The River Midnight (53 page)

Manya had two girls, the story went, and it was the older one who took care of the younger after Manya died. There was no father in the story. Did Manya know who it was? Did her bed ever shake while she tossed and turned in the night, wondering? Did she throw up over and over until she thought she might throw up her own baby growing in her? She couldn’t have, Misha thought. She wouldn’t wish, even for a moment, that if the baby was that man’s, the stranger, it would wash out of her body. She wouldn’t worry that she would see him in the child, and maybe hate it. Not Manya. What did they say about her? She was bigger than any man and thought she was twice as smart. Misha fell into a restless sleep, waking up just as the light was softening to a buttery glow among the trees. Still groggy, she sat at her table, drinking a cup of tea. Opening the book that Faygela had given her, she picked out a few words, then threw it down, knocking a pile of herbs onto the floor. What did she need to read for? Was she a scholar?

Someone’s coming, Misha thought. She turned and began to rise from her stool. She’d heard Faygela’s quick, light tread on her steps. But when she opened the door no one was there.

So Faygela didn’t come to her with
The Israelite
anymore. It was better to be alone and not be bothered.

O
N MARKET DAY
Misha folded up her stall early, so she didn’t hear the women saying, Where’s Misha? Did she go home already? I didn’t get the syrup for my mother’s cough. I’ll have to go to her house now. No, don’t bother Misha. She has to rest. What if something happens to her? Who’s going to bring our babies safely into the world?

I
N THE
third week of June, Berekh told Misha that he’d seen the Governor, who wanted a letter to prove that Ruthie’s case was of interest to the
friend from Minsk.
“I’ll ask Faygela to write the letter tomorrow,” Misha said. She was sitting at her table, measuring vodka and adding it to a tincture of nightshade. Berekh perched on the stool opposite.

“Faygela? What about me? I’ll do it. Just tell me what to say.”

“No. Leave the letter to me.” It would give her a reason to talk to Faygela. A good reason.

“And the money?” Berekh asked. The price for Ruthie’s release had gone down, but it was still more than anyone had.

“That I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”

The next day, in the bakery, Misha stood with her hands gripping the small of her back. “Faygela, you have every reason to be angry, but listen to me. Your cousin Berekh already spoke with the Governor. He’s ready to lower the price for Ruthie’s release. All you have to do is write a letter, and I promise you that Ruthie will come home.”

“That’s all is it? After I trusted you to watch out for my girls …” So Faygela, who had not looked Misha in the eye or said a word to her since Ruthie’s arrest, now had plenty to say. Misha looked out on the village square. The colors were too bright in the strong sun. Even the horse dung shone golden while Peysekh-Hersh, the Hebrew teacher, sang as he swept it away. Misha winced, the baby kicking, heels and elbows jabbing her everywhere, as if the child were a dozen.

“You think I don’t know what it is to be afraid for your child?” Misha asked, putting her two large hands over her belly protectively.

“You think you know so much just because you have something in the oven?” Faygela flashed. “Any stupid girl can do that. You bring a few up, then you come and talk to me.”

“When did I ever lead you the wrong way?” Misha asked.

“You lead me? A fine story. The watercarrier is suddenly a rabbi.”

“Faygela, don’t talk nonsense. Just do what I’m telling you. I know what’s what.”

“What do you know?” Faygela looked now at Misha, her eyes full of anger, her voice scornful. “A grown woman, who knows ‘what’s what’ can let this happen?” She nodded at Misha’s stomach. “I told my girls to look up to you. A fine thing. Now my oldest, my first, is sitting in prison. And what I saw there? It’s enough to make your skin crawl.”

“I promise you, Faygela. Write the letter. Ruthie will come home.”

“Promises, promises. Everyone has something to say. You’ll forget your foolishness after you’re married, Faygela. Your baby won’t die, Faygela. But you were different. You never told a lie. I thought you weren’t like other women.”

“So, you were wrong,” Misha said. “I’m just the same.”

“And look at you.” Faygela’s voice cracked with disdain. “The big woman who can fix everything. Like a queen, I told my girls. But now I see she’s the servant girl who gets caught with her legs open, and thinks the father will make her a princess. I’m fed up. I don’t want to talk anymore.” She stood up and turned her back on Misha. Then she sat down and shook her finger. “Just let me tell you …”

And tell she did. She stood up. She sat down. She pointed. She shouted. And she looked at Misha, how she looked, as if her eyes were bayonets. I’m going to shake her until her teeth fall out, Misha thought. But at last, the letter was written exactly as she dictated it. “To our esteemed and honored Alexi Tretyakov, Governor of Plotsk, from the community council of Blaszka, a gift in appreciation. May you be healthy and live a long life, and may no trouble come to you from foolish people who might bear a grudge. May Heaven bless your daughter’s wedding, and may no person, not even from Minsk, not even a count’s son, come to disturb your happiness on this occasion.”

“And now what am I supposed to do with this precious letter?” Faygela asked. “No one has enough money to bribe the Governor. Not even the whole village put together. I have two rubles in an old sock. You think that’s enough?”

“We’ll see,” Misha said. “The Governor changed his price once already. Maybe he’ll decide a few rubles are better than none.”

“Maybe, maybe. It’s as good as a promise.” But Faygela’s voice wasn’t quite so harsh, and she was at least looking Misha in the eye.

After she went home, Misha prepared something for Izzie, who was suffering from the hot sun. With the salve in her basket, she climbed down the stairs carefully. The village was quiet, getting ready for market day on Friday, and Misha saw no one as she walked to Alta-Fruma’s. Not Hanna-Leah, who was picking strawberries in a clearing in the woods, and not Hershel, who was on his way back from Plotsk after his little talk with Yarush.

In the dairyhouse, Alta-Fruma was checking the milk, Hayim repairing a bench. Misha nodded to Hayim. He nodded back. If the baby had been his, it would have been named Ari after his father. Misha turned away. “I have something for Izzie’s rash,” she said to Alta-Fruma.

“Good, good. But come out with me. I want to talk to you.”

Alta-Fruma took her arm as they walked along the river bank. “You’re feeling all right, Misha?”

“Not too bad.”

“The strawberries are ripe. I’ll send Emma to you with a basket.”

“I’m not making any jam, but fresh strawberries would be nice.” They walked a little farther in silence, no sound but their boots in the grass, the rippling of the water, the lowing of a cow. “So?” Misha asked.

“It’s my fault that Ruthie’s in jail,” Alta-Fruma said.

“You?” Misha asked in surprise.

“I’ll tell you the truth. If I wasn’t so stubborn myself, then Emma wouldn’t always be running off looking for trouble. And where she goes, Ruthie follows.”

“No,” Misha said. “You’re good to her. Better than a stranger. Sometimes a girl has to go wild. Don’t you remember?”

Alta-Fruma paused as if she were indeed remembering something, but now they had come to the edge of the woods. Misha blinked in the sudden gloom as they passed from the sun bouncing off the river to the quiet, greenish shade. “Tell me,” Alta-Fruma said. “I heard the Rabbi went to talk to the Governor. Is it true?”

“Yes. He came back from Plotsk yesterday.”

“And?”

“The Governor will let Ruthie go if he gets a bribe, but there isn’t enough money in all of Blaszka to meet his price. Who has more than a couple of rubles?” Misha asked.

“I have a little something. I want you to take this for me.” Alta-Fruma held out a pouch. Misha gave it a squeeze. Coins. She looked inside. It was full of gold imperials.

“What’s this?” Misha asked.

“You don’t have eyes? It’s money. Good money. Not like the paper rubles you can’t do anything with except to wipe your behind.”

“Of course I see it’s money. But where did you get it?”

“Never mind. It’s not important. Just take it to Faygela. Only don’t tell her I gave it to you. It’s nobody’s business. I know I can trust you to keep things to yourself, just like I trusted your mother,” Alta-Fruma said.

“But it’s crazy. Where do you come by such a thing? You must be a witch.”

The older woman chuckled. Misha’s baby kicked as if it were laughing, too, the black cow mooed, the calf lowing as Alta-Fruma said, “Misha, the plain truth is that the dairy makes a good business.”

So who knew? Misha took the pouch with promises of silence and the old woman’s blessings to Faygela’s house.

S
IPPING A
glass of water and picking at the honey cake, Misha sat across from Faygela at her grandmother’s mahogany table, while Faygela fingered the gold coins. “It’s a miracle,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

“I told you not to ask me. It’s not any of my doing, that’s all I can tell you.”

The two friends looked at each other awkwardly, Faygela’s earlier accusations hanging in the air between them like a curtain of rain. “Maybe before
Shabbas
, I could come and read
The Israelite
to you?” Faygela asked.

“That would be very nice,” Misha said. “But you don’t need to go to any trouble.”

“No, it’s nothing. If you still have the book I gave you, maybe we can have a look at it together.” They glanced at each other and away, Misha solemn, Faygela grave, Misha as big as two women, Faygela as small as half a one, both with folded hands and thumbs twirling.

“You know, later it won’t be so easy for you to run up and down the stairs all the time. You just tell me what you need and I’ll send one of my girls to you,” Faygela said.

“What I need?” Misha asked. Faygela nodded. “What I need,” Misha repeated, “is a man to have the baby for me.” Then she laughed, her gold tooth shining in the bright light of the summer solstice, while Faygela threw up her hands, saying, “You’re impossible. Thank God in Heaven.”

W
HILE
S
HMUEL
harnessed his horse to the cart, the gold and the letter safe in his pocket, Misha was back at home, sitting on the steps, looking at the river with the uncomfortable feeling that everything was changing. Hanna-Leah smiling, Hayim cutting her wood, Alta-Fruma
with gold, even the baby inside her. All that Misha thought she knew seemed to be leaking out of her, leaving her uncertain and ordinary in a place that was growing more unpredictable by the minute.

“Walk with me?” Berekh asked, standing on the bottom step, and smiling up at Misha. A sack was slung over his shoulder.

“Isn’t it late?”

“Not today,” he said, “just look at the sky.” Leaning on her arms, she titled back her head. The sky had not a trace of pink. It was a day without end, as if the sun enjoyed herself too much to give way to the moon, and night would never have her turn.

“Everyone will talk,” Misha said.

“So let them have a little pleasure.”

They strolled along the riverbank where it wound through the dappled woods, Misha’s left hand on Berekh’s arm, her right hand on her belly. Poplar leaves shimmered white and oak leaves caught the sun between their horns. A woodpecker tapped for grubs in a scabrous beech tree. Misha heard laughter and distant voices, but they met no one. “Do you see anything?” she asked Berekh.

“I see you,” he answered.

“Something else?”

“What else should I see?”

“Nothing,” she answered. He whistled happily, while Misha continued to watch the shadows and lights flicker among the trees. This is what happens when a woman is carrying a baby, she said to herself. It grows inside her without any thought or doing of hers, and she loses her mind. When she’s asleep she dreams that her baby is born with four arms. When she’s awake she sees ghosts. Gazing with interest, Misha noted how the shadows seemed to take the form of women. And why not, she thought. Wouldn’t her mother be looking out for her now? Wouldn’t all the mothers in heaven walk in the woods of Blaszka to watch their own in the unearthly light of the summer solstice?
Allevai
, she thought. Let it be so.

Berekh whistled as if he saw and heard nothing, picking up a lithe branch and swishing it in the air like a boy thrilled with the pleasure of sound. “You’re sure you don’t see anything?” she asked.

He peered to the left, he peered to the right. “No wolves. No bears.” He squeezed her hand. “Maybe a girl and a boy holding hands
down there, where the river bends to the left. But you must be getting tired, Misha. Sit here with me.” From his sack, he brought out a blanket, spreading it over the pine needles, and a pillow for Misha, which he propped against the smooth trunk of a beech tree. After he helped her down, he took a bottle and a glass out of his pockets. “Wine for you, to give you strength,” he said. They drank companionably. The wine was thick and sweet and dark as the purple shadows under the trees.

“Now, I’ll tell you,” Misha said.

“What?”

“You forgot already? About the Governor’s friend in Minsk.”

“Really? You don’t have to,” he said, not meaning it.

“Do you want to hear or not?”

“Yes, yes,” he nodded vigorously, his hat flopping up and down on his incorrigible red mop.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” she said, smiling at his excitement. “I don’t know our Governor Tretyakov at all.”

“No? Then what …”

“But I know his daughter very well.”

“Ah,” he said enthusiastically.

“Yes. She came to me when she was in trouble. Her father heard, how I don’t know. I never know. But he did, and it was better to send her to me than to someone in Plotsk who might say something to the wrong person. The father came here from Minsk, you know?”

Berekh shook his head.