by Неизвестный
I sat peacefully at home. I did not join the company of other young girls, nor did I send letters of greeting. One day, however, the postman arrived with a letter for me. And the letter was written in Hebrew by a young man called Landau. “As the errant wayfarer raises his eyes to the godly stars on a bleak night,” its author wrote, “so do I now dispatch my letter to you, fair and resourceful maiden.” My teacher Segal appeared for our lesson as I was reading the letter. “I have received a letter written in Hebrew,” I said. “I knew you would,” he replied. Segal then told me the young man was a pupil of his and that he was the son of one of the village tenants.
Eight days passed and I forgot the letter. One day I left for the college and caught sight of a woman and a young man. Seeing the young man I was certain that he was the author of the letter. Later in the day I told my father and he laughed, saying, “The son of villagers.” But I thought to myself, Why has the young man behaved this way and why this strange encounter? Suddenly I pictured the young man. I imagined his discomfort and how he had blushed and I regretted not having answered his letter in case he had waited for my reply and had been offended. I would write to him the very next day, I resolved. Though I did not know what I would write. My body then grew numb under the balmy weight of sleep. This is the sweet slumber in which the blood runs smoothly in our arteries and the soul is soothed. Two, three days passed and I still did not answer the young man and I told myself, It is too late to answer. But it so happened that while preparing my homework and innocently scribbling with my pen on paper, I suddenly found myself replying to the young man. I wrote only a few lines, and reading over my letter I thought that surely this was not the sort of answer that he hoped to receive. Nor did the paper earn my favor. Still, I sent the letter knowing I would not write another of its kind. I will not write any more letters to him, I told myself, for my mind is not intent on letter-writing. Several days passed without a letter from the young man, and I was sorry not to hear from him. But I gradually forgot the young man and his letters. It had been my duty to reply and I had done so. One day my father asked me, “Do you remember the woman and young man?” “I remember,” I replied. “Well,” he said, “the young man’s father came to see me and he spoke of his son. The family is a good family and the young man is learned.” “Will he come here?” I asked. “How can I know,” he replied. “But I will do as you decide, for you have not kept your thoughts from me.” I bowed my head. God, Thou hast known my heart. “So then,” my father added, “we will not go to the stargazers and astrologers, nor will we ask them whether my daughter will find a groom.” And he did not refer to the matter again.
One Sunday evening my father came home accompanied by a man. He asked us to set the kettle on the fire and light the large lamp, and he also looked to see whether the stove gave off a warm glow. Then they sat by the table and talked. The man did not take his eyes off me. I returned to my room to work. But no sooner had I sat down at my desk than a winter carriage drew to a halt under my window and Kaila came and announced, “Guests have arrived. Why not go straight to the living room.” “I can’t,” I said, “for I have a great deal of work to finish today.” But Kaila wouldn’t leave me alone, and she said, “It is a night that calls for celebration, your father has ordered me to make blintzes.” “In that case,” I replied, “In that case I will help you prepare the meal.” “No,” Kaila insisted, “get you now into the living room. The man who has just arrived is a handsome lad.” “Is Gotteskind also present?” I asked Kaila disdainfully. “Who?” she said. “Gotteskind,” I replied. “Have you forgotten the man and all he had to tell us?” “Your memory is a marvel, Tirtza,” Kaila replied, and left.
The food was ready to be served and I entered the living room and stared in astonishment, for the young man was now transformed into another person altogether. He no longer seemed ill at ease as when I had first seen him. And his black goatskin hat heightened the charm of his red cheeks.
Landau soon returned a second time. He arrived in a winter carriage wearing a wolfskin overcoat. And he smelled of a winter forest. No sooner had he sat down than he was up on his feet again. He was on his way to see the coppersmith and had passed by to ask whether I would join him on his journey. My father gave me his fur coat and we left.
We galloped under the moonlight along trails powdered with snow. The gleam of hooves mingled with the song of the horses’ harness bells. I sat to the right of the young man and gazed out of the animal pelt. Buried in my overcoat I was unable to speak. Landau reined in the horses in front of the smith’s house and alighted. He then lifted me out of the carriage and we entered. Our glasses were filled with brandy and apples were baked in our honor. And Landau asked the smith to come to our village the following day as the kegs in the winery needed mending. The members of the household hung on his every word, for he spoke with the authority of a prince. I too stared at Landau and was astonished. Was this the young man whose letters were the outcry of a solitary heart? On our way back I did not bury my face in the folds of my overcoat, as I had grown used to the cold. And yet we did not exchange a word, for my heart was girded with silence. Landau too remained silent, only now and then speaking to his horses.
And my father said to me, “The old man Landau has spoken to me of his son, for his heart is drawn to your heart, and now tell me and I will reply.” Seeing my discomfort, however, he added, “There is time for us to talk about the matter, after all, the young man is not about to be conscripted into the army and you are still young.” Several days passed and Landau once again began writing me high-flown letters filled with visions of Israel and its land. His roots were in the village and since boyhood he had tilled its soil, and the land did not cease to nourish him with dreams and visions. With time his letters stopped arriving and he would occasionally come into town on foot. He was constantly on edge lest he be found fit enough to be pressed into the king’s army. He would roam at night in the market and streets with the penitents. I shuddered in anguish whenever I recalled their late-night melodies. And I thought of my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had come to an untimely end in the army. So I told myself that if only I could accept Landau I would now be his wedded wife. One day I ran into Landau on his way into town. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks sallow and his clothes reeked of stale tobacco. He had the appearance of a sick man. Returning home I seized hold of a book, telling myself, I will study and soothe my grief. But my throat hurt and I could not study. I then opened the book of Psalms and read out loud. Perhaps God will think of him and the young man will not perish.
And at the Gottliebs workers were busy constructing a left wing to serve as a home for Gottlieb’s brother who, as partner to the factory, had come to live with him. Once the wing was completed Gottlieb held a housewarming party. Until that day Gottlieb had never held a housewarming party, for only then was the house built to his liking. Gottlieb was transformed. He even altered the cut of his beard. I saw the two brothers and laughed, remembering how Mintshi had been startled when she had first come to their father’s home. During lunch Gottlieb removed a letter from his pocket and said to his wife, “I almost forgot, a letter has arrived from Vienna.” And she asked, “Is there any news?” “No news,” he said. “He sends his blessings for the housewarming. And his mother’s condition hasn’t changed—it’s neither better nor worse.” I realized they were speaking of Mazal, for I had heard his mother had taken ill and that he had left for Vienna to take care of her. I then recalled the day I had visited his home and the memory was a blessing to me.
After the meal Mintshi strolled with me into the garden. She had been restless while sitting with her sister-in-law and now she looked back on earlier times. “Bender,” she suddenly called out, and a small dog leaped towards her. I almost took fright. Mintshi fondly patted his head and said, “Bender, Bender, Bender, my boy.” Although I disliked dogs I stroked his coat and patted him. The dog looked at me warily and then barked in approval. I hugged Mintshi and she kissed me.<
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Their large home stood a short distance away. The clamor of children and the untiring sound of a woman’s voice rose from within. The sun set and streaked the treetops red and a sudden gust of cold wind blew. “It has been a hot day,” Mintshi said in a low voice. “Summer is almost over. Ah, I cannot bear all this commotion. Since the day they arrived even the birds in the garden were silent.” The dog barked a second time and Mintshi growled back, “What’s wrong, Bender?” She then turned to me and said, “Have you noticed, Tirtza, how a dog will bark whenever the postman approaches?” “We don’t have a dog at home,” I replied, “and no one writes me any letters.” Paying no attention to my words, Mintshi continued, “The letter my sister-in-law sent after she left, telling me of her safe return, was delayed, for apparently it had slipped behind the gate and the postman had scribbled on the envelope, ‘I have not delivered this letter to your door because of the dog.’ Bender, my clever one, come here!” Mintshi called out to the dog and resumed stroking his coat.
The evening twilight enveloped us and a light lit up the windows. “Let’s go in, Tirtza, and prepare supper.” As we walked back Mintshi said, “Mazal will soon return,” and she embraced me. We entered the house. That evening the factory workers came to toast their masters, as they had not come during the day when the guests had been present. Mintshi set a table for them and when their hearts were merry with wine, they burst into song. And the factory hand who had been released from prison warmed our hearts with tales he had heard straight from the mouths of the prisoners. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose, as was his way. I looked at Mintshi. Her face radiated strength and vitality and her sorrow was nowhere to be seen.
The days of festivity were over and the autumn skies lowered over the town. My father was preoccupied with his business and did not come home for lunch. I then came to appreciate the autumn season and the splendor of its vitality, when the land was subdued by the sight of the copper-leafed forest.
My studies at the college resumed and grew more serious. That year our tutors ushered us into the classroom where we were expected to show our skills in teaching. I displayed little talent. Even so, I did as I was told.
Akaviah Mazal returned to town. He spoke to the locals and gathered material on the history of our town. When he unearthed ancient relics in the cemetery, Mazal’s heart was so filled with joy in his work that he did not even heed the principal’s summons to resume teaching at the college, for Kfirmelach had long been forgotten.
At that time my father’s sister arrived, for her daughter’s praises were being sung here and she had come to see the young man. This aunt of mine was quite unlike my father in the way she took pleasure in life. “I am glad, my daughter,” my father said, “that you are fond of your aunt. She is a good woman and she is gracious and pleasant in every way. But I am not fond of her; perhaps it is because of you that I disapprove of her.” And he fell silent.
My aunt returned to her home at the end of autumn. I cut across the open fields on my way back from the train station. The train’s whistle faded in the air. Potatoes were unearthed from the bare fields that shimmered under the yellow sun and red currants gazed up. I remembered the tale of the currants and I walked in a daze.
I passed a farmhouse where I had bought fruit in the summer and the farmer gave me a bouquet of asters. I took the autumn flowers and continued on my way. Now as I walked home I noticed I was close to Mazal’s home. I will go there and bid him good day, I thought to myself, for I have not seen him since he returned.
Mazal was not at home and the old servant sat by the doorway, waiting for him. Because of her grandson, Kfirmelach, she had had to leave her master’s house, and she had gone to live in a neighboring village. And now, on her way into town with her harvest of wheat, she had stopped to see how he was faring. The old woman spoke of her master’s good deeds. I was pleased to hear such words of praise, and as I turned to leave I scattered my flowers by the door.
Several days later we received a parcel of gifts from my aunt. She had also thought of Kaila and sent her a new dress. My father looked and said, “So, she has sent gifts. But she did not come to look after you when your mother passed away.” Only then did I understand why my father resented his sister.
Autumn passed. A tinge of leaden white obscured the eye of the heavens as swirls of mist were driven every which way and the rooftops shone under a thin drizzle of rain. A tainted melancholy spread over the land. The last shriveled leaves bent under the weight of the raindrops. Clouds, wind, rain, and cold. The raindrops chilled and froze and pricked like needles in the flesh. The stove was lit and Kaila spread thatches of hay on the windowsills. The stove blazed the entire day as Kaila cooked for winter. Soon snow began to fall and cover the lanes, and bells from the winter carriages jingled merrily. Leaving the college one day I caught sight of some girls with ice-skates slung over their shoulders. They were going to skate on the river, and they persuaded me to join them. I bought myself a pair of ice skates and slid along the ice with them. Snow drifts covered the frozen earth. The woodsmen chopped timber in the streets and the crisp winter air mingled with the fragrance of wood shavings and split wood. The days grew colder, the snow creaked under the soles of every passerby. And I raced along with my girlfriends, swallowing the river with our skates.
Those were fine times when I skated on the river. My body grew stronger and my eyes widened in their orbs and were no longer overcast with melancholy. My flesh and bones had found a cure. I ate heartily and when I sat down to read a book I lost all sense of myself. Twice on returning home I tiptoed up to Kaila as she bent over her work and suddenly lifted her into the air. Kaila cried out in vain, for I clashed my skates together and the din drowned out her voice.
But such times did not last for long. Although the sun was not to be seen, the snow melted. And when I went down to the river I found it deserted. The ice had almost thawed and crows perched on the loose floes of ice. It was then I felt sharp stabbing pains in my chest, and the doctor came and gave me medicine, and forbade me to exert myself over my lessons. “But sir,” I said, “I have to complete my studies this year.” “If that is so,” he replied, “your turn to teach the villagers will come a year from now.” And having gone that winter with the schoolgirls to skate on the ice I grew almost fond of the college. If the thing on which love depends ceases, love ceases.
1
Now the house was being cleaned for the Passover holiday. And I fetched old books from the closet to give them a good airing. Whenever I found a book with a damaged binding I told myself, I will take it to the bookbinders. And rummaging through the closet I found the Mizrah that had hung in the home of my mother’s father, and I tucked it into my bag along with the books, intending to take it to the glazier, for its glass casing and gilt frame were cracked and scraped, and the crimson ribbon that my mother, may she rest in peace, had used to hang the Mizrah was also torn. And as I was about to leave, the seamstress arrived with my new spring dress. I quickly slipped on the dress, put on my hat and set out with the books and the Mizrah for the bookbinder and the glazier. While I was at the bookbinder’s Mazal came in and stared at the books I had brought and then at the Mizrah that was wrapped in broad sheets of paper, and he asked, “What is that book?” I removed the paper and said, “One moment, sir,” and I unwound the string that I had twisted round my hand after running into Mazal and the dog, and I fastened the string to the Mizrah and hung it on the wall. Mazal stared in disbelief. I read what was written on the Mizrah: Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee. Mazal bowed his head. I blushed and my eyes filled with tears. One moment I longed to cry out: You have brought upon me this shame! And the next moment I longed to prostrate myself before him. I made to leave, not wanting to linger at the bookbinder’s.
But I stepped outside only to find Mazal standing on my right. I laughed and said loudly, “Now you know, sir.” My throat burned and I could hardly bear the sound of my own voice. Mazal grasped my hand. His hand shook like his
voice. He looked askance and said, “Soon we shall be seen.” I dried my tears and tidied my hair. “Let them look,” I said, still upset. “It’s all the same to me.” We walked on for a short while and, reaching the corner of my street, Mazal said, “Here is your father’s house.” I stared hard into his face. “I will not go home,” I declared. Mazal remained silent. I was at a loss where to go. Many thoughts stirred within me and I feared lest Mazal abandon me without my having said a thing. Meanwhile we left the town behind and approached the edge of the woods. The verdant forest was about to burst into leaf. Birch trees opened their buds and a new sun rose over the woods. Mazal said, “Spring has arrived.” And he gazed at my face and knew I was annoyed by his words. And he swept the palm of his hand over his head and sighed.
I sat on a tree trunk and Mazal was ill at ease and groped for words. He stared at my dress, my spring dress, and said, “The tree is still damp and you are wearing a light dress.” I knew the tree was damp and that my dress was light. All the same I did not rise and I even took pleasure in my discomfort. Mazal turned pale, his eyes dimmed and an odd smile swept over his lips. I thought he would ask, Has your hand healed from the dog bite? My spirits weighed upon me. But I suddenly sensed a joy that until that moment I had never known, a wonderful warmth kindled within my heart. I quietly smoothed my soft dress. It seemed then that the man with whom I sat in the woods on that early spring day had already revealed to me all that was harbored in his heart. And I was startled to hear Mazal say, “I heard your voice at night. Was it you at my window?” “I was not by your window,” I replied, “however I have called out to you from my bed at night. I think of you every day, and I looked for traces of you in the cemetery, by my mother’s grave. Last summer I left some flowers and you came and went but you did not stop to smell my flowers.” “Now let me tell you something,” Mazal said, “such feelings will pass. You are still young. Another man has not captured your heart yet. That is why your heart is set upon mine. The men you have met were shallow, whereas you were not bored in my company and so you swore to yourself, It is he. But what will you do the day you find the man who will really capture your heart? As for me, I have come to the age when all I desire is some peace and quiet. Think of your future, Tirtza, and admit it is best we part before it is too late.” I gripped the tree trunk and a stifled cry escaped from within me. “Let us remain good friends,” Mazal said, placing his hand on my head. “Friends!” I cried out. How I loathed such romantic nonsense. Mazal stretched out his warm hand and I leaned forward and kissed his hand. And Mazal rested his head on my shoulder and kissed it.