Hodel came rushing up to their room and stopped short in the doorway when she heard Chava’s cry. She lurked there, holding the door frame, listening.
“Chavaleh, there is so much still to be done. . . .”
“To think of all the things I am squandering by learning to cut vegetables and clean floors—”
“It is our God-given role, Chava. A beautiful one,” said Tzeitel. “And I do not think I should feel guilty for cherishing our home, for making it the focus of my life, energy, and creativity. No woman should feel useless because she chooses to honor God, to make the home her first priority.”
“Well, how wonderful for you, Tzeitel! Perhaps it is your role. You are a natural!” Chava wanted her words to sting her sister. “Why couldn’t God have given me a role I could be good at?” Chava heaved sobs of utter despair. “Tzeitel!” she cried. “It is mindless, frivolous work, and no one will ever appreciate it or care if it is done well or poorly! Why must it be the only measure of our worth as women? As people?”
“Now, see here,” Tzeitel said, her voice grave. “Women are not mindless, frivolous creatures. Nor is their work. You can be good at it, Chava, and you will be.” She reached out and touched her sister’s arm, more gentle now. “We know God sees what is right within our hearts, and therefore, as long as we offer our work to Him and to those we love, we needn’t worry.”
And then it happened. Standing in the door frame, Hodel finally understood. Tzeitel believed her home to be a symbol of her devotion to God, a testament to her faith and feminine spirit. Hodel saw it through her sister’s eyes: women were created to be in every way partners, not mindless slaves or brainless doormats, but helpers, collaborators, equals. And that was a thing of great beauty. Meanwhile, what Chava longed for was a place in this world where she could be an individually gifted, impassioned expert, rather than the hopeless one. Chava felt diminished here; the little bird yearned to spread her wings. Hodel felt as if she were seeing her sisters for the very first time.
Tzeitel exhaled deeply. She lifted her finger and tapped it once more upon Chava’s nose. She saw Chava soften and begin quietly to weep. Tzeitel held her closer and spoke quietly from a place of great depth. “When you’re on a long journey—and life is most definitely such a journey—don’t you want a companion ready to give counsel, support, and encouragement?”
“Yes,” Chava whimpered. “But who will be there to help me?”
“Oh, Chavaleh, my darling one, shh, shh, shh—there, there, now,” Tzeitel cooed, taking her sister firmly in her arms. “Chavaleh, you shall always—always—have me.”
“And me,” whispered Hodel from the doorway.
She climbed into bed beside them. And there, wrapped around one another, they nestled like doves.
The cell was too safe. That was the trouble.
She did not see the small flame along the corridor, nor did she hear the sound of uneven steps punctuated lightly by the click of a cane. She sensed him only when he was already inside the bars designed to keep things trapped within. Even at this hour of the night, he wore his fine, immaculate clothes. He removed his cape, which revealed the brutality of his arms and shoulders as well as the ever-haunting absence of his leg. Presently, he lifted his cane, held it menacingly upon his shoulder, and leaned against the back wall of the cell.
The Chief Commander stood looking at her, gaze unwavering, betraying an arrogant cruelty that could not be controlled. She felt the heat of his glare from his stance high above her in the raging muscles of her legs, in her spine and hip sockets, and waited—with the febrile acuteness of a needle. With his steel blue stare, he watched her wait. She stared back. In all her frailty against his height and power, she stared, the room thick with their antipathy.
“Hello there,” the Chief Commander said, his voice grimly hushed.
At this, she stood to meet his gaze, head high, her body pressed against the farthest wall in a terror so pure, it sterilized her mind— terror matched with a loathsome curiosity she knew in that very moment he was depending upon. A flash of something came across the Chief Commander’s face—something that could be mistaken for strength and swagger, something akin to laughter, though he made no sound. Then at once, he lifted his cane and used it to pin her hard against the wall, using the leverage to force himself upon her with the power of his three remaining limbs.
Hodel fought like a savage. It was no use trying to claw herself away, for the gripping arms of the Chief Commander engulfed her fully. She scratched and jolted in furious anguish, her mouth flooding with the metallic taste of blood as she sank her teeth into the bits of his flesh she could attack. But despite succeeding in breaking his skin, one of his massive arms pinned down both of hers; the other forced her head back, and he thrust his mouth upon her. He turned her around and threw her hard, face-first against the wall, foisting himself in violation. Her pulse throbbed all the way to her horror-laden eyes in hatred and ferocious helplessness, fighting to the last.
Her self had split open—clear in half. Within the shell of her person lay not hollow absence, but a black water, prepared to flood the cell with its density. She could almost hear the swoosh of viscid liquid as her hope drained, emptying onto the floor of the prison and beyond into the night, rippling like laughter.
thirteen
THERE IS SOMETHING THAT HAPPENS TO A PERSON WHEN EVERYTHING but the pulse has been taken—when their psyche has been scrubbed clean, their life force further burgled with every scrap of identity torn from them like ripping skin. For Hodel, what happened was a white-hot, sleepless stillness more terrifying than reality.
She could touch nothing in the cell after that—the walls, the floors, the stove, and the useless window had seen it all and done not a thing to stop it. But perhaps a week later, at a very late hour of the night, four soldiers bid her to rise, nodded to her knowingly, and she was shocked to find herself throwing a glance around her cell in something of a farewell.
Holding her arms, they escorted her into the briskness of the night. The sky was very dark, and snow creaked under their feet as they moved across the great courtyard. She was no longer accustomed to the freshness of the air and relished the wind as it cut into her lungs, sharp and pure, cleansing her from within.
Before long, she was led into a large, faintly illuminated room, where a dozen high-ranking officers were seated at a round table covered with a dark blue cloth. They were eating, coughing, playing cards; many smoked cigars, and they spoke in loud voices, laughing broadly among themselves while a pack of sturdy hunting dogs waited eagerly for bones from their meal.
But as she entered the room, all went quiet. The men turned, their eyes meeting hers with leering curiosity through the haze of smoke and feeble light. They were huge, formidable figures—one quite stout, another with the face of a toad, some with bearded faces, some deeply scarred with battle wounds, and one bulbous man with a set of piercing blue eyes who sat apart from the others and looked on thoughtfully. Swarthy and all of varying shapes, they looked like the last remaining potatoes at a market stall.
This was the Commission of Inquiry and Deportation.
“Guards,” said the unmistakable voice of the Chief Commander. “Escort her to the security cell. We must decide what to do with her.”
Hodel suddenly had the shape of a woman—far before her mind could catch up, leaving her open to a throng of unwelcome taunting. Walking down the main thoroughfare in town, a collection of young yeshiva boys skulked behind her thoroughly fascinated, observing her walk and her curves and calling out names.
That day, a boy named Dovidke had followed her to the livery from the schoolhouse, filled his hands in the trough of cold water, and when Hodel exited, threw the water in her face. She returned home soaking wet, red-faced, upset for the rest of the day.
Later, Tzeitel came to ask what was the matter.
“They were filthy things, the words they cried at me!” Hodel wept. “Horrible, petty street urchins. I will never forgive t
hem!”
Tzeitel was furious, insisting Hodel name the boys.
The following day, the boys came all the way up to their house. They asked Golde for permission to see Hodel, and in a gallant voice, Dovidke said that they were all terribly sorry for using such harsh words with a lady. He was remorseful for being cruel; it would never happen again, and if anyone else ever bothered her, they would personally take care of them for her.
It wasn’t until many weeks later that Golde said Tzeitel had gotten herself into serious trouble with the yeshiva.
“But Tzeitel doesn’t even like me,” said Hodel. “Why on earth would she do that?”
Hodel recalled that memory as she stood high above a mass of carrots in their low-ceilinged, aromatic kitchen, immersed meditatively in a repetitive task: scrub, rinse, peel, chop, and then again. Billows of steam swirled upward from large pots, filling the room with the hearty fragrances of cooking, not to mention the oppressive moist heat. No matter though, this was commonplace. This was the atmosphere of home.
A few weeks after the incident with Chava on the Sabbath, things were different. Calmer. The girls were kinder, gentler with one another, though it was hard to articulate why or how.
“Oy, Mame, bin ikh farlibt,” her mouth quietly sang. Her hair lay in tousled plaits beneath a long headscarf used expressly for work, the sleeves of her blouse rolled neatly above her elbows, her tidy, high collar unbuttoned to keep her cool. Despite the impending cold, the heat of the kitchen required open windows to let in the refreshing cool of the autumn breeze.
Looking up, she noted that she was quite alone.
She laid down her peeling knife, wiped her hands, and moved to the door to see her mother, wrapped in a shawl against the cold, waving to the village matchmaker, who was slowly walking down the path away from their house.
Why did she not invite the woman inside? Hodel thought.
In the distance stood Chava and the little ones, watching giddily from the barn, barely visible behind the swinging door. Golde looked intrigued as she made her way around the back of the house. Hodel moved to the door and then stopped—she heard something.
Over the quiet bubbling of pots was an unfamiliar rustling. Ears pricked, Hodel followed the muffled sounds into the hall. When she reached their bedroom, she could distinguish the distinct sound of crying. Careful not to disturb, she withheld herself silently at the door frame for a moment, observing.
It was Tzeitel.
Strong, indestructible Tzeitel. She sat upright upon the edge of her bed, face toward the wall, her back so rigid that Hodel could tell it was only this posture that kept her from losing herself in the emotion altogether.
“Tzeitel?” Hodel asked softly.
“Oh, Hodel,” Tzeitel said, her voice stiff. “Hello.” Turning farther away, she tried to hide her face but was unable to disguise her tears. “I was just taking a moment for prayer. I was working in the kitchen and suddenly found myself very, very tired and—” Her voice broke as she wiped her face in panic. “And, well, I decided a moment or two in prayer might serve me well, and I could ask God for—for strength, I suppose, to continue . . . to continue on with the work.” Tzeitel looked at Hodel with anguished eyes, and they stared at each other in silence.
The image was devastating. There she sat: the constant leader, the example, the one who cared for everyone but was never given care. She did not appear to need it. How strong, how selfless, how gifted a woman she was.
“Oh, Tzeitel,” said Hodel so quietly she was not certain she had said it aloud. She could not help herself; her body ached to hold her sister, but a lifetime of resistance lay between them. Hodel approached steadily, sat beside Tzeitel, and clutched her hand without taking her eyes from her face.
Tzeitel’s expression was limp but for her brow as she gazed at Hodel’s hand upon her own. Suddenly, she looked up at her sister—eyes wet, brittle, and searching—and without any warning, Hodel felt Tzeitel’s hand respond beneath her gesture, clutching at her fingers with what she could not yet determine as relief, gratitude, or desperation.
“I cannot,” she whispered, as if in whispering it might not be real. “I cannot.” So hushed a voice that her family, the matchmaker, her sisters, and God Himself might not hear her. “The responsibility—” Her voice choked. “It is so hard to be the very first . . . to never really be a child!”
Hodel watched, eyes wide, her forehead wrinkled and heart swollen as her elder sister shook.
“I have loved him all my life, Hodel. Love. Not affection, not familiarity. Motel and I are one. We have been cut, like cloth, from the same bolt of fabric. We have grown up; we have become ourselves beside each other. I cannot imagine a life without him by my side! When I look at my hands I am certain they are mine. Look at your own—look at any part of you—aren’t you certain they belong to you? That is the same certainty with which I know he is my husband. I more than love him— that is an easy thing to say—no. We are sewn together, inextricably. Don’t you understand, Hodel? The old way will end me, end us both. For there is no Tzeitel without Motel Kamzoil—I must be with him or perish!”
Tzeitel’s cry, and the sorrow that emitted from within it, was like nothing Hodel had ever witnessed. “I am so frightened, Hodel, so frightened. And I need sisters too! I need you too!”
Hodel grasped her in the sweep of her arms—arms granted to her to seize Tzeitel in this pivotal embrace—and she felt Tzeitel release there, for perhaps the first time in all her life.
“Ich hob mir fer pacht, Tzeitel,” Hodel whispered. “I know you for what you are.” Hodel gripped Tzeitel fiercely, with the strength and steeliness she had learned from the sister she encompassed. “Ich hob mir fer pacht.”
fourteen
DREAMING AGAIN, HODEL FACED THE STRIP OF LIGHT BELOW THE base of the same forbidden door. She gazed down at her hands, illuminated by the light from beyond: the grime between the webs of her fingers had an oily crunch, and her mired skin was caked with more blood than she had thought. This door—her body ached with the thought—this door might be a portal into heaven itself.
Had she not sacrificed? Had she not left all she had ever known and traveled to so foreign a place on faith alone?
A Torah passage slipped into her mind: “Now the Lord said unto Abraham: ‘Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto the land that I will show thee. . . .’”
She had trusted that God would guide and care for her. Was that not faith? She yearned to know. But she felt quite incapable of serious thought. She squeezed her eyes, body shuddering as she exhaled a breath so deep, it nearly woke her from this stupor.
She thought of the rest of the Torah passage: “For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, ‘Fear not; I will help you.’”
Had her moment arrived?
Thoughts of Perchik turned her vision turbid, as though she were beneath fathoms of murky water. She was not alone. She had never been alone. Despite it all, she still had faith.
Hodel could not say exactly how long she and Perchik had been walking, but she was conscious of how long they had been alone, for when she looked at the sky again she saw it was very dark.
These walks of theirs had become a daily practice in the last few months since he had arrived in Anatevka, and on them he told her of life in the cities, teaching her all about politics, economics, and the needs of the people. He spoke not of dreams but of what he would do—and in challenging him she made his thoughts stronger, his plans more vivid. She felt terror at the thought of losing him. Perchik would often just gaze at her silently, allowing no hint of ardor to grace his face but looking straight into her—his understanding so intimate, she almost could not bear it. She would stand before him, open and exposed, slightly faint. She had never met a man like him—she did not know there were men like him. She was enthralled by his character, his dreams and values, his sense of life, the way in which he confronted existence.
“You will follow me, Hodel?” he asked, clutching her hair and holding her close.
She pulled away to look into his eyes, then answered without smiling, “Forever.”
Flickering lights from the dying fires and candles in distant homes dotted the landscape like sprinkled stars. It was hours before dawn. The train was to arrive in minutes. They waited there together, feeling the warmth from within those homes: children fast asleep, families together, bodies weary and resting.
There was a feeling in the air—every gesture, movement, slash of light, and roar of wind was charged: the way he gathered his belongings into a satchel; the way he held her hand, caressing her fingers with one thoughtful stroke of his thumb. They sat in silence, side by side, waiting. The sounds were those only ever audible in stillness: breathing and the synchronous beating of their hearts. The sky was cracking in its clarity.
That morning Hodel saw nothing but the radiance of a blend of different lights: the reflection of sun upon the earth, the bright orange of the sky, and the light from within him—the amalgamated glow of that particular morning shone so tenderly upon the earth, she felt as if there were nothing beyond this scene—nothing beyond Perchik at all.
Hodel glanced over at him: his gaze was outward, his face calm. The train was approaching in the distance. He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he moved his eyes from the horizon and looked deeply into her.
“It is time.”
“Yes.”
“Believe me, Hodel,” he said. “This is easier for me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It is so much harder to be left behind.”
The space between them was suddenly heated, ablaze with intimacy.
She could not stand it a moment longer—she rushed toward him, burrowed her head into his shoulder, fiercely wrapped her arms around his body in an act of both complete adoration and anguish. With one arm around her frame, he lifted his other to cradle her head and draw her closer, inhaling deeply the scent of her hair, along with her very essence. It was an exhilaration almost too great to bear.
After Anatevka Page 7