by Talia Carner
Reb Moskowitz was seated on one side. “Feeling refreshed, my dear?” He had changed his wool suit into a loose burgundy jacket with rope piping along its collar and cuffs.
“Yes, thank you very much.” She blushed and glanced down to ensure that even her ankles were covered.
“I hope you don’t mind the late hour,” he said.
She lowered her eyes. At home, without a clock, they kept the time according to the sunrise and sunset.
The aroma of the food was delicious. At Reb Moskowitz’s gesture, Batya sat down and lifted the bowl of root-vegetable soup. She drank it in a few swallows.
“Slow down, my dear, or you’ll be sick,” he said.
She blushed, then dug her fingers into the plate of boiled chicken with cabbage and carrots.
“Use your utensils.”
Chastened, she picked up her fork, and was relieved that his smile had the hint of a parent indulging a child.
The honey cake at the end, served with tea sweetened by three spoonfuls of sugar, capped off the best meal she’d ever had. Reb Moskowitz lit a cigarette and sipped some red liquid out of a tiny glass cup. Batya’s eyes kept closing of their own volition.
“Go to sleep now.” He pointed to the bed, and after she crawled under the cover, which was as airy and full as a cloud, he dimmed the gas light of the bedside lamp, then stepped up to the door. “You’ve had a long day, my dear.”
She sank into the softness of the bed. One day, her entire family would be making this trip in luxury. As unexpected and painful as her departure from them had been, it was worth it: she was on her way to America to save them all. No more dread of the pogroms. No more hunger. Goodbye, poverty.
Happy, she recited the Shema prayer and fell asleep.
She was startled when, in the dark, something heavy dropped upon her. Still in a dream, Batya thought that the thatched roof of her parents’ home must have fallen in, and the hands wrestling at her were trying to rescue her—but no, they were pulling up her gown. Fully awake now, she tried to sit up, but a face buried itself in her neck, pinning her down, and lips leeched onto her skin. Her scream came out muffled against a hand that clamped her mouth. Suddenly fingers probed her private parts, and a moment later the heavy body pushed hard into her, tearing her inside.
Batya shrieked into the hand at the searing pain.
The pumping was over fast, but the burning and fright lingered. When the weight moved off her, she broke into a shocked sob.
She was crying so hard, hugging the pillow to her center, that she didn’t look to see who crossed the room until she heard his voice.
“You are mine now,” said Reb Moskowitz. “Forever.”
Stunned, Batya looked up to see the door open and Reb Moskowitz’s silhouette against the corridor’s backlight, before he gently closed the door behind himself.
Weeping, she forced herself from the bed and followed the faint outline of the window to pull the curtain open. In the moonlight she located the dresser upon which she had seen a washbowl. Sobs convulsed her body as she sponged the blood and stickiness from the insides of her thighs.
A night bird screeched—or was it a bat that hit the window? The house creaked. More evil winds were searching to harm her further, like Miriam’s assailants. Trembling in fear, Batya crawled under the bed. The pain had dulled, but not the shame. She curled into herself, her back against the cold wall.
How could an honorable man do such a thing?
Then a greater horror struck her. Not only had he betrayed her, but he had invalidated the agreement he’d made with her parents. Having traveled all the way from across the ocean to find a virtuous wife, he would surely send her back now that she was no longer pure.
A fresh fit of tears caused a wave of hiccups. All her parents’ hopes for her bright future—and her plan to bring them to America—were destroyed.
Chapter Eight
Batya’s hiding spot failed to protect her from the morning sunrays. She woke from a fitful sleep when she heard the door open. Her eyes registered the maid’s feet in felt slippers. She froze, unable to face the woman who had bathed her last night, who had tended to her virgin body, now defiled. She had been spared a gang of Russian brutes, only to suffer the same fate the first night she had left home—at the hands of the man who was supposed to be her protector.
She heard the maid place something on the table, then watched her feet approach the bed. The woman kneeled down and touched Batya’s shoulder. Her hand traveled down Batya’s arm, and she tugged at her, speaking softly in Russian. When Batya wouldn’t budge, she crawled under the bed too and snaked a hand around Batya to massage away the hiccups racking her body.
A few minutes passed, then the woman retreated, returning with a cup of hot tea that she placed on the floor, where the fragrant steam wafted to Batya’s nostrils. When the maid once again tried to pull Batya from under the bed, Batya let her. The maid sat her at the table and nudged the tray toward her.
A fresh boiled egg nestled upright in a cup, and a bowl of warm porridge glistened with a dollop of melted butter in its center. Next to them, on its own plate, she spotted what must have been a section of an orange. An orange.
The bounty only made Batya’s stomach tighten.
The maid gestured at Batya to open her mouth and, as if Batya were a child, placed the orange in her mouth. Batya sucked the sweet, tangy juice, then retched.
Undeterred, the maid kept trying to feed her until embarrassment made Batya take over the task. The few spoons of porridge she took tasted like wet straw. She hung her head.
The maid brought a fresh washing bowl and a clean towel. She draped on the chair a long gray pinafore adorned with a wide red, green, and yellow trim and a white blouse with puffed sleeves. Curious in spite of herself, Batya noticed that the garments were new and the sarafan large and shapeless enough for her to grow into. Next to them, the maid laid a folded set of what looked like new underthings made of white muslin. She set a pair of leather shoes with new socks on the floor.
The maid slipped out, and at the sound of the key turning, Batya walked to the door and pressed the handle. It was indeed locked. She jiggled it up and down, then banged on the door. The maid did not respond.
She was a prisoner. Batya covered her face with her hands, weeping again as her skin and mind recalled her shame. Her tears deepened into sobs. She pounded on her chest, and its echo was as hollow as her heart felt.
She must get dressed and run away to find her parents in their new shtetl. No matter how many versts the carriage had traveled yesterday—and how many days it might take her to run or walk back—she must let them know what a mistake they’d made in trusting Yitzik Moskowitz, who no longer deserved to be called “reb” like an honorable man. Her parents would take her back in spite of what she’d done, in spite of the disgrace that must now be imprinted on her forehead like the mark of Cain.
She peeked out the window. Outside, the tall buildings were stone and brick, not wood, and the street was the busiest she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a market day, with carts lining the road with produce, livestock, and household goods, yet there was a crowd on the paved sidewalks moving not with the air of humble peasants but with that of self-assured masters. Covered coaches, open carts, and even one horseless carriage—she’d only heard about them—traveled on the cobblestoned street. This was what a city looked like.
But which city was this?
She unlatched the window and looked down. It was much too high to jump, far higher than the roof of her parents’ hut in Komarinoe. She stood still, pondering her options.
Behind her she heard a key turn in the lock, and the door opened. She recoiled and pressed her back to the corner, trapped.
“Did you sleep well, my dear?” asked Yitzik Moskowitz.
She dared not speak of her dishonor, of his assault of her body. “Why was the door locked?” she asked, her tone meek.
“For your protection, my dear. You never know who prowls around an in
n.” He raised his arm and held up a blue coat. From across the room, she could see that its fabric and style were that of a rich lady’s garment. “Hurry now. We have a train to catch,” he said.
She glared at him, refusing to be appeased. “I want to go home.”
“No, my dear. You don’t.”
Years later she’d recall the moment when she’d stepped down to the street and was almost alone. Yitzik Moskowitz was speaking to the coachman on the other side of the waiting carriage before he stepped back to Batya, before he gripped her arm and guided her in. She had stood in the midst of the scene she had watched from above, and up close it was terrifying: dizzying commotion, chaotic noises, the air reeking of horse manure, soot, and perfume. She was a small mouse, a guilty one.
Batya wrapped her arms around herself. The passersby must all be able to read her shame. They were all so much taller than she, so imposing in their elegant garb. She pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding, and watched men in top hats with big important bellies walk purposefully, graceful women in elegant costumes hanging on their arms. Across the street, two nurses wearing gleaming white caps pushed baby prams. Everyone was busy, yet no one seemed to be working—no peddler announcing his wares, no knife sharpener offering his service, no sound of a blacksmith hammering his iron.
That was the only moment Batya was unsupervised. She should have escaped, she’d realize later with regret. She was wearing good leather shoes that would have taken her as far as her legs could run. Yet, still a peasant child, disoriented and confused, she dared not even cross the street for fear of being trampled. Whatever courage she’d had had seeped out of her during the night, like milk from a bucket full of holes.
Then her future husband was at her side, his face as genial as before, an expression she later understood was a mask, not a sign of infatuation with his new bride-to-be.
Only in hindsight did she understand that this was the moment she said goodbye to her old life.
Chapter Nine
On the train, Batya lay curled on the seat in the private compartment. Just yesterday she would have felt awed to travel by train, let alone ensconced in the luxury of leather-upholstered seats and curtained windows. Now she didn’t care.
“Sit up,” Moskowitz said.
Batya shook her head.
“Look,” he said quietly. Nothing about his voice was menacing, nothing in its tone indicated the brutality he had displayed during the night. “You know about marital life, don’t you?”
She shook her head again. The seat beneath her cheek felt sticky, unclean, used. Like her.
He sighed. “Your mother should have instructed you. It’s in the Bible: The way a man and a wife are. It says, ‘He would cleave unto her.’”
Don’t quote the Bible to me, she wanted to scream. That was her father’s domain, and her father would never ever do such “cleaving” to her mother. Don’t tell me that God decreed such filth.
As if it were happening now, she felt Moskowitz’s naked body crushing hers, her private parts violated, his lips sucking her neck. She had seen dogs copulating, and once, when a neighbor brought a bull to impregnate his cow, heard the trumpeting sounds of the beast, even though her mother kept her inside until it was over. But dogs and cattle were animals. Humans had been created in God’s image and were therefore above such acts. It was implausible that her mother had conceived so many times in this disgraceful way.
The sudden screeching of the axles beneath Batya was accompanied by a yanking of the train car, followed by a slow, shuddering jerk. Batya sat up, wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, and fixed her gaze outside as the train began to move out of the huge station, with its palatial glass domed roof as high as a mountain.
She placed her palm on the windowpane, as if to hold on to the receding station before being carried away, alone at the mercy of this horrible man.
She had become accustomed to the constant grumbling and swaying of the train, when it entered the belly of a mountain. The horn blared, the roar of the engine bounced off the walls, deafening, and instant darkness enveloped the car. Batya screamed. Her hands grabbed the seat; she was falling into the abyss, swallowed alive in the earth.
“It’s only a tunnel,” she heard Moskowitz say, and just then, yellow light flickered on in the cabin, turning the windowpane into a mirror in which her face reflected back. Her eyes seemed sunken, and twin hollows in her cheeks made her look ghostly.
It was only when they were speeding through open fields that a thought crossed Batya’s head. She was the feisty Zelda’s daughter, sister to two older girls who knew their minds and weren’t timid about following their hearts. She raised her head, took a deep breath, and steeled herself to speak.
“You said—uh—that this is a man’s way with his wife.” She forced herself to look at Moskowitz’s thin moustache so as not to see his watery blue eyes. “But I’m only your intended.”
He sighed. “Please forgive me. You are so beautiful that I lost my head.”
“We’re not even permitted to touch.”
He sighed again, leaned forward as if to take her hand, then pulled himself back. “It will be hard to wait two years.”
Mixed emotions washed over her. Moskowitz didn’t view her as spoiled goods; she still had the chance of helping her family one day. But it meant that she was destined for a lifelong nightmare of despicable acts. Tears came to Batya’s eyes. She must be brave for her family’s sake. For them, she would endure whatever she must.
The syncopated beats of the wheels pounded in Batya’s head. Outside, only the horizon remained steady while villages with onion-shaped church steeples or wooden huts crouching below a hilltop manor house flew by. She should say no more to this man who knew the ways of the world. He shouldn’t regard her as a shrew who badgered him.
Moskowitz rose to retrieve his leather suitcase from the top shelf, withdrew a ledger similar to the one the money changer used, and, to Batya’s relief, busied himself making calculations with a pencil. The Yiddish newspaper he’d bought at the train station lay folded on the seat next to him, and words from the headlines jumped out at her: Factory. Reactionaries. Workers. Czarina. Finance. War. Criminals. Russia. She would have liked to read the newspaper, but since Moskowitz must believe her illiterate like most shtetl girls, she wouldn’t reveal to him that she could read. It would be her secret, one he couldn’t reach or violate.
The train’s chugging lulled her, and she closed her eyes, only opening them when, with screeching wheels and banging axles, the train stopped at a station.
Moskowitz lowered the window and signaled a peddler to approach. He paid for a small packet wrapped in colorful paper, which he handed to Batya.
She wanted to refuse it, but curiosity got the better of her. She peeled back the paper to reveal a dark brown block.
“Bite on it,” Moskowitz said, the kindness in his voice unchanged. “Chocolate.”
Batya took a bite, and a heavenly taste melted on her tongue. It was like nothing she had ever tasted—like spiced honey, but richer. Sweetness spread through the whole of her. If she were an angel, this was what God’s nectar would taste like.
She took another bite, and her awe almost made her forget the man who’d given it to her.
“I’m glad you like it.” Moskowitz’s eyes hooked into hers. “Where we’re going you’ll have chocolate every day.”
At his words, the sweet pleasure turned bitter in her mouth.
Chapter Ten
Two days later they stopped in a big city to wait for the ship to sail. Moskowitz took Batya to a shop where dresses that had already been cut, sewn, and pressed hung in three open armoires. Batya had never imagined that so many dresses, trimmed with lace and ribbons, would have been made without specific customers in mind.
The shop matron eyed Batya. “I have nothing for a child.”
“I’m sure you can make something fit,” Moskowitz said in his pleasant voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got her
e.” He rooted in the armoires and selected three dresses. “Only the best for my princess.”
Batya didn’t know how to react as the woman turned each dress toward her to inspect, their designs so utterly foreign. Even Batya’s Purim costumes had been simple, made of painted newspapers and scraps of materials worn over her own shabby pinafore.
The first dress Batya tried on reached the floor and was made of baby-blue taffeta with a cinched waist and petticoats that bloomed out the bottom like an upside-down kiddush cup. Batya was afraid to move as the taffeta made a rustling noise. The other dresses were blessedly silent, made of fine cotton. One was white, trimmed with a lovely lace, but had a low scooped neckline. Trying it on, Batya’s face burned when she saw in the mirror her upper torso exposed.
“In Buenos Aires, you’ll cut off the long sleeves,” Moskowitz told her. “This dress will be the only thing you’d want to wear in the heat of summer.”
Perhaps rich matrons in America wore dresses that left so much skin exposed. Afraid to raise Moskowitz’s ire, Batya said nothing.
The third dress was bright red and hugged the waistline closely. If such immodest dresses were what American women wore, she must get used to that, too, just as she was learning to allow Moskowitz to do those awful things to her body. On their two nights in the train, he’d climbed onto her berth, and he repeated the visits in the mornings, because of, he said when apologizing, his lack of control in the face of her beauty. Forever this would be the price she must pay in exchange for the life he was promising for her and her family. Batya did not speak as the shop owner bent to pin the hem and seams.