“Do you know the difference between a captain and a col-onel?” Adamsky asks, and spits out of the side of his mouth. “A captain doesn’t cry like a baby.”
* * *
Just before dawn, a wagon leaves the tavern stables, pulled by two horses. Not too quickly, though, it mustn’t look as though its passengers are on the run.
Patrick Adamsky and Fanny Keismann are sitting on either side of the driver’s seat, which is occupied by Zizek. The three of them have not exchanged a word since their escape. Fanny was ambushed in her bed, but ended up victorious; Adamsky betrayed her, but then came to the rescue. And Zizek, who until very recently had been the main object of Novak’s pursuit, was once more beaten, shackled and then rescued. In the back of the cart lies another man, Shleiml Cantor by name. He lived through the night’s drama and horror either drunk or passed out or asleep, managing to squeeze in a performance of “Adon Olam” nonetheless. Now the monotonous trotting of the horses and the jolting of the wagon seem to perfectly complement his sound sleep, and his snores rival the clatter of the horses’ hooves. The three of them turn to look back at the hazan, and even though they do not admit it, their hearts are joyful, if only for a fleeting moment.
Motal
I
* * *
The Jews know, and Mende Speismann is no exception, that the body can be chiselled with very little effort: all one has to do is pass up an extra portion here and avoid sweets there, and before long, one’s clothes will loosen at the waist and ruffle in the wind. It is the never-ending work on one’s soul, God help her, that is so daunting. How can one’s faith in the King of Kings not wane in hard times? How can one resist the temptation of gossip and slander, lashon hara, or suppress heretical thoughts? It follows that, since we must choose our battles of the will with care, it is better to indulge the body with a sugar lump when it wants one, and to rigorously prod a soul that is too lazy to pray into action instead. For this reason, the Chosen People do not take it upon themselves to regularly scale mountains, they rarely stride through fields and pastures, and they stretch their limbs only once a day, in the evening. In their eyes, scholars can uproot mountains with the power of their minds, and the greatest warrior of all is he who conquers his own urges. They neglect corporeal concerns for the benefit of lifting up the soul, because it is clear to them that a healthy soul in a sick body is preferable to a sick soul in a healthy body. That is all there is to it.
And yet, from the moment that Mende Speismann learns of the disappearance of her younger sister Fanny, she can no longer bear to lie in bed. After reading the shocking advertisement in Hamagid, she looked down at her doughy thighs, her swollen ankles, her fleshy feet and bulbous toes. Mende Speismann has always urged herself to remember that the body comes second. If, God forbid, she should lose an arm, she would still be Mende Speismann. But if she stopped honouring the Sabbath, what would become of her? She would be as miserable as the goyim, a soulless animal without meaning or purpose.
Still, something about her body is disturbing her, to the point where she cannot escape her concerns in spiritual reflection. Her legs feel as if they have crossed a strange threshold, beyond which they are no longer her legs. Her swollen feet, and the thighs that ache beneath her flabby stomach – to whom do they belong? The rotting lump of flesh she is looking at right now cannot possibly be hers. The weakness of her limbs somehow doesn’t seem to fit who she is. She must be looking at the body of a helpless child, certainly not her body. Who are you, Mende Speismann? With all due respect for the humiliation she felt after Zvi-Meir’s disappearance, it should never have overridden other, more important concerns, like her children, for example, or helping her sister. The Keismann family clearly needs her right now. Natan-Berl and the children must be overwhelmed and stricken with grief, while she continues to lie in indolence. What a disgrace.
For the first time in months, Mende gets to her feet. A mechaye. Her head spins and her body is shaky, but she does not retreat to the safe haven of the bed and instead leans against the wall until the storm subsides. Feeling stable again, she examines her room with disgust. Like a king returning from a campaign to find his realm in shambles, she calls, in a ringing tone, “Yankele! Mirl!”
Squirrel-like feet patter in the next room. Yankele and Mirl were playing on the kitchen floor, and a sudden terror makes them hide beneath the table, as they have been instructed to do if they hear galloping horses. Rochaleh and Eliyahu place themselves in front of the children, she petrified and he uncertain. Authoritative as a field marshal, Mende sweeps into the kitchen, wearing a turquoise tasselled dress that she does not remember owning. The elderly couple exchange puzzled looks.
“Don’t you ever read the newspapers?” Mende demands. “Can’t you read? Don’t you ever talk to the neighbours? Have you been hiding in your own home?”
“What dome?” Eliyahu shouts, tilting his ear towards her.
“Home!” Rochaleh shouts back.
“Why aren’t you at Natan-Berl’s in Upiravah right now?” Mende says. “Why didn’t you tell me about my sister?”
“Why didn’t we tell you what?” Rochaleh says, defensively. “You said yourself that she’s in Kiev.”
“I am aware that you have no interest in the House of Israel, that you couldn’t care less about what happens in your own town. That’s your decision. But now you want to alienate yourselves from your own family? My poor sister is gone, Heaven help us. Vanished. God knows where she is. She left behind five miserable children and a husband in shock.”
“In stock?” Eliyahu is puzzled.
“In shock!” growls Rochaleh, and turns to stave off Mende’s accusations. “A tragedy indeed, but we knew nothing of it, I promise you.”
“But how can we stay here when we’re needed elsewhere?” Mende says with consternation. “Come, let’s gather provisions for the journey; we must take them good food and prepare to stay there as long as necessary. We’ll help them run the household. Children!” She summons Yankele and Mirl who are still scrutinising her from their hiding place under the table. “Are you going to get dressed today or not?”
Rochaleh and Eliyahu look at one another. Their first instinct is to oblige. But then they recall their own poverty, and realise that they were about to indulge a preposterous madwoman, who is still yelling at them. What does she mean by “good food”? When they have nothing but potatoes and carrots? What provisions will they take to the Keismanns – mouldy bread? As early as their negotiations over the terms of their son’s marriage to Mende Schechter, the daughter of Meir-Anschil Schechter, the parents knew that they should expect trouble. They had heard the stories from Grodno. They knew about Mende’s mother, sick with melancholy, and her sister – die vilde chaya – terrified them, but they succumbed all the same to the entreaties of the slippery matchmaker, Yehiel-Mikhl Gemeiner. He spoke highly of Mende and her singular qualities, and praised the education she had received from Sondel Gordon, the tailor. The only thing she shared with her sister, he said, was the generous dowry that came with her.
Well, that had come to nothing. Their son had squandered the dowry in his failed pedlar’s business, the sister was and remained mad, and now it seems that their daughter-in-law is going the same way.
“Cook for them?” Rochaleh scoffs. “You cook for them. And you had better take care of your children yourself, instead of venting your anger at your elders and betters.” Rochaleh points at the vegetable bowl with only a shrivelled potato on display. “There are your provisions, unless you can go back to the river and return with three roubles in your pocket again. What were you doing with such a sum, anyway? I’ve restrained myself from asking this question for an entire month. Where did you get it?”
According to their usual rules of engagement, Mende is now supposed to take a tongue-lashing from her mother-in-law. But Mende ignores Rochaleh. The old woman’s fury chatters in the background like an orchestra of cricket
s. Mende focuses her attention on the wrinkly potato lying in splendid isolation. Two small leaves are emerging from its centre. Against all logic, this lifeless rock is sprouting new life, and Mende delicately runs her fingers along the tiny leaves. She senses life throbbing everywhere. A great miracle has happened here, and she crawls under the table to embrace her children.
“My darlings,” she says, now in tears. “Mamme is here.”
The two children weep with their mother, and then laugh with her. Rochaleh and Eliyahu watch the trio’s sobs and laughter, dumbstruck: they have not witnessed a scene like this in a very long time, especially not one prompted by a wrinkled old spud. They look at each other and wonder how best to distance their grandchildren from the corrupting influence of their deranged mother.
“To the market,” Mende cries to her children, “quickly, before everything closes!” And she shoves the potato into her dress pocket.
“What will you buy without a rouble to your name?” her mother-in-law says. “Leave the children here, spare them the disgrace!” But Mende is already skipping to the door with her two children, and they make their way to the market like a trio of sprightly gazelles.
II
* * *
It is a sweltering summer day in Motal, one of those days when a Jew proves his faith even with the clothes he wears, as he is reminded that religious faith and comfort are often in conflict. After all, had the Blessed Holy One commanded His people to glutton on food, become inebriated in public and openly fornicate, the entire human race would have been devout followers of the Torah.
Even though the exertion shortens her breath, Mende skips past the houses, a child grasping each hand. At first, she thinks it better to stay on the shaded footpath, but her feet lead her to the main road. She spots the church spire and heads towards it. Her son Yankele struts along, looking as proud as a peacock. On her other side, her daughter Mirl is ill at ease, she has a shadow on her face like someone trying to recall something important.
“Do not worry, daughter,” Mende says, sensing that in spite of the hardships they’ve had to endure they are now walking as one. “Our family must be strong in order to help those who suffer.”
My poor sister, Mende thinks. Is she a lunatic now? Maybe she got up in her sleep, walked off, moonstruck, and lost her way? Or perhaps she has always been miserable with Natan-Berl but too proud to share her secret?
The latter possibility seems the more likely. There has always been something about her sister’s life that has never been completely compatible with what one might call “a family”. Natan-Berl is – how should she put this – an ignorant yishuvnik, a graceless, cumbersome bear, whose dull eyes prove that silence is not necessarily golden. He protects his flocks from peril and disease well enough, and he is an accomplished cheesemaker, but the truth is that Mende has always believed that the general enthusiasm for his products has been exaggerated. Cheese is cheese, and it remains cheese even if you step on it. The nuances that connoisseurs marvel at are mere trifles blown out of proportion. After all, we are speaking of matured milk, Heaven help us. At least Zvi-Meir had a certain hidden sagacity about him, a certain keenness of mind. If anyone asked her sister why she liked Natan-Berl, her answers could amount to no more than “milking” or “seasoning”. In her heart of hearts, Mende knows that she has played a part in her sister’s disappearance. Instead of dissuading Fanny and saving her from a senseless marriage, she kept quiet and enabled her sister’s nightmarish choice.
But now she will help Fanny, and she will not be deterred by a lack of money. Mende resolutely comes to a halt before Simcha-Zissel Resnick’s shop, as the church spire looms above them. The man is, as ever, leaning against the counter half-asleep, running his fingers along his tzitzit like a placid child. Most shopkeepers sit in their back sheds studying the Torah, while their wives, righteous women that they are, work at the counter to sanctify their husbands’ ascent up the ladder of wisdom. At weddings, the women sing:
Cobblers’ wives must learn to hammer nails,
Tailors’ wives must work under lamps,
Carters’ wives must tar the boards,
And butchers’ wives must haul the meat.
But this Simcha-Zissel character, his wife came to learn, falls sound asleep as soon as he lays his eyes on the Holy Scripture. In the early days of their marriage, this infuriated her. “Shame on you, Simcha-Zissel, sitting idly while your wife breaks her back.” He pleaded his defence: “My darling, how can a man study all day long without closing an eyelid every now and then?” Over the years, his wife has realised that Simcha-Zissel Resnick will never join the learned elite, and has decided that he may as well spend the time half-awake at the counter instead. Alas, one cannot remain standing all day, and, as he leans on the counter, once in a while one eye will droop while the other stays alert, lest Mrs Resnick should ambush his moment of sweet slumber.
In walks Mende and clears her throat. Startled awake, the butcher sighs with relief when he realises that it is not his wife standing in front of him. He sweeps his beard aside and thunders, “What can I get you, madam? Chicken?” And without waiting for an answer, he seizes the nearest knife and begins to cut slices from an unsolicited sausage.
Now that he has proved that he is awake, he glances at her, but fails to recognise her face. After another glance at her children, he sweeps the sausage scraps from the counter and charitably offers them on a sheet of newspaper. He wonders which cruel tailor might have donated such a tight dress to this poor, plump woman. Sights like these make Simcha-Zissel Resnick all the more convinced that the line between charity and abuse is often blurred. This is why he never gives the needy anything more than leftover sausage. If a beggar were to taste a decent cut but once, he could go mad thinking about all the flavours his life will never have.
But this relentless woman does not seem in the least satisfied. She is still in his shop and wasting his time. Typical of a beggar – they always confuse generosity with weakness. They will demand more and more from him, and if he refuses he instantly becomes a pinchpenny; if he acquiesces, he will instantly become a philanthropist whom they will never stop exploiting.
“Much obliged,” he says to the lady and her two urchins. Their odour is intolerable, and the children’s scrawny bodies are a depressing sight.
“Simcha-Zissel Resnick,” the woman says, “it’s me.”
Me? What does this lady beggar mean by “it’s me”?
“It’s me, Mende Speismann.”
Mende Speismann. Simcha-Zissel Resnick has not forgotten her. Since her last visit to his shop, she has often appeared in his dreams, sitting in the shack behind his house, biting into strips of red meat he has prepared for her. In his dreams, they are lying naked on mounds of raw meat, their teeth dripping blood and their appetites insatiable. Possessed, they devour each other, blood runs down Mende’s frantic face as her canines sink into his skin. Once they have finished dining, they lie in each other’s arms, fast asleep. Only this morning, Simcha-Zissel Resnick woke up in a state of excitement after dreaming of a frolic with Mende Speismann, and now this wretch says that Mende Speismann is her name. But the name alone is not enough to merge the Mende of his fantasies with the one standing here. It cannot be.
“Mende? It can’t be Mende, only a month ago she was . . . and then in the river . . . they said that Zizek . . . I didn’t know that—”
“Simcha-Zissel Resnick,” Mende says, “you may be surprised to know that I am fine, but my sister is in trouble, God help her.”
“Your sister?” The butcher is struggling to keep up with this overabundance of events. “Who? What happened?”
“No-one knows. But it’s a serious business. Make haste! I must set out for the village before dark.”
“Make haste?” says the butcher, still at sea.
“Pack up some of your juiciest cuts, please. Five hungry children are waiting.”
>
The butcher hesitates. Subduing his wild fantasies, he has managed to identify something of Mende’s features in the flabby face before him, but he cannot yet decide if she really has transformed from beggar to customer. He expects Mende to start searching in her pockets for roubles, but she stands there glaring at him, imperious.
“Simcha-Zissel Resnick!” she shouts. “I can see that the honourable gentleman is taking his time. Perhaps he expects payment? Perhaps he is forgetting his own debts. Does Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin know how he took advantage of a woman in distress when she came to his shop on her birthday?”
“Took advantage? But you . . .”
“Does Mrs Resnick know how he lit the stove in the shack behind his shop, into which he lured said woman?”
“Lured? This is preposterous!”
“The cuts of meat, if you please, Mr Resnick, and do not imagine for one minute that they will pay off your debt.”
At this very opportune moment, Mrs Resnick appears.
“Your debt?” She hastens to her husband’s side and glances at Mende. “What debts are you discussing with this woman? Are we in debt now?”
Like any other Jewish man, Resnick knows that a wife has a way of taking the sting out of her husband’s authority. All she has to do is let her face turn sour and cease talking – both things he cannot forbid her from doing – and the house will be awash with gloom. When the wife is happy, Resnick knows, the household is happy; whereas the husband could be either happy or sad and no-one would care. So he turns to his wife with a guilty air and tells her about the miracle that has just occurred. This “woman” he is talking to is none other than Mende Speismann, risen from the dead. It is his duty to give her the choicest cuts of meat, how could he do anything else?
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