The River Midnight (6 page)

As she walked among the trees she knew from childhood, she thought it was strange that she didn’t feel so different from when she was a girl. Grandmother Rivka could be standing next to her, carrying her shallow basket for picking mushrooms, telling her that this was God’s market. “You can see things in the woods, Hankela. Some are good and some are poison. It’s easy to get confused. But don’t be afraid. Cut the stem of the mushroom. If it’s pink like the palm of your hand, it’s good. If it runs white and sticky like spider’s milk, it’s bad.”

When Hanna-Leah came to the place where she’d seen the stranger, she paused. A wave of confusion swept through her, and then she shrugged, half-smiling. The moon was rising and in the moon she
could see the silhouette of the hungry wolf. There’s no reason to keep my silk underthings just for
Shabbas
, she thought. They’re good for every day. Why not? Do I have to wear this scratchy wool and be so hot? Who’s going to see?

Hanna-Leah began to hum a song that she used to sing with Faygela when they were young. And as she walked, she swung her arms, heedless of the kerchief falling back so that her hair showed golden against the night. When she came home, she put a fistful of purple and white flowers in a pickle jar on the table, and then she took the wooden doll out of her bridal trunk. Grandmother Rivka’s satin shawl would make a nice dress for the doll.

It wasn’t long before Hanna-Leah had cut the cloth and sat herself in the rocker to sew. Her mother-in-law was sitting in the armchair reading the
Tzena-U-Rena.
Hershel was at a meeting of the community council. Hanna-Leah hummed in time with the ticking of the clock on the cabinet. Above the clock was her father’s portrait, drawn in charcoal just before her wedding. She held up the bodice of the doll’s dress, the satin shimmering in the light from the kerosene lamp. A mushroom stew was baking in the oven. Hanna-Leah thought she might have a taste of it. She was hungry from her walk.

The door opened. Hershel. Taking off his muddy boots, he said, “You weren’t here when I closed up the shop. Where did you go?”

“To the
mikva
,” she said, wondering that he should ask. But he was looking at her and rubbing his forehead as if something was bothering him. She cut and knotted the thread, held the little sleeves against the doll’s arms to measure them, then began sewing the sleeves into the dress.

Hershel said, “They made me head of the council.”

“Good.” She looked at him. He wasn’t the young man that had married her. He had no beard then, his hands smoother, unsure of themselves. Now his beard was graying. His hands were strong. Sure of what they did. He stood with his legs apart, feet planted on the floor like he was ready to swing an ax. He was looking at her as if he could see that she’d been walking in the woods, singing. She waited for him to speak. But he didn’t. He only looked at her. Did he want her to say something more?

“Did you hear that Ruthie was arrested?” he asked at last.

“It can’t be. Ruthie? No. What for? When?” Faygela’s eldest daughter. It couldn’t be. A good girl. Quiet.

But Hershel was explaining what had happened. Ruthie was caught carrying pamphlets. What kind of pamphlets? What did it matter? People said that she was following the lead of one of the other girls. And who was that? Zisa-Sara’s daughter. Poor Zisa-Sara, the last of the
vilda hayas
, alone in her grave in America. She would turn over if she knew that her daughter had made friends with Ruthie and now Ruthie was arrested. Sitting in prison. And Faygela was in Warsaw, so far away. Hanna-Leah’s needle ran in and out of the satin cloth. It didn’t seem like such a long time ago that she had sewn baby’s clothes for Faygela’s daughters. They came one after another. Too many. After the fourth, Hanna-Leah didn’t sew for them anymore. Why should she? Let Faygela take care of her own. If Faygela asked her, well, maybe. But she never did. Only now Hanna-Leah thought that Faygela might have been ashamed to ask.

Standing on the shelf above the fireplace, the wooden doll reminded Hanna-Leah of her Grandmother Rivka. The sun hovered in the sky, light glinting on the satin like a small fire as May came to an end and Faygela returned from Warsaw. The long days were too warm, Hershel’s mother complained. Hanna-Leah bathed her face with cool water until the older woman settled back in her chair, snoring lightly. Hershel was busy mending his boots, sharpening his knife. So when Hanna-Leah finished what she had to do, she looked at the doll and heard her grandmother’s voice.

“The hungry wolf used to follow a girl who had no mother to tell her what to do,” the voice whispered. “All this poor orphan had was a little doll made out of wood. She carried it everywhere in the pocket of her apron. One day, her stepmother sent the girl far into the woods. She came to the house of the Morning Star. Just then she turned around and saw the wolf. Its jaws opened wide, its teeth were wet. But the doll called softly, ‘Don’t stop. Go to the river.’ And so the girl did. She ran, the wolf running after her. And at the river she found the Morning Star. Oh, she was big and wild. Bigger than the wolf. But the
doll said, ‘Don’t be afraid. Drink from the secret river. And then you’ll know how to feed the hungry wolf.’ ”

O
N HER
wedding day, Hanna-Leah sat in the front room like a queen among the women, her hair long and loose around her for the last time. She’d been fasting all day and now she seemed to float above her chair, the bridal throne, waiting for the
bedecken
, the moment when her face would be hidden behind the veil. Soon she would be a married woman, her hair bound and covered forever. At Perlmutter’s tavern, long tables were set with breasts of chicken, fish, honey cake, poppy seed cookies, braided bread, schnapps, and flowers.

“Flowers?” Grandmother Rivka had asked. “People need to eat and drink. For what do they want flowers?”

“A bride should be surrounded with beautiful things,” Faygela had said. Despite the baby in her arms and her belly out to here with another, she had walked in the woods all morning, carrying Ruthie in a shawl on her back. When she’d returned, she’d held out her basket for Hanna-Leah to smell the vanilla-nutmeg scent of the gooseberry blooms. “When you feel faint, just close your eyes and smell the flowers,” she’d said. “It will be just as if we were walking in the woods. I took the violets and the goldenheart to the tavern.”

Hershel came from the river with the young men arm in arm, pushing, singing, and shouting. He walked steadily as if he were not hungry from fasting, shoulder to shoulder with his cousin Shmuel, Faygela’s husband.

“Hurry,” shouted Grandmother Rivka to the young men, “should the children starve?”

“What’s the rush?” Papa asked. How could he know that he only had three years left? The wedding was in 1878, the pogroms wouldn’t begin until ’81. “I only have one daughter to marry off. The groom can wait a few minutes for his share in the butcher shop. Let the klezmer play and the wedding jester tell a few jokes.”

Yekel the wedding jester wore a torn straw hat with bells and strings of garlic hanging from it. Red ribbons, pinned to the tail of his coat, streamed behind him as he gyrated among the company. Yekel was known from Blaszka to Plotsk as a mimic. One look at you and you were his forever. Now he leaped in front of Faygela. Clutching his
belly, he squatted and groaned, “Oh, merciful God, don’t tear me in two. I will never do this again. Please God, make it come quickly.” She half-smiled, pretending to engross herself in juggling the baby.

“Who needs you here?” Grandmother Rivka said to Yekel, pulling him up by the sleeve and giving him a shove toward the hallway. “Go tell a few jokes to the men. We women need to stretch our feet. Play something fast, Mendel. Something for a
broygez tanz.
” She put a hand to Hanna-Leah’s cheek. “That will make you smile. You look too serious, like it was the Day of Atonement. Come Faygela, give the baby to one of the girls. Dance with me.”

The clarinet blew, the bass and fiddle joined in. Grandmother Rivka glided toward Faygela, cajoling with outstretched arms. The women clapped.
Why are you so angry without a reason
, they sang,
Why? Why?
Grandmother circled Faygela. As if furious, Faygela stamped her feet, snapping her fingers in Grandmother’s face, flinging her chin at the ceiling. Grandmother sidled toward her, hands folded as if to implore her, motioning to the women who laughed, calling,
Make up now, there’s no more time, the world is like a dream.

“A dream,” Hanna-Leah echoed, hunger forgotten, tears running down her face as Grandmother was jostled by Faygela’s belly, first in the front, then behind. Faygela winked at Hanna-Leah, allowing Grandmother to take her hands and dance around the bride’s chair.

Later the upstairs room at the tavern was too quiet, the last guest gone home, leaving crumbs for the mice. As Hershel snored, Hanna-Leah lay stiffly. So this was it? This was married life? She would never do it again. He could beg and plead. She would go to the Rabbi and tell him herself. Never again. She talked to herself this way for an hour while Hershel slept.

When the moon rose, she leaned on one elbow to look at him. Her husband. Such a husband. His nightshirt twisted around his stomach as he rolled onto his back, one leg half dangling over the edge of the bed. She glanced between his legs, looked quickly away, then turned toward him, a finger on her lips. Why shouldn’t she look? Didn’t she pay enough? It was small now, nestled like a mushroom on a tiny knoll. She poked. It jumped. She paused, looking intently. Hershel snored. Reaching out a finger, she stroked the top. How smooth it was, like a bolete mushroom. See how it rises like a twist of hallah
dough, she thought. Her breath quickened. Carefully, she lifted the nightshirt, looking at Hershel’s broad chest, lightly running her hand across the hair curling thick and soft like the moss where mushrooms grow. She rested her hand on the muscles in his thighs, her chest and neck warm as if her body was blushing.

“Hershel,” she said, shaking him. “Wake up.”

He half opened his eyes. “What? What?”

“I can’t sleep. Can’t we do something?”

“You want to play cards? Now?”

“Not cards.” She shook her head, eyes modestly downcast.

“Then you must be hungry. Wait. I’ll get you some honey cake.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?” She looked at him and he looked at her. Reaching toward her, he slowly lifted her nightgown, and as she smiled, he quickly drew it over her head, throwing it to the floor.

I
N THE
last evenings of May, Hanna-Leah heard Grandmother Rivka’s voice again. At night she dreamed that Grandmother was making soup and talking to her about everyone in Blaszka. Then June began, and Hanna-Leah dressed herself as always, except that she wore her silk underthings, cool and smooth against her skin as she walked to the butcher shop.

The women who came to the butcher shop said, Misha is getting big, and only five months, too. But still she holds her head up like the Tsarina. She doesn’t know what shame is.

“Let me ask you,” Hanna-Leah said. “Who’s going to take care of the pregnant women in the village when Misha can’t get around anymore?”

The women looked at each other, shaking their heads. When you’re right, you’re right, they said. It could have been Ruthie. She was starting to learn with Misha. But now she’s been sitting in prison more than a week. And her mother’s in the bakery crying out her eyes until she can hardly see.

“A sea of tears won’t water the vegetable garden,” Hanna-Leah said. She remembered how Faygela could be. When Ruthie was just a year old, Faygela gave birth to her second child, a boy. He lived only a few days, and Faygela refused to nurse Ruthie, even though her breasts
hurt because she was full of milk. The baby has a tooth, she said. Nursing hurts. Take her, Hanna-Leah. So Hanna-Leah took Ruthie, quieting her with a rag soaked in honey. It went on for a day, two days. Faygela wouldn’t eat. And then it was enough. Hanna-Leah told Faygela what was what. I made you a soup, she said. From my only hen. A good soup. It’s not going to waste, I’m telling you. So Faygela ate, and she nursed Ruthie again.

“How long can a mother cry? I’m going to her,” Hanna-Leah now said to the women in the butcher shop.

S
HE CROSSED
the square through the hubbub of market day, sparks flying as the blacksmith hammered a shoe onto a horse’s hoof, the cooper rolling barrels into a farmer’s cart, the tanner’s wife spreading out the sheepskins she’d treated with bran and chaff.

In the bakery, Hanna-Leah saw a knot of women huddled around Faygela, who sat at the table, her head in her hands. Behind her, the girls worked quietly, her little boy sitting on the floor, rocking and sucking his thumb. Shmuel was refilling the bins of flour.

Can’t you see that she’s upset? the women asked. You need something, go talk to Shmuel.

“This isn’t your business,” Hanna-Leah answered. “I have something to say to Faygela. Do you want to hear or not?” It wasn’t any use to give Faygela sympathy. She’d had plenty, and it just helped her cry.

“I’m listening,” Faygela replied. Rising, she came around the table to Hanna-Leah, pushing her way through the women. She stood straight though her eyes were swollen and red, her mouth trembling. She’d always been so small and fine.

“Grandmother Rivka came to me in a dream,” Hanna-Leah said. “Your Ruthie will be safe.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Faygela said tonelessly, stroking Hanna-Leah’s fingers the way she used to when she was sorry for something, as if her fingers could tap a message that her mouth had forgotten.

“Listen to me,” Hanna-Leah whispered. “You always enjoyed a little too much drama when there was trouble. Think of someone else.” Faygela’s red eyes opened wide, and she put her fingers to her lips, but said nothing as Hanna-Leah left.

There used to be four of us, Hanna-Leah thought as she walked back to the butcher shop. The
vilda hayas.
Like the four corners of the village square. One became the baker’s wife and her daughter is sitting in prison. One became the midwife and she’s five months pregnant, in her mother’s house by herself. Another, may she rest in peace, died in America and left her orphans to come home alone. And the fourth? The butcher’s wife, who just turned thirty-five. Who should get back to the shop and never mind dreaming. A woman does what she has to. But why?