Jerusalem Maiden (16 page)

P
overty meant having no money to buy food. But hunger was different—no food available to buy at any price. It crouched beneath Esther's skin, as omnipresent and demanding as God. Except that God inhabited only her vital organs—her heart, her eyes, her mind—while hunger radiated from her stomach to weaken her bones and choke her thoughts. Esther fantasized of visiting Miss Landau, who'd surely remember her former good student, to beg for the meager lunch she had procured for her students at the start of the Great War—a canned fig and a slice of bread with a piece of yellow cheese so thin it was transparent—but Aba reported that the meals had stopped. The school's European benefactors, who were themselves victims of the lingering war and the persecution of Jews, could no longer provide for the girls' sustenance.

The cold sun was deceptively bright, washing the street with its frosty brilliance. Aba, whose back hurt since the first night he had searched for Naftali, sent her to one of his acquaintances in the Christian Quarter with the hope that the merchant had flour, eggs and sugar. Esther wanted to be useful to Aba, to ease his anguish, even if any Tuesday he might give her to some stranger in marriage. Weeks had passed, and Aba was preoccupied with his search for Naftali. Nevertheless, the double
chupahs
would be erected as soon as he spared half an hour for the ceremony. Esther wished she could write to Avram's bride that she need not worry; Avram was the kindest and handsomest groom. But who was her own groom? Esther tightened Ima's old woolen shawl over her cardigan. Since altering her coat for Miriam she no longer owned one. Even if there had been money for wool cloth, store shelves were bare of merchandise.

The grocery was boarded up. Esther knocked on the door anyway, and a moment later Aba's Christian Arab friend ushered her in. Esther winced at being alone with a man, and an Arab, at that. But Aba must trust this man. Esther followed him down into the cellar. Under the low ceiling, the shelves were empty, and mice scrambled in the sawdust on the floor. Crates and covered barrels lined the wall. Esther hung back as the grocer lifted the top of one and fished out a pickle with his fingers, then held it out for her. Ignoring the direct handing, she accepted it. As he pushed a crate out of his way, she said a blessing, then nibbled the pickle slowly to let God know she truly appreciated His gift. The tangy taste made the craving so irresistible that she devoured the whole thing.

The grocer dug into another barrel with a wooden spoon and fished out some sardines. Esther's stomach grumbled along with her disappointment. No flour and sugar. Only half a sardine for each family member. She counted her coins and unrolled the newspaper she had brought. He scooped the money into a pouch tied to his belt. The fist-size packet in her string bag was almost weightless.

Outside, her body cut through the cold air. It wouldn't get freezing before the month of Tevet, but her knitted stockings already failed to keep the chill from climbing up her legs. Esther lifted the string bag and sniffed. The oil-soaked newspaper was so deliciously moist that she sucked the string. Her stomach contracted. Later, she would eat her share slowly, placing her sardine on bread and pushing it away while biting only into the bread, preserving her sardine so that the aroma alone satisfied her.

Her steps quickened in the street devoid of its regular vendors. A mother hurried by, clutching a baby to her chest under her shawl. Two Hassidim in black garb walked ahead of Esther, their uncovered hands bluish as they gesticulated while debating a Talmudic passage. A young man in a European coat and a beret rounded the far corner. Esther hunched her shoulders against the cold and blew on the exposed fingers of her free hand, then tucked it in the pocket of her cardigan. In her cut-out shoes, her socked toes peeked out, numb with cold. She counted her steps to distract her mind from visions of food.

In the church's soup kitchen, Asher had told her, Jews lined up to eat
traife
food. “Hashem sent hunger to Jerusalem,” he had argued when he suggested she come. “Then He sent the Christians to feed us.”

“He sent them to test us,” Esther had countered. “Would He desert His people to be saved by Christians?” Since Naftali's kidnapping, she had stopped divining God's reasons. And now, as her stomach growled again, she craved that hot bowl of cabbage soup with a slice of bread. Or only the three olives Asher had described.

“
Mademoiselle
Esther?”

Esther stopped and looked up, and her hand flew to her throat.

“They said I'd find you in this neighborhood,” the young European man said in accented Hebrew.

Her heart beat so fast, she was certain it could be heard up and down the street. Which was more shocking—Pierre standing right in front of her, his addressing her directly, or that he spoke Hebrew? Conscious of her chipped nails and dry, flaking skin, she dropped her hand from her throat. “
Erev tov,
” she managed to say.

“Good evening to you, too.” He raised his beret in a gesture she had never seen before, but whose genteel meaning was clear. He grinned, and his eyes flashed blue as if they were tunnels to the sky framing his head.

It was indecent of her to remain standing in front of him, but something bore down below her abdomen, and her feet stayed rooted in the pavement.

Pierre's eyes searched her face. “You're grown up. You look—” His words caught.

Heat flooded her face. He must have noticed the pimples sprouting on her chin. She had been stealing dollops of precious yeast to cover them at night. If only she could still her heart. “You've learned Hebrew,” she managed.

He laughed. “I'm trying. The teachers at Bezalel insist on it.”

A lightning bolt of envy shot through her. “Didn't you go back to Paris?”

“Why, no. Jerusalem is the most beautiful city in the world.”

More beautiful than Paris? Esther looked up for an instant before dragging her gaze away from his grinning mouth.

“I hope you're continuing to paint.” He paused in search for the right Hebrew words. “You're extremely good at it.”

She twisted the end of her braid around her finger. “Do you paint at Bezalel?”

“They make me study every form of art, even carving wood, molding leather and hammering brass reliefs. But I prefer sculpting.” His eyes traveled from her hair and stopped at her lips. “You should apply when you're seventeen—”

Almost three years from now. She'd already have two babies. “I will not have a high-school diploma.”

He seemed to mull this information over. “They may make an exception once they see your work.”

Esther shielded her eyes from the cold glare of the sun. Light played on Pierre's face. His cheeks were still rosy, but not in the previously boyish way, and the wisps of his straight brown hair looked tamer under the wool beret.

The cold air seeped into her bones. “I have to go.” She willed her feet to budge.

“Wait. I've got something for you.” From the inside pocket of his wool coat Pierre fished a lumpy package, then retrieved another from an outside pocket. “From my mother.”

“Your mother has sent these for me?” Mlle Thibaux had remembered her! How could Esther have failed to ask about her well-being?

Pierre bounced from one foot to another, reminding her of the boy he had been. “She's worried whether your family has enough to eat. But I see that you're also cold. May I offer you my coat?” He started unbuttoning it.

“No.” She shook her head for emphasis, and her braid bounced onto her chest. She couldn't imagine a greater closeness than the warmth of his body preserved in the garment. “No. Please.” She pointed at the packages. “What are these?”

“A kosher chicken—no, half a chicken—and two oranges.”

She was too poor to refuse the gift. The most chicken her family had tasted in weeks had been discarded chicken feet and necks, served to the men only. Now God had sent food, even if He had selected the
goy
Pierre to deliver it. But why? Why, of all possible emissaries, would He test her with the allure of this man?

“Your Ima is so generous—” The words splintered in Esther's throat with gratitude. “Please give her my million thanks. Tell her that I tried to visit; I couldn't find her.” She set the string bag on a low stone fence, and Pierre tucked in the two packages. His nearness sent a quiver through her.

A family of eight weighed down by household possessions walked by. Esther stepped off the curb to give them room, while Pierre flattened himself against the fence. Clusters of purple bougainvillea, blooming from winter rain, hung above his head. For a second, he looked like a groom under a
chupah
.

“We now live at the French embassy,” he said.

That explained the source of the food when none was to be had in Jerusalem. Shivering, Esther patted down the center part in her hair. The conversation had made her forget her worry over Naftali. She should leave.

“My mother was hurt when you stopped coming,” Pierre said, switching to French.

“Hurt? I'm sorry—uh,” Esther bit the inside of her lip. A sin committed against her fellow humans was as severe as a sin against God. She hadn't imagined that she had filled any space in her teacher's heart, yet it now made her feel important. “I never meant to treat your Ima's kindness with ingratitude,” she said.

“You don't think ill of us, right?” Pierre's eyes were eager.

How wounded he must have been when the neighbors called him names. “Oh, no! Our people can be harsh. I apologize.” Esther's finger hooked in a hole in her shawl. “I have great respect for your Ima. She's the most wonderful woman I've ever met.”

“She can't forget you either.” He laughed. “You were the daughter she never had.”

“I have to go,” Esther whispered. She gathered up the hem of her cardigan.

“I'm glad you talked to me.” Pierre changed to Hebrew. “I often imagined what it would be like to speak Hebrew to you.” Rose color flushed his face.

Kol-isha.
Imagining her voice had brought Pierre impure thoughts. But he had thought of her! Often!

“My father has found me a match,” she blurted, her voice raspy.

Pierre's Adam's apple bobbed above his coat collar. “You're so young.”

I know!
She wanted to weep.

When she didn't reply, Pierre said, “I hope he deserves you.”

She could hear her family's collective sniggering. She, the wild, no-trousseau-bride-to-be was lucky to be taken as a bride. And she also lacked any
tzni'ut
, now speaking with Pierre as no modest girl should. “Shalom,” she stammered, and turned away.

“You can visit Bezalel, you know. It's a Jewish institute. No one would bite you there,” he spoke to her back.

Her throat was parched. She had been talking to a man, which was bad enough. She wouldn't pollute herself in the company of secular students at an arts college.

“Come see my work at the sculpting studio,” he said. “Tomorrow?”

She let out a small cry and rushed away. Cold air slapped her face. She wanted to die.

T
here was no unoccupied corner in the small house, no place to be alone with her guilt and sorrow over Naftali, the allure of Bezalel as a temple of
yetzer li'tzor
—and her dread of the inescapable nuptials. Esther stood by the zinc table. Again, Pierre's lively features jumped into her head. Although he wasn't as tall as Aba, his presence hovered above her. That's how the Greenwald girl had been tempted.

“I've found out something about your groom,” Shulamit, resting on Ima's stool, whispered. “He's an orphan who's been running a household for his siblings. That's why he hasn't gotten around to getting married.”

Esther tasted metal. She'd be catering to a horde of spoiled Hannas. “What if this groom is a fool? You and Aba knew each other before you were married. Can't I take an
ankuken
?”

“Your Aba wouldn't allow it.
Yishmor Hashem
you should ruin it. He has enough troubles. You must trust his judgment.”

Trust him? Not since he had slapped her, not since she had become an affliction he was eager to get rid of. But she yearned for his old affection and approval anyway.

Hanna came to the kitchen to help Shulamit. Esther was still amazed at her sister's zeal to prepare for marriage and to take over the chores Esther had been carrying alone.

Feeling displaced, Esther went into the bedroom, lay down on top of the stacked mattresses and pulled a cover over her head. She couldn't even pray; the last time she had begged God for a reprieve, He had delayed her marriage by taking Naftali away.

Couldn't she become a seamstress while hiding behind the married Ruthi? The idea unspooled in Esther's head. So far, her friend had failed to find a way to support her husband's studies. They could rent a tiny store, where Ruthi and Yossel could live in the front, while she'd work and sleep in a partitioned-off corner. All she needed was a space large enough for a table on which she could stretch out fabric, mark it with chalk, outline patterns, cut, stitch and sew. Ruthi could handle simpler tasks—patches, hems and buttons. With their earnings, they'd buy a Singer sewing machine. At night, Esther would unroll her mattress from under the table. No one would need to know that the unmarried Esther was really the seamstress.

S
he hadn't seen Ruthi in the three months since the visit she had paid the bride a few days after the wedding. Ruthi had been subdued, given to weeping and modestly silent about the details of married life, as she couldn't taint Esther with knowledge. Ruthi and Yossel had since settled in a rented room in the Old City, sharing the kitchen of a three-generation family occupying the parlor.