by Andrea Simon
“Give Esfir that ball, Piotr right now!” That was one reason I adored Ania. She wasn’t afraid of anything, even her stocky brother, whose wide nose flattened like a pig, which she let him know, calling him “Pig Face” when he didn’t give me the ball. Piotr went wild. He threw the ball far over the house, into the neighbor’s wheat field. It was gone for good, this we knew.
There was something about Piotr that seemed familiar. Probably, I had seen him around the neighborhood and hanging around the school. But there was another thing needling me, the way he tossed the ball, in a waving motion, that caught in my mind. Then it dawned on me. He was with that band of older boys throwing rocks at Ida and me in the park.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I confront him? Should I say something to Ania about her brother? I didn’t have proof. The whole incident had happened so quickly. I couldn’t be sure that he was responsible for directing anything at us; I was certain, though, that he was following the other boys.
Later on, we were in Ania’s kitchen drinking milk, and Piotr sat down and began reading a schoolbook and eating sunflower seeds, making loud crunching noises, spitting the residue on the floor. We tried to ignore him.
“Got a new Polish language textbook,” he said in a showing-off tone. “You want to see?”
Again I fell for it. I peered over his shoulder to an open spread. There was a picture of Jesus Christ. He read what was written underneath. I can’t recall it all, but it was something like, “This statue stands in the village of . . . on this spot where the last Jew of the village had lived.” Piotr was smirking and chortling, but I didn’t understand what was bad. So if the statue stands where a Jew lived, what was wrong with that?
I should have known that Piotr wouldn’t stop until he got to me. “Look at this,” he said, turning a page. There was nothing but words so I didn’t look hard. “You can’t read this anyway; you’re just a baby.”
“What does it say?” I asked.
Ania looked like she was going to kill me. I was just trying to be nice to her brother.
“There are stories here, good stories, all about Jewish people—how they swindle us poor Christians.”
“Enough!” Ania ordered. She grabbed the book, slapped it shut, threw it to the floor, and stood on top of it.
“You want to read it, then you have to get it from under my feet. And if you lay a hand on me, I’m going to tell Father Janusz.”
That stopped Piotr. He sat and sulked. It was now a waiting game. Finally, I said I had to go home, and Ania walked me to the door, picked up the book, and slammed it on the table. She said, “Take your stupid book. A stupid book for a stupid boy.” I then decided not to say anything to Ania. She already knew who her brother was.
A FEW DAYS later at religion class, I sat in the back with the ten other Jewish kids as I usually did. I got out my journal, intending to draw a picture of the priest when I heard him tell the class that the Jews killed Jesus. I didn’t listen to his explanation, if he had any, because the other children turned behind to stare at us Jews, most of the boys snickeringand some of the girls whispering.
At lunchtime in the schoolyard, a group of boys surrounded a shy, short, and pudgy Jewish girl named Sadie. She was the type that got picked on even by other Jews. They started to chant, “Dirty Zyd,” Jew in Polish.“Beat the Zyd!” “Christ killer!” Then there was a lot of scuffling and screaming. Since I was short, I couldn’t see what the boys were doing to Sadie. I noticed Ania rush toward a male teacher. She was clearly agitated, pointing to the group. The teacher shook his head.
Timidly, I approached the group, sure that I would be the next victim. I cleared my throat and croaked, “Please stop what you are doing to Sadie.” I don’t think anyone heard me. I began to shout, “Stop,” but it was useless. One boy shoved me and said that I’d better go away or else . . . He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
The teacher blew a whistle, signaling the end of the lunch period, and the boys reluctantly broke up. There, on the ground lay Sadie, her face bloodied and her right eye closed. Her skirt was pushed up and her legs were scratched. Sobbing, Sadie wobbled up and held onto me. I straightened her clothes the best I could and spit on a handkerchief and tried to wipe her face, but it looked more like smeared muddy blood.
Miss Petra appeared and took Sadie by the hand. When they returned to class, Sadie’s face and legs were cleaned, but her right eye was puffy and still didn’t open.
WHAT HAPPENED IN school was the topic of conversation around Perl’s dinner table. Luckily Mr. Kozak was out of town so we could talk freely. I related the events and Freyde said her cousin, who went to public school, joined Jewish friends and called the Polish students who had taunted them, “dogs.” So, as far as she was concerned, the bad remarks went both ways.
“That’s true, everyone can say mean things,” Fanny said, always trying to find the good in a situation. She, more than her twin Liba, suffered terribly from people unsure of who was who. I learned later that they were really mirror twins; everything about them was opposite. Liba was right-handed, Fanny was left; Liba had a beauty mark on her right cheek, Fanny’s on her left. Though many thought they looked alike, with the same bushy black eyebrows, oval chestnut-brown eyes, and chubby freckled cheeks, I could tell them apart a mile away. From her sashaying walk, tweezed eyebrows, and coiffed hair, Liba was as different from Fanny, with her raggedy-doll floppiness, as a slice of pumpernickel from a matzoh.
And to prove my point about their differences, Liba said, “I heard about a bunch of Belorussian boys in another town who surrounded a Jewish classmate and called him a ‘Christ killer’ and threw stones at him as he ran home.”
This was the second time in a day that I heard the expression, “Christ killer.” To no one in particular, I asked softly, “What is a Christ killer?”
“Speak up, Esfir,” Perl said, tugging her earlobe.
“Oh no!” Rachel said with exasperation. “Here we go again, the same old accusations. Just forget it, Esfir, we are above answering to them.”
“You’re not helping,” Ida said, throwing Rachel a dirty look. “Esfir, it is a person or people who helped kill Jesus Christ, who died in a terrible way.”
“I saw him nailed to the cross at Ania’s church.”
“You went to her church!” Perl said, adding, “Without my permission?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Ania’s uncle is a priest there.”
“That’s comforting,” Rachel said sarcastically.
This time it was Liba who yelled, “Rachel!” as if she would stuff a sock in her mouth.
“I need to learn more,” I said. “If someone calls me this, I have to know what to say.”
“Okay, Esfir,” Ida said, despite Perl’s lip pursing and her expression that said, “Must you?” Ida continued, “First you have to know that Jesus Christ was a Jew.”
“I knew that.”
Perl got up and mumbled that she would not be a part of this conversation and went into the kitchen. She was talking to herself.
Ida said, “Christ was a young man who spoke great messages to masses of people about love and helping each other. There were those who were threatened by his words, thinking their own power over the people would be gone. Some were Romans, who were very big rulers then.”
“Like from the Bible?”
“Yes, like the stories Perl reads to you. Jesus was betrayed and tortured before he was crucified.”
“So the Jews didn’t kill Christ?”
“Not really. It was the Roman soldiers, but other people, like some Jews, didn’t or couldn’t intervene. So maybe there was guilt by knowing about it.”
“Like people who don’t speak out about bad things others say about the Jews?”
“Yes, Esfir, there are people who do bad things. And there are also people who watch others do bad things and remain silent.”
“You said it!” Rachel roared, leaving the table. Obviously, she had enough of the conversation. P
erl returned with a plate of cookies. I couldn’t make out Perl’s position. First her mouth was all screwed up and she was talking to herself and the next minute she was stuffing us with sweets.
“Should I say I’m sorry if anyone says my people killed Christ?” I asked.
“Never, never!” Liba and Ida shouted simultaneously.
“First,” Ida said, “it is not really true. Second, you did not kill Christ. No one should condemn an entire people for the actions of others. Even the Poles, the Russians, the Belorussians, the Germans, whatever they do to us, the Jews, we have to step back and ask, ‘Why are they doing this?’ ‘Did I do anything wrong?’”
“That’s a lot to remember to ask,” I said.
“It doesn’t help,” Freyde said, “that some in the clergy encourage Jewish hatred.” As usual, Freyde was the one with the facts. “Cardinal Hlond was the one to say, ‘There will be a Jewish problem as long as the Jews remain . . .’”
“That reminds me,” Liba said. “Last August, our family stayed at a guesthouse near the Bug River, south of Brest, not far from the pine forest.”
“Yeah,” Fanny said, dreamily, “there were girls from the Polish gymnasium in Brest. They thought they were so wonderful.”
“That’s not the point Fanny,” Liba said, losing her patience. “We went for long walks in the forest and picnicked on a small sandy embankment by the river. We swam in the river.”
“It sounds lovely,” Freyde said.
“So did something happen there?” Ida asked in her direct way.
“Local boys threw sticks at Fanny and me when we were waiting for our parents who were swimming in the deep water.”
“That’s terrible,” Freyde said.
“It’s not the worst. A monk appeared on his daily walk and witnessed the boys taunting us. Instead of shooing them away, he said to us, ‘You people are in great danger and should leave.’ I told my parents and this was the first time they agreed so quickly with a Christian religious leader. We left the next day. Fanny and I were crushed.”
“But Ania’s uncle, Father Janusz, is not like that,” I said. “He is very sympathetic to Jews. Ania says he does things for the Jews that could be very dangerous for him.”
Freyde said, “Yes, Esfir, as in every religion, there are the good and the bad.”
Once in my room, I opened my journal to a fresh page and asked Ida to write down some of the explanations. She scribbled and soon filled the page. When she was finished, she closed the journal and said, “Esfir, remember we don’t know how much was true or were just stories. You will understand as you get older.”
That was the same thing she had said when she tried to explain the difference between good and bad questions, regarding Mendel Feigen. I waited for that day of comprehension—or I should say I yearned for that day.
WHEN I AWOKE and saw that Ida was missing, I rushed downstairs. No one was at the table. Perl heard me barreling down the stairs and met me in the dining room.
“What?” I asked. “Where is everyone?” “Is it a holiday or something?’
“No,” Perl said. “The girls went off to school. We didn’t want to wake you.”
“Why? I’m not sick.”
“I know, Esfir. But from what you told us yesterday, I made a decision. You are not going back to that school for a while. I asked Ida to stop at the post office and send a message to the Kobrin branch. Sheyne usually goes there in the early afternoon. I asked your mother to call me at four. I will go to our post office then and if she calls, I will tell her my decision.”
“But, I don’t mind what they say. I promise I won’t answer them if they call me a ‘Christ killer.’”
“I know you’re a good girl, Esfir. Let’s leave it like this and see what your mother has to say. In the meantime, you can stay home with me today. What do you say? Maybe we can bake some rugelach.”
Normally, I’d be so happy to stay home and bake with Perl, but I was scared what my mother would say. Would she agree with Perl or be angry at her? Would she make me come home? What would happen to me, leaving not just one public school but now two? Would I go to prison?
The question I dreaded the answer to the most was, “If I have to leave school, will Ania still be my friend?”
Fifteen
THERE WERE MORE and more frightening stories, perhaps because I was now home with Perl and I heard her speak with neighbors, people at the market, her friends and relatives. I was a silent bug on the wall of a multistory house of cards; one tip and the sides would cave in, leaving a pile of mismatched suits.
Perl, my dear, dear aunt couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I thought I had a vomit mouth, but she expressed her every thought and action. She had never been so bad before. Now she talked to herself, forgetting I was in the room, and ran a running commentary like, “I am going into the kitchen. I am washing down the table. I am sifting flour over rolled dough.” It was as if she feared a moment of silence would create a vacuum and allow the wind to blow down her walls, as shaky as that house of cards.
At first I thought I was to blame, that she had to worry about providing some kind of education for me. Since my mother called on the day that Perl ordered me to stay away from school, there was more tension in the family, not that we needed more. My mother, Perl had reported, agreed that I should remain home. Enough was enough with these public schools. My mother would think of something for me, Perl said, and not to fret. I did overhear Perl talking to Mr. Kozak outside her bedroom door on my way to the kitchen one night, fast becoming my usual pursuit to cure sleeplessness.
“I don’t know what to do with her,” Perl had said.
“Let her be for now,” he said. “Wait awhile. Things always get better.”
“Spoken like a true goy,” she said.
Then I heard laughing and shushing and I tiptoed up the stairs. Whatever they were saying next, I had the good sense to realize it wasn’t for my ears.
In the long days I spent with Perl, when she wasn’t talking to herself, she related more stories about her life as a girl and as a young woman. During lunch one day, Perl reported that before the Big War, Brest had a large Jewish community of over thirty thousand, or sixty-five percent of the population. But it might as well have been a hundred percent. The commercial row at the market, with four hundred stores, had only one Christian shop. “Even my mother had a stall. She sold bread, eggs, and vegetables. In the winter, she kept warm by putting a pot of hot charcoal by her feet.”
Perl’s father, my grandfather Yankel, drank tea early in the morning from a shiny copper samovar and attended synagogue. Then he went to his fabric shop near the river in the tradesmen district. Bolts of colorful material lay on a long table in tight, tubed rows like organ pipes. There were all kinds of fabrics: cotton, wool, and more delicate ones like silk and satin. There were florals and plain colors. Quilted bolts were also popular.
By now, Perl’s face was softening and I could swear she looked ten years younger. “Customers would point to one,” she explained, “and my father would pick up the tube and unravel just enough material for the person to examine.”
When we finished our lunch, Perl insisted we go for a walk and that I take my journal. “You can’t stay cooped up here in the house,” she said. Before long, we were in the park. Perl directed me to a bench and patted the seat.
“I don’t want to sit there,” I said.
“What is wrong with this bench?” she asked.
I shrugged and stood immobile, pulling Perl’s hand backward. Finally, I said, “That is the bench Ida and I sat on when the boys threw rocks at us.”
“I see,” Perl said. “Then we should definitely sit there.”
I didn’t protest; there was no use in arguing with Perl when she decided on something, but I was already thinking of what I would say to get Perl to leave.
“Now, Esfir,” Perl said, “let’s continue our lesson. Where was I? Is there anything you want to know about?”
“Yes,” I s
aid, noticing that a woman with a baby carriage stopped to sneeze and cough and she aimed her face right near the baby’s. “Did Sheyne ever get sick?” I asked. I was always desperate to know about my mother.
PERL CLOSED HER eyes then. “Of course, we all got sick. But with the bad diseases, not your mother.” Perl was quiet as if the subject was finished, but I was beginning to read the rising and falling of her voice.
“Then who?”
“Maybe it’s time for you to know.”
“Know what?” I asked, thinking that maybe my mother had some horrible illness that was inherited.
“I am not the firstborn child. I had an older brother, Isaac. He was a spunky, adorable child, the kind everyone idolizes. When he was six, I was three—your mother wasn’t born yet for a year—he got diphtheria and died. I don’t remember the details, except that he stayed for a few weeks in the house with my mother. They were quarantined. We couldn’t go home. My father, me, and Khane, who was only a year old, had to stay with my grandparents. I missed my mother so much, and Khane was hysterical all the time.”
“And then?” I asked, suspecting the rest.
“Isaac died in his sleep. It wasn’t until years later that my mother told me that there had also been a baby girl between Isaac and me who died when she was a month old.”
I didn’t realize it until Perl stopped that I had been crying.
“Don’t cry,” Perl said, which made me cry more. “I’m sorry I told you.”
“Maybe now that I’m not in school, I should go home,” I said, suddenly missing my family terribly, even if they didn’t miss me.
“Not yet, Esfele. Soon, I promise.”
“I have to use the bathroom,” I said, figuring this would get Perl moving. She turned my head toward her and stared into my eyes. Then, she stood, extended her arm—a signal that she was ready to go, though I don’t think she believed me. As we walked toward the park’s entrance, I felt a smack on the back of my shoulder.