by Rena Rossner
“Yes, but we are the chosen people, Am Yisroel.”
“Do you really believe that? If we’re so special, so chosen, why do bad things happen to us?”
“Because God seeks to test the ones he loves.” But even as I say the words, they don’t feel quite as true as they’ve always felt before. Is God testing me? Why am I questioning everything I thought I once knew? Why can’t I just be normal, like all the other girls in our town?
“That doesn’t make any sense to me. Wouldn’t God protect the ones he loves and make sure nothing bad ever happens to them?”
“We are an am segula—a treasured people—that’s what Tati says. What other nation has lasted so many years in so many different places, and no matter what happens to us, we still remain strong and connected to each other—a community?”
“A community that judges us, and talks about us behind our backs.”
“That’s not true, Laya. Not everyone. Just the yentas. But they would still lay down their lives for us, you know that, right?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“Maybe things would be different for you in another Jewish community,” I offer.
“Oh, but not for you?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I kind of like it here.”
“Maybe things would be different in a non-Jewish community,” Laya says.
“Chas v’shalom, Laya, umbeshrein.”
“Oh, stop it—do you really think that God is listening?”
“Hashem is everywhere. Of course he’s listening.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think he isn’t.”
“Layooshka, I know it’s hard. But we’ll get through this. You’ll see. Mami and Tati will be back soon. Let’s find a place to go for shabbes meals, to the Glazers—or somewhere else. I’ll ask around. I think what you need is a good meal and some shabbes zmiros. Songs always cheer you up.”
She shakes her head as if to say, That is not what will make me feel better at all.
20
Laya
We get to town
with baskets full
and stomachs empty.
The trees shine platinum
in the morning light
and the forest sings.
When we reach
Zusha and Hinda’s
sturdy home
there’s no one
inside.
Perhaps they went
to market, Liba says.
We walk down the alleyway
that leads past the fountain
and into the town square.
We circle the square
looking for Hinda
and Zusha.
Past Meisels’ butcher’s shop
and Mottke the Blacksmith,
past Nissel the Baker’s
and Krakover’s pharmacy.
Nobody has seen them.
Nobody knows
where they are.
A peddler came
to town yesterday.
He said that people
are disappearing
all the time
and not from conscription.
He said there’s something
in the woods,
Elkie Zelfer says.
First your parents—
where did they go,
by the way?
And now this …
He says there are bears,
wild and hungry.
Liba’s eyes grow wide.
I take her arm
and pull her way.
My heart beats fast.
Rivka Kassin repeats it.
Yudel says that Zusha
didn’t go to shul
this morning, and Heshke says
he didn’t pick up
the barrels he ordered.
There was a man
who came through town
this morning, and he says
there’s something
in the woods.
I want to go find Pinny
and ask him what
the kahal knows,
but I must get away
from Liba to do so.
Lately she doesn’t approve
of anything.
But she looks haunted,
and I’m worried about her.
What am I going to do
if the bears come?
Could they
have gotten here
so soon?
Let’s see if we can
find out more
by selling some of
what we brought,
I say.
We walk around the square, calling:
Honey and cheese,
come buy, come buy,
home-baked lekach cakes,
come feast your eyes.
Nobody wants to buy.
Everyone asks nosy questions.
I heard your father
didn’t show up for work.
Did he go to the woods
to pray?
Bluma Kiner asks.
I shake my head.
Where did they go then?
Meh. No, matter.
Less competition for us now
with your parents gone.
She sniffs at the baskets we carry.
I shoot her a glare
and steer Liba away.
We pass a fruit stand.
Come buy, come buy,
we hear the voices cry.
I know those voices.
I stop in place.
Laya, don’t! We can’t afford
anything, Liba cries.
I just want to look, I say.
Did you see the apricots?
And the figs?
Liba shakes her head. We can’t.
Sometimes I feel
like my sister and I
don’t speak the same language—
like we really do come from
different species entirely.
Why don’t you go see
what the Meisels have to say?
I offer, hoping
that Dovid will
distract her.
She craves more details
about those bears
like I crave that fruit.
Liba hesitates,
then she nods.
Just for an hour.
She looks distracted.
But don’t go near
those boys that sell the fruit,
she says, then shivers
and rubs her arms.
An hour, I say,
and cross my fingers
behind my back.
I’m going to get
to the bottom of this.
Nobody is taking
my sister from me.
The day is a plum—
mine for the plucking.
21
Liba
Secretly I’m glad to leave Laya’s side. The talk in the marketplace makes my skin crawl, along with something else I can’t name. Something is in the air, and if there are bears in the woods, that scares me more than anything. What kinds of bears? Wild bears? Or bears like me?
I’m even starting to understand how Laya feels, wishing we could live somewhere other than here. But as I walk, I shake my head of all those thoughts. Dubossary is a good town, and these are all good people. I know they are. They are nosy because they care. It’s just this sense of unease I feel, and the fact that Zusha and Hinda have disappeared without a trace …
My stomach rumbles again. I’ve had a fierce craving for meat ever since Mami and Tati left, which I’ve folded up inside me like a secret. I store the hunger away, not daring to peek in and see what’s really there, what it might mean. But I’m scared to go to the butcher’s. Part of me wants to see Dovid again—my stomach pinches with something like excitement every time I think about him—but I’m also scared to see him. What if he asks questions about the bears too? What if he says something about Tati and Mami … an
d then I don’t feel the same way about him anymore? Could he ever see beyond what I am? Is it pointless for me to hope for a normal life when my future will clearly be anything but?
Dovid used to be a runt of a kid, making faces at me as he walked to and from cheder. But he no longer spends his time burying bugs and playing with marbles, hiding while playing bahalterlekh. I can still hear the silly way he used to count in my head, eyn, tsvei, drei, lozer lokser-lay. He’s grown up now, and I like the way I feel when I think about him. Maybe I don’t want Tati to find me a shidduch after all. Maybe everything I’ve ever wanted is right here.
Still, there is only one butcher in town; Rabbi Borowitz made sure of that last year when someone came to our shtetl with a forged de-veining certificate. I have no other choice. Tati always brought home meat that he slaughtered. He shekhted and salted it himself. “We have different standards,” he’d always say. “Never give up on your standards, Liba.”
But Tati isn’t here right now and I don’t know what my standards should be anymore. Our pantry supplies have dwindled. Mami and Tati didn’t have time to restock because they left in such a rush. Maybe it’s time for me to start making my own decisions.
My stomach rumbled all night last night, and as the wind howled outside and the branches scratched at our windows, I felt as if the trees were saying, Let us in. As if they wanted to reclaim our house, curling their branches around everything we hold dear.
I feel the truth of what I really am—what I might be—churning deep inside me. But more than anything, it feels like something vital—a deep and primal urge. I’ve seen creatures in the forest, but lately I smell them too, and that smell travels from my nose down to my tongue and I feel like I can sometimes taste them, succulent and wild. It scares me, because we don’t eat that kind of meat.
I know what might be happening to me; I just don’t know if I want it to happen, and I have a feeling that there’s nothing I can do to stop it once it starts.
I clench my fists and dig my nails into my palms to stop the tingling that’s always there now, just beneath the surface. My mouth waters as if on cue. I need to stop these things I feel. Maybe I’ll be able to think clearly if I satisfy the cravings. That’s why I need to visit the butcher. Not because of Dovid. I’ll see if I can barter something. Anything. Maybe the taste of some fresh meat will keep the urges at bay.
I walk past the non-Jewish candle and hat shops, the dry goods and furniture stores, past the Jewish and non-Jewish merchants with their wandering eyes and wagging tongues, past the Great Synagogue and the church, straight to the Meisels’ butcher’s shop.
The closer I get to the shop, the more my stomach hurts. I say a silent prayer that Dovid won’t be there and I can get in and out without embarrassing myself. Even if he’s there, maybe he won’t say anything. I didn’t dance with him at the wedding; I showed no interest. He was looking at me—nothing more. I’m building a fantasy in my head that has no basis in reality.
When I see the door, I hesitate. I feel as if I’m crossing some kind of line, which is ridiculous. It’s just a butcher’s shop, a kosher one, I tell myself. But somehow this is different. Tati wouldn’t eat here—it isn’t kosher enough for him. I feel guilty. How quickly I’ve lowered his standards to half-mast …
Just as I nearly turn and run, the door to the shop opens and Dovid Meisels steps out. My eyes catch his and my heart feels like it’s spinning in my chest.
He furrows his brow when he sees me standing still. Breathe, Liba, breathe. I step forward, one step, then another, until I’m sure that my crossing the street almost looks natural, like it’s what I intended to do all along.
“Liba?”
I swallow and look up into his eyes—as brown and warm as I remember them—and suddenly I feel a new kind of hunger. I force a smile and clear my throat. “Good morning, Dovid.”
He closes the shop door behind him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“We thought you were gone, all of you. They say your father didn’t show up for work. He hasn’t been seen in the village. And the Glazers … there were rumors that … but …” He shakes his head. “But never mind. You’re here!”
This was a bad idea.
He runs a hand through his hair. “So you didn’t leave?”
“Just my parents—we stayed here,” I say.
“Where did they go?”
“My Tati’s Rebbe took ill. They fear he has very little time left. So my parents went and Laya and I stayed. Anyway, I should go. I … I have somewhere I need to be.” I turn to cross the street. Dovid is no different than all the yentas in the market. I don’t know why I even thought about him in any way at all. So many things are buzzing in my head. People say there are bears in the woods, the Glazers were supposed to be watching out for us but now they’re gone … I’m scared and I wish I could tell Dovid how I feel, but I can’t.
“Don’t go. Talk to me, Liba. Can I help you?”
I shake my head, no. Tears bite at the sides of my eyes and suddenly I realize how much I miss my parents. I finally get a minute alone and everything feels like it’s about to fall apart. When I was with Laya, I somehow managed to hold it together. But now my chest hurts and all I can think is, Why did Mami and Tati have to go? I’m frightened by the changes in my body, by what I feel around me—like a constant hum that’s coming from the forest, from the air. Maybe this is the bat kol that Tati was talking about, but I have no idea what it’s trying to say. And I can’t explain any of that to Dovid.
Suddenly I hate everything about myself, the way my large and hungry body betrayed me and led me here when I shouldn’t have left Laya’s side. Where is she? I should be with her. What if the swans come?
“Come inside. Please,” Dovid says. “I’m worried about you.”
I turn around and follow him. I don’t know why. I see his hand on the handle of the door; he opens it slightly, and the scent that wafts out is the end of me. I bend over in pain, my stomach rocked with a cramp that only comes from hunger, and everything unfolds inside me.
22
Laya
I wanted to find Pinny,
but I can’t resist their voices.
Come buy, come buy,
I hear them cry.
I’m drawn to them
like I was in the clearing
in the woods.
Their stand is overflowing
with haggling folk
and wide-eyed girls.
I hear snippets of discussions:
everyone talks
about the Glazers,
my parents, stories
from other towns.
Men come to buy
and then march on,
but women linger,
maids and wives.
They caress fruit
and ogle men.
I loiter at the back
of the crowd.
The Jews, I hear,
their foreign influence,
it’s causing unrest
in the cities—
first they compete
with our businesses,
then there are deaths
and assassinations,
it’s all their fault
we live in poverty
and fear of what
tomorrow brings.
I shake my head.
Who said that?
But then I spot
sun-ripened pears and apricots,
peaches, plums, and quinces,
grapes and pomegranates,
oranges, lemons, and cherries.
Cherries cherries cherries.
There are melons and berries,
apples and dates, more fruit
than I have ever seen. My mouth
is dry with thirst. I long to feel
the burst of ripened flesh, of summer
fruit in winter, and berries
though the ground is full of snow,
fall fruit when leaves have fallen
from the trees trees trees.
He sees me,
the tall black one.
Crown-maker,
I think, and he smiles
and takes a bow.
I blush and turn to go,
hearing Liba’s warnings
in my head,
but he holds
a fruit out in his hand
and my mouth waters.
I think about the questions
I want to ask.
The answers
I want to hear.
Come buy, come buy, he says,
his voice like honey.
My stomach clenches.
I have no coin, I say,
but thank you
for the crown.
Another brother steps beside him;
he is fair, with ginger hair
and eyes of green and gold.
Now who is this? he asks
with a glint in his eye.
A changeling from the woods?
A swan-like nymph?
His brother shrugs.
She has no coin.
No coin? the fair one sings.
She must not be a Jew—
all Jews have coins,
he laughs.
My face is red.
I swallow hard
and shake my head.
I walk away as
a tear falls.
There are
no answers here.
What now? No tears.
Suddenly he is
beside me.
Come here with me,
the green-eyed man says softly.
I have honey and cheese
and cakes my
sister made, perhaps
you’ll trade? I ask,
hope-full full full.
You have a sister? he asks.
I do. She was here
with me, she wandered off, I say
and look behind me.
Is she as lovely as you