by Andrea Simon
“Did you pay her to be nice to me? Did you pay her to be my tutor?” The insides of my heart and head battered around like raw eggs whipped in a ceramic bowl.
“Of course not! Ida was only too happy to befriend you. She, too, missed her sisters, especially the younger one. They are very close. You may think she is above human emotions, but she needs warmth and acceptance also.”
“But, still, you didn’t have to ask her.”
“Trust me, Esfele, she was very glad to be with you. You don’t give yourself credit for being the lovable person you are. All I had to do was give her a little prod. The rest—all the affection she has for you—came naturally. It had nothing to do with me.”
When I didn’t answer, Perl said, “And Ida has a gift for teaching. Surely, you can see that, Esfir.”
My internal movements stopped, returning me to my former self, maybe a little older. “So why can’t we find more books for her to teach me from?” I asked.
“It isn’t enough, Esfir. You need an education, a real one. This is why you will be going to school after the weekend, this Monday.”
“No!” I yelled. “I don’t want to go to school.”
“I know you had a bad experience with school in Kobrin. Unfortunately we can’t afford to send you to a Jewish school, but last week I went to the Polish elementary school a few blocks away and spoke to the headmaster. He was very encouraging and called in a teacher, too. I was impressed with them and I think you will find this a better atmosphere.”
“I’m not going!” With that, I stormed out of the kitchen.
“Yes you are, Esfir Manevich, yes you are!”
At that moment, I didn’t just feel invisible like that nighttime bat. I felt like the bat’s baby left alone in a dark, treeless field of spiky leaves.
Eight
HER NAME WAS Ania. I hadn’t noticed her on that first morning in school. I had been so miserable, I kept my head down, staring at my notebook. The teacher, Miss Petra, had introduced me as the “new girl,” and directed me to an empty seat in the back of the classroom.
A shapely redhead, Miss Petra was giving a lesson in Polish history. I had been taught that information at my school in Kobrin, but I didn’t raise my hand when the teacher asked a question. It was bad enough that I was the “new girl.” I didn’t want the others to think I was conceited. I’d never tell this to Ida because she would yell at me. She said to me recently, “Esfir, never hide your knowledge. It is something to be proud of.”
So this girl with licorice-black, straight hair came up to me in the lunchroom while I was eating my dark bread with butter, cheese, and a hard-boiled egg that Perl had packed for me. She was small and petite like me, with a smooth white-pink complexion and tiny freckles around her nose, and her ears protruded through her hair. “Can I sit next to you,” she asked, but sat before I answered. I nodded slightly and looked at her carefully, expecting some major imperfection that would cause her to abandon her friends. I found nothing but the clearest baby blue eyes and the widest smile.
I had a lingering fear that this was a setup, that behind the coat closet, a group of giggling girls whispered, silently directing this girl to her prey. I continued eating and tried to ignore her.
Finally, she said, “I’m Ania. I know you are Esther.”
“Esfir,” I corrected. She looked wounded and I said, “Everyone gets my name wrong, don’t worry. My aunt says that Esther is called Esfir in Russian, so it gets even more complicated.”
I found out that Ania lived two blocks from Perl’s house, that she had five older brothers. “And my uncle is the priest who teaches at school,” she announced loudly with her back straight. I got the feeling that this uncle was a star in her family. A few minutes later, while she was munching on an apple, two girls—one very short and the other very tall—appeared and asked Ania to come with them. She followed without a word to me. I couldn’t tell then whether I was in love with Ania or if I hated her.
When I related this to Ida, she had a definite reaction. She said, “Ania was probably really friendly and had the courage to risk approaching a new girl, but not enough to resist the pressure of her friends.”
By Monday, a week later, I still hated school. The teacher asked me to read aloud and complimented me; I was happy though I could feel my cheeks redden. Those two mismatched girls sneered at me then, but I could swear that Ania gave me the squished lips of approval. I hated to feel so different. Another girl, Sara, was also friendly to me at our lunch break; she was Jewish, too.
When I was picking up a book from the shelf in the library, I saw Ania huddled with these same two Polish girls, whom I now recognized to be Ania’s constant bodyguards. Ania broke free and stepped back. “But Esfir is Jewish,” the taller one, said, raising her voice on Jewish as if she had just seen a boy pulling down his pants. I felt the hair on my arms prickle and a burning behind my neck. This happened to me in the first grade when I had three nosebleeds in three days, and a boy named Hershel threatened to tell everyone not to sit next to me. And Hershel was Jewish.
“So what, Janina?” Ania said to the taller one.
I didn’t hear what followed but I saw Janina putting her arm around Ania, drawing her close. Ania shrugged and they continued in their secrets. That was it; I had been right. I couldn’t trust Ania.
When school was over, I lingered by the coatracks so that most of the others would leave before me. I put on my coat and went outside. I heard running feet behind me and soon Ania was by my side.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked.
I turned around to make sure Janina wasn’t nearby. “If you like,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
We walked a few blocks and then Ania asked if I had to go home right away.
I said “no” with a mix of dread, waiting for the footsteps of Ania’s friends, and the thrill of thinking that maybe Ania really wanted to be with me.
Farther along, at the side of a beautiful square with fountains, there was a majestic Roman Catholic Church.
Ania said, “I have to go inside. My uncle is waiting for me. It will only take a few minutes. Will you come with me?”
My heart started to gallop. Go into a church? My grandmother would have had a fit. I could hear her say, “Nisht far dir gedakht!” I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t let Ania think I was unfriendly or unaccepting. I closed my eyes and walked up the steps behind her. She dipped her fingers into a small liquid-filled, half-bowl topped with a praying angel, nailed to the wall near the entrance. Then she faced the front, knelt on one knee, and placed the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and down and then to her left and right shoulders, and murmured a prayer. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I had seen this motion before from the priest in my Kobrin school and knew that she made the sign of the cross.
I stood in front of the liquid vessel. An elderly woman with a head scarf was behind me and whispered for me to go ahead. I put my pinky in the liquid, which surprised me to be water, moved inside the church, and quickly copied Ania’s movements. Then I felt so guilty that I circled my palm over my face and chest in a symbolic gesture to erase whatever sin I had just committed. I tried to trace a Star of David with my finger. If God was watching me, he would have sent for a doctor because I looked like I had that disease with the fits.
Ania excused herself and slipped into a side room. Soon she emerged with a slender priest with gray hair. “Esfir, this is my uncle, I mean, Father Janusz.” He gave me a slight bow and said, “Charmed.” I bowed back, not knowing what to say in return.
“Now Ania, please give this to your mother for me.” Father Janusz handed Ania a package wrapped in white paper.
We thanked the Father and left, Ania clutching the package.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Just some food,” she said. “My uncle spoils us.”
The way she said it, I was sure that this package was not filled with treats but with necessities. We began to skip
and sing a Polish song we learned in school about a happy bird. By the time I got home, it started to snow. Luckily, Perl didn’t ask me what took so long.
I didn’t take any chances. I went immediately to the kitchen sink, put a cloth in the basin of icy water, and rubbed my forehead. Then I ran up the stairs to change my blouse in case there had been any sign of the cross.
Nine
IT HAD BEEN snowing on and off for a week, and Perl and I worried that we wouldn’t be able to go to Kobrin for Chanukah. Two days before we were planning to leave, the sun came out and workers began to clear the roads and train tracks.
On the morning of our departure, I said good-bye to Ida who was going home to Volchin that afternoon. She would be taking the train the twenty-five miles to Visoke where her father would meet her with his horse and wagon. The night before, she had borrowed my Journal of Important Words and included entries for me to read, or have Perl read to me, on the train or when I got home. I kept asking her if she really wanted to write in my journal. She looked at me as if I was crazy and continued writing. “It is up to you what you share with your sisters or your brother,” she said, “but I hope you will at least show Drora.” The oldest of my two sisters, Drora was the closest to Ida’s age being two years younger than her.
The twins had left the day before. Yossel picked up Freyde with two pairs of skis. They had planned to go to Brest’s outskirts, where they’d hitch a ride from an army truck that was going their way.
Rachel, who had bragged about the expensive clothes she would get for Chanukah, sat on a bench in the vestibule wearing her wool coat, her small hard suitcase between her legs. She didn’t live that far away, in Chernavchich, about eight miles from Brest. Ida had been there once visiting a relative. I was surprised when Ida told me that Chernavchich was probably smaller than Volchin with maybe 430 Jews to about 500 in Volchin, which seemed almost the same to me. With all of Rachel’s airs, you would think she was from a large city like Minsk and had dined at the finest restaurants and lived in the fanciest house.
“How long have you been sitting here?” Perl asked.
“Not long,” Rachel said.
Although it was cold in the house away from the kitchen stove, it wasn’t so cold that Rachel had to wear her coat, and I noticed she had sweat beads above her upper lip. She must have been there for at least two hours. It was still dark outside when I had gone downstairs for a glass of water, and her shadowy form on the bench almost scared me to death.
I didn’t contradict Rachel and said that I hope she has a good holiday.
Perl seemed agitated though and sat next to Rachel. “Who are you expecting?” she asked, conspiratorially, as if twenty people were straining to listen.
“My father and uncle are driving in my uncle’s new car. My uncle is coming from Bialystok so I’m not sure how long it will take to get here.”
“Did you get a postcard from your father?”
“Yes,” Rachel said and bit her lip as if she were trying not to cry.
“When did he say he was coming?”
Rachel said she couldn’t remember, but Perl pressed her. My aunt insisted that we wouldn’t leave until we were sure Rachel was safe with her father; and if it meant missing our train, so be it. I was getting real mad because I knew how hard it was to get our tickets during the holidays. Mr. Kozak had to pull strings; he seemed to know the right people. We didn’t have money to buy new tickets in case they couldn’t be exchanged, so Perl was taking a big chance. If I didn’t get to see my mother and sisters soon, I was going to scream, especially if the reason had to do with Rachel. Anyone could see at this point that Rachel was hiding something.
Finally, after she realized Perl was serious and wouldn’t budge, she admitted that no one was going to pick her up; she had been lying. She hadn’t gotten any postcard, letter, or message from her father, uncle, or aunt. Rachel was an only child as her mother died in childbirth.
“Maybe they forgot me,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Perl said, “Nonsense. There has to be a logical explanation. You will come with us, and we will contact your father from Kobrin. In the meantime, you’ll spend the holiday with our family.” I guess she assumed Rachel would have money for a ticket, maybe paying a little extra to get any available seat or as a lure for a passenger to give up an existing seat.
I could have killed Perl. The last thing I wanted was for Rachel to spoil my homecoming. It would be just like Rachel to cozy up to Drora or say bad things about me to Rivke or even flirt with Velvel. Since Ida and I suspected her of plotting with the rock-throwing boys, God knows what she was capable of. And I just knew my father would fall for her tricks. I remember how silly he always acted near Drora’s friend, Tauba, who, as my mother said, “was too pretty for her own good.”
Just as we were getting up to go, with Rachel at our side, someone pushed and pulled the door knocker a few times.
I drew back the heavy curtain, looked out the window, and saw a droshky carriage with a beautiful black-maned, liver-spotted horse.
Perl opened the door and a short, portly man in an opened wool overcoat, revealing a tight, button-popping vest, stood with his hand raised as if he were about to knock again.
“Daddy,” Rachel screamed.
“We didn’t know when to expect you,” Perl said in a sarcastic tone.
“Yes, I had some business to take care of and wondered if Rachel wants to go to my brother’s with me.”
“Of course she does,” Perl said. “Where else would she go except to her family?”
With this remark, Rachel ducked under her father’s raised hand and snuck out the door without even saying good-bye. I peeked out the window and saw her getting into the droshky and her father taking the reins. I didn’t see a driver.
Minutes later, another drosky came to take Perl and me to the train station. I was hoping we could catch up with Rachel so I could see where she was heading. With her, I didn’t know what to believe.
“I wonder what happened to her uncle and his new car,” I said.
Perl shook her head.
At that moment, I realized something big and took out my Journal of Important Words. In the back, there was a section I reserved for random thoughts. I raised my pencil that was attached by a string and wrote, “I don’t hate Rachel anymore.”
I LOVED THE train. I loved everything about it. I loved the whistles, clanging, bells, and the rhythmic wheel churning. I loved the elegant railroad station. I loved the vendors selling ice cream and balloons, and those shoving bread through the opened windows. I loved walking down the train’s aisles, teetering, and trying to hold onto a bar for support. I loved the conductors inspecting the tickets and punching them with a gadget that made little holes.
On previous trips, we had sat in open crowded cars, and I would study the other passengers and get up often to look out the window. This time, Mr. Kozak bribed someone, and we got to sit in an expensive compartment with sliding doors. Our seats were on a couchette that could fold into a bed. There was this rich wood surrounding the windows. And I couldn’t believe there was a wooden tray that popped out if you wanted to put something on it like a book or hunk of bread.
I can’t remember whether there were other passengers or not in our compartment. In my mind, Perl and I were alone and I had the seat near the window, which was framed like a personal cinema screen.
I do remember pressing my face against the glass, observing my breath fog part of the view. I ran my fingers in the cloudiness and wrote my name. I wiped off a large oval and saw an entirely new scene, self-contained like a drawing in a book, rolling through its boundary so that just when I got a good look, it was in my rear view.
Away from the station, there wasn’t much to see because most everything was covered with snow. I made it a game to find as many objects as I could that popped out from the whiteness and wrote them in my journal: red barns, horse fences, hazy distant homes beyond brown thick trees, faint footsteps
along an empty road, fir trees heavy with the burden of new snow, a stone wishing well, snowflakes like polka dots of white against my glass viewfinder, thin branches whitewashed along their sides, a slick and smooth pond with small skating figures, rivers bisected as ice meets snow-covered water.
Then it began to snow heavily and my view became more and more blurred. Snow smashed against the window until all I could see were dark branches and gray waterways obscured by white splotches. It was as if I were a painter and flicked a white-dipped brush onto a gray/brown-washed canvas, surprised where the blotches appeared.
“I hope the train doesn’t get stuck,” Perl said. “It looks like a bad storm.”
That was the last I heard because the gray and white and brown blobs mesmerized me, and the next thing I knew, my head was in Perl’s lap and she was shaking me awake, saying, “Esfir, wake up, we’re here.”
Ten
VELVEL MET US at the station. Even though it was snowing so hard, I would have recognized him anywhere in his fur-brimmed Russian hat with the side flaps, slumped on the seat of the wagon, wrapped in a blanket. He was almost a ghost; his ashen face and dirty blond hair paled into the snow fog and all I could see were shades of gray.
We waved to him and I shouted his name. He shook the snow from the blanket and cleared a space for us in the wagon. Not bothering to get down and hug us, he said, “Hurry, get in. The snow is piling up and I’m not sure old Ben will make it.”
Believe it or not, Ben was really gray. He looked like a gigantic monster, whinnying in protest. I scrunched next to Velvel and he gave me a peck on the cheek. There were icicles dripping from his long white-blond eyelashes.
Soon, we were off and the poor horse trod and stopped and jerked his head, smacking flying snow in our faces. Velvel concentrated on the road ahead, which was barely visible. I had never heard my seventeen-year-old brother curse so much, and I cringed as he kept slapping Ben in the rear with the whip. Once I told him to stop, and Perl squeezed my hand and put a finger vertical to her lips warning me to shut my mouth. I was shivering so, even wrapped in the scratchy green wool blanket, which was like being cuddled inside a sheet gathering ice on a winter’s clothesline. When we got to Pinsker Street, I recognized the sign lit by a gas lamp, and my house was aglow in the grayness due to burning candles in the windows.