by Andrea Simon
Grandpa Yankel didn’t come back with a Yiddish saying. This was his way of conceding. But with him, you could never be sure.
I didn’t care how I got anywhere. One way or another, I was going to Volchin!
Twenty
MY GRANDFATHER AND I set out to visit my great-uncle Hymie in Visoke. I don’t remember the train ride there or the droshky to his house.
Great-aunt Malka welcomed us. She was frail and small, shuffling around to bring us tea and orange preserves on toast.
Hymie was sitting up in bed and when he saw me, he said, “A meydl mit a kleydl.” Then he recognized his brother, blurting, “A pish on a forts iz vi a khasene on a klezmer!” I knew this meant, “A pee without a fart is like a wedding without a band!” My grandfather laughed and answered, “Az di bobe volt gehat beytsim volt zigeven mayn zeyde!” meaning, “If my grandmother had testicles, she’d be my grandfather!”
I was totally flabbergasted. Why were these two brothers speaking to each other in such “dirty” epigrams? But no one seemed to be insulted. Malka clapped her hands and shouted, “So I see you two are at it again.”
I almost got it when my grandparents exchanged Yiddishisms, but these were of a different nature. When I was alone with Malka in the kitchen, she explained that this was the brothers’ way of hugging; and as long as it continued, she was happy.
Hymie’s lips had a bluish tinge and his brown eyes sank into dark-gray semicircles. But he continued to joke and needle my grandfather, so I figured he wasn’t as sick as he looked or as I had expected. When we left his bedroom, Hymie yelled that we should live and be well, which made my grandfather suddenly stop. Malka said that Hymie didn’t really mean it, and my grandfather blew his nose in his handkerchief and rushed me out the door while Malka was still squashing me with her hugs. I was totally confused. When Hymie finally said something nice, my grandfather acted like he couldn’t take it.
It took me a while to realize what was going on. They were saying good-bye.
Hymie’s son arrived by wagon to take us to Volchin, about seven miles south of Visoke. I don’t remember much of what we saw getting out of Visoke, except that it was a lovely town with lots of grass and trees. On the dirt road to Volchin, we passed houses, fields, cows, and many trees—birches, pines, cypresses. This landscape could just as well have been the outskirts of Kobrin. I had expected it to be more exotic; I had expected that we would enter the village through a commanding arch surrounded by remarkable monuments. Instead, we barely saw the signpost saying “Volchin.”
HYMIE’S SON EXPLAINED that Volchin contained three distinct neighborhoods. From Visoke at the northern entrance, there was New Volchin, where most of the Catholics lived. The first site Hymie’s son identified was a large field that had been a sand quarry. We could also see the Catholic church and the public school. There was a beautiful palace and a park.
I remember passing a stone bridge over the Pulva River (tributary to the Bug River) and then we were on the main street—a narrow road flanked by wood fences protecting wooden houses with corrugated roofs. It was very pretty and romantic, not like I imagined the poor shtetls described in the Sholem Aleichem stories that Perl read to me. This was where the Jews lived.
The southern area was Old Volchin, home of the Russian orthodox, but we didn’t make it that far because we were hardly into the Jewish section when Hymie’s son announced, “Here is the Midler house.” He located it easily, he said, because Iser Midler was a notable village man, and “Everyone knew who he was and where he lived.”
My grandfather and I got out of the wagon, and I was surprised that he instructed Hymie’s son to go back to Visoke and not wait for us. Usually, my grandfather wouldn’t make such a rash decision; he would ensure everything was satisfactory before he acted. We were uncertain what we would find here, whether Ida would even be home. And we only had two hours before we had to return to Visoke to take the train back to Kobrin. This brave risk on his part only made me more excited. Why would I care if we extended our stay in Volchin and had to miss our train to Visoke?
It was a well-kept, wooden house, large by the village standards, but not so compared to Kobrin’s or Brest’s. It had a low-slanted roof with attic triple windows. The house’s side windows swung out vertically, exposing a patterned curtain with fringe lacing billowing in the breezy summer day.
Clearly, this house had the village’s most spectacular landscaping. Rose and peony bushes flanked the front door. Plum-purple irises and burnt-orange lilies hugged the sides.
My grandfather squeezed my hand and knocked on the door. There was no noise coming from inside. We walked to the side window and he tapped on the glass. A woman’s head popped out, her face scowling like she was going to yell at one of her kids. When she saw strangers, she changed her expression to puzzlement. From Ida’s description, I knew this was her mother, Bashke.
“Forgive us for startling you, Mrs. Midler,” my grandfather said, introducing himself and explaining that I was a young friend of Ida’s who shared a room with her at Perl’s in Brest.
Bashke, I mean Mrs. Midler, immediately raised her head; I thought she would bang it on the window frame. “Oh, oh,” she said, “please go around to the front. Please come in.”
While Mrs. Midler welcomed us inside, wiping her hands on her apron, she appeared nervous and shy. She paced around the hallway, saying “Oh my,” several times until she invited us to sit in the large dining/living room, motioning to the couch and overstuffed chairs. She apologized for the unapparent disarray and said that she was the only one home, that she was expecting the girls soon. Sala, which I knew was Sara’s nickname, and Ester were swimming at the lake. Ida was at some large building in the center of the village. Across from the Russian orthodox church, it had a stage for theatrical productions. Every week the youngsters attended dances there, too.
Why Mrs. Midler was reporting this, I couldn’t understand. I wasn’t going to a dance or the theater, and we had informed her that we were only staying a short while. Finally, she explained, “Ida is there rehearsing for King Lear,” adding and nodding to my grandfather, “you know by Shakespeare.” My grandfather nodded back and waved his hand as if to say, “go on.”
“My Ida is going to be the treacherous older daughter, Goneril. I wish she would have gotten a nicer role.”
It was clear to me that if anyone would relish playing a villainess, it would be Ida.
This building, Bashke said, was also where her husband met for the volunteer fire brigade. He was a captain, she couldn’t wait to slip in.
“Oh, the fire brigade,” my grandfather said. “When I lived in Brest, a long time ago, in 1895 and 1901, there were great fires. More than half of Brest burned down.”
“I didn’t know this,” she said.
“Yes,” my grandfather continued, “even worse, during the Great War, in 1915, there was the biggest fire—from one end of Brest to the other, caused by the retreating Russian tsarist army. Cossack soldiers attacked and killed many Jews. One morning German planes appeared. I remember it like yesterday. More homes were burned. The marketplace was in flames. The Germans destroyed whatever the Russians didn’t.”
Mrs. Midler tisked and tutted.
My throat was getting dry and I could swear I smelled something burning. I suddenly thought of Perl and realized that her longing for the past, the sound of her voice that I had thought distinct, was so much like her father’s.
As if she had seen my thirst, Mrs. Midler excused herself and rushed into the kitchen. I had only been in Ida’s house for fifteen minutes and I was exhausted from the talking between Bashke and my grandfather. But I got the feeling that Mrs. Midler usually didn’t speak that much; she seemed both flustered and embarrassed.
During her time in the kitchen, I had a chance to take in my impressions of Bashke Midler. Though Ida had described her to me, I was still startled by her appearance. A short, stocky woman, she had thick arms and legs. Her umber hair was parted to the sid
e with a curved section dipping over her forehead, an attempt at fashion probably encouraged by her daughters. She appeared like a hearty peasant woman, a no-nonsense practical worker, uncomfortable with social niceties. I could not envision her standing side-by-side with her handsome, debonair husband. And, I could not envision her disciplining her rebellious eldest daughter.
But I was wrong. This wouldn’t be the first time that outward appearances deceived me. I sensed my wrongness as soon as she returned with an ornate silver tray, complete with a silver coffee server, sugar bowl, and creamer. She lowered the tray gently on the coffee table and skittered out of the room, and returned efficiently with another tray offering orange juice, a bowl of cherries, a sour cherry compote, and a cherry pie. “Sorry,” she said. “You can see we have cherry trees.”
My grandfather laughed, not an easy reaction to provoke. He took off his fedora, revealing his yarmulke.
Then Mrs. Midler said, “Reb Cohen, You should know I only use kosher ingredients.”
“That is good,” he said.
“And, Esfir, have some juice and pie.”
I dutifully ate a chunk, which was delicious.
“I was thinking, Reb Cohen,” Mrs. Midler said, “about what you said when you lived in Brest. If I am not being too bold, what happened to you and your family? ”
“After the big fire of 1915,” my grandfather explained, “they didn’t allow people to return until the end of 1918. Before then, the Briskers wandered in exile. When some Jews came back, non-local Poles tore off beards from the orthodox and treated them like dirt. Most Jews returned eventually but life was very hard. It was during that time of exile that we moved to Kobrin.”
“Kobrin, I hear is a beautiful city.”
“True, but I had to abandon my fabric shop in Brest, a great loss to me. Esfir’s Aunt Perl and her husband Natan returned to Brest but the rest of our family remained in Kobrin. That’s where Esfir’s parents met.”
Like Perl, my grandfather got wound up in the past. But I was surprised that he was so personal with Mrs. Midler. He must have realized this and ended the discussion. “And you know the rest, Mrs. Midler. Soon we became a Soviet republic and everyone became Russian again until 1921 when we were all officially part of Poland. ”
“Events have a way of taking over,” she said. “Please Reb Cohen, drink your coffee. My husband should be home any minute.”
Before long, they were in a discussion about Agudath Israel, the political movement my grandfather belonged to, which strived to preserve rabbinical authority and believed that the Jews should have a strong voice in their own communities. I remembered Ida’s chart with this group as being anti-Zionist.
Mrs. Midler showed no disrespect. Addressing him with the honorific “Reb” had been a good beginning. She knew a lot about the orthodox political movement, and she did not offer judgmental remarks. Either she had come from an orthodox background or she educated herself.
The family came trickling in. First it was Ester, the youngest at ten, but a year and a half older than me. She was going into the fifth grade at the public school, she boasted almost immediately. With thick bangs, supported by a white bow, Ester had the dark, brooding looks of Ida and the compactness of her mother.
Sala walked in the living room, stopped in her tracks by the unexpected company. She was with another girl, her best friend, Hanna Kremer.
“This is Esfir, Ida’s roommate in Brisk,” Ester announced, enjoying her status as the relater of information.
“And her grandfather, Reb Cohen,” Mrs. Midler added.
If Ida was the exotic daughter and Ester the mischievous one, Sala was surely the beauty. Maybe this was God’s way of making her, the middle child, have something special. My sister, Rivke, as a middle child could have used some of Sala’s looks. At twelve, Sala was well-proportioned and lean; her hair was in the same Buster Brown style as Ester’s, though it was a finer texture and lighter color like her mother’s. She had a little wedge of a nose and cherubic lips. She seemed delicate like my doll Miriam, but, again, looks were deceiving regarding all the Midlers as I was gathering.
Before I could find out why their hair was dry since they were supposed to have been swimming, Sala grabbed my hand and said, “Come, Esfir, I want to show you our new gramophone. We can listen to recordings.”
I heard Mrs. Midler apologize to my grandfather, who said, “They should live and be well,” just what Hymie had said to us. This embarrassed me in its ordinariness.
Before long, we were sitting on the carpet listening to Chopin. Sala and Hanna waltzed around the room, giggling and stepping on each other’s feet. Ester sneered as if the last thing she wanted to do was dance with me. When the recording was finished, Sala put on klezmer music and we all joined hands and skipped in a circle, then broke away and clapped ecstatically.
This scene is what Ida walked into. Though she grinned when she saw me, she held up her copy of King Lear and lapsed into Goneril, “Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.”
We clapped again and in walked Mr. Midler, as if he had been waiting in the wings on stage. Ida flipped pages and turned to face her father. “Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter: / Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; / Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; / No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor; / As much as child e’er loved, or father found . . .”
Mrs. Midler said to my grandfather, “You must think our entire family is, how should I put it, psychologically unsound.”
Not missing a beat, my grandfather said, as if reciting a poem, “Ales in eynem is nishto ba keynem.”
Mr. Midler bowed to my grandfather for his compassionate remark, and the clapping increased in intensity.
Never would I have thought my conservative grandfather, who may have been studying in the bes-medresh in Kobrin at this time, would have joined in such spontaneous fun as this. I was immensely proud.
My grandfather announced that we couldn’t stay more than an hour so Ida had to pack everything in. She was revved up as if she were in King Lear and was required to replace another actress without knowing her lines. This is what I loved most about Ida. Her mind worked faster than a bee, buzzing through all interference, zeroing in on the nectar. If she experienced doubt or prolonged analysis, she didn’t show it. I was the one with a hesitant nature.
“Oh, Esfir, I’m so happy you came,” Ida said over and over, leaping around the room. “There is so much to do in so little time. First, I must show you my house.”
The Midler home was centered around two main rooms—a bedroom and a living/dining room. There was an extension on the right, which had another apartment with a room and kitchen. If they were lucky, the Midlers rented out this space. Mainly, the girls slept in the large bedroom, which was separated with a curtain. On one side, there was a regular bed for Mr. and Mrs. Midler; and on the other, there were two small feather beds. Sometimes, they slept in the attic.
The kitchen was divided in two. Half was a shop for Mr. Midler, where he sold Singer Sewing machines, being the regional salesman, and sold and repaired bicycles. The other part of the kitchen had a door that led to the garden bursting with vegetables and flowers. This was the result of Mrs. Midler’s efforts; she was very particular about anyone tampering there. Ida was careful about leading me around the flowers.
The backyard also had a toolshed and a chicken coop. The chickens had been innocently intermingling with geese and pigs. The property was framed by fruit trees, including cherry, apple, pear, and peach. Beyond them in the back, there was an orchard owned by a Polish policeman. Wildflowers sprouted wherever there was room. It was my picture of heaven.
Ida took me on a quick walking tour with Ester tagging along. We passed the Jewish school that had classes conducted primarily in Yiddish. American relatives of the Volchiners helped support the school.
Then there was a large brick building, the
village synagogue. We didn’t go inside, but Ida said that it was beautiful with paintings and biblical verses on the walls. She described the houses we passed, reciting the names of its residents and something special about each occupant like the trade of the father or the wedding plans of a daughter. In one such house, there lived a father and his two sons. The boys were members of the Betar; the eldest was Volchin’s Betar commander. This is where the Betar members congregated.
“Remember the chart I made you of the social and political groups?” Ida asked. I guess I looked dumfounded because she said, “You know Betar is the youth organization of the Revisionist Zionists.” I nodded. “Of course,” she added, “almost everybody in Volchin is a Bundist. The Bund is non-Zionist. It all gets very confusing. I try to stay out of these discussions. You know me, I am of two minds.” I nodded again in total bewilderment.
Yet I loved when Ida spoke to me like I was her age. It was only then that I realized that Ester was not with us. She must have met someone or gone back home. Ida pointed out the large building where she had just come from, studying for her role. I wished I could have seen her perform. She took me as far as the market square, where stores were arranged in a half circle. Behind the stores, there was a passage that eventually led to the river. I longed to follow that path, but we didn’t have time. The town well was in the center of the market. Villagers were drawing water from a wooden pail attached to the end.
Too bad, Ida said, that we came on a Tuesday because Monday was Market Day, when shoppers and peddlers from all over came with their carts bulging with merchandise. Mrs. Midler usually set up a small table and sold fruit and vegetables, and sometimes flowers if she could part with them. This was also the area where the villagers held weddings. I felt like I was missing out on everything special.