by Talia Carner
After that, theirs were the only two Jewish families remaining in the village. Now, none.
In this latest pogrom, the constable’s warning had helped Batya escape with Surale by climbing the oak tree from which their rope swing hung. They had shivered there together throughout the long night, while Miriam was defiled and murdered.
“What’s going on?” Batya now whispered to her mother, who was stroking Surale’s hair.
“Shhhhhhh.”
Batya tiptoed to the door and put her ear to it.
“What would you want with her? She’s not ready to reproduce,” she heard her father say.
The other man replied, “She’s quiet and obedient.”
Batya crept back to the beddings. “Is Papa selling Aggie?”
“Shhhhhhh,” her mother repeated, and Batya returned to her spot at the door.
“As the Haggadah says,” her father quoted, “‘She comes naked’: that means with nothing.”
“What would I want with your money?” the man replied, and the hair on Batya’s arm stood as she recognized Reb Moskowitz’s voice. “I’ve just given the treasurer a thousand rubles to build a grand new synagogue—with a tin roof, mind you—and to hire a rabbi.”
“Come back here,” her mother whispered, and when Batya crawled onto the bedding, her mother pulled her head toward her shoulder. “Let me tell you a story that was told to my father by the great Rabbi Nachman: A group of sages wanted to dig deep into the kabbalah to find the Truth. The one Truth above all others. They retreated to the desert to contemplate the puzzle. After months of ponderous discussions, they discovered that each animal—a bird, a reptile, or a mammal—had its own shadow. Uniquely its own. But you know what else they found?”
“What?”
“That each fowl had its own branch, the one where it preferred to dwell. God had not assigned a place for each of His creatures, but rather let each creature choose its own.”
Batya was too sleepy to contemplate the fable. “What does it mean?”
“Some decisions we make are not predestined, but we are placed in a position to make the right one,” her mother whispered. “Go back to sleep now. It will be clear when the sun shines bright on all of us.”
Relieved by her mother’s mood change, Batya fell asleep in the warmth of her arms, for the first time in days being comforted rather than giving comfort.
In the morning, she rose up to milk Aggie, letting Surale sleep. She hugged the cow’s rump, love filling her in her anticipation of loss. When she returned to the cart to pour the milk into their tin canister, her father was there, drinking milk from the previous day.
“Are you selling Aggie to Reb Moskowitz?” she asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“I heard you talk during the night.”
“No, Batyale. Reb Moskowitz wants you. For his bride.”
“What? That’s not possible . . .” Batya’s words trailed off as shock spread through her. “I’m only fourteen!”
“That’s what I told him. That you must wait until you are at least sixteen, as your sisters were when they got married.” He chuckled. “Not that they asked my permission.”
Batya’s mouth felt dry. “Why would he want me?” she asked. And he was so old, perhaps thirty.
“A pretty face is half a dowry, as the saying goes. As for the other half, Reb Moskowitz saw how hard you worked at the tavern. As the Good Book says, ‘A good Jewish wife is her husband’s helpmate.’”
Batya’s head swam in confusion. She had worked hard at the tavern so the innkeeper would let them stay in the barn, not for this. Maybe that was the sages’ conclusion about each creature having its own shadow. It followed her whether she wanted it to or not.
The sound of her mother’s voice summoned Batya inside. “We must pack the bedding before the congregants arrive for the morning service.”
“Is that true, that Reb Moskowitz wants me for a bride?” Batya asked as she shook a blanket to air it.
Her mother waved dismissal. “Whoever heard of a man who is both the groom and his own matchmaker? It’s never done.”
“Fishke, he didn’t bother because Keyla already had done the asking,” Surale piped in. Batya hoped she wouldn’t mention Hedi’s goy; he had sought his priest’s approval, not his bride’s father’s.
Batya’s mother shook her head sadly. “In these tough times, we must still believe that good things can happen, too.”
“What is a good thing?” Surale asked.
“If a kosher matchmaker should bring the right groom for each of you, that’s a good thing.”
“Reb Moskowitz is an excellent groom,” Surale said. “He’s so rich!”
Their mother shook her head. “A matchmaker is a must.” Her tone softened. “Batya, remember the daughter of Pesha, my second cousin three times removed? She married a visiting scholar from Germany. Even though there was no rabbi, it was the matchmaker who brought two witnesses, and the wedding took place in a shtiebel.”
“What happened to her?” Batya asked.
“She moved to Germany, where every year she vacationed in hot springs. She sent money to her mother and promised a train ticket to a city called Frank-something, but then Pesha, the poor soul, one day caught a cold and died.”
“Where is she now?”
“Pesha? I’m telling you she’s dead.”
“No. Her daughter. Where is she now?”
“How would I know? Probably getting pampered in a hot spring.”
Some girls, even poor ones like Pesha’s daughter, were lucky, Batya thought. Maybe Surale was right to dream of a match so high above their low social station. But certainly her mother was right about a matchmaker; her father must have misunderstood Reb Moskowitz’s interest.
Congregants began to file into the synagogue, and Batya’s father was recruited again for the decreed minyan.
The day was cold, so the three women found refuge again in the women’s section. Even chilled to the bone, at least they were dry and could sit down, albeit on hard backless benches. Batya was hungry for warm food that wasn’t cheese or uncooked onion—a cup of hot, sweetened tea maybe, or even her onion, but fried in chicken fat.
While the men were praying, a woman dressed in a wool suit approached Batya’s mother. “I’m the representative of the Benevolent Society,” she said, not bothering to give her name. “Come with me.”
Wearing leather boots that withstood the mud, she led Batya’s mother up the street, with Batya and Surale trailing behind. She made a left turn into a narrow alley and stopped in front of a hut. It had been abandoned, the woman explained, and now could be rented from the Society for a pittance. “It has a table, a bench, and a sturdy loft for sleeping.” She paused, then added, “We’ll lend you a working stove.”
Batya eyed the pack of mangy dogs that roamed the street. Their thinness reflected the poverty of the village, where even the shopkeepers couldn’t spare scraps of food. “We can’t rent a hut if we’re on our way to America,” she told her mother, but her mother gestured to her to hold her tongue.
“What about pogroms?” Batya’s mother asked.
The woman shrugged. “We’re always a target. But where can we go?” She glanced at Batya and Surale. “If I were you, I’d dig a hiding space for them.”
A shiver went down Batya’s spine. Where could they be safe?
The negotiation concluded when the woman agreed to give the family a loan to pay the rent. At that, Batya understood. They would never have the huge sum required for the train, passports, and ship’s passages. America was nothing but a dream.
She examined their new home. Rain had cratered holes in the dirt floor. The cracks between the slats of wood needed to be filled with tar, the window shutters fixed, and the thatched roof repaired. Batya sighed. Never mind the stench of moldy hay and dog feces. Never mind that until they built an outhouse, they would relieve themselves in the woods. At least their trek in the muddy road was over.
Ba
tya’s mother pulled the bench against the wall, leaned back as she sat down, and let out an audible breath. She could now rest for a few hours until Shabbat exited.
Batya sat next to her and took her hand. “Tell me a story.”
Her mother smiled. “A man was traveling through the desert, hungry, thirsty, and tired, when he came upon a tree bearing luscious fruit and affording plenty of shade, underneath which ran a spring of water. He ate the fruit, drank the water, and rested in the shade.
“When he was about to leave, he turned to the tree and said: ‘Tree, o tree, with what should I bless you? Should I bless you that your fruit be sweet? Your fruit is sweet. Should I bless you that your shade be plentiful? Your shade is plentiful. That a spring of water should run beneath you? A spring of water runs beneath you.’
“The man thought for a moment. ‘There is one thing with which I can bless you: May it be God’s will that all the trees planted from your seeds should be like you!’”
“Like our oak tree at home,” Batya exclaimed, “the one your father’s father planted.” Their beloved tree in whose thick foliage she and Surale had hidden. She pointed toward the window. “We’ll plant an oak tree right here.” It would grow big and strong, and would serve their family for generations to come.
Chapter Five
Batya tightened her cardigan. In spite of the cold, her heart felt light. Her family had a hut with a door to close. Although it was very late in the season, she and her mother could begin cultivating a vegetable garden behind the house. They could still plant cabbage and even parsnips. For now, she’d search for mushrooms and berries in the forest. It wasn’t labor, she reminded God, just a Shabbat pastime.
Holding a stick in case a pack of hungry dogs might chase her, Batya circled the outskirts of the village and eyed the edge of the forest for fallen trees. Her father could saw them into boards to fix the hut, and she’d help him split smaller pieces to burn in the stove. They could bury some wood in a covered pit, where a low-burning flame would produce charcoal. Before the earth froze, perhaps they could dig potatoes from deserted fields. At least this coming winter they would be warm and have some food.
If only the threat of another pogrom didn’t hang over them.
Stepping into the forest, she let her eyes search for ripened berries that might still cling to the shrubs, mushrooms peeking from under rocks and tree roots—and for a spot to dig out a shelter where she could hide with Surale. She spotted a small mound that wouldn’t be flooded. A memory from just a few weeks ago resurfaced, of giggling with Miriam about their possible future matches. Miriam had her eye on the handsome son of the rich man from Bobruevo, who had sent his spoiled boy to Koppel to instill good values in him. Batya had envied her friend for having met someone she could dream about. Now Miriam was dead.
Batya forced herself to push away the memories. She picked a handful of berries and sucked their sweet-sour juice. Tomorrow, after Shabbat, she would bring a basket to collect the succulent mushrooms.
She walked on, circling the village, imprinting in her memory its dirt-packed alleys and the paved streets with two-story houses where merchants lived above their now-closed stores. In the coming weeks she would meet the baker and the fishmonger, the butcher and the roaming peddlers. Maybe she’d meet a girl her age and she’d have a friend in this new home.
At the end of her second round, outside the cemetery fence behind the synagogue, she came across her father and Reb Moskowitz speaking again. She turned away, but her father spotted her. “Come here, my Batyale.” He crooked his finger for emphasis.
Batya froze, staring at her own clogs. Somewhere, frogs broke into a concert of croaking. She had wanted to thank Reb Moskowitz for his kindness in giving them a ride here, but now the idea of speaking directly to this important stranger overwhelmed her with the same sense of insignificance she had felt in the carriage.
“Come here, Batyale,” her father repeated.
Her mother would be furious if her husband had embarrassed them again with his misinterpretation of Reb Moskowitz’s intentions. Batya approached with small, hesitant steps; she’d have to mitigate her father’s big-dream talk.
“Batyale, Reb Moskowitz here is intent on having you as his bride—when you grow up, of course.” Her father stroked his beard, a glint in his eyes. “What do you say?”
How could it possibly be true? Reb Moskowitz’s gaze was upon her, scrutinizing her face. He smiled. “I came all the way from across the ocean to find a bride here. Do you know why?” Without waiting for her reply, he answered, “American women are spoiled. You are virtuous.”
Feeling her cheeks burn, Batya lowered her eyes. She couldn’t begin to imagine what American women were like, spoiled or not. The heat spread down into her collar, doubling her discomfort. With the tip of her clog she drew circles in the mud.
Her father wiped his brow. “Where will she live? There are some cultured Jews in Moscow and St. Petersburg, but who wants to be so close to the czar?”
“Who’s talking about Russia?” Reb Moskowitz laughed. “Remember. I’m from Buenos Aires.”
“You want I should send my little girl to America alone?”
Batya raised her eyes to see Moskowitz’s arm sweeping the village. “Where else will she have any future? Here?”
“On the other hand,” her father said, “we’re all going to America, to my brother in Pittsburgh—”
“When will that be?”
“With Hashem’s help, before the Messiah arrives.”
Reb Moskowitz drew his billfold out of his trouser pocket and opened it, exposing a thick wad of pinkish rubles. Batya had never seen paper money. Her father was always paid in coins, mostly kopeks, rarely even a single ruble, and not ever a gold one. “We’re forbidden to handle money today, so I won’t touch it.” Reb Moskowitz fanned the open billfold. “But to look? To look we’re permitted. See this? There’s a lot more where it comes from. This evening, I’ll be at your home with a generous gift that will help your family manage until Batya is of age.”
Her father gulped. “Money is the most perishable substance, more than cheese and cream.” His eyes glued to the billfold belied his dismissive words.
Batya didn’t know whether to stare at Moskowitz’s money or examine his face. Could this respectable man really be her husband one day? She closed her eyes, wanting to curl up in a corner and was unsure why. Matchmaking talk was supposed to be good news; girls were happy at getting betrothed. With this man for a husband, she would be eating an orange every day.
“It’s a great surprise,” she heard her father’s soft voice say and was uncertain whether he spoke to her or was explaining her shyness to Reb Moskowitz. “On the other hand, a Jew is never ready for what God plans for him.”
God’s plans. Batya wasn’t ready to entertain thoughts of marriage. Yet she also hadn’t been ready for the pogrom, or for Miriam’s death, or for exile.
“Batyale, what do you say?” her father asked her.
In all these catastrophes, she hadn’t been asked. Now she was. How could she have an opinion about such a fortunate shidach, one she’d just told Surale was impossible for poor girls like them? Her finger found a loose thread in the cardigan. She glanced at Reb Moskowitz. He was more than twice her age. His features were pleasing, not handsome—his cheeks rounded, his pale eyes small. But their corners crinkled when he smiled, which he did often. His gaze didn’t burn with the dark intensity Keyla had found in the anarchist Fishke’s. He certainly didn’t have the tall, broad stature that made Hedi feel secure under the protection of her goy. What Reb Moskowitz had was his importance, as every rich man had. He was probably the richest man in America.
He was also kind, she reminded herself. If her parents found him suitable, she must trust their choice. Dreamer though her father was, he sought the best for her.
Both men’s eyes were upon her, waiting for her to speak.
No nuptials will take place until I grow up, she told herself, and placed
her hand on her heart to still it. And when she was ready, she would have a decent man for a husband, one who would share his riches with her parents.
Her tongue stuck, she managed to nod her assent.
“Wonderful.” Reb Moskowitz hugged Batya’s father. “Koppel, my future father-in-law, I’ll come over after Shabbat.”
Disbelieving what had just transpired, Batya didn’t turn to look at the back of the man to whom she’d just promised herself.
They walked to the new hut, where her father broke the news to her mother. “It’s done! He proposed and she agreed!”
“Are you talking about Reb Moskowitz?” Her mother’s eyes searched both their faces. She took Batya’s hand. Hers was cold and clammy. “Batya, did you hear it with your own ears?”
Batya nodded. Her eyes brimmed with tears, although she was unsure why.
“What did Reb Moskowitz actually say?”
“That I’m virtuous, not like American women.”
“What happened to the brides lined up for him?” Surale asked.
Batya brought her shoulders up.
Her father spoke. “You see, Zelda? God doesn’t inflict pain without sending the right medicine for it. Reb Moskowitz is the medicine for all our afflictions.”
Batya’s mother looked into Batya’s eyes. “Are you sure? He proposed without a matchmaker. What else did he say?”
“That when I’m sixteen I’d live with him in America.”
“He did say it?” Batya’s mother’s face brightened, and she clapped her hands. “Oh, Batya, even without a matchmaker, such a fine man as a match is what I hadn’t dared dream for any of my daughters.” She gathered Batya in her arms and kissed her cheek.
“He also talked about ‘a generous gift,’” Batya’s father said. “If it’s fifty rubles, God willing, we’ll buy a second milk cow and a new horse—a bit old because I’ll forever miss my dopey horse—”