On the way back, she pictured him out with a woman in his droshky. They might visit the same spots that she and Hershel had visited, laugh about the same things. She would be sophisticated, a worldly woman; perhaps she had been to university. Maybe he would tell her about the little grocery clerk in Mosny, the one who was still waiting for him. She would be another story in his repertoire along with Esther Churgin’s beggar and the succubus who claimed the rabbi’s son.
After that Berta’s thoughts grew even darker and she stopped sleeping. Then she was sleeping too much and later she was back to wandering the fields in the early morning. Furious, indignant, wretched, and lost.
IT WAS a warm day and Berta was down at the river, although the water was still too cold to stay in for long. Soon she was wading back out, her toes avoiding the rocks and digging into the fine sand, her body wet and nearly numb, her clean hair streaming down her back. She reached for her towel before lying down on the beach and closed her eyes. She could hear the women by the water who had come down to wash their clothes. Their chatter mingled with the jays fluttering in the oak trees. Off in the distance she heard the low chug of a barge traveling down to the docks, and from the cemetery that lay between the river and the town she could hear the wailing of the mourners at a late-afternoon funeral.
Even though the wailing was faint compared to the lap of the water over the rocks and the distant roar of the rapids farther downriver, it still seeped into her consciousness, soon becoming a prickly source of irritation, a hard bright reminder of her own hopelessness. When it was all she could bear, she got up, put on her clean clothes, tucked the dirty ones under her arm, and followed the path up the slope.
The path led around the perimeter of the cemetery, where she could see the funeral party assembled at the gravesite. They were burying the shul klopfer. There were a few mourners in attendance along with the rabbi and the beadle. The shul klopfer’s son was there too, watching the plain pine box slip into the ground, looking a little lost with his wife’s arm around his waist. A little girl stood next to them toeing the dirt and looking around at Berta, for no other reason than there was nothing else to do.
On the road back to town, Berta met Froy Salanter, the proprietress of the tearoom. Froy Salanter was something of a rebel with her wild frizzy hair and her high-heel lace-up shoes bought special in Kiev. She could afford to be because she had a successful business that sold only new items and a very good string of pearls that secured her place among the best people. For this reason she often spoke to Berta Lorkis, flaunting her friendship with the outcast, disdainful of the gossip that it would undoubtedly encourage.
“Nu, maybe now you will come back to my shop and play a little chess? Now that your partner is back.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your chess partner. That nice young man. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, he is here all right. Arrived about an hour ago.”
Berta was glad she had been forewarned, because now, when she walked into the square and saw Hershel’s droshky tied up outside the grocery, she was able to maintain an air of disinterest. This was fortunate because the shoemaker’s good-for-nothing son, who was planted outside his father’s shop in his usual chair reading a Yiddish paper, actually put it down to watch her. The women at the well, their hair shiny with kerosene, turned in her direction, and the porters playing cards on the bench under the trees looked over at her with interest. With all these eyes on her it was important that she maintain her composure as a quick succession of emotions washed through her: first icy apprehension, then relief at his return, and finally a knotted ball of anger in her stomach.
“He’s back,” Lhaye said in a hurried whisper, when Berta walked through the door to the sound of the jingling bell. “He’s come back to you.”
A yelp of incredulity. “To me? Oh, that’s rich.”
“Shush, he’ll hear you.” She flung a worried look up the stairs. “He asked about you right off. He even wanted to go looking for you, but Mameh said you were bathing. Do you want me to fix your hair?”
“What for?”
“Oh Bertenka . . . don’t be like that. He really wants to see you.”
“And that’s why he stayed away all this time.”
“I’m sure he has an explanation. Don’t be angry with him.”
Berta looked at her sister and batted away a circling fly. “You don’t understand,” she said turning to the stairs. “He’s come to buy wheat, that’s all. I’m just a sideline.”
She didn’t expect the jolt she felt when she saw him standing in the front room with a glass of tea and a plate in his hand, awkwardly searching for a place to set them down. He left them on the side table and came over to her with a look of eagerness that was unmistakable. “Berta . . .” he said, holding out his hand for hers. There was nothing guarded about his greeting.
Ignoring his hand she said, “Reb Alshonsky.”
Her chilly reply produced the effect she wanted. His smile faded and he slowly dropped his hand. The samovar went on bubbling in the corner, giving off its comforting smell of charcoal, while her mother served poppy seed cake on the good plates, of which there were only three left.
She held one out to Berta. “Come have some tea with us, maideleh. Reb Alshonsky was just asking about you.”
“Another time. I have a headache.”
“Nu, a little tea will do you good.”
“I don’t want tea. I want to be alone.”
“Stay with us. This is your favorite.”
“I told you I don’t want any. I’m going to my room.” She turned and left before her mother could object any further.
That night over supper, Hershel told them about a stage show he had seen in Odessa featuring Wondrous Wisarek, the human snake. “I don’t know what kind he was supposed to be. A big one, I suppose . . . maybe a python or an anaconda. He had on a leotard that was covered with glittering scales and he slithered across the stage and up a tree trunk and wound around and around the branch. I don’t know how he did it. It was as if he didn’t have any bones at all. It was really quite amazing.” He took a sip of wine and tried to catch Berta’s eye, but she kept her expression neutral and her eyes averted.
Mameh kept fussing over him. She filled his glass the moment it was empty and gave him the best piece of fish. It infuriated Berta to see her mother behaving like that to a man who had treated her daughter so badly.
After supper, while Lhaye and Mameh were gathering up the dishes, Hershel took Berta aside and asked her if she wanted to come out with him.
“I have to help. I have dishes to do.”
“No, you don’t,” said Mameh, clearing away the plates. “Go with him. It’s all right.”
“Stop nagging me, Mameh. If I wanted to go, I would.” She picked up a platter, pushed past her mother, and went into the kitchen.
Mameh gave Hershel a wan smile. “She’s not herself tonight, Reb Alshonsky. Girls have their days, you know.” She didn’t like discussing monthlies in front of a man, but she was desperate to explain why her daughter was such a meshugeneh.
Later when Mameh and Hershel were settled on the settee and Tateh was in his chair with his Yiddish paper, Hershel told Mameh a story about a man who had goat’s hooves for feet and was cured by a miracle rabbi. She pretended to listen, but she couldn’t keep her mind on the story. For the first time, news from her own house seemed more tragical than anything she could hear from the outside world. Everything was going wrong. Berta was determined to ruin them and drive them deeper into poverty and there was no reasoning with her. Like most young people, she had a head full of chicken feathers and didn’t know the first thing about common sense. Why she didn’t jump at the chance of marrying such a boy, so accomplished and well-mannered, such a choshever mentsh, was baffling to her.
THAT NIGHT Berta woke to what she thought was the sound of the mourners in the cemetery, until she realized that it was in the middle of
the night, during a rainstorm. She lay there listening for the sound and when she heard it again she knew that it was Hershel having another one of his nightmares. She didn’t want to go to him. She wanted to ignore him and go back to sleep, but she could hear him struggling with something awful. So she swung her legs out of bed and walked on tiptoe across the damp floorboards to the door.
Out in the hall the roof was leaking in several places and the water was dripping into the pots her mother had placed throughout the rooms. For an instant the hallway was bathed in a cold blue light and a second later a crack of thunder shook the house.
“Berta . . . ?” He was calling to her from behind the curtain.
She hesitated. “Yes.”
He sat up and shoved aside the curtain. “I was dreaming again. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep.”
“No, wait.” He reached out a hand for her and caught her wrist. “Stay with me for a while.”
“I want to go back. I’m cold.”
He pulled her over to the bed. “Just for a minute. Here, sit here.” He moved over to give her room. “Put your feet up on the bed. It’s warm.”
She stood there on the cold floor uncertain what to do. The water was dripping steadily from the ceiling, splashing out of a nearby pot and seeping into the floorboards. The air was damp and smelled like mildew. After a struggle she sat down on the straw mattress and lifted her feet up off the floor. “What is it?”
“I want to explain about not writing and staying away for so long.”
“What’s there to explain? You have other friends. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“Friends? You mean women?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“It is your business and you’re wrong. There aren’t other women.”
“Then what?”
He watched the water drip into a nearby pot and then pushed himself up on the pillow. “I was in a shtetl.”
“A shtetl?” Her forehead crinkled in confusion. “Why?”
“I was helping people.”
“In a shtetl?
“That’s right.”
“All this time?”
He nodded.
“And what were you doing in this shtetl?”
He pulled the blanket up over his chest. “Educating them, I guess you could call it.”
“A school?”
“Of sorts.”
She stared at him in the dark. Then she shook her head. He was playing with her and she didn’t like it one bit. “I have no idea what you’re talking about and I’m cold. I’m going to bed.” She stood up.
He grabbed her hand again. “No, don’t go yet?”
“Why not?”
“Look, I can’t tell you what I was doing there, but I can tell you why I went.”
She took her hand back but made no effort to leave.
“Please,” he said, “sit down. Give me a chance.”
She looked across the hallway through her bedroom to the little window framed by the white curtains she had made herself. It was a blank square in the dark until another burst of lightning lit it up with the same blue light. Without looking at him, she slowly sank down on the edge of the bed, as far away from him as possible.
He began his story with the girl on the tightrope. He told her about the shoe peddler; his father, the starusta; and all the events that followed. When he had finished she sat there looking at him for some time and then slowly moved into his arms. At first he seemed surprised that she was even in the room with him. His mind was still on that night long ago and it took him several moments to come back to her. When he did, he kissed her and buried his lips in her neck. In a rush of relief she believed that she knew him, that he was a good man, and that she loved him. These were simple thoughts, uncomplicated, but so immense, so grand, that they threatened to overwhelm her. As close as she felt to him, she had to get closer. So she picked up the blankets and climbed in beside him. He rubbed her shoulders and drew her close to his bare chest. His feet found hers and he rubbed them with his instep to warm them. She had entered the nest of a wintering animal. It smelled of sleep and country roads.
They lay with their arms wrapped around each other, listening to the rain and the bony scratching of the bare branches on the roof. He kissed her again and this time his tongue searched out hers. His hands were flat on the small of her back gently guiding her up on top of him. With their breath all around them, they began their nearly silent lovemaking. The fact that they could be caught at any moment and had to stifle the sound of their pleasure only heightened it. Even the quick pain of her first time didn’t dampen the extraordinary sensation of having him inside her, all around her, enveloping her, absorbing her, until she was only vaguely aware of the storm outside and the rustling straw beneath them.
THAT FALL they were married in the groyse shul, the grand synagogue, the largest and most elaborate shul in Mosny. Since Hershel hadn’t asked for a dowry, most of the money the Malkiels had sent to Tateh—what was left after the odd emergency—was put into the wedding. There were flowers, fancy foods, famous musicians from Kiev; even the invitations were printed on linen, with two envelopes, one inside the other and tissue paper separating the pages. Everyone was invited, all the relatives, Aunt Sadie and Uncle Sol, the Rosenthals and the bunch from Smelo: all their friends from the village including the official mourners Aviva Kaspler and her business partner, Yael Schlaifer.
The procession started at the grocery door and proceeded on through the town and down to the Street of Synagogues to the main shul. Old women danced in front of the bridal couple, the klezmor band played a march, and children made a game of running through the crowd to keep up. As the crowd followed the bride and groom into the synagogue, there were audible sighs of relief, since it was a hot day and the interior of the stone shul was cool. The center aisle was decorated with swags of roses that looped from pew to pew. Nobody in Mosny had ever seen anything like it. Aviva Kaspler whispered to Yael Schlaifer that she thought it looked Christian and Yael Schlaifer was inclined to agree. They were both wearing their customary black, although, as a concession to the wedding, they each wore a bunch of silk flowers at their waist.
That night everybody gathered in the shalash, the three-sided enclosure that Tateh had built against the side of the store where the banquet and dancing were to take place. There was a platform built on one side for the orchestra and another on the other side for the bride and groom. All around the perimeter were tables and benches for the guests. There were delicacies on the banquet tables that no one had ever tasted in their entire life. Little bits of heaven they said, although some refused to touch them and whisperings of traif moved from table to table, especially among the older guests.
Moses Kumanov and his klezmorim had not been hired to play at the wedding. Once the guests had gathered in the shalash, the musical duties were turned over to a small orchestra that had been brought all the way from Kiev. Reb Kumanov was philosophical about it and was heard to say that it was perfectly fine with him. “A bride has a right to choose her own music.” But then in a stage whisper he added, “Although, what kind of music these fellows are playing is anybody’s guess. You can’t dance to it. No froelichs, no volochel, no bolgar. Certainly no kazatska. Forget Jewish,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “it is not even Russian.” Some said it was from Germany, and like everything from Germany, it was well put together but lifeless.
The oddest thing about the evening was that there was no badchen, nobody to tell funny stories and jokes and make up rhymes about the guests and the presents they brought. Nessie Laiser, Yaffa Hamerow, and the milkman’s wife were disappointed by this and were complaining to the official mourners when Berta drifted over. Ordinarily, they would have a few choice words to say about her too, once she was out earshot. But this time they were so taken by her radiance, her beatific smile, and the love that poured out of her for Hershel Alshonsky, for the guests and musician
s, even for them, that it left them speechless.
Yaffa Hamerow watched Berta glide over to the next table. Nessie Laiser said nothing and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Aviva Kaspler murmured something about how in love they were and wasn’t that fine. Yael Schlaifer said nothing. A memory had percolated up from her own wedding and took her by surprise. It was just a fleeting image of her hand in Yakov ’s as they walked out of the synagogue into the sunshine. Pausing at the top of the steps for a kiss, he whispered something that she couldn’t quite remember. Maybe he told her they would always be together or they would have many children or he would always strive to make her happy. It didn’t matter, because two years later there was a cholera epidemic and she buried him in a plot overlooking the river. It was her first funeral.
Part Two
THE WHEAT MERCHANT’S WIFE
Chapter Six
December 1913
TO THE casual traveler, Pavel Ossipovich Lepeshkin looked relaxed. He was seated in the dining car at a table laid for tea. Just inches from his fingertips stood a small, three-tiered silver tray of forgotten finger sandwiches and pastries. A cold cup of tea sat on a sturdy saucer stamped with the crest of the Nord Express. The cream in the cup was congealing, the sandwich bread was growing stale, and the pastries were looking decidedly gray.
Staring out the window at the Alexandrovo station, Pavel looked like a young gentleman dulled by train travel on his way home from school for the holidays. But his face was beaded with sweat and nearly the color of the tablecloth and his hands were trembling. His blond hair was swept back off his forehead, his nose was flat and led down to a pointy chin, and his intense brown eyes hardly seemed to blink as he stretched to look up and down the track. He resembled a burrowing animal caught halfway out of his den by the screech of an owl and the thunder of flapping wings.
The Little Russian Page 9