Esfir Is Alive
Page 15
I couldn’t dwell on my losses too long. Our time was running out and we headed back to Ida’s house. I was anxious that my grandfather would be angry with me for being away for so long. Secretly, I hoped that our lingering caused us to be too late to catch the train in Visoke and we’d have to sleep at the Midlers.
I needn’t have worried. When we walked in the living room, my grandfather and Mr. and Mrs. Midler were wrapped up in their talking. I was happy that they seemed to be getting along so well. They were discussing the clashes between the Arabs and Jews in Palestine, England’s reduction of the Jewish immigration quota to Palestine, and whether there should be a partition between the Arabs and Jews.
While I listened, all I could think about was Velvel stuck amidst all this turmoil. We hadn’t heard from him yet and I knew my mother was very worried.
What surprised me was that my grandfather presented his interpretation of events as objectively as he could, holding back his religious convictions and anti-Zionist ideas. He didn’t talk about the Messiah or the afterlife, or as he called it, “The world to come.” My father used to call my grandfather, “an uneasy tenant of heaven,” meaning that his actions were more centered on his ordinary life here on earth.
More refreshments and then we were off. Mr. Midler kindly offered to take us to Visoke in his wagon. There was no room for more people, but Ida hopped into the wagon well, insisting that she wanted to come along. Ester and Sala asked to join her, but Mr. Midler said it wasn’t a good idea to put too much stress on the wooden slats, knowing they would have been dancing around. I could see the disappointment in the girls’ eyes, considering that Mr. Midler often carried bicycles and other equipment that weighed more than his daughters.
I said good-bye to Sala and Ester. Mrs. Midler embraced me and I made a vow to myself, again. Recollecting my first impressions of Ida’s mother, I promised I would wait until I knew more about people—hearing them speak, watching them act—before I passed judgment.
There’s not much to report about our trip to Visoke or our leave-taking. I tried not to be emotional, especially when Ida said, flippantly, “So, Esfir, see you soon in Brest.” I thanked Mr. Midler for driving us; my grandfather shook his hand. Mr. Midler invited him to visit anytime, and to bring my grandmother. Maybe it was a reflex, but my grandfather said, “She would like that, God willing.”
I watched the wagon and could see Ida jump from the well onto the ground and step up to the passenger seat, snuggling close to her father. Let’s face it. Ida was happy that I came, but nothing compared to her joy in sharing the seat with her father.
Twenty-One
MY MOTHER DECIDED that I should stay in Kobrin until after the High Holy Days. Now that she was more of her old self, she was becoming increasingly involved in her children’s lives. She planned to take me back to Brest and have a long talk with the headmaster of my school. If she was happy with his responses, I would return but she didn’t mind if I missed the beginning classes. This meant I wouldn’t go back to Brest until September 16 at the earliest. It would be a month and a half until I saw Ida.
Speaking of Ida, since I couldn’t attend Market Day in Volchin, I was determined to attend the August fair in Kobrin, which was held in the enormous, mazelike marketplace on the tenth day of each month and was the place to go. I enlisted my friend Gittel in a scheme to fool our mothers into thinking we were going to the orphanage to help the children, which we planned to do but after we snuck in the fair.
Peasants from all over Poland jammed their carts and wagons every which way. They displayed merchandise in their wagons, on crates, on the ground, in their arms, draped over their shoulders. They had cloth, seeds, wheat, wooden and tin objects, animals of all sizes, from chickens to horses, food—anything that was grown from the soil or made by the hand. There were Hasidim selling materials, peasants untying kerchiefs bursting with coins, lottery ticket sellers, organ grinders, local shopkeepers, harmonica players. With less finesse, peddlers shouted, “What do you have to sell?” I smelled onions, pickles, and horse manure. It seemed like the whole world was wheeling and dealing.
Between maneuvering around a vast area of horses, freed of their harnesses and pressed in packs, and the shoving crowds, we were suffocating. Gittel began hyperventilating and trembling as if she were hot and cold at the same time. I was frightened, too, and felt like a midget, unable to move in a stampede of giants. Gripping Gittel’s hand, we shoved ahead and found a break, winding our way to a grassy area with a large oak tree. I ordered Gittel to sit and wait for me—not to move an inch.
What got into me, I cannot say. I was no less petrified by screeching animals and the hawking of shouting competitors. I could no longer distinguish a seller from a buyer, a Kobriner from an outsider. I retraced my steps and lost myself in bodies, propelled by the sway of hair, the sweep of an arm, the knock of a knee. I was a body ruled by other bodies. Finally, the give and take equaled out and I was still. It seemed like all life before me froze into a painting, and I was the artist with life or death on my palette. I closed my eyes, trying to black out the scene.
A minute, not more, passed and I was again shoved, this time in the stomach. Now I was ready to return to Gittel. On my way to her, I raised my head and smiled, saying hello to anyone who could see my face and waving to others who may have wondered why a small arm was flailing.
I reached Gittel, still cowering where I had left her. I sat next to her and put my arm around her convulsing shoulders. “It’s okay, Gittel,” I said as if I were pacifying a baby. “We can leave now.”
Gittel stood, clutching my hand, and we moved through the periphery of the fair, avoiding much of the activity. That I had put Gittel through such an agonizing experience, for what I couldn’t say. But I had this vague sense that my going back to the fair alone, greeting people even if I didn’t know them, would be something Ida would have done.
Every Jew in Kobrin baked at least one extra challah for the poor. I had carried one in a small basket and Gittel had one too, but it was snatched from her in the melee at the fair. Gittel worried about what she would say to her mother about the missing basket. I offered her my basket since our baskets were identical. I was counting on my mother not noticing that mine was missing since we had stacks of them. With this on our minds, we hurried to the orphanage so that our day wouldn’t be a total lie.
My grandmother Ruth, my father’s mother, was very charitable and encouraged compassion and activism in her children and grandchildren. During the Great War, Grandma, a married woman in her forties, had gone to the train station to help the wounded and the refugees who arrived. Ruth and other women formed a committee to help the poor. Going from house to house, they brought two notebooks, one with the names of people willing to help and the other for those needing help. It was fitting that their motto was, “Give or Take.”
Next on the list for Ruth and the women was to help establish a Jewish orphanage, the first in the area. Jewish doctors ministered to the children for free, and Kobriners donated food and pitched in. Soon the orphanage grew to accommodate a hundred and twenty children. The women’s committee also raised money for the children to receive an education.
Life was very hard after the war. People needed interest-free loans. For that purpose, a committee of women evolved called, The Reward of Good Deeds Society. Ruth was a member of this committee, too.
Grandpa Morris was not always happy that his wife devoted so much time outside her familial responsibilities. Having only sons, Ruth tried to enlist her daughters-in-law in her causes. They would join her on occasion, but they were preoccupied with other concerns.
“It’s not the same,” my mother had explained to me once, “for us as it was for your grandmother. Not to criticize her work, but when you begin something that is difficult, you have an enthusiasm that comes from an inner place. Later on, when others take on the cause, they hadn’t been involved in the ‘fight’ so they do the good works but more as a duty than a mission.”
On this fair day, we slipped around the building to the backyard where children were singing and dancing. Two of my latest favorites, three-year-old brother and sister twins, ran up to me and wrapped their arms around my feet. I couldn’t move and then we all fell in a heap, laughing and hugging. If I’d been an adult, I would have adopted them.
It turned out that Gittel and I didn’t get in trouble. Nobody ever discovered that we went to the fair and no one noticed the missing basket. When I walked into the door of my house and looked at my mother, it was apparent that something major happened in my absence. My mother’s cheeks had regained some color, her steps seemed to bounce.
“It came!” she screamed, waving a paper in her hand. “It came.”
“What?” I asked, unsure if I should be happy or not.
“It’s a postcard from your brother.” Then she said, “From Velvel,” as if I didn’t know my own brother’s name.
“Let me see,” I said. My mother was reluctant to give me the card, but I promised to give it back as soon as I read it.
He didn’t write much. It was one long sentence. I copied every word in my journal: “Dear family—after a very long and complicated journey, I arrived in Palestine, which is dry and hot but I am happy in my work and live for the day that you will join me—with love always, your Velvel.”
For days, my mother kept the card tucked into her brassiere. She didn’t think anything wrong about reaching into her cleavage to pull it out if anyone showed the slightest interest after she hinted about her son. At first we were embarrassed. But, truthfully, each one of us would have gladly taken that card and pressed it close to our breasts. Although I didn’t have anything to hold it up, I would have found a way.
Velvel had been the glue that kept our family together, more, I’m sad to say, than my father. Velvel was the one home when my father was working or at a meeting. Velvel was the one who helped me with schoolwork. He was the one to lift me when I did something he liked. And Velvel was the one with jokes and good humor, which my family seemed to need more than anything else.
I missed him so much it hurt my heart, but I was happy he was safe, and happy for my mother who was a different person.
WHEN MY MOTHER and I got off the train in Brest, we headed for my school. My mother had a satisfactory conversation with the headmaster and then dropped me off at Perl’s. She had to go back to Kobrin on the next train as there was a government inspector coming to my father’s shop the next day.
At Perl’s, there was a war going on in the house. Predictably, the instigator was Rachel, the victim was Fanny, the weaker twin, and the defender was Ida. I never found out the reason, but it didn’t matter because positions were established and loyalties declared. Not that anyone was on Rachel’s side, and maybe that’s why she prolonged her attacks relentlessly. The air was charged with tension and it hit me hard after the quiet contemplation of Yom Kippur, just passed. I never forgot that Rachel had something going on with the rock-throwing boys in the park. She could do anything. Was this how it would be for the new year? Arguments and hurt feelings?
My biggest disappointment by far was the reception from Ida. After visiting her in Volchin, I thought I would have risen in her affections. On my first night back, she barely said “hello.” Liba came into our room and whispered into Ida’s ear. I gathered they were talking about Rachel because I heard her name, but leaving me out of the conversation hurt me more than if they had been discussing me. It was like I didn’t exist.
Why had I come back here? I made a big mistake. I should have insisted on returning to the school in Kobrin. At least I’d have Gittel there, my own friend, my own age. We could have continued our visits to the orphanage. I didn’t belong here.
Once in Kobrin when I wanted to listen to the grown-ups and not go to bed, Grandpa Yankel had said, “Shtup zikh nit vu men darf nit.” He was right, of course. I shouldn’t push myself where I didn’t belong. I missed the old goat. Ever since our trip to Volchin, we had a new fondness. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else in the family, but Grandpa took extra pains to sit near me or to give a little pinch on my cheek.
And here, I had nobody special. Perl was busy. She really didn’t need me. I had no place to go and no one to talk to, except, of course, Miriam. This further convinced me that I was totally unlovable. My sadness was so deep and sure I couldn’t say what it was. I only knew that I wanted to crawl under the bed with Miriam and never come out.
After a bad night of tossing and sleeping only a few hours, I awoke to a wet towel slapped in my face. “What?” I screamed.
“Wake up, you old rag.” Ida was jumping around the room.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing is wrong, except for me. I was not nice to you yesterday. I don’t want you to think I wasn’t happy to see you. I was just so angry at Rachel, it consumed all my thoughts. I’m very glad to see you, my little friend, and I’m so sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
At first I couldn’t respond. I didn’t want to admit that I was upset. Besides, Ida apologized. It was amazing how the world could change for me so suddenly. I needed so little to feel so much.
I MET ANIA on the way to school, and we kissed and hugged as if we hadn’t seen each other for years, which is the way I felt anyhow. We had exchanged a postcard each. They both had similar messages like, “How are you? Are you having a good summer? I miss you.” It was the kind of writing that is polite but means nothing. I signed it “love always,” and Ania signed hers with, “your friend.”
I had taken Ania’s lack of affection as a sign that she was tired of me, that she had found other playmates—Polish girls who went to her church. I imagined that her family prohibited our contact because of my religion and that she was happy to drop me. I never confessed this to Ania, but I have to admit that I exaggerated my adventure at the fair with Gittel to make Ania a little jealous—my first sin to atone for this new year.
To make up for closing me out, Ida spent a half hour the next night updating me about her relationship with Mendel Feigen. I couldn’t believe she would tell me. She said I was the only one she confided in. She said, “Mendel and I wrote letters to each other over the summer.”
“You did?”
“We did. And Esfir, now that I’m fifteen, I’m almost the age that my mother had been when she met my father.”
“Have you seen Mendel alone?” I asked, not admitting I had seen them kissing and more. Where I found my courage, I couldn’t say.
“Esfir, I shouldn’t be admitting this to you. Promise you won’t say anything to anyone.”
I crossed my finger across my lips.
“I saw Mendel a few times after school hours, but only so we could discuss my homework assignment, an important paper.” I raised my eyebrows and she continued, “You guessed it, we talked about everything but the paper. Don’t ask me where, but we walked and walked every time until it got cold and dark.”
I didn’t remind her that Mendel was still her teacher. I began to realize why Ida confided in me. I was the only one in the house who wouldn’t criticize her. She must have known that I would have danced on ice to garner her secret desires and that I would never risk her anger by revealing them. This was real trust.
Ida was beyond judgment in my mind. If the other girls didn’t approve, they were either jealous or didn’t understand.
MY EIGHTH BIRTHDAY came and for the first time I celebrated without my Kobrin family. Perl stuck a candle in a honey cake and led the song at the dinner table. The girls looked embarrassed because they didn’t know it was my birthday. I was glad. I didn’t want them to make a fuss and be reminded of how young I was. When it was time to go to sleep, though, there was a small package wrapped in tissue paper on my bed.
Ida was reading, but looked at me i
nnocently and said, “What is it, Esfir?”
“I don’t know.” I turned the box back and forth and shook it but nothing rattled. Carefully, I opened the paper and there was a small white box. Inside on top of a cotton bed lay a ring made of tiny colored beads.
“I know it’s not much,” Ida said.
“I love it.”
And wonder of wonders, it fit perfectly on my ring finger. I couldn’t stop looking at it. It seemed to change colors when I held it closer to the light. This was my first ring and it had come from Ida. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
Before long, December was over. We were all back in Brest after the holidays. The year turned again for the rest of the world—1938. I was feeling less apologetic and more talkative to those older. I didn’t know why, but being around Ida made me feel that this was going to be a wonderful year.
Twenty-Two
I WAS WRONG about 1938. Things were going on in the world that I couldn’t grasp.
Mendel ran a discussion group after school and got the girls worked up about current events. One blustery day in March, he walked Ida home and I heard him talking in the parlor.
“Yes, this is already a big catalyst,” he said in his uppity voice, “for troubling times.” He identified the event with the word, Anschluss, meaning “union” in German. With Hitler standing victoriously in an open car, German troops crossed the border and occupied Austria.
“The situation changes by the day,” Mendel said. “Other countries, including Poland, are agitating for their lost lands. Know this, though, when countries are vying for power, and when their borders are subject to change, this can only mean catastrophe.”
I didn’t pay much attention to Mendel’s words, though I made Ida write some of them down in my journal. I recalled when he had been calling for Jews to immigrate to Palestine, predicting calamity if we remained in our native lands. This time no one needed Mendel to report that the borders of our neighboring countries were as tenuous as the crust of an apple pie. Or that the chancellor of Germany’s Third Reich, Adolf Hitler, represented a demon other leaders couldn’t ignore.