The Little Russian (4 page)

“I don’t know. Say, whatever you like. Say
it’s a nice day
.”

Berta said
it’s a nice day
in Russian to the delight of the
melamedkeh
. She clapped her hands and laughed. Her face lit up and for a moment there was color in her cheeks and the fine lacework of lines around her mouth were smoothed away.

 

THE TOWN SQUARE was dusty and barren, with a town pump in the middle surrounded by rocks to keep down the mud. Limestone buildings, blackened with age, stood on the perimeter of the square and housed the best Jewish businesses, the ones that dealt only in new merchandise. There was Charnofsky ’s tavern with a picture of a bear
painted on the door, and Moesha, the tailor, stitching cross-legged on his cutting table so he could watch the passersby. Gershen’s bakery was still located on the corner, where the same dusty plaster wedding cake stood among dead flies in the window.

Chaim pulled the horse up to the front of the store, jumped off, and helped the women down. The Lorkis grocery was located on the northeast corner of the square. It had a fancy sign painted on the window in black letters edged in gold and out in front was a display of farm implements and barrels of tar and kerosene. Two dusty posters hung in the window: one showing a fashionable lady sipping Abrikosov Cocoa; the other, a Muscovite princess praising hygienic Volga soap.

A large woman with small eyes and wide cheeks mottled with a sprinkling of age spots leaned over the balcony where she had been beating a rug and shouted down to them. “Is that your daughter, Froy Lorkis?”

Rivke looked up and beamed.

As Berta watched her mother boast about her beautiful, educated daughter with her trunk full of Paris dresses, it occurred to her that she had missed her parents more than she cared to admit. It came as a complete surprise, especially since she hadn’t given them much thought during all those years in Moscow. In fact she had done her best to distance herself from them, from Mosny, from Little Russia and her childhood. She remembered telling Aleksandra Dmitrievna that they were dead and momentarily felt ashamed. It hadn’t been the first time she lied about her parents. And she knew that no matter how she felt at this moment, how tenderly she thought of them in the flush of homecoming, it wouldn’t be the last.

Berta heard her name and turned to see her sister, Lhaye, flying out the door of the grocery. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Berta’s shoulders.

Any stranger looking at these two would have known instantly that they were sisters. They had the same curly dark hair, which Berta wore piled on her head and Lhaye let fall in thick waves down her back. They were both small with broad, round faces and dark eyebrows over almond-shaped eyes that changed color from green to brown
depending on what they wore. They had freckles on their hands and arms that Lhaye ignored and Berta tried to hide with powder, and a full lower lip that covered small white teeth. Berta held herself with an imperious detachment, a regal efficiency of motion. Lhaye, on the other hand, was still growing into her body, a little clumsy, always in a hurry, impatient to get where she was going but not quite sure how to get there.

“We’ve been waiting so long for you to come home. And you hardly ever wrote. Didn’t you get our letters? We were starved for news, starved! You have to tell me everything. Was it beautiful? Remember the night before you left? Remember how we imagined it? Was it like that?”

Berta remembered the day she arrived in Moscow. She had copied a dress off a label of stewed prunes and thought she was the height of fashion. Then she saw what the other young ladies were wearing and realized that the can must’ve been old. With trepidation she climbed the wide steps under the two-story portico and rang the bell. It was opened by a pretty maid in uniform not much older than she. She asked Berta what she wanted, using the
ti
form ordinarily reserved for informality, children, or subordinates. In that short, seemingly innocuous exchange, Berta knew she didn’t belong in Moscow. She felt a chill and went rigid with mortification. What Russian she knew instantly flew out of her head and left her stammering in Yiddish. On impulse she turned and ran down the steps and would’ve climbed back into the cab, had it not been receding up the drive.

“Come along, it’s just as you left it.” Lhaye took her sister’s hand and pulled her into the store. “We will be sharing our old room. You can have the right side of the bed just like before.”

“Wonderful,” Berta said without enthusiasm.

She followed her sister into the store, past shelves of dry goods and barrels of flour, barley, and pickles, and climbed the narrow stairs in the back up to the living quarters. The apartment was even gloomier than she had remembered it and stifling hot. The dust-streaked windows kept out most of the light and it smelled of woodsmoke, kerosene, and unwashed bodies. There were no decorations on the walls, not a painting or even a print, only the wedding photograph of Mameh
and Tateh that had been hand colored in garish hues. Lhaye led the way down the narrow corridor that had once been painted green but was now an indeterminate color due to the soot and grime from the kitchen stove and the kerosene lamps. Their bedroom was at the far end of the corridor. It was small, with a tiny window that offered no relief from the heat. It was only big enough for a bed, a little armoire, and a straight-back chair that sat in the corner. Tateh had already brought up the trunk, which stood in the center of the room taking up most of the floor space.

“Look at these,” Berta said, opening her trunk.

Lhaye came over and looked at the dresses that had been carefully packed away, one on top of the other, each separated by tissue paper. She sucked in her breath, took out the beaded evening gown that was lying on top, and held it up, looking at herself in the armoire mirror. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, as if she were in the presence of something truly miraculous. Berta had worn it to Madame Zherebtsova’s party. It was in honor of Monsieur Konshin’s horse, Avors, who had just won the Grand National. They had brought the champion in for a plate of apples and he had made a steaming mess on the ballroom floor. Valets appeared instantly and scooped up the mess into a sterling silver punch bowl.

Next Lhaye took out an ivory muslin Berta had worn to the Polia-kovs’ estate just that summer. She almost ruined it when she got her monthly and had to run up to the second-floor bathroom. She was too embarrassed to ask a maid for a rag, so she used several linen hand towels embossed with the Poliakov crest that she found hanging on a silver towel rack.

Lhaye held it up and looked at herself. Her face was flush with heat and excitement. It was such an honest face, so eager and full of wonder. Berta stood behind her and held up Lhaye’s hair in a bunch on top of her head. It occurred to Berta that Lhaye wasn’t the least bit jealous of her, of her life and of all the opportunities she had enjoyed while growing up. She didn’t seem to mind or even notice the injustice of one sister raised in Moscow, the other in Mosny. If the situation had been reversed, Berta wouldn’t have been so generous.

“It’s yours,” she said, kissing her sister on the ear.

“No . . .” Lhaye turned, “you aren’t serious?”

“Go ahead, put it on.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s too beautiful.”

“Here, let me help you.”

Berta helped her off with her clothes and held the dress so she could step into it. Then she buttoned up the back while Lhaye looked at her reflection. “Oh,” she breathed, “look at me.” She turned this way and that, admiring the gentle drape of the dress over her hips and thighs. Then they heard loud voices out on the stairs and a great many feet shuffling into the front room. “They ’re here,” Lhaye said.

“Go and tell them I’ll be out in a minute.”

She hesitated. “But they came to see you. Mameh has been talking about this for months.”

“It’ll be all right. I’ll be out soon.”

Once she was alone, Berta went over to the nightstand, poured some water into the basin, and splashed cool water on her face. She looked around for a towel, but only found a clean rag and used it to dry herself. Then she stood by the little window trying to catch a breeze. She wanted to go back to her room in Moscow and lie on her down-feather bed. She wanted to take a cool bath and sit on her balcony and watch the children and their nannies in the park across the way. She was hot and wanted to loosen her stays, but Anna wasn’t there to help her and she didn’t think she could manage without her.

There was a short knock on the door and Tateh stuck his head in. “Your mother is in a state. I’ve been sent in here to fetch you.”

“I’m coming,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“She wants you now.”

“Yes, Tateh . . .” she wound an errant strand back into her upsweep. “Tell her I’ll be right out.”

“All right, but she won’t be happy.” He started to close the door.

“Tateh . . .”

He turned back.

“Would you be too upset if I left a little early?” She thought she should approach her father first since her mother could be difficult.

“Left where?”

“Here, if I went back a little early?”

“Back where?”

“To
Moscow
, Tateh.”

“To Moscow . . . why would you go back to Moscow?”

“I live there,” she said in exasperation.

Tateh gazed at her and then came in and shut the door. “So, they didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Tell me what?”

His mouth thinned into a straight line. Then he came over and took her hands in his. “Zelda is all grown up now. She’s married. She doesn’t need a companion anymore. That is why you were sent home.”

Berta took back her hands. “You make it sound like I work there. I don’t work there. I’m part of the family. They wouldn’t
send
me anywhere.”

Out in the front room, there were more voices, more people arriving, the clatter of glasses and plates and Mameh’s high-pitched laughter. Mameh rarely laughed, except when she was exhausted or nervous.

“There was a letter,” Tateh said. “It was in Russian. We had it translated.”

“What letter?”

“I have it here somewhere.”

While Tateh went off to look for it, Berta sank down on the bed. She was sick with fear. She told herself that there was nothing to worry about. The letter was in Russian. They probably got Ruchel Cohen, the cattle dealer, to translate it. Reb Cohen thought of himself as an excellent Russian speaker, but she had received a letter from him once and knew better.

Tateh came back and handed her the letter. It was short, on Rosa Davidovna’s stationery, and she recognized her hand. Berta skimmed the contents . . .
express regrets . . . no longer in need of . . . love and gratitude . . . just like family.
There was a rumbling somewhere down below, the earth was beginning to move, to cave in; rocks were tumbling down the hillsides; there was the sound of rushing water
. . . just like family
. She wasn’t family. She was just like family. It was something one would say about a trusted servant or a pet.
We all think so highly of her.
She is just like family.
There was a roaring in her ears. Her stomach was twisted into icy knots. A deep crevasse was opening up, whole trees and houses were sliding into oblivion. Berta lay down on the bed, her head on her arm. Her father was speaking, but she could barely make out the words.

“Is it really that bad being home? You are wanted here. This is where you belong.”

She closed her eyes and for the moment she was back in the foyer the morning she left Moscow, her footsteps echoing off the high ceilings, off the brightly colored sphinxes that observed her coolly from atop their columns. There was the amber table and the huge display of orchids, the damp envelope with four tickets and the unexpected money. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Why it hadn’t seemed strange that there was no one there to see her off. No one to say good-bye, to hug her, to kiss her on both cheeks and make her promise to hurry home.

September 1904

 

THE BELL on the front door of the Lorkis grocery never stopped ringing. It rang whenever the peasant women came looking for dry goods or pickled fish. It rang when their slow-walking men came in for axle grease or vodka that Tateh sold out of the back room. And it rang for the Jews of the town. The little bell had a cheerful jingle, although it was anything but cheerful to Berta. It jingled when they arrived, when they left, when they forgot something and came back. It jingled all day long, until Berta wanted to rip it off the door and throw it into the river.

It had been a year since she returned to Mosny. The time had passed slowly. At first she hardly slept and thought of nothing but her life in Moscow at Number 12 Leontievsky Street: swimming in the river at Mogolovo; the barges they decorated with fairy-tale characters for Zelda’s birthday; Rosa Davidovna tiptoeing into the nursery to say good night before going off to the opera, trailing her scent behind her. For a while, Berta would wake every morning before dawn, hollow eyed and exhausted, wrap up a few pieces of bread, and leave the house. There were few people in the streets at that hour and that was the way she liked it. She didn’t want to meet anybody she knew and since the entire town was Jewish, most everybody knew her or at least knew her story. She was the grocer’s daughter. She had lived in Moscow in a big house. She had been sent home when the job was done like any factory girl at the end of the season.

For weeks she wandered out of town and walked the rutted cart paths that bisected the fields of stubble and dried corn stalks. The crows came for what was left after the harvest, and clouds of insects rose up off the winter squash that had been left to rot in the field.
She didn’t notice the heat and was grateful for the emptiness and the endless expanse of blackened fields fresh from the autumn burning. She was glad to be alone. It felt honest, and there was some comfort in that.