Esfir Is Alive
Page 19
THERE WERE SO many changes in our lives then, that it’s difficult to keep them straight in time. Although the war was not officially over, we felt that it was.
To mark it in my own way, I took out Miriam from her “safe” place under my bed. Whether I was in Brest or Kobrin, Miriam was never far from where I slept. I stroked her hair and whispered, “Miriam, I think all is good now. You’ll see. Soon we’ll go in the yard and sit in the sun. How nice that will be.” I was careful to cheer her up, but not to talk down to her.
I stood with my back against the wall and, with a ruler flattening my hair, I marked my height with a pencil line. My sisters and I did this regularly. And to make Miriam feel good, I always marked her height, too. I know this sounds crazy, but I can swear that Miriam measured an inch taller. Still, there was no escaping the fact that the distance between us was longer than ever. But I assured Miriam that even if I got all the way to Drora’s marks, I would never abandon her. To make her feel extra good, I promised that we would soon be back in Brest. I know how much she loved Ania.
Not everyone was so optimistic. When my grandfather heard that the Soviets agreed to give Germany three hundred thousand tons of crude oil a year, the output of Polish fields, he predicted the downfall of our economy. He went for longer and longer periods without a joke, one of his Yiddish sayings, or even a recitation of a religious text to make up for our “heathen” ways.
I took on the job of cheering him up, though my mother said that I shouldn’t be disappointed if my efforts failed; some things you couldn’t fix.
Occasionally, I read my grandfather a quotation from my journal. He seemed amused at my dedication. He thought Ida was the most wonderful girl, even if she encouraged my outspokenness. Her love of literature and philosophy, especially the Yiddish and Hebrew masters, was “unusual for a girl.” I made a note to tell Ida about my grandfather’s praise, though I’d never include his comments about “unusual for a girl,” which he had said with more jocularity than conviction.
On one afternoon at my aunt Khane’s house, I found my grandfather at the desk, bent as close to the page in his book as he could be without touching.
“What are you reading?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t sleeping as he continued to stare down without turning a page.
“Nothing important.”
“Would you like to see more of the writings I have copied in my journal?”
“My eyes are tired, Esfele. Read me a little.”
I read him some quotations, including the last by Mendele Mocher Seforim, as explained by Ida, “the grandfather of modern Yiddish and the father of modern Hebrew literature.”
“So, Esfir, you think you are the only one who appreciates Jewish literature?”
“No. Ida does too.”
“Oh, the famous Ida. Would you be surprised to learn that your zeyde has read writers like Seforim?”
“Really?”
“Really. And this zeyde doesn’t need to put it down in a book.”
Then he closed his eyes, sat back in the chair, and recited, “If two Jews were to be shipwrecked on one of those desert islands, where there was not one other human being, there is no doubt that one of them would open a shop, and the other would start some little business of his own, and they would give each other credit.”
“That’s funny I guess.”
“You guess? That, my little girl, was directly from Mendele Seforim’s novel, The Book of Beggars, 1869.”
And I had wanted to impress my grandfather!
My mother had been listening to our conversation and, when my grandfather resumed his reading posture and finally turned a page, I sat next to her on the couch. She put her arm around me and kissed my cheek. “Esfir you are a compassionate girl,” she said. I wasn’t certain what she meant except that my grandfather acted out two lengthy jokes during dinner that night.
Twenty-Seven
WARSAW SURRENDERED TO Germany on September 27, and the last organized resistance ceased in early October when seventeen thousand Polish troops surrendered in Eastern Poland. Now that the Germans were gone to the last one, we all relaxed. We were free from the fascists. Students returned to schools, shops and businesses reopened, the markets flourished again. It was time for me to return to Brest.
I don’t remember how we communicated with Perl to announce my arrival. She met me at the train station and I ran into her arms. We stood still for awhile until someone pushed us as a unit, and then we walked for a long time. We longed to talk to each other, to catch up on family news, and to compare events in our cities. Mostly, we needed to hold onto each other’s hands and swing them without fear of anyone breaking them apart.
Almost immediately, Perl reported about Sonia, the Polish woman who came from the countryside to help clean Perl’s house. “I had to let her go,” Perl said.
“Why?” I asked, images coming to me of a portly and cheerful woman with a gold front tooth and a nest of kinky red hair. Sometimes I’d come home from school and know she was there from the instant assault of lemon and bleach.
Perl explained, “You know I love Sonia. She has been a great help to me, but times are difficult. I can no longer afford to pay her.”
“Oh,” I said.
“This has been going on for a while. Little by little, I was paying Sonia less money. She loved me, I know, and said she could manage with the money I gave her. Then, last spring, I couldn’t give her any money. At first, she took apples, peaches, preserves, a chicken—anything that made me feel as if I were paying her. She remained a few more weeks. In July, we both agreed that it was not going to work as it was and I promised the minute things got better, I’d summon her back. She kissed my hand and said she’d never forget me.”
I had no idea Perl underwent such a drama with Sonia but I understood that Perl was purposely avoiding more personal questions.
“ ‘Forget, Shmorget,’ I said to her,” Perl went on, ‘just because we don’t have a working relationship anymore doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’ ”
I tried to concentrate on Perl’s story, but as we walked, each step revealed new destruction—buildings in shambles, roofs caved in, windows shattered, blackened and burned-out shops, buses and cars smashed like accordions, burlap-covered heaps revealing bodily outlines. Surely, we had gotten off the wrong train stop. This was not the Brest I left last June. Perl and I found a bench in front of the park, now strewn with piles of debris. Ragged and soot-faced children were sifting through the rubble. We cleared off a space and sat.
I closed my eyes and urged Perl to continue her story. By now, it was I who needed a diversion from the horror around us.
“Sonia immediately stood and put her hands in her pockets, aware that kissing my hand should not be the custom for friends of the same social class. So she left, swearing she would stop by for a glass of tea the next time she was working in the neighborhood.”
“So has she come by?” I asked, becoming fascinated by this new relationship.
“Not yet,” Perl said. “It’s not easy to get around. You can see how things are.” She had a faraway look; it shook me to see my beloved, jovial aunt so sad. I realized again how much she resembled her father.
Naturally, I asked Perl about all the girls. She said that before the last Germans left, Ania had practically “risked her life” to visit me, hoping I had somehow returned to Brest. Her father dropped her off as he was going to the church nearby and planned to pick her up in an hour. Ania’s parents, especially her mother, had been sick with worry about their relatives in Warsaw, afraid that they were wounded or killed. That was why her father had gone to church, to pray that his relatives survived and, if they had to flee, they would make it to Brest.
Every few minutes, Ania’s mother had looked out her window, hoping to see her aunt, uncle, sister, brother, her in-laws, all those close to her living in Warsaw or the surrounding areas. No matter who and where we were, we had been doing the same thing: pacing and looking out the window.
I was also surprised at Yossel’s appearance. He had always been impeccably dressed in a clean white shirt and slacks. His normally shiny brown hair, a lock falling over his right eye, was now long and greasy. He showed the early growth of a beard and mustache. His khaki shirt was rumpled. Though, he had a flirtation—and shared a kiss—with Liba, it was clear that he was not the pursuer. If you ask me, Yossel had been smitten with Ida and wound up in an awkward situation. It was also apparent from the way he slouched toward Ida, he still had a crush on her. I can bet that Ida was oblivious.
Ida was, as she always was, unique. She wore a simple green tweed bobble-knit sweater with a rounded neck. There was a thin long black scarf draped over her large breasts and hanging to her hips. She stood with her hand at her sides as if she were modeling for a fashion magazine. She knew no more about fashion than my brother in Palestine, but she had a way of drawing attention to herself that was instinctual.
I compared her to my modest sister Drora, who was so devoted to her activities at Freiheit. Freyde was also involved in HashomerHatzair like Velvel. And, not to forget Mendel and his Revisionist Zionism. I wondered where Ida stood in all these movements. She was sympathetic to Mendel when he spoke; she commiserated with Freyde; she nodded when I related my sister’s activities, what little I knew of them. But I never saw Ida attend a meeting for her own reasons.
She was, I realize now, unable to fit in with any one party, any one point of view. There was no label she wore, no banner she waved. By choosing none, she chose them all. Everyone had a valid point of view, she would be the first to say. Not that Ida didn’t have strong opinions. But she never wanted to be judged for another’s ideals or be a member of a “constituency.” She was her own mouthpiece.
Ida was a flower, like no other. I am not exactly unbiased about her. In this, though, I am not exaggerating.
When Ida noticed me, she ran down the street and lifted me at the waist, swinging me side to side. Then she pushed me back, nodding and scrunching her lips as if she were appraising a lovely new dress, and said, “I think you must have grown at least two inches.” Since I was nearly ten and self-conscious about appearing even younger, I grinned. I didn’t volunteer that I had recently measured myself on the wall and had grown two inches!
Freyde stubbed out her cigarette and rushed to kiss me on the cheek. I could smell tobacco engulf her entire being.
Yossel gave me a nod and said, “How are you, kid?”
I said I was fine and glad to see him.
As we were standing around, Rachel and Liba walked down the street toward us, arm in arm. Naturally a bit taller than Liba, Rachel wore stylish shoes—black suede peep toes with high heels—that made her look like a giant, her exact intention. But it wasn’t Rachel who was flustered when she saw Yossel lounging with the girls. Liba straightened her posture, chest forward, as if she needed to elongate herself next to Rachel. She began to fluff her Claudette Colbert short, straight bangs, which she did when she was nervous. So here was my proof: while Yossel wanted Ida, it was Liba who wanted Yossel.
During these days, it was foolish of Rachel to flaunt any extravagant dress. Where she got those shoes and why she hadn’t hidden them remained another unsolved mystery. And as far as I could learn, Rachel’s father had not shown up to take her to school. She had appeared one night and, with her house key, opened the front door, quietly slipped inside, for once making no notice of herself.
I was surprised to see Rachel and Liba so chummy; we were all aware how much Rachel annoyed Liba. This was one of the bonds Liba and Ida had shared: their impatience with Rachel. Ida didn’t seem to mind Liba’s lapse in allegiance, as she said later to me, since Liba always came to our room at night to complain about Rachel, causing both girls to howl with scheming laughter.
“Where have you girls been?” Freyde asked, innocently.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Rachel said.
“Just for a walk,” Liba said, apologetically.
“You girls should be more careful where you go,” Yossel said, not looking at them.
“You’re right Yossel,” Liba said. She slipped her arm back into Rachel’s and they strutted into the house.
After he left, Freyde excused her brother’s appearance, explaining that he was very anxious. In his last year at the Tarbut, he had been applying to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and for an immigration certificate to Palestine. It could take months to hear; nobody could predict when. The waiting was torture. With current political events so volatile, this could be his only chance to realize his dream of becoming a doctor.
That night, Ida seemed restless. She listened by our door and paced around the room, which was difficult to do being such a small space. It was obvious that she was waiting for Liba to deliver her report on the haughty Rachel. After Ida turned out the light and got into bed, she didn’t go to sleep for a long time. I was awake thinking about things and didn’t hear Ida’s regular snoring snorts.
The Tarbut girls went back to school but not for long.
I HAD AN emotional reunion with Ania on the way to school in October. She was bloated and had grown a pudgy stomach. She had eaten so many potatoes—which is saying a lot because her family had them mashed every night—that her brother Piotr called her Ziemniaczana Twarz, “Potato Face” in Polish. Probably he wanted to get back at her for once calling him Pig Face. We hugged and skipped along, both of us looking back over our shoulders, for what I can’t say.
We were early so we waited in front of school. Ania told me about the joint military parade in Brest on September 22. It was both a farewell salute to the Germans and a welcome to the Soviets. Ania had a good viewing position in the crowd.
“I saw Soviet tanks and armored cars pass while the Nazis saluted their new friends—the Communists. And there were Nazis talking to a Soviet tank crew as if Brest were their hometown.”
At four p.m., she had seen an official ceremony. The Soviet Commander Krivoshein saluted the German General Guderian in the street while many—mostly the soldiers—applauded. Then in front of the German Headquarters, the red Russian flag, with hammer and sickle, flew alongside the German flag, its swastika billowing in the breeze.
The commanders had stood on a wooden platform to review the paraded vehicles. The German band played the German anthem, “Das Lied der Deutschen.” Ania, who studied German, noted the first line, “Germany, Germany above all.” “I was so close to the trombone and clarinet section, I could hear every note,” she said. Though most of the locals stared as if stunned, eventually they raised their hands and cheered. “Esfir, you wouldn’t believe it. Russian soldiers were shouting and screaming.”
I couldn’t get into Ania’s excitement. All I could think of was the hypocrisy—that the Russians felt victorious over the Germans as if the entire invasion hadn’t been orchestrated.
Ania, whose family had long-held bad feelings for the Germans, couldn’t help be caught up in the revelry. She had come home singing “L’Internationale,” the international anthem of revolutionary socialism. She repeated a line from the chorus, “This will be the final and decisive battle,” raising her arm in a clenched fist. Her mother and brothers applauded, but her father suddenly slapped her cheek. Everyone froze. This had not been the first time her father hit her, but there was usually a logical reason.
Her father had said, “Ania, I’m sorry, but you should be more sympathetic to your own people. This is not a time for celebration.”
Yes, Ania felt for the many t
housands of Poles who had been imprisoned and persecuted by the Germans. Her father’s brother and cousin, soldiers in the Polish army, had been missing for weeks.
“But, Father,” Ania had pleaded, “the Russians will surely help us. Everyone says so.”
“Everyone. You know everyone! But do you know that the Bolsheviks are also taking our boys as prisoners? The uniforms may change, but the bullies stay the same. As long as the Poles can’t speak their own language in their own country, they’re not free.”
Ania had been humiliated by her father’s slap. She still felt her father’s coarse worker’s hand grating her face like sandpaper. The word bully remained with her. “I decided,” she confided to me, “not to voice any opinions or repeat those I heard from others.” It was too dangerous, even in her own house. She spent more time doing chores or reading, retreating into her own world, a world I knew too well.
I felt so sorry for Ania and hated to see her natural good cheer dampened. Like with Perl, I held Ania’s hand tightly and swallowed my tears.
Political and national allegiances became crucial in our social dealings. Most of the Poles understandably supported Polish sovereignty, while ethnic minorities, meaning mostly Jews and Belorussians, supported Soviet rule. This naturally aligned us against the Poles.
I would not allow this hostility to poison my relationship with Ania. Her family was enlightened. They had influence. Her uncle was an important religious leader, dedicated to the social welfare of the community.
As weeks went by, I realized something more was affecting her. She no longer invited me to her house. I was hoping it wasn’t because she was being pressured by her family.
Then, one morning, on the way to school, I got up my nerve to ask. “Ania, is there something wrong, I mean between you and me?” I tried to swallow but my tongue curled back toward my throat.