The River Midnight (46 page)

Addendum:

I have returned from Misha’s house. The village square was quiet, it not being market day, and the woods beyond Misha’s house were
shrouded in that green mist that appears in spring. I knocked at her front door, politely, like a stranger, which I have become. When I entered, she was emptying the contents of her chamber pot out the back door. She greeted me in the customary way, though it was evident that she was not pleased to see me. Yet I proceeded to ask for her advice nonetheless. I anticipated that she would not take kindly to my request, but I never thought that she would be angry with me for neglecting her—not after she had thrown me out three times!

“So I was a little excited. Why shouldn’t I be? You think an angel put this here?” she said.

I swore to her that I was unaware of her condition until a week past and that I was prepared to make it right with her. She absolutely refused my offer of marriage with some harshness and I cannot blame her—what have I done to warrant her confidence? So I offered to make her a cup of tea. You will laugh at me, my friend. But I was going mad wondering what I could do for her and all that entered my mind was this little thing.

Of course, before tea can be made a kettle must be boiled and before the kettle can boil a fire must be lit. With some horror, I eyed the innocent
pripichek,
the square of bricks with the cooking grate resting on it. Ah. Yes. A slight problem. Sweat began to trickle from my temples, stinging my eyes. My hands were cold as a ghost’s as I took the box of matches from the mantelpiece. It is only a little match, I assured myself, it is only a little fire. But I was gasping for breath as I braced myself against the stove to strike the match. The match was lit, my fingers so damp that it slid from my hand, the little flame winking out as it struck the tile. Again I struck a match, wincing at the eruption of flame, holding my breath as I flung it into the kindling. Success. The fire was lit, the crackling of flame loud as a gunshot. I jumped back, stumbling against the table, but gathered myself to put the kettle on the grate and the tea into the pot. When I set the cup and saucer before Misha, it rattled in my shaking hand, tea sloshing over the side. Yet she seemed content with my clumsiness.

“Maybe there’s still something to you, Berekh Eisenbaum,” she said.

And after I managed to swallow some tea myself, Misha told me that she did indeed know something that might be of particular interest to the Governor of Plotsk. How gratified I was that at last Misha would impart to me one of her secrets. But not yet, it seems. She said that I must first fulfill a task, in which she has instructed me, before I would be allowed to hear the story. Nevertheless, my satisfaction did not wane. I was sitting at her table again. And for that privilege I would remake the world.

I only hope, my friend, that everyone will not now begin to ask me to light fires morning, noon, and night.

Thursday, June 21, 1894

My dear Moyshe-Mendel
,

As Misha ordered, I have gone, for the second time, to the palace of the Governor of the
gubernia
of Plotsk. While it is rather less imposing than any of the villas in the Lazienki Gardens, it is surrounded by a sufficiently large retinue of soldiers. In truth, I must confess that I felt completely inadequate to the task I had undertaken, which was simple enough. In my capacity as the local (albeit humble) representative of His wise, majestic, glorious Self, the Little Father, our Tsar Alexander III, was it not my duty to enquire into the circumstances of the conspiracy revealed by the arrest of one Ruthie Shnir?

Although I attempted to gain an audience two weeks ago, wearing my best, but nonetheless rather worn, silk caftan and my fur hat, I was not allowed past the front gate, much to the relief of my knocking knees. The soldiers laughed at me, but beyond tweaking my admittedly unruly beard, they left me in peace to go on my way.

After that I retrieved from its bed of mothballs my old clothing. Attired in the garments of my youth, despite their reek, I felt young again. I recalled the brilliance of a world in black and white, the
shush-shush
sound of the sleigh flying across the snow, a universe of stars. The pleasure of memory, however, was soon dampened by the possibility that, in my Russian costume, I might actually gain an audience with his honor Alexi Tretyakov, though I would not, as you suggested, shave off my beard for the occasion.

The audience was granted, I think, because Monsieur Tretyakov
was in need of some amusement, which, with my wrists and ankles and long neck poking out of all ends of a suit durably patched by Maria, I most graciously provided. Our esteemed Governor is a short, stout man with an enormous waxed moustache, which he stroked lovingly throughout our interview. Due to his good humor, he addressed me as Monsieur Giraffe, rather than Dogmeat Jew (as is his wont), and offered me a glass of vodka, which I accepted. He had little interest in reviewing the case of my young cousin, twice removed. No, his singleminded consumption of large and greasy quantities of pig washed down with vodka, while occasionally wiping the tips of his fingers on a lace napkin, was only equaled by the lengthy list of his grievances against his superiors. Finally when he could swallow nothing more, he began to sing and weep simultaneously. “You don’t know the songs of St. Petersburg,” he said, “where the Gypsies sing like angels in their cafes.”

I replied that I did, certainly, since the songs of St. Petersburg were much like those of Moscow. Now, I amused him heartily since I began to sing like one of the young Russian gentry, the
guliaka
who were frequenters of Gypsy cafes in the days of the old Tsar Alexander. Then I tossed back a glass of vodka just like a
guliaka,
which our Governor Alexi had himself been in his day.

In his increasingly benevolent state, it seemed appropriate to enquire as to how many gold imperials it required to ease the travail of a hapless fellow Russian, such as himself. He replied with little prompting. It was a staggering sum, my friend.

Misha had instructed me to then add, after a polite pause, “And if it is sent with the good wishes of your friend from Minsk?”

At this he sat up sharply and said, “If, indeed, I were assured that this was a favor for my friend.… Yes, if I were to receive a letter that proved this case to be of any interest to my friend in Minsk … well, in such an instance, of course the price would change.” He then named a figure which, though rather less, was still almost inconceivable for our village. I had, however, completed my assignment, and took my leave with many obeisances and flatulent salutations.

I returned from this second venture yesterday and today, I hear that such a letter has been prepared. The contents are unknown to
me, but I understand that the letter and the price required were made ready by the women of Blaszka. How is entirely a mystery to me. In these long days when the sun hovers in the sky so that night has no meaning, everything is possible. Ruthie’s father, Shmuel, is now on his way to Plotsk to retrieve his daughter and I am on my way to retrieve Misha from her house. I have a bottle of wine, real wine, not our Gittel’s raisin wine, and I will hold Misha’s arm while we walk along the river. If people see us, what does it matter? Let them talk. What other pleasures do they have in this small village?

Ruthie will soon be in her mother’s embrace. Then I must begin to see to her comrades in arms. Their woodland meetings are too perilous a game.

Tuesday July 24, 1894

My dear Moyshe-Mendel
,

Honored patron of the B. Eisenbaum Young Adult Learning Society, how can I express my gratitude for the box of books you sent us? My students dive into all reading matter as if it were a secret river of precious gems. At night they study tirelessly though they work all day, and I am kept on my toes to supply their endless appetite. It seems as though every day Izzie brings another young person to me. From the first timid student, there are now a dozen. I have five girls and seven boys in my class, though Emma Blau refuses to join them as yet. Stubborn as a goat, her great-aunt Alta-Fruma says. This study keeps them away from their conspiracies in the woods—at least while they are with me. When they are gone, I am restless. I wander through the woods myself, like the
Ba’al Shem Tov,
of saintly name.

Izzie is not interested in the secular studies that the older children pursue. In exchange for introducing them to me, I am preparing him for the yeshiva. He is as serious as an old man, but from time to time when he eats with me, for our dessert, as childishly as one could wish, he demands one of my grandfather’s stories.

Yesterday I overheard him in shul telling another boy one of these tales. A disciple of the
Ba’al Shem Tov
asked him when the Messiah would come. His teacher answered with this story. He was walking
across the fields, when he saw from the stones, the stacks of hay, the grass, and the trees, from the cows and the goats and the mice, sparks emerge. The sparks clung to him, purifying his spirit. In this way he saw the Holy Fire. And when he saw clearly, the sparks rose up to the heavens and fell down, like rain, in the form of letters. The
Ba’al Shem Tov
said “Each of us holds a handful of the letters. And if, together, we assemble them correctly, the whole world will be alight with the Holy Fire, and it will not be consumed.” Then his disciple asked him, “How can we know the correct order of the letters?” The
Ba’al Shem Tov
answered, “With eyes of wonder, and a heart of mercy.”

My friend, it was the child, and not I, who added the last two lines of the story.

Misha grows uncomfortably large, but in the summer nights I take her to the silver rocks in the river where the water runs deep. There we may wade up to our waists, and I wash her as gently as I can. I kiss every place that I touch and so I should—for she carries the burden of the child while I am honored to be her servant.

Monday, September 3, 1894

Dear Moyshe-Mendel
,

We come to the time of repentance, Moyshe-Mendel, my friend. The ram’s horn is blown every morning to awaken us. The village has survived the typhus. Only one child was sick—Emma is well again, thank God. Misha is eight months along.

I brought my children to her house. They looked into all her jars and pots, sniffed herbs and nibbled on the ends of roots, sat in turn on the half-carved trunk, and put their small inquisitive hands on her belly, squealing at the push of an elbow or a heel under their fingers. If only Misha would consent to marry me then they would have a mother once again.

You have asked if people are talking. Of course they talk. And my servant Maria reports every word.

That the Rabbi should be practically betrothed to the midwife, a person of no
yikhus,
who goes into the houses of peasants, some even say that she casts the evil eye? Evil, shmevil, is the Rabbi such a catch? His father’s a cantor in Zhitomir, all right, but what is his
mother’s family? Hasidim. Goatherds. And you know, he’s a little strange himself, he reads German and Russian, not just when he has to, but for pleasure. But what about this child of Misha’s, who knows whose it is? If nobody knows, maybe it’s even the Rabbi’s. It can happen. Look, this isn’t Warsaw. He’s all right for our little village. He teaches my Devorah and your Isaak-Naphtali so they’re not hanging around in the woods getting arrested. Let the Rabbi and the midwife make a match, so long as we’re invited to the feast.

However, there will not be any wedding canopy. She still refuses me. You know what we read from the prayer book on Rosh Hashanha:
“You open the Book of Remembrance, and the record speaks for itself, for each of us has signed it with deeds.”

Friday, October 5, 1894

To my faithful friend, Moyshe-Mendel
,

May you be inscribed in the Book of Life. If I have offended you in any way, or done anything to cause you any harm, or even any discomfort in the last year, please forgive me.

As always we have a number of guests in Blaszka for the Days of Awe. One, however, arrived today in an unusual way. A Gypsy boy by the name of Pyotr Mirga was rescued from drowning by, of all people, Yarush the thief and peddler. I could scarcely contain myself when this Yarush came into the studyhouse, still in his filthy fur coat, a bleeding boy slung over his shoulder. This was the man who accosted Misha in the village square, who may indeed have … I cannot write more regarding that. Particularly since my anger quickly gave way to shame at my own inaction for which I cannot forgive myself, though I attend Misha every day. Nor am I alone in this. For everyone in the village brings something to Misha. The children work in her garden, the women clean her house and comb her hair, the men repair what is broken. Our villagers are one in their attentions to Misha. They bring their gifts freely, without argument, without recrimination. Can it be that the Messiah is indeed on his way, as some people claim? No, my friend, I cannot believe that the messianic age is at hand. But perhaps there are islands of time when we have a taste.

My unexpected guest is comfortable on a couch in the front room, having drunk the restorative tea I obtained from Misha, his head anointed with a medicinal salve. While I write to you, I hear that he has already picked up his instrument and is plucking the strings in a sad tune that suits these days of judgment. Izzie, who came to study with me before the Sabbath, is instead listening to Pyotr’s music, his arms clasped around his knees, staring at things we cannot see as if he is listening to the song of heaven. And perhaps he is. Now, Izzie insists that Pyotr must accompany him to Kol Nidrei and sit with him in repayment for this music. For no one will understand the ancient melody as well as Pyotr, he says.