by Неизвестный
My mother returned to her bed and swallowed the medicinal syrup my father offered her. And she took his hand and placed it above her heart, and said, “Thank you.” The drops of syrup trickled one by one on his hand like tears. My mother took a deep breath. “Rise now,” she said, “go and have some dinner.” “I cannot eat,” he replied. Again she urged him to eat until he finally withdrew to the dining-room. And he ate the bread of tears and returned to my mother’s bedside.
Regaining some of her strength, my mother sat up and held his hand a second time. She then had the nurse sent home and instructed my father to tell her not to return. And she lowered the wick in the lamp and lay still. “If only I could sleep,” my father said, “I would do so. But since God has deprived me of sleep, I will sit, if I may, by your side. Should you ask for me I will be here, and if not I will know that all is well with you.” But my mother would not hear of it. So he returned to his room and lay down. He had not slept for many nights and as soon as his head touched the pillow he fell asleep. I too lay down and slept. But suddenly I awoke in alarm. I leapt out of bed to tend to my mother. She lay peacefully in bed, but, ah, she had ceased to breathe. I woke my father up and he cried with a great and exceedingly bitter cry, “Leah!”
My mother rested peacefully on her bed, for her soul had returned to the Almighty. My mother yielded up her soul and on the Sabbath eve at twilight she was borne to the cemetery. She died a righteous woman, on the Sabbath eve.
All seven days my father sat in silence. In front of him was my mother’s footstool, and on it the book of Job and the Ways of Mourning. People I had never seen came to comfort us. Not until the days of mourning had I known there were so many people in our town. Those who came to comfort us suggested my father prepare the headstone. My father, however, remained silent, he didn’t say a thing. On the third day, Mr. Gottlieb arrived. “Here,” he said, “I have brought the epitaph for the headstone.” Everyone stared in surprise, for my mother’s name was formed out of the first letter of each verse and the year of her death was written in every line. Gottlieb then spoke to my father about the stone, but my father barely listened to his words. And so the days of mourning passed.
The days of mourning passed and the year of mourning drew to an end. A somber grief hung over us and lingered that entire year. My father resumed his work, and when he returned from his store he ate his food without a word. And in my misery I said to myself, My father has forgotten me; he has forgotten that I am alive.
Around that time my father stopped reciting the Kaddish, and approaching me he said, “Come, let us go and choose a headstone for our mother.” I put on my hat and gloves. “Here I am, Father,” I answered. My father drew back in surprise, as though noticing for the first time that I was wearing mourning. He opened the door and we left the house.
Once on our way, my father stopped in his tracks and said, “Spring has arrived early.” And he passed his hand over his brow as he spoke. “If spring had not been late a year ago she would still be alive.” My father sighed. We walked on and skirted the town, and my father placed his hand in mine and said, “This way.”
As we approached the outer limits of the town we suddenly came upon an old woman digging in her yard. My father greeted her and said, “Please tell us, good lady, does Mr. Mazal live here?” The woman set aside the spade she had been digging with and answered, “Yes, Mr. Mazal is at home.” My father grasped my hand firmly. “Come, my daughter, let us go in.”
A man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The room was small and pleasant-looking and sheaves of paper were piled on the table. The man’s face was veiled in sorrow. “I have come to ask you to write the epitaph for the headstone,” my father said. And it suddenly dawned on the man who we were, and he covered the sheaves of paper and welcomed us, and he stroked my cheek and said, “You have grown a great deal.” Looking at him I was reminded of my mother, for the way he moved his hands resembled my mother’s gestures. And my father stood before the man; each facing his brother. “Who knew then,” my father said, “that Leah would leave us.” The man’s face brightened for a moment as my father appeared to encompass him in his grief, but little did he know that my father had directed his words at me. The man extracted a sheaf from under the heap of papers and handed it to my father. My father took the sheaf and as he read his tears blotted the tearstains on the page. I stared at the sheaf and the script and was astonished. I had seen such a page and such writing before. Indeed, in seeing something, I have often felt that I have already seen that very thing. Nor were the tearstains foreign to me.
My father read the poem to its end without saying a thing, for his words were held back in his mouth. And he put on his hat and we departed. We passed through the town and arrived home just as Kaila was lighting the lamp. I prepared my lessons and my father read the epitaph for the headstone.
The stonecutter arrived and carved the headstone according to my father’s wishes. And he copied down Akaviah Mazal’s epitaph on large sheets of paper. And my father and I stood on either side of the stonecutter in order to choose the lettering for the headstone. But none of the letters seemed right to my father. And there was a bookshelf in our home, and one day, after sifting in vain through the sheaves of paper, my father went to fetch a book from the shelf and his eyes lit up as he leafed through his books. In those days our home was shrouded in a merciful melancholy. And at that time, as my father searched for the right lettering for the headstone, he all but forgot my mother. And he never grew weary, as a bird collecting twigs for its nest never tires in flight.
Next, the stone engraver arrived, and thumbing through the books and letters, he found a script for the headstone. That was during the first days of spring. The stone engraver set about his work outside. As he struck the stone the letters clustered into rhymes, like bees drawn to the sound of their companions swarming among fieldstones. The headstone was made of marble. And the stone engraver filled in the letters in black. In this way he shaped the letters on the headstone. And he coated the heading in gold. The headstone was finished, and on the appointed day it stood over her grave. My father then rose and went to the cemetery along with the townsfolk to recite the Kaddish. He leaned his head against the stone and grasped Mazal’s hand. And since the time we went to the cemetery to raise the headstone, my father and I have visited her grave daily—apart from the Passover holidays, for during the holy days one must not enter the cemetery.
“Let us go for a walk,” my father said one day during the intermediate days of Passover. I put on my holiday dress and approached him. “You have a new dress,” he said. “It is for special occasions,” I answered as we set out.
Once on our way, I thought to myself, What have I done, for I have made myself a new dress. Suddenly I felt God stirring my conscience and I stood still. “Why have you stopped?” my father asked. “I couldn’t help thinking, why have I put on my holiday dress,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come.” I removed my gloves and rejoiced as a gust of cold air enveloped my hands. We continued on our way.
As we reached the outskirts of town, my father turned off the road in the direction of Mazal’s home. Mazal hurried towards us as we entered. Removing his hat, my father said, “I have searched through all her belongings.” After falling silent for a moment he sighed and conceded, “I have labored in vain, I sought, but did not find.”
My father saw that Mazal did not grasp the meaning of his words. “I thought to publish your poems and I looked through all her drawers, but I could not find a thing.” Mazal shuddered. His shoulders shook, and he didn’t say a word. Shifting from one foot to the other, my father stretched out his hand and asked, “Do you have a copy?” “There is no copy,” Mazal answered. My father drew back, frightened. “I wrote the poems for her, that is why I did not make any copies for myself,” Mazal added. My father sighed and raised his palm to his head. Mazal then grasped the corners of the table and said, “She is dead.” “Dead,” my father answered, and fell s
ilent. The day waned. The servant entered and lit the lamp. My father bade Mazal good day. And as we left, Mazal extinguished the lamp.
1
In those days classes resumed at school and I applied myself to my lessons all day long. In the evening my father returned from his work at the store and we supped together. We sat hushed over our food and neither spoke a word.
“Tirtza, what are you doing?” my father asked one spring evening as we sat by the table. “I am preparing my lessons,” I replied. “And have you forgotten your Hebrew?” he asked. “I haven’t forgotten.” And he said, “I will find you a teacher and you will learn Hebrew.” My father then found me a teacher to his liking and brought him home. The teacher, at my father’s urging, taught me grammar, for as with most of our people, my father believed grammar was the soul of the Hebrew language. The teacher taught me the Hebrew tongue, the rules of logic, and the meaning of “What profit hath man.” I was left breathless. And in addition to grammar, a melamed—a teacher for beginners—instructed me in the Pentateuch and prayer. For my father had me study under the teacher’s guidance subjects that other young girls did not know, while the melamed came and taught me all that they did know. He appeared daily and Kaila would bring him a glass of tea and cream cake. If the evil eye had taken hold of her she would approach the melamed and he would whisper into her ear. And when he spoke, a smile in the depth of his beard glimmered as in a mirror.
How tired I grew of grammar and its endless rules. I could not make head or tails of the meaning of such words as bedingungs buchstaben, sprach werkzeuge. I chattered like a crane a string of meaningless names. Once the teacher exclaimed, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity.” On another occasion he was approving as I parroted whatever he said word for word. I commanded my brain: Onwards! I cried out to my memory: Help me!
One day the teacher arrived while the melamed was still in the house. The teacher waited and waited for the melamed to leave. He, however, did not go. Kaila came from the kitchen as they sat and said to the melamed, “I dreamt a dream and my spirit has been shaken.” “What did you see, Kaila?” he asked. “I saw a small Ashkenazi with a red wool cap on his head.” “What did the Ashkenazi do?” he asked. “He hiccupped and yawned,” she answered, “and since I woke up that morning I can’t stop sneezing.” The melamed stood up, closed his eyes, and spat three times in front of the teacher. Then, all in a whisper, he cast his spell. But before he could finish the teacher leapt to his feet in anger and exclaimed, “Wickedness and fraud! Are you throwing sand in the eyes of an innocent woman?” And the melamed called after him, “Heretic! Are you belittling the customs of Israel?” And in his rage the teacher spun on his heel and stomped out. From that day on, the melamed stayed vigilant for the sound of the teacher’s footsteps. But the teacher stopped coming and the melamed taught me the weekly portions, which we hadn’t studied yet and which we set out to learn now that the teacher came no more. And I remembered his pleasant voice, for a spirit of grace and supplication swept over me.
Summer arrived and the golden grasshopper took to the air. Its strains swelled about us as it spread its thin wings and its coppery belly gleamed in the daylight. Sometimes we heard from within the muffled sound of the house-grasshopper striking its jaws against the woodwork. My heart would then beat feebly, fearing death; for such a sound heralds death.
And in those days I read from the Book of Joshua and Judges, and at that time I found a book among my mother’s books, may she rest in peace. I read two chapters, for I told myself, I will repeat the words my mother read, may she rest in peace. I was dumbfounded, seeing as I understood what was before me. I read on and the stories were familiar to me. Reading my mother’s books, I felt like a little child who in hearing his mother chuckle and chirp suddenly recognizes his own name.
1
School recessed for the summer holidays. And I sat at home and altered my dresses, for they had last been worn before my year of mourning and no longer fitted me. One day, while my father was at home, the doctor called on us. My father was delighted by his visit, for he had lived in the company of doctors during my mother’s lifetime, may she rest in peace. The doctor told my father, “Look at you both sitting indoors while summer beckons.” He grasped my hand and felt my pulse as he spoke, and when he leaned over me I recognized the odor of his clothes. It was just like my mother’s odor when she was ill. “How you’ve grown,” the doctor said. “In a few months I won’t be able to call you child any more.” And he asked me my age and I answered, “I am fourteen.” Then, noticing my dress, he asked, “You also know how to sew?” “Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth,” I replied. The doctor smoothed his mustache with two fingers as he laughed, “A bold girl, and looking for compliments.” Turning to my father, he added, “Her face is the very likeness of her mother’s, may she rest in peace.” My father turned and gazed at me. Kaila then came from the kitchen with marmalade and a pitcher of water. “My, it’s hot today,” the doctor exclaimed, and he opened a window. The streets were silent for want of passersby. We lowered our voices as people do when all about them it is very quiet. The doctor drained his glass of water, covered the marmalade with a bowl, and said, “You have been sitting here in town long enough, now you must find yourselves a place for the summer.” My father nodded, a sign that he would follow the doctor’s advice, even though it seemed his heart was not in the matter.
At that time Mrs. Gottlieb invited me to spend the remaining days of my vacation at her home. My father agreed, saying, “Go now.” But I answered, “How can I go alone?” And he said, “I will come and visit.” Kaila stood dusting by the mirror and winked at me as she overheard my father’s words. I saw her move her lips and grimace in the mirror, and I laughed to myself. Noticing how my face lit up my father said, “I knew you would listen to me.” Then he left.
Once my father had gone I told Kaila, “How strangely you behaved, making faces in the mirror.” Kaila appeared angry. “What’s wrong, Kaila?” I asked. “Have you lost the use of your eyes?” she retorted. “Kaila,” I cried out, “May God be with you, but do speak up, please—and stop tormenting me with all sorts of riddles.” Kaila wiped her mouth angrily and said, “If you do not know, my dove, then just take a good look at your father. Why, he’s nothing but skin and bones and creeps around like a shadow on the face of the earth. When I was polishing his shoes I thought to myself, Where did he collect such mud, and it suddenly dawned on me that his shoes were caked with earth from the cemetery. I also recognized his footprints by her grave, which he visits seven times a day.”
Only then did I fathom Kaila’s thoughts and the meaning of her insinuations in the mirror: if I stayed with the Gottliebs my father would feel obliged to come and see me and would no longer visit the cemetery. I gathered my dresses and folded them in my trunk. And I filled the iron with coals to press two or three blouses before leaving for the Gottliebs. The following day, my father sent my clothes ahead with the young servant, and at noon we ate together, and then rose and departed.
The Gottliebs’ home is on the edge of town, a short distance from the road leading to the train station. A large tract of land lies between it and the rest of the town. The building is a cosmetics factory and its rooms are large and empty. For in constructing the plant, Gottlieb had told himself, I will build my factory large enough to house all my employees, and my factory will be renowned throughout the country. We crossed the town and arrived at the Gottliebs. Mintshi emerged from the garden where she had been picking cherries, and hurried toward us and welcomed us and led us back into the garden. Partchi then came at her summons, carrying two bowls of cherries and Mintshi invited us to sample the freshly-picked fruit.
The day waned and Gottlieb returned from the factory. Partchi set a table out in the garden. The pale blue night cloaked us in its pleasing warmth. The moon stood in a heaven swarming with stars. A songbird fluted its purest song and the train’s whistle sounded from the
station. After the meal Gottlieb asked my father, “Would you care for a smoke?” “In the dark?” I interjected in astonishment. “And why shouldn’t he smoke in the dark?” Gottlieb asked. “I once read that every smoker longs to gaze at the red ashes and the plume of incense rising from his cigarette,” I replied and added, “That is why the blind do not smoke, for being blind they see neither ash nor smoke” “Haven’t you learned yet that books and all their profundities are of little use?” Gottlieb said, laughing. “In my case I first learned to smoke in the dark. Lying on my bed at night, I treated myself to a cigarette as soon as my father fell asleep. You see, I chose to smoke at night because I feared doing so in front of my father during the day. Partchi, bring the cigarettes and cigars, and don’t forget the matches and ashtray.” “If my husband smokes today then it is indeed a good sign,” Mrs. Gottlieb said to my father. Mr. Gottlieb, however, pretended not to hear her words. “Now I will tell you what I have read. In bygone days, if a man smoked a pipe they hung it from his nose, for they said that there was death in the tobacco, and the government dealt harshly with anyone who sold tobacco in the country. Even now, my friends, a worker from my own factory was put behind bars for importing tobacco from a foreign land, for our government, you see, has monopolized the tobacco industry.” Gottlieb was always grumbling about the actions of the government and he had little patience for government employees of any kind.
That night my father did not prolong his visit, for he said, “Tirtza must learn to stay in your company without me.” Mrs. Gottlieb then led me to a small room and kissed me on the forehead and left. The room contained an iron bed, a table, a closet and mirror. I lay on the bed by the window and as a breeze blew through the trees, I fancied I was being cradled in a hammock in the garden. At daybreak fresh rays of light lit up my window. The sun graced the wings of birds trilling from their heights. I jumped out of bed and ran outside to the well, where I splashed my face with spring water. Partchi then called me to the table. There was no joy in the Gottliebs’ home; he would criticize his wife after each meal she prepared. “What’s this I’m eating – straw?” he would exclaim. Since her husband dealt in perfumes, Mrs. Gottlieb went to pains to preserve his sense of smell and avoided cooking anything too spicy. Moreover Partchi, the daughter of Gottlieb’s deceased sister, was not made welcome in their home. Mrs. Gottlieb gave the girl no peace. Mintshi and the girl’s mother had quarreled, and now the daughter was being punished for her mother’s iniquities. And Gottlieb was cross with her, lest it be said his sister’s daughter walked barefoot. Few visitors called on the Gottliebs. Mr. Gottlieb met with his business associates in his office at the factory, and Mintshi refrained from befriending other women from town. In this she resembled my mother, may she rest in peace. When together they had been like the two Austrians who meet outside of town and one says to the other, “Where are you going?” and the other replies, “I’m off to the forest to be alone.” “Why, I also want to be alone,” exclaims the first. “Let’s go together.” Thus I sat by Mrs. Gottlieb’s side, her only companion.