The Little Russian (7 page)

In the summer Berta bathed in the river at a spot reserved for women where a spit of land curled around a tiny backwater and trees and bushes grew up into a privacy screen. Here the water was cold and clean, and afterward there was a little beach where she could lie out in the sun and dry off. But now it was winter and the snowy drifts made cushions and mounds out of the bushes and fence posts. The Dnieper
flowed under a thick layer of blue-green ice and the beach was covered in snow. In the winter there was only the bathhouse.

Berta walked into the bathing area, undressed, and laid her clothes out on a bench. She took off her stockings and shoes last so she wouldn’t have to stand barefoot on the moldy tile and stepped gingerly into the bath. It was a tile pool filled with murky water, big enough to accommodate eight or ten bathers with steps at either end. She tried not to think about the marble bathroom she left behind on Leontievsky Street. It did no good to think of these things. They were gone and were not coming back. Instead she waded down the steps, plunged into the fetid water, stood, soaped, and plunged down again to rinse off. Then she climbed up the steps, the water cascading off her body, and went over to a barrel of water that stood in the corner. She dipped a small bucket into it and poured the river water over her head and shoulders, gasping from the shock of the melted snow.

“That will kill you dead, Berta Lorkis.”

Berta felt blindly for the towel and dried her eyes. It was Meshia Partnoy, Hershel’s landlady, spreading out her things on a nearby bench.

“You’re going to catch your death with that freezing water.” She had begun to undress, seemingly quite comfortable with her surroundings. Her flesh was pale and moist and seemed native to this steamy swamp. “I don’t see why you just don’t sit in the bath like everyone else. It’s very refreshing.”

“It’s green and it stinks.”

“
Nu
? A little green never hurt anyone. It’s a mineral bath from the springs under the ground. That is why it smells so bad. But it’s good for the joints. Ask anyone around here, these baths are very healthy.”

Meshia Partnoy climbed into the pool and lowered herself into the water with a sigh and crouched down, displacing a gentle current that circled her dimpled thighs and rose up over her breasts and shoulders to her chin. She closed her eyes. Without opening them again she said, “I’m coming to see you tomorrow. I want some yard goods. I am going to make myself a new dress.”

Berta looked over at her. “What’s the occasion? It must be something special.” A new dress was an event in Mosny. Why make a new one when a used one was just as good and could be bought from the rag dealer for a fraction of the cost?

Froy Partnoy opened her eyes. They were glittering buttons in the half-light of the bath. “You haven’t heard? We are going to America. My brother has sent us the money and we are off in a week.”

“To America? Mazel tov. I hear it’s a wonderful place. You should be very happy.”

“Of course I should be happy. What is not to be happy about? My brother owns a pickle factory there in the big city. He has fifty men working for him and an ice box and a toilet right in his house.”

Berta liked Meshia Partnoy and her son, but frankly she could not have cared less if they went to America or to the moon. It was the woman’s lodger she was thinking about.

“And what about Hershel Alshonsky?” she asked casually.

During the last of the summer she and Hershel had gone out for rides together, played chess in the tearoom, and picnicked on the spongy moss that grew alongside the streams. They had become friends, or so she had thought, but then the leaves began to fall and he started to come less frequently. Now it was winter and she hadn’t seen him in two months and eighteen days.

“Who?” asked Meshia Partnoy.

“Your lodger.”

“Oh him. . . I guess he will just have to find another place to stay, although it can’t be very easy this time of year. Still, he could look in Bogitslav. He might have some luck there. I know a place or two.” Then she stopped and looked at Berta, a slow smile of recognition spreading across her face. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“Well, he’s not exactly handsome, but they say he’s a real
macher
. Real smart, if you know what I mean. And he knows how to make a kopeck or two.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just making conversation.”

“He is educated. And they say he has a real nice house in Cherkast. You could do worse.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Of course you were,” Meshia Partnoy said, with an exaggerated look of solemnity.

Berta buttoned up her blouse, tucked it in, and gathered up her things. “Good-bye, Froy Partnoy,” she said coolly.

“Good-bye, Berta, and good luck.”

Berta left the women’s bath without bothering to say good-bye to the bath keeper’s wife or even stopping to put on her hat. After a short walk home she arrived at the grocery door with a helmet of frozen hair.

The next day was the
yarid
, market day, and Berta was working the counter. The grocery was crowded with muzhiki, women mostly, who came in with a rush of cold air, the snow melting from their hair and sheepskin jackets, stamping their felt boots on the wooden floor that was soggy and bowed at the door from years of traffic. Berta should have been tending to the customers, but her mind wasn’t on the task. Instead her eyes kept straying out the window to the shoppers in the square and to the rows of sledges where the horses dozed under their
dugas
.

“Where are you going?” asked Mameh when she saw Berta taking her coat off the hook.

“I have to go out. I’ll be right back.” She pulled a scarf out of her pocket, fit it over her head, and tied it under her chin.

“But it’s the
yarid
. You can’t just leave.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes, Mameh. Lhaye is here. She’ll help and there’s always Tateh.”

“We have customers. I need you here.”

“I said I’ll be right back.”

Berta opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it even though she could still hear her mother talking to her. She stood on the step, putting on her gloves and surveying the square. Her eyes moved from the stalls, to the stack of folding chairs leaning up against the tearoom,
to the horses marking the frigid air with their breath. She walked up a row, moving in and out of the crowds, looking at the men leaning up against the tavern wall, at the porters huddled around a fire in an old drum, at the muzhiki playing cards around a bench that had been cleared of snow. Then she moved back down another row, searching out the faces, the dark corners, and the storefronts.

“Looking for somebody?” It was the shul
klopfer
, the old man who called the men to prayers. He held a bloody handkerchief in his hand. His face was white, drained of all color, and he kept moistening his cracked lips with his tongue.

“No, no one.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“No . . . but thank you.”

She liked the little shul
klopfer
. He had always been kind to her. She wanted to say more, maybe ask about his health or his family, but before she could say anything, he doubled over, coughing up blood into his handkerchief.

By closing time she knew Hershel wasn’t coming. She thought he had probably found a place in Bogitslav and she would never see him again. Even though it was dark and the square was empty, she took one last look around as she brought in the rakes and hoes and rolled in the barrels. She turned the sign, closed the door, and locked it with the brass key that was smooth with wear. Then she pulled down the shades and, after blowing out the lamps, climbed the stairs, only half listening to her parents, who were arguing about money in the kitchen.

They often argued about money, so it was a surprise to find Lhaye on the steps listening to them. When Lhaye heard Berta coming up the stairs, she turned and held a finger to her lips and motioned her to sit down beside her.

“He is not coming to ruin my daughters,” Tateh was saying. “He is coming to buy wheat. And while he is at it he’s going to stay in our house.”

“For what? For ten rubles? You are willing to ruin the reputation of your daughters for ten rubles? Do you know how people will talk?” Mameh had a love for
news
, as she liked to call it. She knew what
constituted good fodder for gossips, especially since she was known to indulge in it herself.

“Nobody is going to ruin anybody’s reputation. He will be a lodger, that’s all. People will understand. He’ll stay in the linen closet.”

“And how will he stay there?”

“I’ll take out the shelves.”

“And where will we put the linens?”

“What linens? A few towels. Put them somewhere else. Rivke,
ten extra rubles
!”

“Who are they talking about?” whispered Berta.

“Reb Alshonsky.”

Berta stopped and shifted her gaze back to her parents. From where she was sitting she had a good view of their feet. Her mother’s solid shoes planted implacably on the smooth planks, her father’s worn boots shifting the weight of his body first to one foot and then to the other as he sought relief from the pain in his lower back. She had heard them argue before, only this time she was keenly aware that they were arguing about her future. She had decided some time ago that her future lay with Reb Alshonsky. And now fate, if she believed in fate, which of course she didn’t, was bringing him to her. But she was also aware that it hinged on her mother doing something that she had never done before, an act of capitulation that was completely out of character for her: Her mother would have to concede to her father and let him win an argument. This seemed inconceivable to Berta as she sat on the stair, listening to their every word and whispering an urgent prayer to a God she feared did not exist.

 

HERSHEL ARRIVED during the last of the great storms. Berta was just closing up when he appeared out of the swirling snow wrapped up in a greatcoat and wearing a
papakha
on his head. He told her that he had been away on the Black Sea and gave her a little box covered in red and orange cockle shells. They stood by the stove talking about his travels, about a trip to Moscow and another one to Petersburg. He didn’t explain why he had been away so long and she didn’t ask.

“So, is my room finished?”

“It is. But my mother doesn’t want you staying here.”

“I thought she liked me,” he said, removing his gloves and holding his hands up to the dying fire. He hadn’t yet taken off his coat. Melted snow circumscribed a neat circle of damp on the floor beneath him.

“Not since she found out you’ll be sleeping in our linen closet. She thinks you’re going to ruin our reputation and come into our room at night and have your way with us. She calls you a
mazzik
, a demon, so if you want to stay here, you’ll have to win her over. Although, that won’t be easy.”

“I think I can manage. I’m usually pretty good at that sort of thing.” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.

Berta knew it would be this arrogance that would prompt her mother to send him packing. She would see his swagger, cheeky grin, and charming manner as a direct assault on the good name of her daughters. She thought about warning him, but she knew it would do no good. She had learned that about him over the summer months. He would do it his way, no matter what anybody said.

That night, supper was served at the table in the front room. Tateh had just returned from evening prayers and had taken the time to comb his hair with water and put on his good Shabbes coat. It still had a torn piece of cloth affixed to the lapel from the last funeral he had attended, the wife of the cattle dealer who had died of a woman problem. He sat at the head of the table when Hershel came in and greeted his guest with a stiff formality. “You’re over here, Reb Alshonsky,” he said, indicating the chair next to him.

Hershel nodded and took his seat across from Lhaye. She was wearing one of Berta’s Moscow dresses. It was a midnight blue satin with bugle beading and lace sleeves, much too fancy for a simple meal at home. She also took the time to pile her hair on top of her head and even added an ostrich feather that she found at the bottom of the trunk. Hershel complimented her on her appearance and she thanked him, the feather bobbing with determination as she lowered her head and blushed.

Mameh made no special effort for her guest. She wore her old apron at the table and kept the lace runner that she used for holy days in the
drawer. Instead she used the everyday tablecloth that was stained and yellowed and torn in two places.

At first there was an uncomfortable silence lasting through the blessing, which of course was proper, but also through much of the bread and soup.

“It’s very good, Froy Lorkis,” Hershel said, finishing up his bowl.

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, rose, and gathered up the bowls. “Berta, help me in the kitchen.”

Berta and Hershel exchanged a look as she reached for the soup pot.

“Do you have to be so rude to him, Mameh? It’s embarrassing,” she whispered, after carrying the pot into the kitchen and setting it down on the counter. “Can’t you say something nice? Ask about his health? Anything . . . ?”

Mameh was at the stove scooping out the last of the boiled potatoes into a bowl with a rusty slotted spoon. “It is not enough that we have a
mazzik
staying with us? I have to make nice to him too?” She made no effort to keep her voice down. She reached into the salt box and took a pinch between her thumb and forefinger and sprinkled it over the potatoes. As an afterthought she took another pinch and dropped it into the pocket of Berta’s apron.

“Oh, Mameh,” she said with annoyance.

“Hush now. I know what I’m doing. And take this.” She took off an amulet from around her neck and put it around Berta’s. “Keep it on and don’t take it off, no matter what anybody says.”