all those words
singe
and flare
lost
my lungs seize
my eyes water
my throat burns
from the ache of breathing in
all those lost words.
Marcus stands behind Papa
arms crossed over his chest.
Benjamin,
whose eyes
always seem to hold
a measure of fright,
watches from the kitchen table
clutching his books
tight.
Mama says,
Wash the clothes, Clara,
like a good girl.
faith
Frustration swells
seeps out of me,
rises again until my head pounds
my teeth grind
with the effort of holding it in.
I am like the macaw
chained to the gypsy caravan
that rumbles through the shtetl
each summer,
out of place
dropping bright feathers
one at a time
molting
withering
in an unfriendly climate.
How can I ever be more
than just someone’s daughter
wife
mother
if I cannot study
if I cannot learn
if I am not permitted to have
even one book?
I know Papa thinks
this fire in me
stands against
the faith he holds
so dearly
but I see our faith
as the thing
that lit this fire in me
to begin with.
letters
I may be unschooled
but I will not
be ignorant.
The widow
at the end of the street
wants to mail a letter to her son
who sailed for America.
She cannot write
but I can
and she is not the only one
who will pay
for such a service.
I will buy my own books now
find a new hiding place
up the ladder
in a corner of the attic
under a beam.
No one will find my Tolstoy
my Gorky
my Turgenev there.
service
The talk in the women’s balcony
has a furious
mournful edge to it.
Mama’s face is pinched,
every time I lean in
to listen
she clucks in disapproval.
Sit up straight,
she says,
we have no need
for idle gossip.
Mama loves the whispers
that fill the minutes
before service begins
so I know this story is something
she especially
wants to keep from me.
I wait through the prayers
and the ritual
the men act out below,
peek between links
in the screen
that hide us
from view,
my feet dancing
beneath my skirt
with impatience.
When at last the service is done
I rush outside,
catch Miriam’s arm.
Tell me.
Her eyes are wide
her mouth twists to the side
in an almost-smile
Clara—
you have not heard?
No, of course your mother
would keep such news
from you.
Hanna’s cousin Ruth
wanted to study at the university
in Kiev
but of course,
the only Jewish girls
allowed in the city
are prostitutes.
I nod
yes, I know this
have I not rolled this problem around
in my own head
like a stone
tossed along the riverbed
bumping against boulders
all the way to the sea?
She did it,
Miriam says.
She got a prostitute’s badge
moved into the city
so she could go to university.
Cold wraps around my arms
encircles my wrists
like shackles.
The breath in my lungs
is thin as wisps of clouds
whipping across the pale sun.
I pull my shawl tighter
around my shoulders
open my mouth
to speak
but I have no words
for this.
Pesach
Tonight we remember
when the angel of death
passed over the homes
of the faithful.
I think
as I watch the light from the candles
flicker and dance
to the breath
taken in
and measured back out
in the recitation of the Haggadah
if it took decades
for the slaves to be freed from Egypt
how long
must I wait?
I do not need bitter herbs
bites of potato dipped
in the tears of my ancestors
to imagine a life
devoid of choice,
where my own destiny
is gripped in the fists
of others.
monsters
A boy was killed today
in Kishinev.
A Russian boy;
a Christian.
The Russian newspaper
says he was murdered by Jews
planning to use his blood
in the preparation of matzo.
Monsters,
it calls us.
The printed words begin to rattle,
then blur before my eyes.
Papa snatches the paper
from my fingers
I jump back
my hands clenched
my jaw set.
I flinch
in spite of myself,
cry out
when his open hand
crashes
into my cheek.
I hold a bucket
of rusted, bent nails,
hand him one after another.
He hammers boards
over every window.
Our home shudders
with the force
of his blows.
Papa’s anger
lingers
like the smoke of animal fat
filling the air,
thick
oily
burning my throat.
pogrom
When the church bells tolled
in the distance
I asked God,
Please, let it be
only a sign
of their mourning
but no,
it was the priest
calling his flock
to pick up their pitchforks
their hammers
their torc
hes
in holy vengeance.
Mama bursts in, her hands pulling,
lifting us up and out
even as the words fly
soft
as moth-winged
whispers from her lips:
Go!
Why is she whispering?
Go to the woods—
hide!
Mama grabs little Benjamin
thrusts his stick arms
into a woolen coat
winds a scarf around his head.
Scatter,
she says,
stay hidden
until I call you home.
Benjamin is trying to be brave
but his hands are shaking,
the sleeves of his jacket fluttering
like the wings
of a stunned bird.
I loop my arm in his,
pull him with me.
Where is Papa?
Marcus asks.
Mama herds us toward the door,
arms flapping like a farmwife
shooing the goats from the laundry line.
Marcus pushes back
Where is Papa?
Mama makes a sound
low in her throat
Gone to protect
the scrolls,
and NO—
she grabs his arm
pulls him back
you will not
go with him.
Mama thrusts packets of food
wrapped in cloth
into our hands,
drops hasty kisses on our heads
pushes us out the door.
Marcus and Nathan
touch the mezuzah
kiss their fingers as they leave.
I cannot.
My hands are full.
Mama—
what about you?
Her face closes like the trap
on a spring-loaded snare
Go,
she says
and shuts the door.
I grab Benjamin’s hand
and run.
Our footfalls
pound like hammers,
Benjamin’s rasping breath
loud as a bucket of nails
dashed to the ground.
We follow the deer path
into the trees.
The air is silent,
the birds
quiet,
the woods filled
with children
shivering
waiting
for it all to end.
We run
through the marsh
into the coarse grass.
The kalyna bush
at the edge
of the meadow
is thick,
bursting with new
green leaves.
I tuck Benjamin
beneath the branches
burrow in
beside him.
Marcus and Nathan
are nowhere to be seen
already hidden away
out of sight.
My mind
races;
I try
to pace
my breath
slow
as I can
though
my lungs
are slow
to listen.
hours
The sun hides, too;
little more than a white glare
behind thin clouds
revealing nothing
of the minutes
or hours
as they pass
if they pass
at all.
dusk
I hate this hiding
in the shadows
hate
the way
my mind
dances
to the rancid
rhythm
of fear.
Is Mama safe?
What is all that smoke?
How close will they come
this time?
The light fades
from the sky;
one by one
the forest fills
with mothers
calling their little ones
out.
The pent-up nerves
jangling,
fed up
cries rise up
to fill
the woods
with questions
and wails
and whys:
I want to go home.
Why are we hiding?
Where is Tata?
Mamele, is that our home burning?
Benjamin wiggles out
from under the branches,
runs to Mama,
whose arms are piled high
with blankets.
Tonight
we will sleep
in the woods
with the night crawlers
and the wolves
and the soft-throated owls.
sunrise
The sun
cannot find a clear path
in the morning;
the smoke
makes the air
blush
with shame.
The bloody sky
is the only sign
of the screaming
begging
shouted prayers,
of all that burned
the night before.
It is not the first time
the peasants have attacked us
as a salve for their pain.
But it is the first time
I wonder,
if a bloodthirsty mob
is coming
for each of us
someday
no matter what we do
or do not do,
is there any point
at all
in fear?
quiet
When Mama calls us home
at last
at the end
of our second day in the woods
my fingers
are stiff as kindling sticks
my bones
creak like an old woman’s
but my mind
is quiet
certain.
I have never known
what kind of girl I am
not at home in this shtetl
not at home in this family
not at home in this life.
But I know one thing now:
I will not be
the pheasant
quivering
hiding
from the hunter
who crushes the slender reeds
to flush out
his prey.
I will never
cower
like this
again.
a favor
The thing that brings us together
will always be stronger
than that which pulls us apart.
Suffering
is the great unifier
of our people.
In the morning, a small crowd gathers
sets off down the road to Kishinev
builders hefting tools
the doctor with his kit
and the rabbi,
whose back is bent low
by the weight
of lifetimes
of pray
ers.
I tug on Papa’s sleeve
Let me go,
I say,
I want to help.
Daughter,
he says,
can you stitch together
their wounds
their hearts
their lives?
We do the only thing
we can
for them.
We pray.
In the bleak morning light,
everything I struggle
so hard
to learn
seems frail
foolish, even.
What good is an education
if it cannot heal
the gash
bleeding out
before my eyes?
By noon,
the carpenters
bricklayers
blacksmiths
have all returned.
No one is interested in repair,
in rebuilding.
Anyone lucky enough to be alive
is leaving.
Forty-nine people were murdered.
Hundreds more beaten
bloody,
thousands of homes
destroyed.
The police did nothing.
Why should they?
The mob was doing them a favor,
killing Jews.
unblinking
I lie
unblinking
in the dark.
Is it wrong
that I am angry
—so angry
the chill in my bones
trickles to my fingertips
until they pulse
with a frost-born fire—
at a father
who would brave an angry mob
to save the books he holds dear
but casts the ones I cherish
into the fire?
Is it wrong
that I am grateful
—so grateful
the air in my lungs flutters
like a scrap of paper
let loose in the wind—
that they did not come
just a little farther
down the road,
that they spent their rage
in that shtetl
and not this one?
leaving
We are leaving,
Papa says,
as soon as we can save the money.
We will cross the continent
to a seaport
find a steamship
that will carry us
across the Atlantic Ocean
into exile
again.
Tears leak from Mama’s eyes
staining the worn fabric of her apron
pressed against her mouth
with the palm of her hand
but she does not argue.
Hanna is gone
the following day.
Audacity Page 3