anything, neither yes nor no. He gave Mother one of his deaf man’s looks, seeking her advice.

“Let’s ask Toybe herself,” Mother finally suggested. “She must have an opinion …”

But Toybe had no opinion on the matter. Sad, and showing no enthusiasm, she brought supper to the table. Little Shoemaker’s eyes followed her every step and move. Toybe never uttered a word.

So Father handed down his ruling—to wait a week, giving him time to find out who this Wolf was. Maybe he wasn’t even a bachelor?

Little Shoemaker smiled. Only now did one see that he had a sparse mouthful of black teeth. It could very well be that because of these teeth, Toybe held off on her answer.

“He’s not somebody after my own heart,” Toybe later confided to Mother, “but if Auntie insists …”

“Me insist?” Mother said hastily. “Wherever did you get that idea? It’s only that you have no dowry and the years aren’t standing still.”

“I know,” Toybe pulled a face, “but what am I to do?”

Mother looked around the room as though she were on the verge of imparting a secret, then bent over to Toybe.

“No!” Toybe said in a frightened, quivering voice. “No, Auntie, whatever has to be will be …”

And that was that. The match became a reality.

Mother went into the city and stayed there a whole day and night. She bought some bed linen, a few yards of material for two dresses, and some netting for a veil. She never went to see anyone, she told nobody, and returned to the village on a stranger’s wagon to prepare for Toybe’s wedding.

It was a time when the fields were already cut and stood bare, covered in stiff stubble, like the bristles of a brush. The granaries were stacked to the top with the harvested wheat. Smoke from the peasant huts settled on the ground. The evenings grew cool and damp, the sun mottled with red. One day, in the middle of the week, the storks were seen flying off to warmer lands.

That was when Toybe’s wedding took place.

On the day of the wedding, Mother had a long, quiet talk with Toybe. Toybe put on a new camisole edged in white embroidery. She also wore white shoes, a wedding present from Little Shoemaker. Mother had sewn the veil herself. It had a circlet of what looked like white cherries in front and trailed down the back.

When Toybe, pale, dry-lipped, tried on the veil, she looked not like the daughter of Leyzer the hay merchant, but rather like an important rabbi’s only child. Mother herself remarked that Toybe’s hands, the same hands that had spent a lifetime peeling potatoes and washing dishes, now, on her wedding day, looked white and small, like two delicate birds.

Father wore his cloth Sabbath
kapote
and new felt hat. Mother dressed up her black taffeta blouse with a fresh, white jabot. Toybe had on a long coat over her bridal dress. I was in a pair of new, stiff pants. Thus attired, we all climbed into a peasant cart and rode into the village, on our way to the nearby town where the wedding was to take place.

The villagers stood in the doorway to watch us go by. They doffed their caps and pronounced blessings. My friends Janek and Pieterke hopped onto the cart and rode a short distance with us. Tucked among the cart’s passengers were covered pots filled with food. Mother held a large, yellow, frosted cake on her lap. Its sweet aroma clung to the roofs of our mouths.

By the time we reached the forest, the sun was already setting. Scattered motes of sunlight danced on the horse’s back.

Father climbed down from the cart and positioned himself to recite the afternoon prayer. The same motes of sunlight also played on his Sabbath
kapote
. The peasant driver scattered some fodder for the horse. It was growing increasingly dark, the air more humid.

“Leyzer! Hurry up!” Mother called out. “It’ll soon be totally dark.”

Night in fact, had fallen. Unseen by the eye, the trees had merged one into the other. On all four sides, everything had turned black. Toybe took off her coat. She felt hot. In her white bridal dress, in the black forest, Toybe looked like a corpse.

After Father finished his prayers, we drove on. The horse groped its way in the dark. Mother grew apprehensive, fearful of bandits. Nevertheless, nothing untoward happened and we arrived in town on time.

It was already well into night. Shadows sprouted from the darkness. A band struck up a lively greeting.

“The bride has arrived,” excited voices could be heard saying, sounding as if they were coming from under the wheels. A door burst open, releasing a cloud of steam. From a nearby store, someone came out carrying a lantern and raised it above our heads.

“Over here, over here!” voices shouted, directing the cart in the dark. The bass fiddle took gruff issue, “Over there, over there!”

I felt a strong desire to laugh. It seemed to me as if the trumpet wanted to spite the bass and was blaring defiantly, “Neither here, nor there …”

As the band played, we were led into a large, white-washed room, empty of beds and wardrobes. A bright lamp hung down from the center of the ceiling. Strange women and girls, all washed and combed, bustled about, like fatted geese.

Across from the whitewashed room and separated from it by a vestibule, steep stairs led up to an attic, where an open door revealed another room with bluish white walls and two dark beams on the ceiling. There the men had gathered to await the bridegroom.

Downstairs, flattened noses were pressed against windowpanes, as curious eyes looked in. Toybe, weary, with half-closed eyes, sat in an old armchair, the kind a judge in a religious court might occupy.

A short Jew, roly-poly and with a clipped beard, strummed angrily on the bass. A tall young man in short sleeves blew on a trumpet. Surpassing them both was a dark-skinned youth playing the fiddle so movingly that it made your heart stop.

The women and the girls were dancing, floating across the floor like ducks. They formed a circle, then separated, joined hands and let go, looking now like angry turkeys.

Mother, her skirts rustling and a lock of her wig tossed back, moved among the dancers, offering dried fruit and tea. She wished the young girls, God willing, a similar celebration, and for the women joyful get-togethers at circumcisions and
bar mitzvahs
. Mother conducted herself with all the refinement of which she was capable, pursing her lips and assuming her aristocratic airs to let people know that she had once lived in a house with brass handles on all the doors.

A little later, Mother requested the dark-skinned fiddler to play a “Warsaw waltz.”

Mother then danced with Toybe.

The girls and the women moved aside, and the men came down from the other room. The numbers of flattened noses pressed against the windowpanes increased, all wanting to get a look at a mother-by-marriage, no longer young, dancing with the bride. And indeed, there was something to see. With her head inclined to a side, her cheeks red, and with her haughty, big-city bearing, Mother led the bride in a dance, barely touching the floor, swaying from side to side with girlish coquetry. She twirled to the left, her silk skirt billowing, then turned her head this way and that, as if standing before a mirror to admire her charms.

Toybe didn’t stand still either. Taller than Mother, and holding the long, white train of her dress in one hand, she followed Mother’s lead and, on her high, hollow heels, swayed and turned in tandem. Her dark face was rather flushed, her hair a bit disheveled, her mouth partly open. She was neither laughing nor crying, but seemed to be calling out to someone.

After the waltz, the dark-skinned fiddler bowed to Mother and said that he had played in many a big city but never before had he seen anyone dance the way she did. The women pursed their lips, smiled, and shyly complimented Mother: “Not to tempt the evil eye, but you are certainly a fine dancer.”

Then Toybe and the judicial armchair were moved to the center of the room. The girls and the women arranged themselves around her. A short Jew, with more beard than face, called out hoarsely, “Musicians! Get ready to play!”

The bass thumped, the trumpet blared, and the fiddle broke out in a plaintive, Wallachian wail. The short Jew himself climbed onto a bench, from where he addressed the bride in a sing-song voice, in pompous, throaty tones.