VII
* * *
All these family upheavals have sapped Rivkah Keismann’s strength, compelling her to seek consolation and advice from Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin. She first thought of sending a letter with one of the farmers travelling to Motal, but as she struggled to put her thoughts into words she decided that, in her old age, there was no need for her to make advance arrangements for a five-minute face-to-face conversation with the honourable rabbi.
* * *
She travelled into town on the wagon of one of their goyische neighbours, Tomasz Grabowski, who grows potatoes for a living. He made her sit above a rickety wheel, purposely she thought – but intentional or not, she arrived in Motal with a sore back all the same. The wagon inched its way along, because today of all days, he had decided to carry a double load of potatoes. Rivkah is not one to keep her thoughts to herself. “You young folk are in such a rush. Things that worked perfectly well yesterday are of no use to you today. So you’re a businessman now, eh, Grabowski, and at my expense?”
Whenever she reaches the outskirts of the town, Rivkah Keismann is appalled by the filth and by the crudeness of its inhabitants. Rotting fruit lies strewn by the roadside like carcasses, and frenzied flies crash into her face like the sparks of a bonfire. The identical wooden houses are so quiet that one might think they were abandoned. The stench rising from the sewers is intolerable. This lot, these town-dwellers, who call themselves cultured, cannot even place their outhouses at a decent distance from their homes. And would you just look at their wells? They reek of mould and mildew. These enlightened men go out to taverns or discuss plays performed in Minsk, while dysentery spreads in their own back yards. Disgusting.
Rivkah marches towards the synagogue, a modest two-storey building. She knocks on the rabbi’s office door and, without receiving an answer, walks in. The office is empty, and Rivkah is unsurprised to see that there are no holy books open on his desk. She has always suspected that Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin prospers thanks to his pragmatism rather than his erudition. His predecessors overflowed with knowledge of the Torah, even as they let their bodies wither. Their dedication to the faith, to the immersion of their minds in study, was so great that they forgot to feed themselves. But this one? This one roves around Motal all day long. The pleasure he takes in his job is evident from his rotund figure. He assiduously collects his dues from the community; he never refuses even the donations of widows and orphans. It is rumoured that, on top of the state tax, Motal has the so-called Lazer Tax. Pay it late and you’ll wish you’d died in a pogrom. Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin will first haunt debtors with his piercing gaze, then he will corner them and start telling them everything about the assimilationists in Berlin and the young men who go to New York or Palestine in droves to chase futile dreams. And why do they do this, one might ask? Because the synagogue lacks funds and the community is losing its cohesion. After that, Reb Halperin ambushes his congregants at shul, in front of their relatives and neighbours, publicly demanding to know whether they’ve made their donation this month. The people of Motal know all too well that they had better pay in advance, lest they find themselves having to shell out the money after a public shaming.
But Rivkah Keismann wasn’t born yesterday. She could see through Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin even if she were blind. Over the years she has developed an arrangement with him: cheese in exchange for conversation. He can plump himself up with Keismann-made cheese, the best in Grodno County, and she can enjoy the attention of the head of the community. In the spirit of this arrangement, she now puts down the basket of cheese she has brought along and sits on one of the oakwood chairs.
Indeed, His Honour walks in two minutes later in the company of two men she has never seen before, neither of whom strikes her as a local. One is leaning on a peculiar cane and dragging a leg, maybe because of a crack in his spine. The other is wearing the elegant clothes of a foreign intellectual.
“Mrs Keismann!” The rabbi exclaims.
“Yes, as you can see.” Rivkah Keismann says.
“I hope you are well, I know that these are hard times. Is there any news from the young Mrs Keismann?”
Every time, the rabbi’s indiscretion surprises her anew. He has not even introduced her to the men by his side, and yet he is already talking about her problems in their presence.
“What a tragedy,” he adds quietly, with a glance at the two strangers.
“God is watching over us,” Rivkah says. She came to him to be consoled and now she finds herself consoling him. “I can’t complain.” At this point, she notices that the intellectual man is translating everything she says into Polish for the benefit of the limping man. Very odd. Since when did the rabbi start cavorting with gentiles?
“Of course he is,” the rabbi mutters. “I mean, thanks be to God . . . Anyway, allow me to present these two distinguished gentlemen. They have wandered in the wilderness for forty years and now they have returned to the Promised Land. Do you know who they are?”
“Moses and Aaron?”
“Akim and Prokor.”
“Akim and Prokor?” Rivkah is taken aback by these strange, frighteningly Polish names.
“Please don’t jump to conclusions, Mrs Keismann, these two righteous brothers were conscripted into the Czar’s army when they were children and their original names were taken away from them. They served in the army for four decades. One has forgotten his mother tongue and the other turned his back on the commandments. But now, thanks to God, they stand firm by virtue of the faith that kept burning in their souls with its eternal flame.”
Rivkah Keismann tries to recall the names of the boys abducted from Motal forty years ago. Apart from Zizek, the only children that come to her mind are the Avramson brothers, Pesach and Motl.
“They are not from here,” the rabbi assures her. “They are from Vitebsk. Our Akim and Prokor are none other than Avremaleh and Pinchasaleh Rabinovits.”
“Rabinovits?” Rivkah wonders at this suspiciously common name. “I don’t know any Rabinovitses in Vitebsk.” This is quite true: she does not know anyone from Vitebsk, Rabinovits or otherwise. And yet, she is making all of them uneasy, especially the polyglot maskil, the intellectual, who looks particularly hostile.
“Unfortunately their families have rejected them,” the rabbi swiftly goes on. “They have imposed a senseless, unjust sentence. Do you know the secret to the survival of our small community? Do you, or do you not, Mrs Keismann? So, I will tell you. We in Motal are a community that is small and tightly knit. As it is written, ‘all of Israel vouch for one another’. Pinchasaleh has pledged to found a yeshiva in three years’ time that will rival those of Minsk and Vilna. This is the dawn of a new era for Motal, Mrs Keismann. A new era!”
The rabbi’s last words clarify many things at once for Rivkah Keismann. Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin can already see himself running a prestigious yeshiva, that much is obvious. But there is one thing that makes no sense to her: regardless of whether they were or were not snatched from their beds as innocent boys, what business do they have coming here now? The names Pinchasaleh and Avremaleh Rabinovits could not be more incongruous. They made more sense as Akim and Prokor. Pinchasaleh’s eyes are darting in all directions and he is clearly uncomfortable with the idea of his Jewish identity. He must have been a handsome and proud man in the past, but now he is bent and subdued. His physical disability has clearly spread from his leg to take over his entire demeanour. She thinks that she can detect a waft of alcohol coming from him too, zisse bronfen, a liqueur of some sort. If he was trained for life as a soldier, why not remain a soldier? Why dredge up murky childhood memories? Avremaleh seems like a lost cause too. It doesn’t look as if he wants to be back in the Jewish fold at all. He cannot hide his contempt for his surroundings, and there’s not a shred of excitement on his face of the kind you would expect from someone returning home after a long absence. So who can they be, these two? It is
unclear, and, what is more, they do not seem to be the sort of men with enough money to finance a grand yeshiva. On the other hand, Rivkah Keismann has more pressing problems on her mind right now. She must speak with Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin, after which the honourable rabbi can attend to his own matters, whatever they might be. She therefore turns her back on the strangers and politely clears her throat.
The rabbi, however, does not ask the gentlemen to wait outside. Instead, he explains to them that Mrs Keismann has travelled a long way to consult with him about a great catastrophe that has befallen her family.
“Her daughter-in-law, Fanny Keismann, has disappeared. What a tragedy!”
Rivkah is incensed. What do they think they’re doing, making conversation at her expense?
“Fanny Keismann?” Akim asks in surprise, looking at his friend Prokor.
“Yes!” The rabbi’s face lights up. “This is her mother-in-law, Mrs Rivkah Keismann, who has come over from the village. People flock here from all across the region, you know, for my counsel. Just look at this basket,” he goes on excitedly. “You’ve never had such fine cheese in your life!”
“Cheese.” Akim translates for Prokor.
“Cheese made by Natan-Berl!” the rabbi says, blissfully.
Now he has crossed the line. Not only is the rabbi wasting her time, he also intends to waste the fruit of her labour on these two nobodies. She did not take the trouble to come here to offer charity to all and sundry. If they want cheese, let them buy it.
“Well, I can see that the rabbi is busy,” Rivkah Keismann announces, and gets up to leave.
Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin knows better than to let Rivkah Keismann leave his office disappointed, so he hurries to block her way, grovelling in repentance. He asks the gentlemen to wait outside for a few moments, suddenly focused and alert, finally awakened from his daydream about the lavish yeshiva Avremaleh and Pinchasaleh have pledged.
“Your honour,” Rivkah whispers, “I fear for my son’s well-being.”
“Of course, of course,” the rabbi says, nodding. “This is a terrible mess. Is he not well?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mrs Keismann pulls out a handkerchief. “And it is only getting worse.”
“Why doesn’t your son come to see me?” The rabbi peeks at his watch, his ears pricked to catch anything that might be happening outside the door. “He will find remedy in the warm embrace of the Motal congregation.”
“In the meantime, he finds solace in the company of the ladies of Upiravah. They bring him cake and pie all day long.”
The rabbi chokes. “Shiksas? Non-Jewish women?”
“They’d be willing to convert for Natan-Berl,” Rivkah wipes away a tear. “I don’t care anymore. I am exhausted. Look at me. I’d be better off dead.”
The rabbi jumps up from his chair and starts to pace nervously around the room, his thoughts lost somewhere between Akim and Prokor, Natan-Berl and the shiksas. He passes his hand between his heart and forehead, letting it climb up and slide down his bushy beard.
“But this is inconceivable,” he says at last. “Natan-Berl is still married!”
“A widower, you mean.”
“A w-widower?” the rabbi stutters. “But what . . .? How . . .?”
“There’s no need to be generous, Your Honour, you don’t have to protect me from the truth. I am not a little girl. I have known many of Motal’s rabbis in my day, but none of them were as immersed in the life of the congregation as you are. There is no point in hiding from me what everybody knows.”
“Who knows what? Everybody knows? But—”
“—but there is always hope,” she says, anticipating his words. “Even so, everybody understands that my daughter-in-law has been abducted and killed by a brute, and she will never ever return to be the mother of her children.”
“But the Blessed Holy One is watching—”
“—the Blessed Holy One is watching over us,” Rivkah finishes. “I do not doubt it. Of course, this righteous woman will rest in peace. But, in the meantime, the village women are taking advantage of my son’s despair, and I am sure that one of them will end up living in my house. I am tired, your honour, and if it wasn’t for Mende Speismann who has come to my aid to take care of my family, there’s no knowing what would have become of us.”
“Mende Speismann is a pious woman,” the rabbi agrees.
“Only a widow can understand a widower. You should see these two together. A match made in Heaven.”
“A widow? An agunah, an abandoned woman, you mean.”
“Your honour, please, I am not a child. I hear what everybody is saying.”
“What are they saying?” the rabbi asks with concern, still pacing around his office and glancing at the crack in the door to make sure that the gentlemen are still waiting.
“Mende is miserable, God help her, bearing the brunt of her husband’s shame,” Rivkah Keismann says, mournfully. “First he was seen in the company of anarchists, then people said he frequents sheigetz taverns, and most recently they heard that he had enrolled in the university. Unfortunately, the ‘student’ is studying the wrong religion, cleaving to misguided beliefs and embracing heretical ideas. ‘Jesus and Moses are one,’ he squeals on the streets of Minsk; he swims stark naked in the Svislach and hands out pamphlets filled with nonsense to strangers.”
How on earth did she come up with that? The Devil knows. But, once uttered, these words become true as true can be.
Rivkah Keismann bursts into tears. “Reb Moishe-Lazer Halperin, please tell me: would you really want him to return to Motal? Is Mende Speismann still bound by her marriage, or is she a widow and are her children fatherless? Your Honour had better think about these matters seriously. As far as the people of Motal are concerned, Zvi-Meir, the devil, is dead and buried. And even if he stood right in front of them alive and well, they would say Kaddish in his memory to his face. Instead of worrying about the dead, Your Honour should leave your comfortable chamber and visit us country Jews. There is an unhappy widower, and a righteous widow, the sister of the late Fanny, may the Almighty avenge her death. The two of them, Natan-Berl and Mende, innocent lambs that they are, will face catastrophe without the rabbi’s guidance: they can either succumb to the depravity of Sodom and Gomorrah or enjoy a consecrated marriage. We Jews are accustomed to the commandment of yibum, are we not?”
“Marriage? Yibum?” The rabbi is perplexed. “The Torah given to us at Sinai does not—”
“The Torah was given at Sinai to men and women alike. If a brother can marry his sister-in-law, then a sister can marry her brother-in-law.”
“Mrs Keismann!” The rabbi gasps for air. “I’m begging you, please don’t—”
“Of course, I will not say a thing, time is not pressing. Although I will consider it the rabbi’s fault if one of the dearest sons of the congregation marries some Magdalena or Maria, Heaven forfend! I’d be better off dead.”
“I shall visit the village as soon as possible,” says the rabbi, panic-stricken. “I shall speak with both of them.”
“The sooner, the better,” Rivkah says, getting to her feet, her visit over. “And, naturally, you didn’t hear a thing from me.”
“Naturally,” says the rabbi, accompanying her to the door. “In strictest confidence.”
Rivkah Keismann knows that the next time Natan-Berl hears people talking about his wife, he will be informed that she was either abducted by Zizek or devoured by a bear. At first he might react with violence. Indeed, the rage her son hides behind his silence is without bounds. But in due course, he will come to realise that his children cannot remain orphans and that he should marry a woman who will become their mother, at which point she, Rivkah Keismann, will have peace and be able to leave this world at last.
VIII
* * *
People say: Rivkah Keismann always makes everything abou
t her. The truth is, Rivkah Keismann is the last person on earth to be concerned about Rivkah Keismann. She is of no consequence. All she cares about is her family.
People say: there’s no remedy for the tragedy that has befallen the Keismann and Speismann families. The truth is, Rivkah has discovered that trouble plus trouble does not always equal double trouble, but sometimes a solution. Trouble number one: a pretty, modest woman, whose only fault is wanting to be a mother and a wife, haplessly ends up in the arms of Zvi-Meir the rascal. Trouble number two: a mother of unsound mind who left behind a devoted husband and five children is said to have been devoured by a wild beast, if not worse. And the solution is: Keismann has what Speismann is lacking, and Speismann has what Keismann is lacking. Perhaps all’s well that ends well.
People say that only in Rivkah Keismann’s mind could this count as a “solution”.
The truth is, nobody is saying that this solution is perfect. Natan-Berl has yet to demonstrate any feelings whatsoever for his sister-in-law, and Mende is far from feeling at home in his house.
The grandmother tells her: “Come over here, sit with us, rest a little.” But Mende behaves as though she were their servant. She feels guilty if she does not keep busy.
The grandmother tells her: “We have let you into our house, you’re always welcome to stay with us. How long will you keep on behaving as if you have to repay a debt?”
“Have you finished?” Mende Speismann asks, before clearing her plate.
* * *
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