Hush (37 page)

“What nonsense,” my father said. “People treat a name as if it’s the only thing that will decide what the child will be. The most important thing is the way you raise a child, not his name.”

“Of course names are extremely imporant,” Moishe said. “In my family we have a
minhag
that before you name the child, the parents go pray at the grave of that person to ask for permission and for a blessing on the baby’s soul.”

Go to the grave for a blessing on the soul. Go to the grave for a blessing…
Devory?
I remember standing up. I remember my voice; it came out of my mouth clearly, unafraid, as if asking about a second slice of fish, “Mommy, where is Devory’s grave?”

My mother wiped her mouth with a napkin and smiled at my niece, who was finally finishing her last piece of fish. “Grave? Who?”

She poured some juice into a small glass cup.

“Devory. Where is she buried?”

My mother stared at me blankly. “Devory? Which Devory?”

“My friend. Devory Goldblatt. She hanged herself in our bathroom upstairs. Remember?”

The juice bottle came down with a bang. My mother turned swiftly, her eyes narrowing in fear. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I want to know where she is buried. I want to go visit her grave. I want to name our child, if it is a girl, after her. Where is Devory’s grave? Why doesn’t—”

My mother looked, her eyes widening, then narrowing, as Surela’s fork stopped midair, my father’s mouth opened then closed, and Yankel dropped the spoonful of fish he was holding.

She screamed, “Are you crazy? Have you gone out of your mind? What are you talking about? I have absolutely no idea! No one knows! Hashem help me, you are finally pregnant, and this is what you are now busy with? It’s over, it’s gone, and it went away!” She stood abruptly. “You have an appointment on Sunday with Dr. Weber for a first checkup and then you must go shopping! They have this amazing sale in Generations—gorgeous stuff. You wouldn’t believe the prices! But don’t forget to bring your insurance card and don’t forget the co-pay. I think it’s fifteen dollars. And if you meet Goldy in the street, don’t you
dare
tell her you are expecting; she did not tell me a thing about her daughter and I had to find out only after the whole street knew, and I—”

Another cup. I threw it hard against the wall; another shattering crash, over her head, over the candlesticks, and against the beige and gold floral wallpaper. A million little pieces of glass scattered everywhere on the floor.

Dead silence.

“Where. Is. Her. Grave?”

My mother stared at me, her face gone white, her eyes stunned. My father looked at me, his eyes pools of pain and sorrow. He could not hold me anymore, could not cuddle me till I fell asleep in his arms. And forgot.

I watched the silence erupt into sparks of noise, rapid chatter, a desperate clamor that rose over the broken chasm, desperately pushing it all back together again. I could not hear them; I only saw their frowning mouths, disapproving eyes, downturned lips, and angry gestures. “What happened? What happened? Why now? What are you talking about?”

Yankel pushed back his chair sharply, his
shtreimel
knocking onto the floor. Grabbing the hat, he walked past me, his eyes a distant nothingness. He walked out, out, out of the house. So much silence, so much screaming silence.

“Look what you’re doing! Your husband walked out! What is the purpose! What’s wrong with you, ruining your marriage? Over what?
Because such a little girl died?
Surela, take the kids to the back room; they don’t have to hear this. Why now? What happened? It’s ten years later! What happened suddenly now? It’s already ten years
of nothing, an empty space in time.
You told Yankel what happened! Are you crazy? How could you do such a thing? What did you ever do that for? Why?
Why? Why?
”

I walked out. Past my mother, past my father, past the rapid, anxious gestures. I walked away—away from the tower that had never reached heaven.

My father came after me. I heard his hurried footsteps running down the block. I heard his voice, “Gittel, Gittel, wait. Don’t run, Gittel, wait!”

I ran, leaving his footsteps and his pleading voice behind me, ran back home to the little table in my small kitchen with the picture. But my father came after me. I heard his weary footsteps, his knocking on the door, his opening it without waiting.

“Gittel.”

I stood up.

“Gittel.”

I walked into my bedroom.

“Gittel, listen to me.”

I locked my door and sat on my bed, rocking, rocking, rocking the silence away.

“Gittel, open the door.”

I could see the shadow of his feet under the door. He stood there for a long time. “Gittel, open the door. I am sorry. So sorry. Open the door.” I needed to listen to the screams, needed to see the shattered face, the dead blue eyes. “Gittel, Gittel, I will find you her grave. I will tell you where it is. Nobody dared asked then.…”
Devory, don’t go.
“You were such a little girl, such a little girl.…”

He left, saying something about finding Yankel. Then there was light where his shadow had stood.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Yankel came home at dawn. He lay slumped on the couch, where I found him after a fitful sleep. I drank a cup of coffee and watched him, his head on his open arm, his long
payos
dangling over the arm of the couch, moving imperceptibly with his soft breathing.

I wondered how long he had slept that way. His
shtreimel
lay carelessly tossed on the floor, his
bekeshe
thrown over the other end of the couch. I dropped my coffee cup into the sink. There was a dull bang as it rolled in the metallic basin and Yankel sat up, startled. He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot, stumbled to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. I heard water splashing. When he came out, he sat at the table and stared at his knees. He looked up at the wall and down at his shoes. He nervously curled his
payos
and pulled at his beard, and finally he put his face in his hands and remained staring at the floor for over half an hour.

I ignored him as I sat on the couch, flipping through a Jewish women’s magazine. There were pretty pictures, so many pretty pictures of flowers and babies and fresh, new recipes for the holidays directly from Roisy’s Kitchen. There was also an article on how to raise agreeable children and ways to ensure your child does not befriend those who have the Internet in their homes.

I heard a small sigh as Yankel stood up. He walked to the closet near the door and took out his spare prayer shawl. He began to pray. Standing near the door, the large white cloth wrapped closely over his head and body, he swayed. The twined fringes swinging in the air, his trembling hands gripping the prayer book, his eyes clenched shut, he prayed. I shut the magazine. I put the pretty pictures away and mashed tuna.

We did not leave the apartment that
Shabbos
. Did not eat by my mother, did not answer the worried knocks of my sister, or speak of the picture lying right-side up on the table.

We slept a lot. Huddled under our blankets, we fell into sporadic states of unconsciousness, and at some point in between Yankel told me that my father had spoken to him last night in
shul
. He told me that he had listened for hours, never uttering a sound, as my father, in tears, told him everything.

We ate more mashed tuna in the afternoon and some leftover salad at night. And Yankel looked at me across the small table, fear still embedded in the darkness of his pupils, but the distance was gone from his eyes.

He nibbled on a piece of challah. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but I remember when I was a little boy, we had an Arab cleaning lady. She came sobbing one day to my mother about her niece, a twelve-year-old girl in Jordan, who was stoned to death after she cried to her father that her uncle…you know…did things with her. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I remember my mother talking to my father about it. She whispered about those barbaric Arabs, what animals they were, stoning their own daughters until they die.…”

I looked out the window. “And here we bury them, slowly, alive.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that. We are not like the Arabs.”

“No. We can’t see the blood running.”

“Gittel, why are you talking like that? Do you think we are like them?”

“No, we can’t hear the screams. We talk too loud.”

Yankel shook his head. He sighed. We looked out the window at the bobbing hats passing by on the way to
shul
.

My father left a message on my voice mail after
Shabbos
. In a hoarse, low voice he read the address of the cemetery where Devory was buried, repeating it slowly, twice. He had received the information from an aunt, he said, the one who had taken care of things when it happened. He asked me to call home. My mother was worried. Everyone was. Please, Gittel, call home, now. I pulled the wire out of the wall.

---

We paid the car service one hundred dollars to drive us up to the cemetery and back.
Devory?
I told him to stay home, but Yankel had come with me.
Don’t go.
It was Sunday, he had
kollel
, but he refused to stay home.
Don’t cry, Devory.
…He said he wouldn’t let me go alone. We needed to talk.
Devory.
…There was so much he did not know, so much he wanted to hear. I was silent on the two-hour drive to the cemetery.

Devory?

Why was I so silent; why didn’t I tell him? He looked at me, the nothingness gone from his eyes. I told him he would see by the grave. First we must find the grave, we must find the grave.

We passed hills, mountains, dark forests of bare trees, and cold, hard winter ground around frozen lakes.
Gittel, come with me.
The wrought-iron gate was open when we arrived, and the wind whistled mournfully—
Come with me.
It was somewhere in the back, my father had said. He said the headstone was simple and gray and there was a cherry tree right there, a big tree. I ran through the cemetery.

Gittel?

I rushed frantically through rows of headstones, from grave to grave.

Gittel?

A simple gray headstone, a cherry tree nearby.

Come with me.
…

Yankel rushed behind me, afraid I would trip. “Be careful,” he said gently. “You’ll find it, it’s here.…”

A grave with a name.
Devory?

Come to me, Gittel.

“Stop running! It is not good for you. Calm down, please calm down.…”

Come with me, Gittel, come.
…

And it was there. A simple gravestone in the back of the cemetery near a tall cherry tree, its bare branches hovering emptily above. A small corner gravestone with a name.
Devory Goldblatt.
No flower. No rock. No pebble. Just a name.

Devory
?

I wept. And wept and wept and wept.

Yankel ran to me, his long
payos
flying in the air, his hands reaching out. I pushed him away but Yankel held me tight. I could not look, could not see, only cried until suddenly I could not breathe. Everything went white as my throat closed shut, choking me so that no air came in. I felt his hands holding me, his voice weeping for me, “Gittel, don’t cry like that, don’t cry,” and he grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. I buried my face deeply in his chest. Finally, I looked up, and his eyes were so close to mine. “Breathe deeply, like that. Yes, breathe deeply.…”

I let him hold me. Then I bent over the gravestone, stroking it, caressing it. It was cold, and Yankel and I rocked, swaying with the wind, the mournful howling wind. “Why are you holding me, outside, where people can see? Why?”

His arms wrapped around me, his
payos
on my cheek, brushing against it softly, he answered, “Because you are in pain. You are in so much pain.”

Why why why why did we kill her, why? Devory, don’t cry anymore. I don’t want you to be sad any longer.… I can’t bear it.

Yankel and I cried together. We wept near the grave with no flower. No rocks left by visitors. Engraved with only a name.

Devory Goldblatt, only nine years old; condemned by family and community to death by hanging

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Yankel slept in my bed that night. He snuggled close to me under the blanket and softly stroked my hair. We talked late into the night. I told him about Devory and the things we had done together as children. I told him about the books she had read, the funny things she had said, and about the time we sneaked outside after midnight when we were seven because Devory wanted to talk to the stars.