Esfir Is Alive

by Andrea Simon

  “What?” I yelled and scrunched my neck, waiting for a blow. I turned and saw Ida and gave a loud, “whew.”

  “Sorry, I scared you, Esfir, but I saw you two walking.”

  “Where are the other girls?” Perl asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t wait for them. It’s such a beautiful day, the first warm one in April so far, that I wanted to walk home through the park. Can you sit awhile?”

  I immediately went back to the bench, my fears lessening with Ida’s bubbly spirit.

  “I was giving Esfir a little history lesson,” Perl said, caving with relief onto the seat, “though I am surely not the teacher you are.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, I was rambling, but mostly about family history. Sad, though many suffered worse.”

  “Worse than illnesses and death?” I asked.

  Perl mopped her damp forehead with a handkerchief from her purse. She licked her lips. “I wish I had some water. I don’t know why I’m so thirsty,” she said.

  I knew why. She hadn’t stopped talking for twenty minutes. But Perl was not finished.

  “When I was not much younger than you, Ida, in 1905,” Perl said, “there were pogroms all over.”

  “What’s a pogrom?” I asked. I had heard that word before from adults, and always, it was followed by shaking of heads.

  “A pogrom,” she said slowly, taking on her professorial voice, “is organized mass violence toward a minority group, usually spurred on by a local government. What that means is looting, assaults, arson, and I don’t want to say.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You don’t have to know everything.”

  “Killing?” I said.

  “Okay ‘Miss Know-it-All.’”

  “How can I be a ‘Miss-Know-it-All’ when no one tells me everything?”

  “She has a point,” Ida said, smiling.

  “Okay, but promise you won’t snitch to your mother.”

  Informing my mother of anything was becoming a rarity. You couldn’t confide in someone you didn’t see.

  “Actually,” Perl said, quickening her voice, “the first wave of pogroms started around 1903. You heard of the Bund?”

  “Yes, it’s in the chart that Ida made.”

  “Good. The Bund organized networks among Jewish workers and community members to defend themselves against the bad people. Some of the bad people were in Russia. A group called the Black Hundreds claimed that Jews were enemies of the tsar, and extermination of the Jews was a patriotic act. They spread these words throughout Russia. And when people are poor, they need someone to blame.”

  Instinctively, I said, “So then what happened?”

  “What happened next is not a pretty story,” she said. “It happened on Easter in 1903 in Kishinev, south of Ukraine. In three days of rioting, about fifty Jews were killed. Even worse pogroms occurred later on. Rioters often included the local population who used sticks and knives, often chanting, ‘Let’s kill the Jews.’”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, beginning to dread the rest.

  Perl said, “Write this down in your journal, Esfir.”

  I opened a clean page and wrote down “Easter, 1903” in case Perl tested me. When someone took on the role of a teacher or gave a lesson, you never knew what they’d expect from you.

  My head was pounding. How could I tell my aunt that I didn’t want to hear anymore, that I was only almost a third grader? A simple story book was enough for me.

  “I won’t go over the gory details, but there was also general rioting against the Jews in the summer and fall of 1905. The October Rechitsa Pogrom—Rechitsa is east of Pinsk—was so bad that your beloved Sholom Aleichem wrote to the Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. Now, Esfir, this is something good to copy.”

  Perl said, “Aleichem wrote: ‘Shame and misfortune befell our common homeland, but we poor Jews suffered the most.’” I interrupted Perl so many times for the spelling that she eventually took my journal and wrote it down herself.

  “Esfir, I’d like to copy that too,” Ida said. “Can you lend me your journal when we get back?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know a lot, Perl,” Ida said.

  “Just because I run this house doesn’t mean I came from the treetops.”

  Ida, looking embarrassed, said, “I know, Perl.”

  Perl took a large intake of air. She had more to say. “Then the pogroms came to Mogilev, Vitebsk, Minsk, and the Vilna regions.”

  “But not here?” I asked, my voice rising.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. There was one here in Brest in May 1905. Many Jews were wounded and killed.”

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “Between 1903 and 1906, pogroms had spread to hundreds of cities and towns. Thousands were killed and wounded.”

  “At least it hasn’t happened in a long time,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll probably hear this anyway. But there have been incidents. Last March, in a Polish village called Przytyk, a group of Poles attacked local Jews, breaking into their homes and beating the people. They also broke into Jewish stores and stole merchandise. Three Jews died and there were many wounded. The police didn’t do a thing to help the Jews. Some of the local adults, yelled, ‘Wait until Hitler comes.’”

  For me, an unusual thing happened. I was totally speechless. The rocks that the boys had thrown at Ida and me now seemed like particles of dust.

  Perl said her last words on the subject, “After these pogroms, I learned what it meant to be a Jew, not in the religious sense, but in the sense of our place in the world. And after last year, with more and more pogroms, I’m afraid we may have no safe place in this world.”

  Sixteen

  DESPITE THE WARMING weather of spring, I didn’t want to go outside. When I wasn’t helping Perl around the house, I was in my room having pretend conversations with Miriam. I couldn’t tell anyone, even Miriam, what I feared the most: being caught in a pogrom.

  On the last Wednesday of April, Ida woke me early and said that I should get dressed for an outing and that she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. I had to go and that was that. I was too tired to argue. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. When I returned to my room to dress, Ida had laid out my clothes—a short-sleeved blouse, blue cotton skirt, and white socks.

  We would have time for a quick breakfast, she said. There at the dining table were the girls dressed in school clothes, Perl wearing a floral dress, and my Ania clutching her school books against her chest.

  “Ania,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

  “I’m going with you and the girls to the forest for your holiday. My family doesn’t know. They think I went to school like always. Ida met me near school. She told me about it yesterday, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “What if your parents find out or your uncle?”

  “Yesterday I told Miss Petra that I wasn’t feeling well, so she won’t be surprised that I don’t show up today. I don’t think she’d be suspicious ’cause I’m never absent.”

  “But, does Perl know?”

  “Don’t worry about your aunt,” Ida said. “She thinks we got approval from Ania’s family.”

  “You mean you lied?”

  “A white lie, maybe. I’m sure Ania’s family would have approved. Last year, her uncle came. They know what fun we’re going to have.”

  Ania nodded with a big grin.

  “Sit down,” Ida ordered. “Eat your breakfast, and be ready to leave in ten minutes.” Ida was like a general and I didn’t dare protest.

  The holiday was Lag b’Omer, which comes between Pesach and Shevuoth, and has something to do with a famous rabbi and the plague. Nobody seems to know why we celebrate it, and, unlike most Jewish holidays, nobody wants to know. The agreement is that whatever the origin, it’s a day of celebration and God knows the Jews sorely needed it.

  Ida’s plan was that Ania, Perl, and I would accompany the Tarbut students
on a bus to the forest. From what I overheard from Fanny, the arrangement had a connection to Mendel Feigen, Ida’s not-so-secret crush, who was instrumental in organizing the events. Although Ania and I sat in the back of the bus, we heard Mendel who stood up front and spoke loudly. All his speechifying had come in handy.

  From the window, we saw parades of young people marching in military fashion toward the Gardens. Bands played patriotic Hebrew songs, with a lot of drum beating. Mendel stopped the bus and ordered us out to get a better viewing spot. Then he yelled out the identities of each group. There were members of Hashomer Hatzair in their shirts and neck scarves, the men wearing shorts and long socks; there were lines of students from Betar units, in their military uniforms. They were led by an older soldier riding a white horse. Less coordinated, another marching group of young Halutzim, the Hebrew word for pioneers, from a nearby village, wore dark shirts and light ties. The crowd cheered when a large contingent from what Mendel explained as “the independent, humanistic, self-labor group,” Gordonia, appeared in their scouts uniforms, accompanied by drums, trumpets, and cymbals. Yiddish schoolchildren marched with their teachers. Those in front of each group held the Polish flag and the blue-and-white Zionist flag.

  A man appeared and whispered in Mendel’s ear, as if anyone could hear him over the din of the parade. Mendel nodded and waved us to follow him. He was screaming, “Come.” Apparently, the bus driver was blocking traffic where he was parked and we had to move.

  Back on the bus, we were glued to the window, straining to see splashes of color and billowing flags, as we made our way toward the road outside Brest and headed forty-three miles north to the Puszcza Bialowieska National Park, to me known simply as “the forest.”

  Mendel proved to be a great forest guide. On our walk from the parking lot to a picnic area, he pointed out the names of the old trees, including the Great Mamamuszi, the thickest oak in the forest. He told us about the famous rare bison, which scared Ania and me; luckily, we didn’t see one. Mendel identified a fox, squirrel, raccoon, and a woodpecker, so far not such scary or unusual animals, but there were also wild boars and wolves and we were relieved to miss them. But being in a forest, you never knew what was lurking behind the trees. There was one bird he talked about, the black stork, which we were dying to see, but I guess being black made it hard to spot.

  Before long, we found the picnic area where other Tarbut students had come with their parents from another bus. They had already unpacked food baskets. Perl set immediately to work, adding her own basket filled with hard-boiled eggs, rice pudding, boiled chicken, apples, dark bread, cookies, and a thermos of tea.

  Groups of students had spread out blankets; many were sprawled on them, laughing and munching on food. It was a day filled with activity. We sang Hebrew songs, led by a female teacher with a beautiful voice. Occasionally, a young person stood on one of the tables and recited a poem, written for the occasion. Parents clapped wildly.

  When our stomachs were full, there was a series of speeches. I fell asleep for a while and woke from a poke in my side from Ania. Mendel was speaking and the girls on my blanket sat up like trained seals. He welcomed everyone as if it was his private party. Introducing each Zionist group, he encouraged members to stand and the crowd applauded.

  With everyone riled up, he took out a paper from his pants pocket and read. I was trying hard to keep my eyes open. Ida copied his words in her journal so I was able to transfer them later to mine.

  Mendel asked if anyone in the crowd attended a meeting of the Zionist youth organization, Masada, Hebrew for fortress, earlier in the year. A few held up their hands.

  “For the benefit of those who didn’t come, I will summarize. It was electrifying.” His eyes engorged with fervor. “The speaker was a Brisker, now a lawyer in Warsaw, who came home to visit his parents. He now calls himselfMenachem, Menachem Begin. A short man, his stature rose as he described, with deep feeling, the Jewish situation. I would say he is second only to Jabotinsky as an orator. This man was one of us. He went to our schools. Actually, we went to the same Polish gymnasium. Mr. Begin spoke in Polish, using Yiddish and German phrases. And what did he say? You have heard it before: the hopelessness of our future in Poland.”

  Mendel said more; I have in my notes the words, evacuation plan, calling for all Eastern European Jewry to move to Palestine. He criticized political infighting and governmental failure, warning of “impending catastrophe” if Jews stayed in Europe.

  Ida, still writing, said, “pompous ass,” and when she remembered me, she apologized for her language. I smiled because the way she giggled out those words showed that she liked him better than ever.

  Mendel was screeching, repeating the word, Palestine, Palestine, Palestine, getting people in a frenzy. They raised their fists and shouted, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem.” Carefully, he sipped water from a jar and held up his palms for quiet like he was the Pope.

  “So, my friends,” he said in a very low voice, “think about what I said, not only me but what your leaders have pleaded for. I don’t want to spoil the day with all this serious talk.” With those words, he sat on a chair, more like he collapsed in it, his entire body sagging. Then he rose, self-satisfaction ooozing from his pursed lips, closed eyes, and davening torso.

  Finally, the fun started. Children ran around chasing each other with bows and arrows. I was longing to use one and asked a boy if I could take a turn. The arrows were rubber-tipped so I aimed one at Ania’s feet. She jumped and grabbed the bow from me, and aimed her arrow at a target in a tree. Although it didn’t stick, a boy close to it yelled, “Bulls-eye!”

  There were more games with bats and balls. Girls joined boys. It wasn’t like it usually was, with the boys having all the amusement.

  The rest of the day included more eating, speeches, and songs. The most wonderful event was yet to come. As soon as it got dark, I saw orange flames rising in the distance. Perl told us to stay put, but we followed masses of people hypnotically veering toward the light. It was a giant bonfire. We got close enough to see sparks darting in all directions. I was surprised to hear such loud sounds coming from the fire—crackling, pops, bangs, roars. Ania and I circled it from a safe distance and saw the fire take on different shapes, depending on where we stood. Sometimes it looked like black silhouetted figures headed toward the flames, then there were piles of crisscrossing sticks like a funeral pyre I saw in a book on India. I was drawn toward it and found myself getting closer. I heard Ania calling me back, but I was no longer in control of my movements. If others could show their shadows, so could I.

  A loud burst followed when someone threw a long, sausage-like object into the orange heap. I went forward, transfixed despite its potential harm, and then inched backward, running as far away as I could.

  The story of Jesus came to me. Maybe I thought of it then because of the sticks, which sometimes looked like burning crucifixes. I think also, it was the stories of his miracles and how he mesmerized crowds with mystical powers. This was not Easter, but Jesus was rising from the dead.

  Behind a row of tall bushes, I heard yelps and saw a flash of arms. I moved closer and peeked around the side. On a pile of twigs Mendel and Ida were laying down, and Ida rolled over. Mendel crawled next to her and smoothed the dirt from her skirt. His hands ran down her legs and up again, and she seemed to pounce on him. Before long, they were kissing and feeling each other around. At first, I was going to yell her name and then thought of finding Perl. But I saw that Mendel pulled Ida’s long black hair back and licked her face. Instead of pushing him away, she moved her head back and closed her eyes, seemingly in a trance. I scooted away and ran back and bumped into Ania.

  “Where have you been?” she said. “Perl is looking for you.”

  “Looking for you,” I repeated, my cheeks pulsating with heat, not just from the fire but from the shame of my Ida.

  Back on the bus, I slept all the way to Brest. I awoke a few times for a second or two and have a vague memory o
f humming tunes. Once Ania whispered, “Look, Esfir, Ida and Mendel are sitting together.” I didn’t want to see and pretended to sleep. By the time we got to the Tarbut to unload, Mendel was standing again, checking a list of students as they disembarked.

  I was surprised that the next morning, there was nothing mentioned about Lag b’Omer at breakfast. Freyde was in a rush, as usual, grabbing a roll and running out the door. Fanny and Ida sat drinking tea as they waited for Liba. Leave it to Rachel to bring up the unmentionable.

  “So, Ida,” she said, her voice rising on the second word, which she dragged out.

  “So, Ra-chel,” Ida parodied.

  “Did you have fun yesterday?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you?”

  “It was okay if you don’t mind almost getting burned to death and children practically killing you with bows and arrows.”

  “Must everything be about you and how you narrowly escaped death?”

  “Not everyone gets to nuzzle with their teacher.”

  Rachel had gone too far this time. I was angry at Ida but more scared for her, hoping that I was the only one who saw them. Everyone knew that Mendel would get in serious trouble if anyone suspected him of showing improper overtures to a student, especially a girl who just turned fifteen.

  Ida’s face reddened, which surprised me since her complexion was so dark. She once told me that she didn’t get sunburned but turned tan or she should have said, “tanner.”

  At that moment, Liba entered the room. She must have been listening or Rachel was speaking so loudly, Liba could have heard her upstairs.

  “I’m ready,” she announced, scooping an apple from a bowl on the table and rocking it from one palm to another. “Oh Rachel,” she said, on her way toward the vestibule. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut. Jews are in enough trouble in this city. We don’t need to make trouble for each other.”

  Perl didn’t like that kind of language, but let it go. Rachel actually looked chastised. She lagged behind as the girls gathered their books from the hall table. I think I was the only one who heard her say “sorry” as she passed me by.