“Joseph,” Haim hissed. He set down his gun and groped at Moshe’s neck, trying to find a pulse. His fingers came back wet with something that was not rain.
He’s dead. He’s got to be dead, he’s lying so still.
An image flickered in Haim’s mind. It was long ago. There was a child and the night was moonless, just like now. Many bodies lay still. “Oh please, get up please, Father, Mother.” I am that child—won’t remember. Don’t want to.
“Joseph.”
“I’m here,” Trumpeldor murmured, hunkering down beside Haim. “Get hold of yourself. It’s Moshe, all right. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Trumpeldor rolled Moshe over. There was a stick beneath the body. “The boy’s dead. Look here—they stoned him, and after he fell they slit his throat.” Trumpeldor glanced at Haim. “Come on, now, snap out of it.”
Haim shook himself and nodded. “I’m all right,” he said weakly. “It was . . . It reminded me of . . . I don’t know what.” He frowned. “I’m all right though.” He pointed at Moshe’s head. “What’s that beside him?”
Trumpeldor smiled in grim satisfaction. “Shoes. It’s the Arabs’ way of honoring him. Evidently little Moshe managed to kill or wound one of his attackers, with this stick, I’d wager.”
“They took his rifle, I guess.”
Trumpeldor shook his head, scowling. “He didn’t have a rifle. I was at the meeting when he volunteered to go. It was decided by the committee”—he spat—”that he must go unarmed so as not to provoke the Arabs. Jews! When will they stop depending upon the good intentions of others and learn that a strong offense is the best defense?”
“You talk like you were not Jewish yourself, Joseph,” Haim scolded.
“Of course I’m a Jew, but the rare one who knows that sometimes you ought to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“It’s not so simple, damnit. We can’t just clear out the Arabs like rocks from a field—”
A report from Yol’s pistol cut Haim off.
Haim crouched frozen, but Trumpeldor, saber in hand, was off and running. Snatching up his rifle, Haim quickly followed.
Yol was standing with his back to them beside the kicking, bucking mules, his gun trained on a cluster of boulders.
“What is it?” Trumpeldor demanded.
“Over there—a man!” Yol chattered, shivering with fear or the cold, for his leather jacket was slick with rain. “I heard a noise and I turned to see him climbing over those rocks. He had a rifle. I fired. I heard him cry out. I’m sure I got him.”
“Stay with him,” Trumpeldor instructed Haim before he went off to investigate.
“I was so frightened that it was you who got shot,” Haim said, embracing his friend.
“You were frightened.” Yol laughed a trifle hysterically. “I got him, though, I’m sure of it. I saw him fall.” He hesitated. “I heard you calling, Haim. Did you find Moshe?”
Haim grimly nodded. “Yes, he’s dead. But be of good cheer, little monkey. Perhaps you have killed his murderer.”
“Yes, of course.” Yol brightened. “It must be so. It was exactly as Trumpeldor said. That damned nomad was waiting around for us. I’m a warrior after all.”
At that moment Trumpeldor rejoined them. “There’s nothing there. You must have imagined it, Yol.”
“No!”
“Then you missed and the beggar’s run off,” Trumpeldor said impatiently. “Come on, now, let’s fetch Moshe’s body and get home.”
Yol refused to be denied his victory. Trumpeldor tried to block him, but the nimble little man scooted around him to disappear behind the boulders.
“God have mercy,” Trumpeldor softly grumbled. “I tried.”
Yol’s wail was a drawn-out sorrowful cry. It echoed plaintively against the rocks in that desolate place.
“He’s being murdered!” Haim rushed to Yol’s rescue.
Trumpeldor watched for a moment and then wearily trudged after them. “More likely he’s murdering himself,” he muttered.
Haim scrambled over the rocks. He saw Yol kneeling beside a still body. The corpse was not garbed in flowing Bedouin robes but in the simple rags of the fellahin.
“It’s just an old man from Um Jumi,” Yol mourned, “just a shepherd. See, there’s his staff. There was no rifle, just his staff.”
“What was he doing here?” Haim wondered as he climbed down to stand beside his friend.
“Who knows?” Trumpeldor replied, joining them. “His sheep are somewhere about, I’d wager. At this time of year the grazing fields close to Um Jumi have been exhausted. He probably came here to find some decent grass for his flock. Then either he got caught in the rain and took shelter or he witnessed the battle between Moshe and his attackers and decided to lie low until things quieted. He probably smelled our mules and came poking around, hoping to claim them. Moshe’s mule ran away, don’t forget. This old fellow probably thought he’d found that one and could bring it back to Degania for a reward.”
“I’m no hero, am I, Haim?” Yol hugged himself, gently rocking back and forth, lost in grief. “God has played on me a good joke after all. I’m a murderer.”
“Come now,” Trumpeldor chided. “You couldn’t have known. A staff looks like a rifle in the dark. I know about these things.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Yol,” Haim added gamely. Still, he couldn’t help feeling pity and horror for his friend. Thank God it wasn’t I who did this thing, he thought.
“Perhaps the fellow wasn’t even from Um Jumi but some other village,” Trumpeldor suggested. “Who can say?”
“I can,” Yol replied dully. “I knew him.”
“Yes, well—” Trumpeldor cleared his throat. “You were rather friendly with these beggars, teaching them things and all.”
“I’m a murderer and I shall turn myself over to the Turkish authorities,” Yol told them both, getting to his feet.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Trumpeldor snapped. “Listen to me. You’ve always wanted to be brave, Yol, and now you must be braver than anyone. You must tell no one about this. The people of Um Jumi will assume that the same robbers who killed Moshe murdered the old man, and that is how it must remain. If you confess this killing, you’ll begin a blood feud between the fellahin of Um Jumi and the people of Degania. The alliance you and Haim have struggled to build between the two peoples will crumple.”
“He’s right, Yol,” Haim said. “You know as well as we do that a blood feud, once begun, can never end. Many lives depend upon your silence.”
“I understand,” Yol said thickly. “Come, I want to go home.”
“Good man!” Trumpeldor slapped his shoulder. “Haim, take Yol and get poor Moshe’s body across one of the mules. We’ll take turns walking back.”
Haim waited until Yol had stumbled away. Then he turned to Trumpeldor. “Don’t we take back the Arab’s body?”
“No. The villagers will come looking for his sheep. We’ll let them find the corpse.” He hefted his saber. “I’ve got to dig Yol’s bullet out of the man’s chest and make his body look like the murder was done by Bedouins. It’s a nasty job. Now, off with you.”
Haim turned to go. Trumpeldor called to him.
“Keep an eye on Yol for a few days,” the one-armed man said, “until he gets over this.”
“What makes you think he’ll get over it?”
Trumpeldor smiled. “I know about these things.”
“Yes,” Haim sneered, “we see what you know. We see, for instance, what comes of shooting first and asking questions later.”
Before Trumpeldor could reply, Haim stalked off and rounded the boulders in time to see the splash as Yol hurled his revolver into the Jordan.
Chapter 16
New York, 1913
Abe and Leah Herodetzky celebrated their first wedding anniversary in August. As far as Abe was concerned, it was the happiest event in his life, overshadowing even that day long ago when ten-year-old Haim wandered into his cob
bler’s shop.
In celebration Abe closed the store for the afternoon. He wanted to shop for a present for Leah.
“What should I buy for you?” Leah asked him, watching as he set the locks on the door and hung the “CLOSED” sign in the window.
“You give me enough,” Abe said. It came out almost gruffly. “Now come, I will carry you upstairs.”
Sighing, Leah let him lift her and stagger beneath her weight as he headed toward the staircase. He huffed and puffed his way up to the second floor, while Leah steadfastly pretended to ignore how he was straining.
It was so silly, Leah mused, but better to humor than to argue with a husband. Besides, his solicitude was very sweet, even if she was only three months pregnant and hadn’t begun to show.
Abe stubbornly refused to set her down on the landing, insisting upon shlepping her through their apartment so he could lay her upon their bed. Leah kept her arms around his neck, refusing to release him until after many kisses.
“When you come back I’ll have supper ready,” Leah smiled. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
After he left, she took her hairbrush from the dresser and stroked her long black hair until it shone. She wanted her hair to look its best tonight, for Abe loved it when they were lying in bed and she leaned over him, letting her tresses envelop them both like a curtain. A few months after they were married, Leah asked him if he wanted her to cut it and don the wig worn by the most devout women to show their piety. Abe forbade her to do any such thing.
He had never been a religious man, he explained. He had no use for rabbis, preferring to deal with God directly. It mattered little to him whether she went to the ritual pool to purify herself after her time of the month; that was up to her. If she didn’t go, well, they had a bathtub of their own right in the kitchen.
She let the matter rest, trying hard not to show Abe that she was disturbed. Her years in her sister’s household had made an impression. Sadie had always been fiercely orthodox; going to shul was a regular part of life.
It really did not matter if a woman went anyway. A woman’s religious duty was to make a good home for her husband and children . . . it did no good to lie to herself. Not going to shul was a definite lack in her life. Abe must have noticed, for he offered to take her on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the most sacred holy days.
Abe’s compromise put her troubled heart and conscience at ease. God’s blessing was clearly on the bargain, she decided, and so the matter of religion was settled.
After assuring herself that she looked her best, Leah went into the kitchen to start supper. For their anniversary meal she had an expensive cut of beef from the kosher butcher. That was another understanding between herself and her husband. He might sell trayf, but in their home they would keep kosher.
As she peeled the potatoes she thought how lucky they were that everything had worked out so well between them. How easily tonight could have been a sad affair.
Last September Leah had expected to get pregnant right away, but as the months passed she began to worry.
Abe did his best to be kind and considerate during those first interminable months of fretting and waiting. He tried to conceal his disappointment, but Leah knew he yearned for sons.
For the second time since the wedding Leah needed someone to turn to for advice. This time Joseph was out of the question. She dreaded confessing her difficulties to Sadie, but there was no one else.
To Leah’s great surprise Sadie was genuinely sympathetic. “You should wait at least a year before worrying so much. Your type has difficulty, and your husband, God bless him, is not so young, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
Leah colored. “I know what you’re thinking, that we—are together—not so often. That’s not the case.”
Sadie cackled, shaking her head in admiration. “All the more reason for you not to worry,” she repeated. “Wait a year, that’s what I say.” She smacked her palm on the table like a judge bringing down his gavel. As far as Sadie was concerned, the matter was resolved, but for Leah the difficulty still existed. Abe was approaching forty. How could she expect him to wait another year?
She made an appointment to see the doctor without consulting Abe. When she told him about it one evening after supper, he nodded and resumed reading his newspaper. It was impossible for him to acknowledge the matter.
Later that same evening Abe suddenly embraced her, whispering in her ear how much he loved her. He always whispered his endearments.
Nevertheless, Leah took what expressions of love Abe could make, knowing full well that the little he could bring himself to murmur was worth far more than what other, more facile lovers might effortlessly pour forth.
Abe’s weaknesses brought out her strengths. What she could not find the courage to accomplish for herself, she could bring herself to do for him.
So she went alone to her appointment. She had briefly considered going to the clinic at Gouverneur Hospital, but the facilities there were too modern, too bustling for Leah to face. How could she reveal her concerns to a physician who was Gentile and perhaps her own age or even younger? The man one got at the clinic was strictly luck of the draw. No, she would go to the neighborhood physician. Dr. Glueck was elderly. She could confide in him with far less embarrassment. Besides, he was an Orthodox Jew. He understood the importance of children in a household. He would understand how crucial it was to her marriage that she not be barren.
His office was just around the corner from the store. Dr. Glueck answered her knock himself—he did not employ a nurse or receptionist—and asked her to take a seat on the bench in the outer office. Already waiting were a mother holding a sniffling daughter on her knees and a stout man cradling a toothache.
Dr. Glueck attended to a broad range of ailments in his community, for like Leah most in the neighborhood preferred his personal approach to Gouverneur Hospital. The doctor had received his training in Germany and as a young man had traveled to America in first class. Now, in addition to his black bag as a symbol of prosperity, he had a black automobile. Dr. Glueck’s car on house calls was a familiar sight around the Lower East Side.
Eventually Leah found herself in an ominously medicinal-smelling windowless room. There was a wooden examination table fitted with evil-looking straps and cranks. Along the walls were glass-door cabinets inside which a great many sharp-looking objects glinted.
Dr. Glueck had sparse grey hair brushed straight back and a bushy grey beard. He wore odd spectacles that perched on the bridge of his nose without the benefit of earpieces. As he shrugged off his suit coat he muttered in Yiddish that the last time he’d seen Leah was on a house call long ago, when she was just a little girl. She’d had croup, as he recalled.
Leah was not listening. Her stomach was lurching at the thought of those wicked little blades in the cabinets. She managed to blurt out that she was not sick—at least she didn’t think she was. She had come to ask his advice.
The doctor nodded. He slowly donned his coat and led her into his office. The room was carpeted in crimson and lit by fine brass lamps crowned with green glass shades. Two leather armchairs faced an imposing mahogany desk. There was a curtained window behind the desk’s swivel chair. Along one wall was a worktable on which rested a scale, weights and measures, trays and supplies. The innumerable vials of brightly colored pills, powders and liquids looked very much like the loose candy on display at the Cherry Street market.
There were tightly packed floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and against a side wall, lined up on a series of shelves, was a collection of large glass jars in which various rubbery monstrosities floated in preservative. There was an eye ringed with filaments of nerve tissue beside some kind of snake or worm. There were other things that Leah thanked God she did not recognize, and one prize trophy, pink as a valentine and all curled around on itself like the head of a fiddle; it had glossy black eyes.
Of course, Leah reassured herself, it’s not human. It’s just a baby chick or somethin
g.
She turned away and forced herself to stare at the doctor’s green desk blotter as she told him why she’d come. She tried to block out the image of the pink thing, but it kept intruding.
She began to feel better as she stammered out her confession. Dr. Glueck was in his eighties. With his long grey beard, funny spectacles and dark study walled with leather-bound tomes, it was like talking with the rabbi.
The similarity was underscored when Dr. Glueck, his gnarled white blue-veined hands resting placidly on his green blotter, asked if she and her husband observed the rule of abstinence and enjoyment. Did they abstain prior to and after her menses? the doctor asked.
He is old, she reminded herself, unable to meet the doctor’s level gaze as she told of every aspect of her lovemaking with her husband. He is a physician. For Abe’s sake as well as your own, you must get through this. But the doctor might as well have extracted the information with a scalpel, so painful was it.
She kept her head bowed as he began to murmur to her. His instructions were specific and quite clinical. She thought of how she might impart them to Abe, of the look of bewilderment and humiliation in his eyes, and she began to weep. Their intimacy had been a magical thing. What if the doctor’s instructions spoiled it?
Dr. Glueck, a compassionate man, paused and escorted her to the washroom. He told her to take her time and compose herself. He would be waiting.
When at last she could, she found that he’d written out the instructions for her. Leah folded up the sheet of paper and stuffed it into her purse. She paid the doctor and took her leave.
All the way home she kept her purse clutched beneath her arm, thinking of what was inside and feeling as if she had in her possession some of those filthy picture cards the degenerates sold up on Fourteenth Street. She said nothing to Abe about her interview with the doctor for all the rest of that day, and she knew he wouldn’t ask. That evening after they locked up for the night, Leah unfolded the sheet of instructions and silently pushed it across the kitchen tablecloth to her husband.
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