“I see you also talk about money,” said the head of the burial society, without excitement.
“I’m allowed to. I collect money for artists. Without me, there wouldn’t be any art in the provinces. The provinces would languish. Who would bring young pianists here, young violinists, and famous lecturers? Who? Who pays them? You just take. You’re just robbers.”
“We also serve the community.”
“A horrible service, a monstrous service, an evil service. I’m going. I don’t want to be in the company of bloodsuckers. Come on,” he said, and turned toward the exit gate. His two assistants joined him, and they went out.
“Just to avoid paying. That whole act just to avoid paying. We know your kind.” The head of the burial society rose to his feet.
Now only seven people remained, neither relatives nor friends but anonymous people who had heard Henni play and been enthralled.
“Did you know the pianist?” a woman addressed me.
“I was her housemaid,” I revealed immediately.
“Marvelous,” said the woman. “I was present at all her concerts. She was a great pianist. It’s a shame she wasted her energy traveling. An artist must appear in his native city and not wander about. In the provinces they don’t know how to appreciate music. Aren’t I right?”
“Death isn’t the end,” I told her, for some reason.
“It was easier for my father and mother. They were believing Jews and resigned to their fate, but we—how can I say it?—are different.”
“Don’t you believe in God?”
“I believe, and sometimes wholeheartedly, but it isn’t an unbroken faith, just flashes. It’s hard to explain. You speak a fine Yiddish. How did you learn it?”
“I spent most of my years with Jews.”
“A strange nation, the Jews, aren’t they?”
The day grew dimmer, and there was no movement. For a moment it seemed as though it would remain that way forever. We would stand there, and the clerks would sit in their office. From time to time someone would go to the door and ask a question. The official would answer or refuse to answer, and the hands of the clock wouldn’t move.
While everyone was standing there, tired and mute, the head of the burial society came out of his office and announced: “The funeral of Henni Trauer will start at once. We are simple people. We never studied in academies, but we aren’t corrupt; we won’t leave the body unburied.”
As the last word left his mouth, the gravediggers came out, bearing the coffin. What had happened, and why just now, no one inquired. The handful of people standing near the doorway hurried and ran to catch up with the grave-diggers.
Prayers were rattled off, half swallowed, and it was clear to everyone that the gravediggers were doing their duty and no more. I have seen many funerals in my lifetime, but I have never seen such a hasty one as this.
After the funeral, a few beggars came out of their lairs and shouted, “Charity will save from death!” No one gave them a penny. Everyone fled the place as though from a fire.
The funeral guests dispersed, and I remained in a street bustling with people. My body was heavy, and it was hard for me to go on. That night I took refuge in a Jewish tavern. A few drunken peasants were immersed in merry chatter and didn’t disturb me. I sat and drank glass after glass, andI wept.
“What’s the matter?” The owner came over to me.
“I’m very tired and have no place to stay.”
“No matter,” the man said. “You can sleep here. I’ll give you a mattress right away.”
12
THE NEXT DAY THE OWNER of the tavern asked me, “Where did you pick up such a fine Yiddish?”
I told him.
“You drink too much.”
“Ruthenians are used to that.”
“A person who speaks such a fine Yiddish ought to quit drinking.”
He won my heart. I told him about Henni’s funeral, and all the grief that had been shut in my heart welled up again.
I didn’t linger there but went out on my way. That Jew’s face accompanied me for many hours. I remembered how he had stood next to the bar, the drunkards who jokingly called him Rabbi, his silence, and the touch of his fingers. Despite the turmoil, he did his work quietly, like a man who knows that this world is merely a corridor.
The train sped through the small stations without stopping. Once again I passed the village of my birth, and my heart twinged. I knew every tree and every house. I went back and saw my mother’s face again as I had not seen it for years: anger stormed her face. With that look she used to beat the animals in the stable, and with a face like that she had once called out to my father, “Fornicating son of a fornicator!” I knew that she would soon direct that look at me, and I was afraid.
For some reason, it seemed to me that everyone, including me, was still standing by that wretched office next to the cemetery and the man who had flaunted his success in arriving at the funeral on time boasted once again. The director of the burial society left his office and stood in the doorway. His round, full face expressed a kind of false forbearance—that is: If you have the time, I have the time too. I’m willing to sit here all night. If you won’t pay the funeral fees, we won’t bury her. You mustn’t talk that way, I wanted to call out. He, apparently, sensed my intention, fixed me with his stare, and said, “Making a living comes before everything. God created us, to our regret, in the garment of bodies.”
In the evening I returned to Czernowitz, tired and irritable. If I had had a room, I would have gone to bed and curled up. I entered the Royal Tavern. To my surprise I found Sammy there, merry and drunk as Lot.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, everything’s fine, just fine.” His eyes sparkled.
“You’re as drunk as Lot.” Something of his drunkenness infected me.
“I’m not drunk, I’m happy.”
He was drunk and woozy, and to all my questions he replied, “Everything’s fine, just fine. You don’t know how fine it is.” That blabber brought out his misery more strongly. His shirt was torn, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were swollen and bulging, but it wasn’t an ugly misery. Soft words that spoke of beautiful places and proper actions fluttered on his lips, until for a moment it seemed to me that he wasn’t drunk but a believer whose belief had been strengthened from within, and now he was prepared for any trial. Later, his talk grew quieter. Suddenly, he lifted his head and said, “Tomorrow I have resolved to do some necessary things, important things.”
The next day I was waiting for him, but he didn’t come. I went up to the railroad station and wandered through the narrow streets. For some reason it seemed to me that I would find him there. Jewish streets reminded me of ancient streets and secrets that I’d never understand. I could wander through them for hours and observe. Sometimes the smell of a Jewish dish enfolded me and put me to sleep on the pavement.
Toward evening I found him, coming up from the ground floor of an old building, apparently his house.
“You don’t have a house, I see,” he said.
“I haven’t.”
“Come live with me.”
I agreed. Sammy’s apartment was a litle room with a kitchen and an outside bathroom. I saw right away that his narrow window didn’t absorb a lot of light, the walls were damp, and a musty smell hung in the air. In the evening we drank, but not a lot. Sammy spoke about the need to change apartments and find suitable work. He didn’t complain or get angry. His face was relaxed.
He was fifty, and I was thirty. Apparently, he had once been handsome, but bad years and alcohol had ruined his body. His belly was distended, and his eyes were bloodshot and bulging. But I didn’t mind. I heard softness in his voice and a desire to be good to people. Once he had been a member of the union, but he had stopped going to the meetings, because while the activists talked loudly about justice, they themselves wasted the public’s money.
The next day, to my surprise, he went out to look for work. I saw
how he gathered up all his forces, bound them together, and set out. I wanted to tell him, Relax, I still have money, but I didn’t. It seemed to me that I mustn’t spoil that great intention. He went out, and I tidied the house.
The next day, he again bound up all his willpower and went out to look for work. I knew that he was only doing it for me, and that made me sad. I, too, after cleaning the house, went out to look for work. After two rejections, I was sitting on a bench in the public park, watching the passersby. For some reason it seemed to me that the tall peasants, standing in their stalls and selling vegetables and fruit, would soon snap their whips over the heads of the Jews scurrying nearby.
An hour passed, and nothing happened. On the contrary, the peasants were enjoying the bargaining. The closeness of the Jews amused them. They talked to them in grunts, but not angrily. I went home early and washed two shirts for Sammy, an undershirt, and some socks. Sammy’s shirts were dirty but didn’t give off a foul smell. I hung the laundry in the courtyard.
This time Sammy returned content. He hadn’t found work, but he hadn’t drunk too much, either. He said to himself, “I won’t fall back again.” I too tried not to drink too much—two or three glasses and no more. Sammy’s face surprised me by its softness. Only when he spoke about himself did it shrivel. In his youth he had wanted to sail to America. His old parents hadn’t let him. He didn’t dare run away. Without much thought, he had married. Marriage had made life odious for him.
The money was running out, and I was forced to sell an expensive ring Henni had given me. I went from store to store. The prices offered by the merchants were infuriatingly low. I told Sammy.
“You should know that the Jews are cheats. Money comes before everything for them,” he said, with frightening composure. Finally, I found a buyer, a Jewish merchant, who paid three times the sum offered by the others. It was a valuable, good ring; he didn’t conceal that from me. I was glad. Sammy and I needed a drink like a breath of air.
During that strange and happy year I dreamed that a son would be born to me. Sammy was perturbed. Children were grief to their parents and themselves. There were enough children in the world. Why add more? Meanwhile, the two of us found work for the same storekeeper. I became a cleaning woman, and Sammy worked in the warehouse. Our little happiness seemed to grow. On Saturdays we would go on excursions, venturing as far as the Prut on the tram.
On Sundays he brought a small bottle of vodka, and we would sit and drink without getting drunk.
“Weren’t you ever religious?” I asked him.
“No. My parents were religious, but their piety annoyed me.”
Sometimes he used to say, “You’re young and pretty. You should go back to your village and marry a rich, handsome man.”
“I find you handsome.”
“Why are you mocking me?”
“I swear.”
My oath wasn’t a vain one. He had the charm of a man whose suffering had afflicted but not destroyed him. Excessive drinking had indeed marred his features, but his face wasn’t extinguished. It was possible to illuminate it with a single word. After work we used to sit for hours. Sammy burrowed into his body, and it was hard to get a word out of him. Only after two drinks did his face open, and he used to talk, even tell things.
As the days flowed on, quiet and laden, Sammy worked until five, and I was free by two. August was clear, unspotted. A kind of restlessness gripped me; trembling and severe nausea. First it seemed to me that it was a bad cold. But quickly it became clear to me I was pregnant. My heart told me that Sammy wouldn’t greet this news gladly. I didn’t realize then how deeply he would be wounded. In any event, I hid the news from him. I used to work until two, and afterward I went back home and prepared a hot meal. Upon Sammy’s return in the evening everything was laid out. His mood got better in those days. The sickly blush, the flushed face of drunkards, was erased, and his forehead was bright.
While I was still holding myself in, hiding my pregnancy from Sammy, I met my cousin Katya in the street. She recognized me from far off and hurried toward me. For more than ten years I hadn’t seen her, but she hadn’t changed. The sweet wonderment of a village girl captivated by everything that crossed her path floated on her face. I held her in my arms, and immediately felt that the whole village was planted in her soft limbs.
In the village, apparently, they hadn’t forgotten me. From a distance they were following my doings, and rumors, of course, weren’t lacking. One of the village men had seen me with Sammy, and right away everybody knew that Katerina had taken up with a Jew.
“I would even have recognized you at night.”
“I would have recognized you too, Katya.”
She had married about ten years ago, and now she had two sons and a daughter, a flourishing farm, and a woodlot at the edge of the village. I had heard those facts, in the past, from Maria, and now Katya came and confirmed them. Her hearty face, her full body, and her good smile hadn’t been marred over the years, an unstained freshness. I had always liked her, and now I realized how much I had liked her.
Some creatures are born under the sign of peace, peace with themselves and their parents and the place where they grew up. Katya was like that. I stood at her side, and my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth. In the end the dam burst, and I wept. Katya hugged me to her bosom and said, “Nothing’s the matter. We love you the way we’ve always loved you.” Those kind words just made me cry harder.
Later we sat in a tavern and looked at each other. Katya said, “Why don’t you return home? The house is standing in its place. The land has been neglected, but it can be brought to life easily.”
“I can’t, now, my dear, but someday I’ll go back.”
Katya didn’t ask any more questions. I escorted her to the railroad station and helped her carry her bundles. She had bought clothes for everyone. The bundles were heavy, and I strove with all my power not to lag behind her. That effort calmed my emotion.
“May God preserve you, Katerina.”
“You too, Katya.”
Thus we parted. I could have climbed onto the tram and taken it home, but for some reason I preferred to walk. The climb reminded me of Katya’s kind face, and I clung to it for a moment as to an icon. It was hard for me to fall asleep that night. I saw the village and the meadows. Not for an instant did I forget that my parents hadn’t loved me, that my aunts were harsh and wicked, but nevertheless I was stirred by longings for a plot of earth.
13
MY SECRET NOW DIVIDED US. Sometimes Sammy would turn to me, saying, “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
We got up on time in the morning and went out to work. Usually, we would meet in the canteen at ten o’clock and drink a cup of coffee. That hour, despite the crowd, was an agreeable one for us. We were happy to be together. On the hard and unwelcoming benches of the canteen he told me several secrets about his past. I was afraid he would ask me a direct question.
Apparently, Sammy sensed my weakness and he allowed himself to stay longer at the tavern. He would return at ten o’clock, not drunk, just foggy, as though he knew I wouldn’t scold him.
What would happen, and how would the days progress? I didn’t know. Fear dominated me. To blunt the fear, I worked. I worked in the store and I worked at home, and sometimes I would get up early and prepare him a hot breakfast.
“Why all the bother?” He didn’t understand.
“It’s hard for me to sleep.”
That was the absolute truth. As early as five, evil thoughts would crawl into my head and fill me with dread. I could, of course, have gone to a doctor secretly and had an abortion, but that thought frightened me even more. Village girls used to travel to the city to have abortions. Upon their return, their faces were dismayingly yellow.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked again.
“This and that.”
“Something is disturbing you.”
“Nothing at all.”
The truth could no longer be concealed, but I, for some reason, did conceal it, as though burying my head in the sand.
Before we knew it, the long nights came, the sleepless nights. I felt ill, and I had to go outside and vomit. First he didn’t notice, but when he did, the look of my body had already revealed the secret. Sammy opened his eyes and astonishment virtually froze them.
What could I say? I piled words upon words, and the more I added, the more his face froze. Before leaving for work, he said, “I’m very sorry. I don’t know why I deserve this. There are things that are beyond my understanding.” Each of his words, even the spaces between the words, cut into my flesh.
I was weak, but I still went to work. I didn’t want to stay in the house. In the courtyard I saw Sammy. His back was bent, and he was busy sorting out the merchandise. I gathered my strength and approached. The frost in his eyes had not faded. The veins in the whites of his eyes now looked bulging and thick. His look wasn’t hard, just weary.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“No need to ask forgiveness.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He didn’t answer. He walked away and immersed himself in his work. I stood where I was and watched his movements, constricted, like those of a man just now risen from his sickbed. In the evening, I served him a meal and he didn’t say anything. I washed the dishes and did some laundry, and when I came back in, he had already fallen asleep.
Between us the words grew ever more limited. Jews don’t beat you, but they get angry silently. I knew that. In the end I said, “I don’t want to be a nuisance to you. As soon as the rains stop, I’ll go back to my village. I have a house there.”
Sammy fixed me with his icy gaze and said, “Don’t talk nonsense.” He made a convulsive gesture with his right hand, and that was the evil omen. He returned to the tavern and began drinking as in the past. First he would come home in a haze but not drunk. Before the week was out, he had ceased getting up to go to work. His face turned gray, and the tremor returned to his fingers. I was familiar with his drunkenness, and I wasn’t afraid of it, but this time it turned out to be a different kind. He would return late, sit next to the table, and mutter in a mixture of Yiddish, German, and Ruthenian. In the past when he had gotten drunk, I used to entreat him, but now I stood at his side and kept silent. My silence only augmented the flow of his words. I wasn’t afraid of him, only of his Ruthenian words. Once I said to him, “Why don’t you lie down and rest?”
Katerina Page 8