Katerina (6 page)

I stayed secluded so that no one would see my mourning. Thoughts tortured me all week long: the sight of my mother’s face and of the face of Jesus. But more clearly than anyone I saw Benjamin—not a ghost, but as I had seen him for five years, sitting at the table, his face turned inward, but illuminated.

After the week of mourning, Rosa got up and went to the store; the children returned to school. Benjamin’s death accompanied me everywhere. Had I not been afraid, I would have gone and thrown myself on his tomb. That concealed mourning sent me back to the tavern. I had a few drinks. I didn’t get drunk; I came home foggy. On the way, one of my Ruthenian acquaintances met me and proposed that we spend the night together.

“I’m sick,” I told him.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you leave the Jews?”

“They’re good to me.”

He twisted his face into an expression of contempt, repugnance, and disgust. He spat and turned away. That was the end of my intimate relations with my fellow Ruthenians. Within my soul I decided that I wouldn’t leave the house, even if my salary was low, from now on. Benjamin’s death brought me close to his wife, Rosa. We used to talk a lot about the boys, insults, and wounds. The Jews don’t indulge in idle talk, but Rosa, in her time of suffering, drew close.
More than once we would stay deep in conversation until late at night.

Thus I bound my soul up with theirs. I raised the children as though they were my own. Rosa trusted me, and she didn’t lock the cabinets or dressers. The division of labor was simple. She worked in the store, and I worked at home. The children studied and got on excellently, and along with her, I felt pleased at their every success.

I used to flee my former friends, but they pursued me everywhere, and always with the same question: “What’s the matter with you, Katerina?”

“Nothing at all,” I decided to answer.

Sometimes I used to go into the tavern, sip a drink or two, but I didn’t sit for a long time. Life in my native village fell further behind me. I continued going to church, but only on holidays. The Jews are evil, the Jews are corrupt, they must be rooted out, I would hear on every corner. That muttering reminded me of winter in the village. The young men in the village used to organize to hunt Jews. For many days they would talk about it and laugh. The hunt included horses, dogs, and scarecrows, and in the end they used to haul an old Jew into the village, torment him, and threaten to put him to death because he had killed Jesus. The old man would beg for his life, and finally, he would have to pay his own ransom in cash, standing in shock for a long time after the ordeal.

Meanwhile, I learned that my father had passed away. No one bothered to inform me. A peasant from the village who I happened to meet told me. When I returned home and told Rosa, she told me, “Take off your shoes and sit
on the floor and mourn for your father as if he had died today.”

“My father didn’t love me.”

“That makes no difference. We are commanded to honor our fathers.” That answer astounded me with its simplicity. I took off my shoes and sat. Rosa gave me a cup of coffee. I didn’t mourn for my father, may God forgive me, but for my secret love.

Abraham and Meir taught me to read, and I am very grateful to them. There’s no greater pleasure than reading. I open a book and gates of light are open before me. My mother tongue grew impoverished in my mouth, and when I talk with a peasant, I mix a few words of Yiddish in with my language. The peasant laughs and asks, “Where are you from?” And when I tell him that I’m a Ruthenian, a village girl, he reprimands me. One peasant cursed me out loud, calling me a witch, worse than the devil.

True, after Benjamin’s death I grew thinner. My gait wasn’t as firm as before, food that wasn’t Jewish was hard for me to digest, vodka gave me heartburn, but I wasn’t weak or sick. True, many dreams filled my sleep, and that’s not a good sign. All dreams augur ill. Sometimes it seemed to me that I saw black angels and sometimes birds of prey. When I awoke, the smell of blood surrounded me on all sides. The dreams returned night after night. I hadn’t told Rosa about them, but finally I could no longer withhold them, and I told her. Rosa’s response surprised me: “What do you want? They always lie in wait for us.”

Apparently, she didn’t know how right she was. At Hanukkah, hooligans burst out of the tavern and ransacked
Jewish stores. The snow was deep, roads were cut off, and the cry for help went unheard. The toughs did their bloody work without hindrance. They didn’t spare women or old people. Their cries rose up to the heavens, but no one came to their aid.

The next day the police counted twenty-one dead, including three children. Rosa had protected her little store with fierce tenacity, but the hooligans were stronger than she was and they strangled her.

I shall never forget that funeral in the snow. The dead outnumbered their mourners. Snow fell without letup, and the silence was like ice. The peasants shut themselves up in their homes like wild beasts in their lairs. I hugged the children to my breast and swore on Rosa’s grave that I wouldn’t abandon them.

Sometimes it seems that time has stopped its flow: I am still at home, by the sink, washing their shirts, polishing their shoes, and escorting them to school. The air outdoors is clear. The years have only sharpened its clarity. My love for Benjamin did not flag and wasn’t forgotten. I see him sometimes very distinctly, but Rosa is closer to me, like a sister. With her I can converse at any time, for hours. And always, it is as though she is sitting by my side. A kind of untarnished practicality. Once, I was unable to value that forthrightness properly. Now I know, you, my dear ones, are my root on this earth. I have served in many homes during my long life, I have loved many people and some of them loved me, but from you, Rosa, I drew strength and patience.

Now, almighty God, no other soul is close to me on this earth. They’ve all perished in horrible deaths. Now they are
stored up only within me. At night I feel them. They crowd in close to me, together, and with all my strength I try to protect them. All the people around here are informers and wicked. No one is upright and no one is merciful.

Sometimes I hear their voices, quiet, but very clear. I understand every word. The link hasn’t been severed, thank God, and we continue our long summer conversations, the good winter conversations, and you, my sons, Abraham and Meir, your ironed uniforms, your briefcases strapped to your backs, your fine report cards—you’re all within me. The years have not made you part from me. Now I am here and you are there, but not far away and not estranged.

7

A
UTUMN CAME ON TIME
, and Chamilio brought me two baskets of provisions. His expression is mute and concentrated, as if his will has been completely effaced. His closeness embarrasses me. And though he’s barely human any longer, he’s more than human. Thank you, Chamilio, for taking such trouble. God bless you, I want to shout out loud. He puts the provisions down in the pantry and goes out to chop firewood for me.

The autumn is showing itself in my legs. The rain isn’t abundant, but it’s constant. Without a stove lit, a person could freeze in his house. For a long while Chamilio toils at arranging the house. In the end he leaves without saying anything. “My angel, many thanks to you,” I call to him with all my strength. Now, for some reason, it seems to me that he has caught my shout.

For entire days I am alone. I light the stove, and the smell of the wood on the fire brings me back to the scattered regions of my life. Again I am in Strassov, the orphans are with me, everyone deep in mourning, and no one comes to
visit. A moist silence swaddles us together on the floor. At night hooligans run riot in the street and shout: “Death to the merchants, death to the Jews.” Weiss’s leather shop has been smashed open all along the front, the merchandise stolen, but the smell of leather remains and wafts up from it. The odor drives me out of my mind.

The last days, I felt, had changed me. A kind of trembling coursed through my fingers, and I knew that if one of those toughs broke in, I’d deal with him the way my father would have. I wouldn’t hesitate to stick a knife into him. Nevertheless, I decided that I wouldn’t test myself. I gathered up a few clothes and, without asking anyone’s permission, set out for the country with the boys.

Two pale Jews were standing next to the wall of the house. Fear had congealed on their faces and on their long coats. “Why don’t you clear out?” I pleaded. My cry didn’t make them budge. They looked like sick animals, sunk and hypnotized in the slumber of death.

I reached the village at noon. A small village, clinging to the hilltops, not like my native village, where the houses sag in the valley and the mud. Here the hills smile, the ravines are broad and open, and the snow reclines calmly, bright and soft.

Right away I rented a house, a low house, made of thick wooden beams, topped with a thatched roof. “The windows are wide but well sealed; there’s plenty of wood for heat,” said the landlord, happy at the unexpected deal.

“Were there riots here?” I asked.

“Nothing. Its been a normal winter.”

The children slept, and I secretly burrowed into their sleep. I went out for supplies only once a week. I was careful
not to eat nonkosher food, promising Rosa I would watch over the boys so that not a speck of impurity would cling to them. In my heart I knew it was a false promise. Ruthenianism prevailed over everything here, over me too. The sight of winter captivated me with its charms. What could I do? “What shall I make?” I asked, and in my heart I knew that everything here—the stove and the dishes, the bread and the oil, every inch of the floor, the smell of linen, everything, even the bedclothes—was
tref
.

“What shall I make?” I asked again.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Abraham, the elder, relieving me from my hesitations.

Thus began our life here. It was a long winter, most of which we spent in the broad peasant bed. The stove roared and released its heat into the thin darkness. The boys quickly discovered the pleasures of the Ruthenian language. At first they spoke hesitantly, but later they became accustomed to it. I answered them in Yiddish and warned them in a voice not my own that they must retain their language and that forgetfulness was very powerful here.

The winter deepened and left me speechless. Vodka would draw me out of my silence for a moment. I didn’t drink a lot, but the little that I sipped rooted out fear and restored words to me. I spoke with the boys about the need to be strong and to strike at the wicked without fear. I knew there was a flaw in my speech, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. My bold mother, my bitter mother, was speaking from within me. That winter, may God forgive me, I loved the children and hated the Jews. And if I fed them
tref
, I meant only to strengthen them. One evening I showed them the butcher knife and told them that it was our weapon in times
of trouble. We mustn’t fear. Against the wicked one must struggle with all one’s might. I was drunk, of course.

The warm winds came early and imperceptibly crumbled the mountains of snow. Masses of ice fell into the ravines and smashed with deafening thunder. At night the house shook. I knew it was a sign from above, but I didn’t know its meaning.

Before long, spring rose from the dead snow. It was a muddy, damp spring, kneaded together as though by itself. These labor pains lasted a month, and finally the fog expired and the sun bathed the house and the yard in warm light.

The boys worked with me in the vegetable beds. The sun beat down pleasantly from the early morning hours till dark. The day would slip by in the wink of an eye. At night I would cook mamaliga with cheese, a bowl of milk, and hard-boiled eggs. Our appetites were strong, the touch of darkness was pleasant, and sleep was deep.

The boys grew taller and their skin tanned. In my heart, I knew that Rosa wouldn’t be happy at the sight of her boys in the vegetable garden. But I, or rather the evil spirit within me, said: You must be sturdy. Sturdy people give back blow for blow. Frightened Jews arouse the devils.

In those summery expanses a person easily becomes addicted to the sights, the pleasant water, and the flat, soft grass. My life was limited, but it was full of strength. At night I would collapse beside the boys, and my hand seemed to want to make the sign of the cross. I knew that something wasn’t right, but what exactly was wrong, I didn’t know. The children grew forgetful together with me. The days grew longer, and at night we used to sit on a ledge and gobble watermelons.

During that long, marvelous summer, may God forgive me, I forgot Rosa more than once. I didn’t remind the boys about their duties and I didn’t insist that they pray. After a day of work they would race over the hills like the peasants’ children. Often, I sinned by lying. I promised them that one day we would return to the city and the Jews. They didn’t ask many questions, and I didn’t offer any answers. I knew—at every moment I knew—that this pleasure wouldn’t last long, but I ignored evil thoughts and fears. I worked in the field. I washed. I ironed. I was sure, in my innocence, that those deeds had the power to hide me from evil eyes.