Upon the Head of the Goat (3 page)

“No, Piri, one can never grow bored with this book, because every time I read or recite I find more meaning in the words. It has all the traditions and laws of the Jewish household.” Babi closed her book and sat in silence for a while. She always rested like this after her work for the day was finished, and told us that in this way she said thanks for the passing day, asked forgiveness of her sins, and expressed her hope for peace among men.

A week before the eve of Rosh Hashanah, a man hand-delivered a letter from Mother to Babi. Mother had sent it to Aunt Helen in Szölös because mail was still not being delivered in Komjaty. It had taken three weeks for it to reach us.

Father had been called back into the army, but because he was Czech, he had been stripped of his officer's rank, and made a private. My brother-in-law Lajos had been drafted. In Beregszász the people were beginning to feel resentful of the harshness of the newly imposed rules dictated by the Germans.

Mother wrote: “We are in a general upheaval: so many new laws to cope with every day. Our life has changed so much that we don't know what to expect from one day to the next. Mr. Kovacs had to take over the running of our shoe store until Father returns.”

Mother was also concerned about us, urging us to get news to her as soon as possible. She asked Rozsi to see about getting me registered in school in case the border remained closed past September.

“I guess Babi's predictions about Hungarian rulers were right,” I whispered to Rozsi as soon as Babi left the kitchen.

“She is always right about everything,” Rozsi answered me. “We must try to get a letter to Mother as soon as possible so that she knows we are all right. I want to find out if they are coming for Rosh Hashanah.”

Babi came back in. “Just how do you propose to send that letter?”

“Maybe we will find someone going to Szölös who could mail it for us.”

Babi narrowed her eyes and bit her upper lip. “How good a friend do you think your Hungarian policeman would be in an emergency?”

Rozsi turned to look directly at Babi. “Friend? I have only spoken to him…” She hesitated.

“Do you think he could be trusted to mail the letter right away?”

“I don't know.”

Babi looked at me. “You be on the lookout for him, and run in to call Rozsi as soon as you spot him.”

“What shall I tell him?” asked Rozsi.

“Tell him the truth. That your mother is worried about us. He should have no trouble understanding that. He knows what is going on.” Her tone was harsh.

A few days later, I glimpsed Ferenc at the edge of the woods and ran to tell Rozsi that he was coming. She was on the porch when I got to the house. Too breathless to say anything, I pointed in the direction of the forest. Rozsi immediately went inside and came out with the letter. She walked to the road holding it behind her back, and I followed her. Ferenc reined his horse in at the gate and dismounted. “What a beautiful day,” he said. “It is too bad that you can't go for a ride with me.”

“No, we can't,” said Rozsi. “But we have a big favor to ask you. I wrote a letter to my mother, but have no way of mailing it. Could you mail it for us?” Her voice was shaking, and I was afraid that she might cry.

Ferenc took the letter and put it inside his breast pocket. “Is that all? I am happy to oblige, but it is such a small favor.” He brushed Rozsi's shoulder with his hand. “I'll mail it today.”

Rozsi's voice relaxed. She looked up at Ferenc. “Thank you.”

*   *   *

Right until the eve of Rosh Hashanah, Babi never gave up hoping for the miracle that would bring the rest of our family to her table. More than once I saw her leave the kitchen and her preparations for the celebratory meal, walk out to the road, face the forest, and search the distance for moving shadows.

“Babi, do you still think they might come?” I questioned when she returned to the kitchen after one of these trips.

“We must never give up. Hope is our salvation.”

The big enamel pots were filled to the brim. On the stove the soup simmered, the chicken sizzled, and the tsimmes steamed. Rozsi's fine noodles rested on a large plate, ready to be blended with the golden chicken broth. She polished the brass candlesticks and set the table with as many plates as it would hold. As she worked, I asked, “Rozsi, do you think they will come today?” She motioned me to follow her, and when she was sure Babi could not hear, answered, “If you're smart, you won't get your hopes up.”

“Then why are you and Babi pretending?”

“It is not pretending. Babi has prepared this meal for all of us for twenty years. She is following her usual routine.”

“But she keeps going out to look for them.”

“She has done that for a long time, too. It is part of her ritual.”

Not until it was time to light the candles for the New Year's blessing did Babi close the front door. Rozsi and I stood on either side of her as she recited the prayer. She tied the white lace scarf around her head, looked straight up toward the ceiling, and spoke in a hushed voice: “Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us by thy commandments and commanded us to kindle the yontif lights.”

Babi spent the next day of Rosh Hashanah praying in the synagogue. I sat by her for a little while, but was uncomfortable inside the low building. Both the faces of the women on Babi's side of the room and those of the men on the other side of the room were drawn and pinched. They chanted in a monotone, crying out occasionally to be judged with mercy. Babi held my hand to unite me with her and the congregation, but I tried to distract myself by looking at the tiny squares of glass inside the windows, at the crooked walls of mortar, and at the sagging mahogany altar that contained the parchment scrolls. Surrounded by this gloom, I could not keep back my tears, and at the first break in the chanting I let go of Babi's hand and slipped out of the room. I spent the rest of the day playing in the temple yard with Molcha.

The next morning, Rozsi came in from milking with a bucket of foamy milk in each hand. “What are you doing up so early?” she asked.

“I was too excited about school to sleep. I heard the roosters crowing, but stayed in bed until you and Babi left the room.”

Rozsi put the buckets down on the kitchen bench and spoke to Babi, who was stirring the farina for my breakfast. “Strange,” said Rozsi, “this is the first year that I am not going to school, and now Piri is going.”

Molcha was waiting for me when I got to her gate. She was nervous about the new language. “I can remember all the words you taught me. You want to hear them?” She recited the simple Hungarian words as if they were parts of a poem.

When we entered the schoolroom, a handsomely dressed young woman stood next to the blackboard in the front. Other children were strolling in. I knew most of them, some older, some younger than I. After the teacher got us seated, she asked us to get up one at a time and recite our names. Each child stood slowly and whispered his or her name. When my turn came I said, “Piri Davidowitz,” in a loud, clear voice.

“Now, that is the way I like to hear a name spoken,” said the teacher. She spent the rest of the day teaching the Hungarian pronunciation of each of our names, and the Hungarian words for all the things in our classroom. I was the star pupil, and at the end of class she announced that I would be her assistant. I ran home filled with delight to tell Babi and Rozsi the good news. When I found Babi in the field, busy with the last day's harvest, she just commented sarcastically, “Your mother would be overjoyed to hear that you were made a Hungarian translator.”

*   *   *

Fall passed, leaving Komjaty looking barren and deserted. People came out of their houses only when they had to. Several times I had come home from school to find Rozsi, wrapped in her shawl, standing on the porch gazing in the direction of the forest. Ferenc had not been by for quite a while.

Babi had found people from time to time who were going to Szölös and would take our letters to be mailed. In November we received a letter from America that was mailed to Aunt Helen in Szölös. Babi ripped it open with nervous fingers. Later, she talked about it with Rozsi.

“They know more about what's going on than we do.”

“What do they say?” asked Rozsi.

“The same thing. Sell everything and book passage. How could they understand? To them it is just some land and a house, so you get your price and leave it. No, it is not that easy; you cannot sell your life, and to me this small house, the land, my animals—that is all I know. What do I know about America? I'm an old woman; it is too late for me to run away to a new world. No, I'll just live out my years right here.”

That night we got our first snowfall and the roads were covered with uneven drifts. Rozsi walked out on the porch with me as I was leaving for school, and wrapped a scarf around my head so that it covered my mouth. I found Molcha all bundled up, too. In the schoolroom there was a fire in the potbellied stove and our teacher stood by it, warming her fingers.

“You will have to bring firewood starting tomorrow; we have just enough for today. Piri, explain to the children that each of you will have to bring a log starting tomorrow. Otherwise, we'll have to close the school.”

When I told Babi and Rozsi what she had asked us to do, Babi looked concerned. “Your teacher does not know these people. They will let her close the school. They care more about their firewood than they do about her school.”

Rozsi was surprised. “This never happened before. We always had plenty of wood.”

“Changes, changes,” said Babi.

*   *   *

We settled in against the snow and wind. The fire in our bedroom was constantly fed with split logs stored behind the stove, which Rozsi and I replenished by trips to the woodpile. We tried to keep a few days ahead so that the wood could dry inside before we used it. Babi was relieved when, in January, school closed down for the rest of the winter; she had been reluctant to let me go out of the house with the snowdrifts almost as high as I was. We left the warmth of our house only to tend the animals, to bring in water and wood, and to go to the outhouse.

We lived that way until the beginning of March, when school reopened. Then we heard that the trains between Komjaty and Beregszász were running again and that mail delivery was going to resume. I wondered when I would be able to return home.

4

I
T WASN'T UNTIL
early in April, when Molcha and I were picking violets on the outskirts of the forest, that we saw the mailman coming down the road. We hurried back toward the house to meet him. Rozsi was in the yard hanging wash on the clothesline, and noticing our excitement as we came up to her, she asked, “Did you see Ferenc?”

“No, Rozsi,” I said, “it is the mailman; maybe he has a letter from Mother.” Turning away to hide her disappointment, Rozsi dropped her clothespins and apron into the laundry basket and walked into the house. With Molcha close behind me, I ran up to the mailman. He handed me the anticipated letter from Mother, and clutching the violets in one hand and the letter in the other, I called goodbye to Molcha on my way back to the house. Babi had come out onto the porch and I gave her the letter and went inside to look for Rozsi. She was in the spare bedroom, staring out of the window that faced the forest. I touched her arm and gave her the violets, and then returned to the porch, where I found Babi on the bench, bent over the letter, tears running down her face.

“Is everyone all right?” I asked anxiously.

Babi folded the letter and put it into her apron pocket. Then she wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron, stood up, and answered, “Everything is fine, Piri. Come, help me catch the biggest chickens in the yard. They are all coming for Passover.”

“Who is coming, Babi?”

“Maybe we better take one of the geese, too. There will be so many of us.”

“How many?”

“Let's count,” said Babi, taking my fingers as though we were going to play a game. She looked down at me and I realized that her small coffee-bean eyes were sparkling for the first time since last fall. Taking my little finger, she counted in a playful, singsong manner. “Your mother, your stepfather, Iboya, and Sandor.”

“But Father is in the army.”

“Yes, but he is home, he has a leave.” I was overjoyed and began to skip around Babi. “Don't you want me to finish counting?” she asked, catching my fingers again. “Lilli, Lajos, and little Manci are also coming. Go call Rozsi, and we'll catch the birds.”

In the house, Rozsi was still standing at the window and looked as though she might have been crying.

“Babi sent me to call you. We got a letter from home. They are all coming for Passover.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes, Father and Lajos both have leave from the army.”

Rozsi's expression brightened; she picked me up under my armpits and swung me around. “When will all this take place?”

“The day after tomorrow. We had better go help Babi catch some chickens and maybe a goose, too.”

As we came out onto the porch, Rozsi stopped for a moment and laughed when she saw Babi luring the chickens. Babi was hunched over, holding an ear of corn in her hand, calling, “Here, pretty; here, pretty.” As soon as a hen got close enough to peck at the kernels, Babi snatched it up and, holding the bird up in the air, blew its feathers apart to check the skin for fat. If the skin wasn't yellow enough, she put it down and began all over again.

“Fine helpers you are, letting me do all the picking myself,” Babi scolded as she reached into her pocket and gave the letter to Rozsi. “Don't read it now. Help me find two decent birds.”

Rozsi looked over the chickens with calculating eyes. “How about that one with the short tail?”

“No, she is one of our best layers. We'll need lots of eggs, too.” Finally Babi and Rozsi chose the chickens and Babi tied red rags on their legs.