Yidishkeyt and menshlikhkeyt . . . Jewishness and humanness . . .
The voices of her faith were calling to her. Suddenly, she was gripped with conflict: What was she to do with Perchik’s body?
It is the sanction of Torah law to bury the dead as quickly as possible. . . .
If she left his body behind, no one would ever bury him properly.
The human body belongs to its creator—it is on loan to us, and we become its guardian. . . .
The guards would doubtless have their way with it.
We must make certain due respect is given and shown. . . .
They would desecrate it far worse than any abandonment, than anything she could choose to do in this moment. Respect for our deceased is the ultimate mitzvah—for the dead can neither help themselves nor help us. . . .
As she gazed once more at his now empty face, she thought, Perchik’s soul no longer resides there. There was no sanctity left but her love of him and all he stood for—the sacrifice of Perchik. No further evil would ever come. No one would ever harm him, touch him, or torture him again.
Kneeling next to his body, she closed her eyes to ask forgiveness. Then, in both love and horror, through tears, she opened the bottles and doused his body in the alcohol.
The sounds from the door grew louder. Shots rang out. Male voices were raised in rage. It was time. She gathered the pile of his clothes and climbed atop the sturdy shelves to the very highest window. She turned back, gazing at her husband as she struck a sulfur match and threw it upon the body. It instantly ignited—a white, angelic flame, his salt-encrusted skin cracking and hissing in the uproar—and for a moment he looked well again. She pushed the window open, threw the clothing to the ground below, and hoisted her body through, jumping out just as the guards burst into the room.
“The window!” they cried, and they climbed the shelves to follow her.
Her chest began to split as she ran wildly to the border fence; she could hear only the muffled shrieks of the guards’ growing desperation as they grew ever closer, wretched and sharp behind her. Then, in a surge not at all unlike the one within her breast, the hut itself detonated, erupting into a soaring tower of flames.
She reached the fence and searched desperately for a way to scale it. All at once she saw it: Yevgeny’s dog, Mitya. He stared at her from just beyond the fence with the same keen expression he had always displayed. He had dug a deep indentation of earth below the fence; it seemed as if he’d made it just for her and for this moment. Her savior was the hand-iwork of Yevgeny’s blessed dog! It was narrow, but she knelt down and began to dig. When at last she had made space enough for herself, she threw the satchel and all of Perchik’s clothing over the fence.
She looked behind her. No one was following her! They all must have been blinded by the sight she’d left behind. Astonished, she gazed at the inferno for a fraction of a second before turning back around and lifting the bottom of the metal fence with all her strength, until it shifted just enough for her move underneath it. Mitya barked. Tearing away her cumbersome skirts, she wriggled her long body below; her stocking catching feebly on a barb was Nerchinsk’s last peevish attempt to keep her trapped within its confines. As she emerged, the dog panted joyously, jumping and licking at her hands to celebrate their reunion. God knew how she had done it; all that was certain was that she had. It had almost been too easy.
There is a kind of transaction that occurs between a person and a place: you give the place something, and it gives you something in return. In years to come, Hodel would know for certain not only what Nerchinsk had taken but what it had given her as well. She gathered up the bits of scattered clothing, then stood and turned back. All that remained was the sight beyond the fence.
A rush of biting Siberian wind threw itself around her; it pushed hard against her flesh and threw her mane of hair about her face as she fully beheld the summation of her days. The life. The love—and, looming high above it all, the overwhelming greatness of the sight she left behind her . . .
The pillar of fire . . .
And in a flash, she ran again, concealed at once by the veil of the forest.
Nerchinsk would be warm at last.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE PIRKE AVOT (WRITTEN AROUND THE YEAR 200 CE) IS AMONG THE most recognized texts in Jewish thought. In Chapter 4, Verse 1, it offers the following: “Who is rich? Those who rejoice in their own portion.” Today, I rejoice. There is no need to wonder how I would feel “if I were a rich man,” for the riches are here. Thank you all for making After Anatevka a reality.
A person should consider herself extraordinarily lucky if she has even a single spectacular, life-altering teacher in her lifetime. I have been blessed with many. In the world of books, literature, and writing, I have to thank Joanne Devine (who literally taught me to read), Jean Gaede, Howard Hintze, and Judy Chu, who all taught me to read and write with meaning.
To the great Sheldon Harnick: What can I say to such a “Dear Friend” that would ever suffice? You and Margie have been personal cheerleaders, supports, and the grandparents I wished I had had. But, above all, you are the ultimate tribal elder; you are the voice of our community, giving language to countless characters that will live eternally and continue to move and teach us for centuries to come. You are one of our great creators, and it is an honor to call you a colleague, and, above all, a friend.
Thank you to every member of my Fiddler on the Roof families—from Sheffield to London to Broadway—for all your support and inspiration, especially Natasha Broomfield, Lindsay Posner, Damian Humbley, Henry Goodman, Danny Burstein, Jessica Hecht, Samantha Massell, Melanie Moore, Jenny Rose Baker, Ben Rappaport, Adam Kantor, and Bartlett Sher. And, above all, my beloved Beverley Klein, Julie Legrand, Tomm Coles, and Frances Thorburn. As Samantha Massel says, “In the theater, one does not make friends—one finds family.” Thank you for making me a part of yours and for allowing me to share the glimmers of your creations in the pages of this story. You are forever embedded in these pages, my memories, and my heart.
Thank you to Ken and Fran Steinman, David Montee and Robin Ellis, Suzi Dietz, and Lenny Beer for your lifelong support; to Santino Fontana, and Bobby Steggert; to Vadim Roshin for the memories in Moscow; to Arielle Doneson Corrigan, my chosen sister and real-life Tzeitel. Thank you to Lance Horne, Rachel Beider, Katie Indyk, Sarah Radtke Welsh, Alyssa Weytjens, and, of course, to (the real-life) Rabbi Syme. Thank you to Nick Bantock, my artistic idol who became a dear friend. And my deepest gratitude to “comrade” Kit Baker: the scope of our Siberian sojourn could never be put into words, but, suffice it to say, our journey, in many ways, made this book possible.
Thank you to my first readers, whom I feel honored to call friends: Jason Alexander, Danny Burstein, Ted Chapin, Jeff Gilden, Jessica Hecht, Ken Ludwig, Terrence McNally, and Richard Schiff.
Professionally, there are those who always believed in this project, saw its potential, championed its reality: Matt Geller, Rick Joyce, and Jeff Berger (who always says “let’s give it a try,” and without whom none of what I am or create would be possible).
To my literary agent, Joelle Delbourgo: Thank you for taking a leap on an unknown writer. Your honesty and indefatigable faith mean everything to me.
And to my editor, Iris Blasi, a fellow warrior of the soul, thank you for this opportunity to share this story with the world—and for everything.
To my parents, Michael and Catherine Silber, who inspired the nature, devotion, and intensity of Hodel and Perchik’s love: thank you for your constant support and championing of my efforts to be my best self—from places I can point to on the map, Mama, and to those I cannot, Papa. Everything I create, achieve, and have become is because of—and for—you.
The greatest degree of gratitude goes to Louise Lamont, without whom this project would never have existed and without whom I would not be a writer in any capacity. You were my first reader, my first literary champion, and friend, and my gratitude to and for you cou
ld fill a novel of its own.
AFTER ANATEVKA
Pegasus Books Ltd.
148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Alexandra Silber
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition July 2017
Interior design by Sabrina Plomitallo-González, Pegasus Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68177-434-3
ISBN: 978-1-68177-487-9 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
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