Anya and the Nightingale

by Sofiya Pasternack

  The door swung shut behind her, and a puff of warm, delicious air wafted against Anya’s face. Someone had baked bread—Anya could smell the unmistakable aroma that filled her own home once a week. Besides the bread smell was something fruity and flowery, plus something else. The air smelled alive. It smelled like Babulya’s most delectable tinctures, when she took the most aromatic of her plants and stewed them into good magic.

  The room they stood in was small but cozy, with a fire burning in a fireplace to their right. Wooden chairs with pillows on the seats faced the fire, and bookshelves covered the opposite wall. The shelves were jammed full of books and stacks of scrolls, but tidily—a neat kind of clutter. One shelf held nothing but writing tools: quills, parchment, bottles of ink, and several boxes with probably more of the same inside. A long sideboard sat in front of the shuttered window, and five graceful candlesticks with white candles were lined up in the center. Anya thought of Mama lining up her own candles, without Anya by her side. A silver chalice of dark red liquid sat between the line of candles and two large, deep bowls with squares of cloth folded in front of them, and smaller cups sitting on top of the cloth squares. Anya stared at them, mind whirring. What were those for?

  To their left, a long table was set for at least a dozen people, and a couple of smaller children sat on the long bench down one side. The little boys wore black kippot like Misha’s.

  Past the table, a door led into a brightly lit room, and lively conversation drifted out to Anya as she lingered by the doorway.

  Anya fidgeted nervously with her coat sleeve and looked around the room another time. On the wall between the bookshelf and the fireplace, a taller bookshelf stood apart. It was emptier than the other, holding a collection of almost two dozen tomes that matched in size and color. A set of . . . Anya held her breath. She had two pieces of that set at home. The Talmud. Misha had the entire thing in his sitting room.

  One of the little boys at the table spun, and when he saw Misha, he stood up on the bench with his arms up and yelled, “Mikhail!”

  But he said it differently than a Russian would have, with a hard ch sound that made Anya’s heart ache for Babulya and Mama and their hard ch at the back of their mouths.

  Misha rushed the table and scooped the boy into his arms, spinning him in a circle as the boy squealed with delight.

  She didn’t watch Misha and the little boys for long. The Talmud crooked a finger at her, drawing her toward it. She stepped slowly to the tall bookshelf. These books were bound differently from the ones Babulya had pulled out of her burning synagogue. Rich, brown leather covers were glossy in the candlelight. The scent of old paper and leather wrapped itself around her, kissing her skin. She reached out a hand and touched one finger to the spine of the closest book; a warm shiver passed through her finger and up her arm, and it settled in her heart. One day, she’d have a shelf in her own home with a complete Talmud, and she’d read them with Papa, and they’d discuss the wisdom within like they were rabbis.

  A scream from behind made Anya jump and whip her hand away from the books. She turned to see Misha dangling one of the little boys upside down, swinging him in circles. The boy held on to his kippah with one hand and was screaming with delight. The other little boy jumped up and yelled, “Me next! Me next!” And Misha obliged, grabbing one in each arm and turning wide circles with them. They shrieked and giggled, and Anya couldn’t help but smile.

  A woman poked her head through the doorway from the kitchen. She was probably as old as Mama, wearing a festive green kerchief over light brown hair. “Mikhail! You’re going to get your cousins all riled up before dinner! Put them—” She stopped midsentence when she saw Anya.

  Misha set the boys down and said, “Mama.”

  She stepped into the room, eyes wide. “And who is this?”

  Misha approached her cautiously. “This is Anya. I invited her to—”

  Misha’s mother smacked his arm with the back of her hand. When she yelled, it was no longer in Russian. It was something else, but with Hebrew words sprinkled throughout, and Anya caught the tiniest pieces of the conversation.

  Misha put his hands up while his mother continued to berate him and whack him with the back of her hand. “But Mama, I didn’t have a way to tell you! I know I—yes, I should have—but she’s not—Mama, she is!”

  Misha’s mother pushed him out of her way and charged at Anya, hands up to cradle her face and hold her there while she—just like Misha said she would—peppered Anya’s entire face with kisses.

  When she spoke, her words came out all at once, like if she stopped talking, she’d never be able to start again: “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t expecting you. My idiot son didn’t tell me someone so beautiful was coming to eat with us tonight. Of course you can have dinner with us. You’re so skinny, it looks like you haven’t eaten dinner in weeks! And look at your pretty face. Your mama and papa must have the hardest time keeping the boys away from you. Mikhail! Did you walk her here all by yourself ? What am I going to do with you? What am I going to do with him? Absolutely the death of me. My only son, a deviant, walking good girls through the dark streets without a chaperone at all.”

  Anya looked toward Misha in time to see him scooting out of the room through the door his mother had come through. He was barely through it when his mother turned her head and barked, “Mikhail, you’d better be sneaking away so you can set another place for her!”

  “Yep,” Misha squeaked as he escaped through the door.

  His mother yelled, “And come back here to take her coat!” She started fussing with the seam on the front of Anya’s coat as another handful of faces peered out from the kitchen. Three women, all approximately Misha’s mother’s age, gasped with delight when they saw Anya standing by the door. Two younger girls that seemed closer to Anya’s age followed, one looking just as enthused as the adults, and one looking sour.

  They hurried over to Anya as Misha’s mother gathered Anya’s coat into her arms. One of the older women elbowed Misha’s mother out of the way and grabbed Anya’s face, kissing her cheeks between words: “Shabbat. Shalom. What. A. Lovely. Little. Girl.”

  The next one replaced the first. “Look at her, though! So skinny!”

  The third one lingered back with the two younger girls, arms crossed, and said, “Dvorah, you let Mikhail bring home the goyim like stray cats now?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dvorah said. “She’s not a goy. You can see it in her face.” To demonstrate, Dvorah pinched Anya’s chin in her fingers and turned her head side to side.

  Anya nodded, even with her cheeks being squished by overly friendly hands, and her chin being swung left and right. “I’m Jewish, just like—”

  But they were talking over her, exclaiming excitedly a hundred different things, some in the language Dvorah had yelled at Misha in. The third woman grabbed Anya in a hug and kissed her a few times before releasing her, and the two younger girls slid up beside Anya while the older women talked around them.

  “Your name is Anya?” one of them asked.

  “Yes.”

  The girl smiled. She looked a lot like Misha, and Anya guessed she was one of the sisters that he’d spoken of. “I’m Ilana.” She grabbed Anya’s hand and tugged her out of the room, toward where all the delicious smells were coming from. “We’re decorating the sukkah! Come help!”

  Anya let Ilana pull her through the kitchen, bustling with even more people, out a back door and into a walled courtyard. A fiery orange tree stood in one corner. Most of the courtyard was cobblestones, but a small, neat garden took up a significant part near the door. In the corner opposite the tree was the sukkah, or what Anya assumed was the sukkah.

  It was tall and long, at least twice as long as the one Anya’s family built every year. Its walls weren’t made out of tree branches and grasses gathered from the forest, but from reed mats woven with colorful ribbons tied down at the bottom. The poles were all even—unlike Anya’s crooked and twisting poles at home—an
d lashed at the corners with more colorful ribbon. The covering was the same brilliant orange as the tree in the corner, like what Anya had wanted to do with her sukkah.

  The inside of the sukkah was occupied mostly by a wooden table and chairs. Garlands of dried flowers hung on the backs of the chairs, and a couple of them sported squash. The covering on the inside was hung with little trinkets and decorations. Anya spied a doll tied around its waist with a string, bundles of wheat cut short and tied with festive bows, and several apples with simple pictures carved into the skin. The decorations even extended to the walls, where grapevines had been cut and woven into wreaths, and then peppered with fall leaves and dried flowers.

  Ilana stood by Anya’s side, bouncing on her toes as Anya beheld the sukkah. Finally, she couldn’t contain herself any longer and squealed, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Anya nodded. “It’s much prettier than mine.”

  “Oh, don’t say that!” Ilana chirped. “We’re all beautiful in our own way!”

  The other girl stepped beside Anya and said, “That’s Ilana’s way of calling someone ugly.”

  Ilana put her fists on her hips. “Nava, don’t be such a sourpuss.”

  Nava ignored Ilana and turned her solemn face to Anya. “Are you going to marry my brother?”

  Anya choked a little, and Ilana gasped from her other side. “Do you think?” she gushed.

  “Of course,” Nava said, eyeing Anya. “They came here by themselves with no chaperone.” She narrowed her eyes. “Were you two holding hands on your way here?”

  “No!” Anya blurted. Her cheeks were hot. “No, we didn’t. And no, we’re not going to get married.”

  Ilana wiggled her fingers in the air. “Oh, but he’d make such a good husband!”

  “I don’t want to marry him,” Anya said. “I’m thirteen. I’m not—”

  “Perfect!” Ilana said, twirling in a circle. “Misha’s sixteen! And he’s so nice, and caring, and he knows the entire Torah by heart, and—”

  “He does not,” Nava said. “He’s always too busy riding around with the princess to get any proper study in.” She jabbed Anya in the side. “Do you know the princess?”

  Anya whapped Nava’s hand away. “Not really.”

  Nava’s suspicious glare intensified. “What kind of name is Anya, anyway? That’s short for Anna. That’s a Christian name.”

  “It’s short for Channah,” Anya said, meeting Nava’s glare with her own.

  Nava narrowed her eyes even more and scrunched her mouth. After a few moments of silence, she said, “You’re not good enough to marry my brother, anyway.” And she spun around, marching away into the house.

  Anya didn’t know why Nava’s words upset her. She didn’t actually want to marry Misha, but Nava’s assertion that Anya wasn’t good enough to marry him sat unsteadily inside her, poking her with sharp edges. Why wasn’t she good enough?

  Ilana leaned her head against Anya’s shoulder. “Ignore her. She’s such a grump. Anyway, I think you’re good enough to marry Misha! Oh, I want a sister-in-law!”

  “I’m sure you’ll get one,” Anya said. “I’m not . . . uh. I couldn’t marry him. I’m from very far away.”

  “Oh,” Ilana said cheerfully. “We have extra space! You could move here and live with us! I mend all his clothes right now, but that could be your job when you marry him.” She clasped her hands under her chin and sighed. “I’m going to embroider hearts into my husband’s clothes when I mend them. Because I’ll love him so much!”

  “That sounds . . .” Anya managed to smile at Ilana. She didn’t mind mending her own clothes, but it was time-consuming. And she already did Babulya and Dyedka’s mending, too. Adding someone else’s clothing onto that pile would take up her entire day. “I mean, you seem like you love mending. I bet you’re very good at it.”

  Ilana beamed. “I am! Did Misha tell you?”

  “No,” Anya said. “I just . . . got a feeling. That’s all.”

  Ilana sniffed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  Anya had no idea what to say to that, but she was saved by Dvorah sweeping out into the courtyard and waving a hand at Anya and Ilana. “Girls!” She hurried to the sukkah. “Anya, Nava said you’re a bat mitzvah. How wonderful! I simply must meet your mother, and the rabbi would love to speak to your father.” She grabbed Anya’s face and kissed each cheek. “It’s time for dinner. You can decorate the sukkah more later!”

  Ilana looped her arm through Anya’s and whispered, “I can’t wait for you to marry Misha!”

  Anya kept her beleaguered sigh to herself, and the two girls followed Dvorah back inside.

  * * *

  More people had gathered in the front room, and one of them was undeniably Misha’s father. He and Misha stood side by side, and the only difference between them was that Misha would eventually be taller than his father. And his father had a long beard. Misha didn’t have that.

  The rabbi smiled at Dvorah when she entered the room, and then turned his smile to Anya. Without breaking eye contact, he walked to her with Misha in tow. When he reached her, he put one hand on his chest and bowed a little to her.

  “Shabbat shalom,” he said. “Anya Miroslavovna, is it?”

  Anya nodded, finding herself clinging to Ilana, wondering how he knew both names. But then she remembered: she had told Misha. He had told his father. Her chest was tight then, and she couldn’t stop thinking of what Nava had asked: Are you going to marry my brother?

  “I’m Rabbi Galanos,” he said. His voice was soft but powerful. Like he could calm a rabid bear with just words. “Misha tells me you’re not from Kiev.”

  She shook her head and opened her mouth to answer, but then Dvorah said, “We’re going to miss the sunset, and I’m not going to light an extra candle for the rest of my life because of chitchat.” Dvorah herded them all into the sitting area in front of the sideboard. On the fireplace mantel was a long, smallish box, and from within she removed a long, wooden wick. As she lit one end, Nava shouldered past Anya. Ilana quietly scolded her younger sister as she followed. They both stood to the side as Dvorah came back with her lit wick.

  She held it out to Ilana. But before Ilana could take it, Dvorah pulled it back. She turned to the gathered group and found Anya with a smile. “Come here,” she said, motioning with her free hand.

  Anya shrank back, swallowing hard. Ilana waved her forward too, smiling broadly, and Nava glared. Misha and his father watched Anya with matching smiles, and she shuffled forward to join them. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could feel the pressure inside her ears.

  Anya stepped beside Ilana, and Dvorah turned back to the candles. She handed the wick to Ilana, who took it and lit one of the candles, then handed it off to Nava, who lit another candle. Nava handed the wick back to her mother. Dvorah lit the remaining three candles, then dropped the still-burning wick to the sideboard’s top—just like Mama always did—and lifted up her hands.

  Ilana and Nava followed their mother’s example, so Anya did too. Dvorah swept her hands through the air, like she was grabbing the glow and warmth of the candles and bringing it to wash over her. Just like Mama always did. Nava and Ilana moved to do the same thing, so Anya did too.

  Then Dvorah sang the same melody Mama sang, the same melody Anya had been singing since she had become a bat mitzvah.

  “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha’olam,” Dvorah sang, and Anya could hear Mama’s voice in Dvorah’s as well, and Babulya’s, and her own. She felt warm, like sweeping the light toward herself had lit candles inside her.

  Dvorah continued on with the blessing, and Anya heard Ilana beside her singing along, very softly: “Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.”

  From behind her, the others murmured, “Ameyn.”

  Dvorah let her hands drop and turned, beaming. She reached her arms wide, like she was going to hug everyone at once. “Shabbat shalom!” she said.

 
“Shabbat shalom,” everyone said back to her.

  Anya expected everyone to go to the table then, like her family always did, and say their quick prayer over the wine and bread. But no one moved. Rabbi Galanos walked carefully to where Dvorah stood, kissed her on the cheek, and turned to everyone.

  He began to pray.

  But not in Hebrew.

  Or was it? Anya could pick out words here and there. No. It was whatever Dvorah had spoken earlier: half Hebrew, half something else. And the melody was different from anything she had ever heard before. Everyone around Anya sang along too, but she couldn’t. She just stood there, silent.

  “Ameyn,” everyone said, and Anya had to mumble it after them, when Rabbi Galanos had begun another prayer. Anya strained her ears, trying to figure out what he was saying, what part of the blessing he was on, but she couldn’t catch up before everyone else said, “Ameyn” again. Anya managed to say it faster that time, but she still caught Nava glaring at her.

  Anya squeezed the fingers of her right hand in her left fist. She could feel her face getting hot. When she heard everyone say “Ameyn,” she muttered along with them. These blessings were so much longer than what Babulya and Mama said at home. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe dying from embarrassment was just making everything slow down.

  The singing stopped. The rabbi turned and picked up the chalice. He held it up in front of him. Good. Kiddush. Anya knew that blessing, at least.

  But when he began, it was in words Anya didn’t know. And it, too, was so much longer than the Kiddush she said at home. The warmth that the candles had kindled in her was fading.

  The cup of wine made its way around the congregation. Misha’s little cousins each touched their tongues to the wine and then passed it on with a grimace. Rabbi Galanos returned the chalice to its spot on the sideboard, then walked to where the two bowls sat. Misha stood at the second bowl beside him. They both picked up the little cups from on top of the folded cloth, then dipped the cups in the water. They murmured more prayers Anya didn’t know while they poured water over one hand, then the other, and then, silent, they dried their hands on the cloth squares. They walked away, and two other people stepped up to wash their own hands.