The Sisters of the Winter Wood

by Rena Rossner

  Fayge would never

  dance with me like this.

  He cocks an eyebrow

  and I laugh.

  You’re different,

  Pinny Galonitzer, I say.

  I like that.

  You’re different too … he says, and looks

  into my eyes,

  and for a moment

  I think he wants to kiss me—

  my heart speeds up.

  Yes, I want to say,

  yes, please.

  He laughs,

  Sometimes you’re too different,

  and the moment is gone.

  I see the joke

  dance in his eyes.

  Like maybe it wasn’t

  the compliment

  he meant it to be.

  I shake my head

  and look away,

  picking up the tempo;

  I won’t let

  negative thoughts

  ruin this.

  We are giving the shtetl

  a far more precious gift tonight—

  the gift of joy,

  light and laughter.

  He’s breathing hard,

  but he keeps up with me.

  I didn’t mean that

  in a bad way, he says.

  It doesn’t matter, I say.

  Let’s just have fun.

  The music changes,

  but we keep dancing.

  You need to learn

  to take a compliment, he says.

  I think you take yourself

  too seriously.

  Come to our meetings …

  A whole group of us

  are planning to move

  to Eretz Yisroel next year.

  I shake my head.

  You don’t know my father.

  He must be outside

  or he’d never let me

  dance like this.

  Pinny spins me

  fast, and hard.

  But I know you,

  Laya, he says,

  and I know that

  you will find a way.

  He lets me go

  and I twirl

  in a spin

  that sends me half

  across the room.

  When I look back,

  I see he’s dancing

  with someone else.

  13

  Liba

  The town is quiet the next morning. Everyone is nursing a hangover of one form or another. But Tati comes back from his morning prayers and looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He doesn’t say anything, but he spends the afternoon writing a letter at his desk, and finally, as we sit down to Mami’s chicken soup and mandlen, after Tati makes kiddush over wine and motzi over challah, he tells us.

  “I heard in the marketplace today that in Gomel a Jewish woman refused to sell a barrel of herring to a watchman because he wanted to pay only a kopeck for it. The Jewish merchants in the marketplace fought the watchman to help protect the woman, who was only trying to earn an honest living, but the non-Jews in the town came to that watchman’s aid, and one of them was killed. They’re now saying they will attack the Jews in retaliation.”

  We sit in stunned silence.

  Mami clears her throat. “Well. That could never happen in Dubossary. The Jews and non-Jews get along so well here.”

  Tati shakes his head. “Of course it won’t happen here.”

  Mami nods her head.

  Shabbes comes and goes and Tati doesn’t mention it again. I stay awake all Friday night wondering if I should tell Laya what I saw, what I know, what I heard. I wait. Hoping that she’ll bring it up, that she’ll tell me that Mami spoke to her too. Maybe Tati will say something tomorrow at lunch, I think, after he comes home from synagogue when we eat our second shabbes meal.

  But the whole next day goes by and Mami and Tati don’t say anything. I bury my nose in Tati’s books and read my favorite stories, ignoring Laya as much as possible so that nothing slips out.

  On Saturday night, after the havdallah ceremony that separates light from dark, the sacred from the profane, we sit down for melaveh malka—the meal that ushers out the sabbath bride. Mami makes fluden and brews a pot of rose-petal tea and I realize what is coming—rose to ease the nervous spirit—and I’m angry at the china teapot, because what is about to happen is something that no tea or pastry in the world can heal.

  “Ze seudas Dovid malka meshicha—this is the feast of David, our anointed king!” Tati says.

  “Oymen,” we all answer.

  He booms out the blessing over baked goods, eyes closed, face seeking the sky, blessing God and holding a piece of fluden in his hand.

  “Oymen,” we all answer again, but none of us move to take tea or cake.

  “Your father and I have decided,” Mami says in a hushed tone, “that we must go away for a while. Tati’s father, the Rebbe, has taken ill, and he may not have long left to live. This is something we’ve been discussing ever since Tati’s brother Yankl came to our door a few nights ago, but last night we made a decision. We are both going to Kupel.”

  Laya looks at me, then at our parents, and I know that she’s wondering how much I know.

  “Will we be coming with you?” she asks.

  “No,” Mami says. “You will stay here and take care of each other. I’ve asked Zusha and Hinda Glazer to keep an eye out for you. They’ve an extra bedroom in case you need a place to stay for shabbes or just a home-cooked meal. And they’ll come by every few days to make sure you don’t need help with anything. We will return, hopefully soon. Perhaps the Rebbe will get better, and if not …” She looks at Tati. “Well, then we’ll come back when things have been taken care of. And perhaps when we come back, we will have—be’ezras Hashem, please God—good news.”

  “How could the Rebbe’s death be good news?” Laya asks, stealing another glance at me.

  I feel like a sword hangs over my head. As if one way or the other, this trip of theirs is going to decide my future, my fate. And even though it’s something I’ve been waiting for all my life, I’m not sure I want that future anymore, so I stay silent.

  “We want to meet your parents, Tati, don’t we, Liba? Our Bubba and Zeiyde!” She looks at me again and I nod. “What if it’s too late? What if we never get a chance to?”

  “No,” Tati says. “It’s too dangerous for Jews on the roads right now—we have no travel permits, and it’s certainly not safe for young women. The Rebbe is not a well man. This isn’t a simple visit home.”

  “Which is all the more reason why we should come with you!” Laya says.

  I know I should be backing up my sister, agreeing with her. But if there’s one thing I know for sure—I don’t want to go to Kupel. Not now, maybe not ever. If fate finds me, so be it, but I’m not willfully bringing myself any closer to becoming a beast. I’ve known all my life that I was different—overweight, not graceful like Laya, not beautiful—but I don’t want to be a bear, and I certainly don’t want to marry one.

  “So it’s better that we never meet the Rebbe?” Laya says. “That we never see the town you came from? We’re doomed to spend the rest of our lives here and never leave?”

  “If things go well, we may move back there,” Mami says. The way she says it makes me feel like it’s a wish she’s not sure she wants to make.

  In two days my whole world has shifted. What I thought I knew is now wrong; what I thought I wanted has completely changed. I don’t know who I am anymore.

  “So we’re just supposed to stay here, alone, and take care of everything until you come back? What if you never come back? What if something happens to you?” Laya’s eyes are wide and angry. “Liba, I don’t understand why you have nothing to say.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” I try.

  Laya looks from Mami to Tati, then back to me, and I feel like something shifts inside her too. Like maybe she’s seeing me, all of us, in a different way.

  She launches herself at them, crying and clinging tight,
begging them to take us with them.

  I can’t take it anymore. I get up from the table, knowing that the sound my chair makes scraping across the floor is the loudest act of disobedience I’ve ever made. But I don’t care. I don’t want them to see me cry. I climb the ladder up to the loft and curl up in bed.

  I hear Laya talking to Mami and Tati for a while, their voices soft and steady. But I don’t want to listen anymore. I’ve heard enough.

  “Laya, it’s late,” I hear Mami say after a while. “Liba is already sleeping; go join her. I think your sister needs you right now.”

  I can imagine Laya looking up at the loft, trying to decide if she even cares. But she must agree, because I hear Mami kiss her and say, “The Glazers have promised to take good care of you. Go to sleep, malyshka. Say the Shema before bed—tomorrow is a new day.”

  Laya slowly climbs the ladder. She lies beside me. “You knew,” she whispers. An accusation.

  There is nothing I can say.

  Mami and Tati climb the ladder to kiss us both goodnight. We are awake, but neither of us stirs. Laya is shivering, and I stare out the window at the forest. I squeeze my hands so tight that I feel my fingertips tingle. When I look, my nails are dark and long and sharp, like they were that day in the woods with Mami. My heart beats fast and I hide them under my pillow. I turn over in bed. And that’s when I see that Laya’s watching too.

  14

  Laya

  They pack to go

  and make their way

  out in the cold.

  I see their huddled shapes

  out of the window,

  only wanting distance,

  and feel near-empty.

  The truth of what I am

  of what Liba is

  feels like a sudden wall

  between us.

  She hides her hands

  under her pillow.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Tomorrow, Liba says,

  I’ll make some babka.

  She doesn’t say tea.

  I miss them already, I say.

  The light is blue

  and the grains of wood

  on the rooftop beams above us

  look like feathers.

  So do I, Laya,

  Liba says,

  but we have things to do.

  The cow to milk,

  the goat to tend,

  and clothes to wash,

  the cheese to make,

  and dust to sweep.

  She says it sadly,

  and I feel like

  there is something else

  that she’s not telling me.

  I know that I will

  never smell a rose again

  without remembering tonight,

  and I want to tell her this

  but I don’t think

  she’ll understand.

  I open my mouth to ask,

  Did Mami tell you things too?

  But Liba says,

  It’ll be like playing house.

  You’ll see.

  It will all work out.

  I close my mouth

  and say nothing.

  I don’t want to play.

  And I think

  the first chance I get

  I’m going to see

  if I can fly.

  In the silence,

  I hear music

  in the distance.

  Like the cooing

  of a thousand doves.

  A symphony

  of bells and peals,

  and whistles in the trees.

  We lie like cygnets

  in a bed of fur,

  still and awake

  with our thoughts.

  But I feel utterly alone.

  15

  Liba

  The next morning, Laya wakes up first, then she wakes me. The world is quiet and just beginning to stir.

  Perhaps it was all just a dream. I slept late, and downstairs Mami and Tati are stirring and soon I will smell mandelbrot and dandelion tea.

  I turn over in bed, feeling larger and clumsier and more bear-like than ever. I lift my hand up—my fingernails look normal. If Tati was here I’d be gone already, following him to the cemetery. But I don’t want to go there anymore. I stay in bed and hear Laya outside, milking the cow and checking for eggs. I hear her take in logs for the fire and bring in herbs for tea—and that’s when it hits me. They’re gone.

  There’s no one to take care of us. No more soft voices downstairs; no more arms to hug me and hold me and make me feel safe and warm. No one to bar the door at night; no one to open the curtains come morning. I won’t hear Tati getting up extra early to go down to the river; I can’t ask him any more questions.

  I won’t hear Mami’s lips murmuring softly as she prays. No one will put on the tea; no one will make supper, stoke the fire, or chop the wood. Only Laya and me. A silence of absence fills the house. It is hollow. It echoes with loss. I know in my bones that nothing will ever be the same again.

  16

  Laya

  Liba didn’t wake up

  early this morning

  like she usually does.

  I’m worried about her.

  I’ve never seen her

  like this.

  Sad, quiet, thoughtful.

  So I get up

  and do the chores,

  and let her sleep.

  When I was outside

  I heard doves.

  An army of them.

  They weren’t soaring

  through the trees—

  they sounded like they

  were coming for me.

  Me me me

  I wanted to say,

  Yes!

  Take me away

  from here.

  I follow the sound

  to the river.

  And instead I see

  a dozen white swans,

  flying above

  the frozen Dniester.

  I reach my arms up

  to the sky,

  thinking, maybe if I try

  hard enough

  I’ll feel something.

  But my arms

  start to hurt

  from being up so long,

  and nothing tingles

  or burns.

  I don’t know

  what wings are

  supposed to feel like.

  When I open my eyes

  the swans are gone,

  and I see boys

  there instead,

  skating. Mikhail and Ivan

  are racing down the river.

  Why are they out

  so early in the morning?

  I see Jennike and Alla

  racing after them,

  laughing, with bells

  at their ankles.

  I pause to watch them,

  wishing I had skates,

  wishing I could race

  down the river with them

  and feel the wind

  biting my cheeks.

  Then I hear a shout,

  from down the banks.

  Mikhail’s uncle, Bohdan,

  is huffing after them.

  Come back here,

  you rascal! he shouts.

  I duck behind a hedge.

  But Mikhail bolts,

  Jennike on his tail.

  She catches

  her foot on the ice.

  and falls.

  She hits her head.

  My hand is

  over my mouth.

  She is splayed out

  on the river.

  I want to help,

  but I don’t have skates,

  or wings.

  I turn to run back home,

  to go for help,

  I see blood on the ice.

  But Mikhail is there,

  helping her sit up.

  She moves,

  tries to get up;

  they help her.

  She’ll be okay, I breathe.
>
  I follow them

  as they carry her

  off the ice.

  Bohdan is arguing

  with Mikhail.

  I tiptoe

  through the trees

  and follow them

  to Bohdan Sirko’s house.

  Maybe they’ll

  go for help?

  I think.

  Should I go?

  Then I see Mikhail run

  out of the house

  and I feel better.

  I shouldn’t get involved

  anyway.

  Tati would want me

  to stay away.

  I wander

  through the woods

  some more

  until I reach the old oak tree,

  then I decide it’s time

  to go back home

  and check on Liba.

  I feel a bit shaky,

  not quite as enamored

  by the river anymore.

  Ice skating looked so free—

  like flying—but nothing

  is free around here.

  I hear something

  in the woods.

  I stop and listen.

  It’s the same sound

  I heard last night.

  Peals and bells.

  I hide behind

  the garden shed.

  And see them

  through the trees.

  A troupe of men.

  They march

  through the glen

  beside the river.

  My river.

  They don’t stop.

  Stop stop stop

  I want to say,

  Where are you from?

  I dart out,

  from tree to tree.

  There are seven of them.

  Men and nearly men,

  one honey-blond,

  one russet-haired,

  one almost silver-white,

  one chocolate-brown,

  one black as a coal,

  one copper

  and one sable.

  They sing and call out

  through the trees,

  a soft and mournful melody.

  Come buy, come buy,

  I hear them cry.

  They whistle as they walk.

  They carry golden trays,

  push wheelbarrows

  of copper bowls and

  baskets, burlap sacks.

  There are no kuppels

  on their heads;

  no tzitzes sway.

  Who are they?

  They laugh and jostle,