He opened Svetkov’s gift bottle of kosher wine and filled the glass tumbler. The dark wine that had been rushing frantically about in the confining bottle seemed liberated, and it poured forth gracefully into the large glass, where it settled in an open, quiet pool. Grisha felt uncomfortable taking into his hand the heavy drinking glass, larger and more vulgar than the traditional, delicately worked silver cup that he had lost somewhere with the Cossacks. Turning his attention back to the perverse Hebrew alphabet, he found no such immediate repose, for he had to read the recondite markings that he had not been able to flee from in some forlorn Polish town.
Like a young lad in the religious primary school, Grisha stood up, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if there were a spot on the floor that would recite the proper words if pressed sufficiently hard. Not finding one, he stood still and squinted at the text in the hope of discerning something that would make everything clear; then realizing that it all depended upon him, Grisha began to read. Uncertain, even stumbling, he recited the familiar blessing over the wine. With increased confidence, he proceeded into the more complex Hebrew of the kiddush, sanctifying the holiday. Concentrating on every letter, he discovered that the strange symbols printed in Rachel Leah’s prayer book corresponded to faint tracings in his memory.
He read as if he were merely an instrument of sanctification, surprised and pleased, but not in good conscience able to take credit for a technical feat of memory. As he continued, however, his remembrance became more personal, and he entered into a dialogue with memory. Although he read in a dry, straightforward tone, in his mind he could hear the echo of melodious phrases. Focusing on Rachel Leah’s yellowing page for the words to sanctify the Day of Judgment, at the same time he also turned inward to listen to how he had once sung them. At first his interior voice lagged behind. As he approached the end of the paragraph, his memory seemed to catch up, and he chanted the final lines blessing God for sanctifying “Israel and the Day of Remembrance.” Grisha was surprised yet comforted to find the New Year, the Day of Judgment, referred to as the Day of Remembrance. Yes, for him it was a day of remembrance. Certainly too late for anything else. Too late for belief, but not too late for remembrance. For that gift he was grateful, and in that spirit he humbly chanted the final holiday blessing, thanking God “for granting us life, for sustaining us, and for permitting us to attain this notable time.” Then he seated himself before drinking from the boorish wine goblet.
As he sat down, he thought he heard something, but he was looking down into the dark wine that had released such a flood of memories, as if crushed and fermented from the tight grapes of the mind. Although sure that he had heard it, he was equally sure that it echoed from his dialogue with memory. It was, after all, the Day of Remembrance, so it did not surprise him to hear such a thing. Seated, he leaned toward the full tumbler and raised the glass slightly to his lips. Although he sipped and swallowed the wine, he had no idea how it tasted, for when he began to drink the wine of blessing, he raised his eyes to discover the wife of his youth seated opposite him at the far end of the table. So it was she who had answered, “Amen.”
She had emerged in silence. Immersed in sanctifying the Day of Remembrance, he had heard neither the rustle of draperies nor the step of her foot. After losing hope and proceeding alone with everything dependent upon himself, he looked up to find her seated at the table, demure and calm, waiting patiently for her husband to pass her the wine cup. Regret softly touched his heart at having lost the silver goblet—regret at having degraded the kiddush cup, regret at not having regal silvered beauty with which to serve his wife. Rachel Leah’s majesty was such that the absence of finery made no difference to her; Grisha felt she deserved such riches all the more.
She sat erect, in quiet dignity. Her garments—the faded cloths of the Mironov mansion—were draped about her in composed, insane elegance. On her head lay three brightly patterned scarves, one not precisely resting upon the other. Under the riot of striped yellow spilled green-and-white checks, and under that escaped a red paisley, swirling upon itself in convolutions darker and richer than wine. She sat erect, her head held high, the pastiche of color adorning her head like the crest of feathers of a tropical bird. But this startling panache was not her most striking feature. Over her shoulder lay draped swaths of curtains—a satin of stark black-and-white stripes crossed her shoulders and plunged down her sides in harsh vertical splendor. The stark black-and-white scarf dominated all. Although it reminded Grisha of a man’s prayer shawl, it was much more powerful and arresting in its singularity; draped upon her proud person, it seemed to harken beyond the synagogue back to the majestic rites of temple worship, a veritable priestly vestment.
Ashamed to be serving her in the dull, vulgar brutality of an NKVD uniform, he partially rose from his chair and, remaining slightly stooped to hide his shame, brought her the cup and placed it before her.
She turned to take the glass and turned back to face straight ahead before drinking. Unlike Grisha, she did not lean over, but raised the wine to her lips. Obsequiously observing from afar, Grisha saw something that impressed him. For years he had thought his wife mad; even now he wasn’t sure that she wasn’t, although he admitted that he and his Soviet Russia were madder than she, and infinitely crueler. Tonight, however, along with the strange distant gleam he knew so well and a deadened look as if her mind were in hibernation along with her body, he saw something radiant and intimate, as if Rachel Leah were responding to the presence of the High Holiday. She was sitting at the table with the Day of Judgment. For a moment Grisha even felt the least bit jealous of the New Year. He felt foolish, but he couldn’t help it: she had exhibited such loyalty all these years, and now she exhibited such . . . passion? He wondered whether she might have been hibernating inside the wardrobe for this moment, like a bear sleeping through the winter until springtime. No, that was wrong. Grisha couldn’t think of her as a bear; a bear was much too Russian, too cumbersome, and too plain. Rachel Leah was more like a seed buried underground as if dead, then springing to life in a sudden bloom.
She had finished drinking. Grisha bent forward to remove the glass.
“May you have a good year. May you be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life on this Day of Judgment,” she said to her husband.
Grisha nodded, although he knew how impossible that would be. No God he could imagine could perform such miracles, but for once, he didn’t feel sorry for himself. His concern was for Rachel Leah’s New Year’s banquet.
“All we have is bread. We don’t have any honey to dip into for a sweet new year,” he confessed.
Rachel Leah nodded. “God will provide,” she declared.
Grisha wanted to agree with her, but he found it impossible to imagine just what God could provide in Stalin’s Russia. He politely, almost servilely lowered his head, suggesting that he had heard her and that it was neither his wish nor his prerogative to question her judgment. After all, where had his judgment gotten them?
Grisha had returned to his seat when he remembered that religious Jews performed a ritual washing of hands before blessing bread. He went to the sink, filled a cup of water, and poured it over each hand alternately several times. Having finished, he flicked his hands over the sink to drain them of excess water. Then, realizing he would find no towel, he wiped them with abandon on his NKVD tunic and didn’t bother to smooth it when he was finished.
He took his place at the head of the table before the plain loaves. He heard the watery splash of Rachel Leah’s ablution and wanted to watch her unobserved as she stood with her back to him, but he restrained himself since he felt that it would be improper. He had coaxed her forth to celebrate the Day of Judgment, and to that he would remain true. Instead Grisha stared intently at the two coarse, dark loaves. According to the traditional manner, he would lift both, pronounce the blessing, and break bread from one of them. But which one? An ordinary Muscovite family was entitled to only one. Grisha’s secret po
lice participation had secured them the second. Which was the NKVD loaf? He didn’t want to feast on that one. They looked the same, and Grisha knew that “they,” the loaves, were the same; they were both NKVD loaves. They had to be; after all, “they” were Grisha himself. His NKVD bread was the only staple he provided. For Rachel Leah they were Rosh Hashanah loaves, so he lifted them off the wooden cutting board. They felt surprisingly light in his hands; their rough crust welcomed his grasp as he blessed God, “who brings forth bread from the earth.” Even NKVD bread, he supposed.
“Amen,” Rachel Leah responded, “God is a Faithful King.”
Grisha put the loaves down, broke off a piece from one, and as soon as he began to chew it, regretted the lack of honey. Not just NKVD bread, all of Russia’s poor bread needed to be sweetened. He sat self-consciously eating before his wife, but since he blessed the bread for both of them, the law obliged him to eat first. He quickly swallowed the plain rough bread and broke off another larger piece for Rachel Leah. He rose from his seat and served it to her at the far end of the table. She took it from the plate, extending her hand demurely and not looking at him, and turned away slightly when she took her first bite. She wiped the large crumbs from her lip. She ate slowly, relishing every bite, as if it were the sweetest bread ever baked. Grisha acutely experienced his inadequacy.
“There is no more,” he apologized.
She didn’t seem to be listening.
“No honey. Nothing else,” he commented sadly. He bowed slightly in apology and began to return to his place.
“Wait here,” she ordered in a calm, clear voice, but with the unmistakable ring of authority.
Grisha turned back.
“Wait here,” she commanded.
“Here?” He pointed to the floor where he was standing, confused as to why he should remain in such an anomalous place when there was nothing more to serve.
“Yes,” she insisted without bothering to explain, and continued to eat the piece of blessed bread that he had brought her.
In her hands it didn’t seem to be NKVD bread at all, but a loaf worthy of a feast celebrating creation. He waited patiently for the first moments as Rachel Leah calmly continued her ceremonial feasting. Then he began squirming as the time wore on. She savored every particle of her share, concentrating on the simple act of eating with singleminded force. Grisha would not have been surprised had she broken into full-throated song, but he might have been fearful. She seemed to have gathered a power about her that was not to be denied. While breaking the Rosh Hashanah bread, Rachel Leah seemed to possess what Grisha had thought of in the most exuberant days of the Glorious Revolution as Necessity, something that he had since given up as illusory. Despite his apprehensions, he was curious as to where such a sense of power might lead her, might lead them—for he had become her servant this night, literally waiting on her.
He was calmed by the thought that there really wasn’t much Rachel Leah could do with her religious inspiration. Saddened, too; for didn’t she deserve an opportunity to express such intense feeling, and wasn’t he responsible for her deprivation? It was the Day of Remembrance—for him judgment had already been deservedly decreed, hadn’t it? He looked at Rachel Leah’s face and remembered the teenage girl that he had married after he had nearly burned to death in saving the Torah scroll from the fire in the Angel of Death synagogue in Krimsk. He recalled the slight, girlish face and, yes, even then it had shone with an ecstasy. That feverish, childish excitement had stimulated young Grisha so deeply that when the rebbe had offered him his daughter, Grisha couldn’t refuse. He had wanted to possess her. He, too, was feverish, his fever having been fanned by the flames.
Yes, Grisha remembered her childish enthusiasm. No, it was more than that; Grisha couldn’t look into a mirror without becoming ill, but Rachel Leah had stared adoringly at his charred flesh, for he was the man who had saved the Torah. “Let that Torah save you,” the rebbe had written, but that seemed beyond reach, impossibly distant, beyond memory. Grisha was pleased at having found the youthful counterpart to the passionate force now in Rachel Leah’s face. The face itself was noticeably thirty-three years older, both a victim and a survivor of its fine-boned, almost sharply etched prominence; not her father’s smooth skin, nor her mother’s fine flesh. Rachel Leah’s lack of flesh gave her face a slightly pointy expression that revealed her age but promised to be kinder in the coming decades; her features would retain their shape while other, fuller faces began to decay. Grisha wondered whether Rachel Leah even looked into a mirror anymore; he guessed not. Although curious about her thoughts, he couldn’t hazard a guess about them. He did hope that they didn’t include him. Not today, the Day of Remembrance, when his remembrances were not flattering; not today, the Day of Judgment, when her judgment of him must certainly be damning.
Distracted by his musings, Grisha now saw that his wife had finished her bread and turned to him, a look of expectation upon her no longer young face.
“Yes?” he asked in polite inquiry.
“Yes,” she answered definitively.
“Yes?” he repeated, not understanding at all what Rachel Leah had agreed to.
“Yes,” she commanded, sitting regally erect and staring directly at him.
Bewildered, Grisha opened his mouth in the unspoken word “What?” but Rachel Leah didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and removed her yellow scarf. She lifted the riotous yellow stripes from her head and simply let the cloth drop to the floor. Her hand remained at the level of her head, as if she had started to wave to someone, then stopped. Grisha moved to pick up the scarf, but Rachel Leah casually extended her hand, holding her palm upward, fingers upraised. “Leave it,” she ordered, and Grisha complied.
He couldn’t turn away from the sunburst spread out limp on the floor, although the green-and-white scarf that now lay fully exposed was not without visual interest. It seemed, however, too obvious in its simple relentless pattern, here green, there white, and again green. When Rachel Leah removed it from her head, letting it fall swiftly to the floor, Grisha was pleased. The rich red paisley that lay beneath it did not disappoint in its revelation. The curves of red spiced with the smaller paramecium-shaped gold, outlined in black, swirled and spiraled about her head like a veritable cloth crown of rubies and wrought gold. Rachel Leah plucked the rich garment from her head as casually as she had the previous two. As it fell softly, she silently rose, standing very straight, as if presiding over the feast table. Her long unkempt hair cascaded about her shoulders in uneven greasy strands of tired brown peppered with listless gray. Their long, wild abundance created the effect of a horse’s mane.
Grisha was astonished at the hoary abundance that the precise paisley scarf had liberated. He didn’t know whether he was more shocked by the incredible length that had lain hidden or by the torrential amounts of gray that had claimed it—or by what both features implied: the vast amount of time, the many years, in which he had not seen his wife unveiled. He had the impression, although certainly wrong, that he had not seen his wife’s hair since their wedding day. Before he could begin to calculate how long it might really have been, she let the strikingly elegant black-and-white stole fall from her shoulders. It fell back, wreathlike, onto her chair, much of it remaining there as long sections slid onto the floor. The cloth had been wound about Rachel Leah and surprised Grisha by its great length. It must have been a curtain from one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the salon that opened onto the garden. Try as he might, Grisha still could not recall any such distinctive drapery. Before he had a proper chance to calmly reflect on what curtains had been hanging there, he realized that Rachel Leah was continuing to disrobe. A purple sash descended from her bosom and floated onto the pile on the floor. His eyes were drawn to the rich color. His gaze remained on the object at her feet, but from the corner of his eye he saw that some sort of shabby white sweater had been pulled over her head, and then dropped to partially cover the royal purple. Grisha slowly moved forward to raise
the purple garment from where it had fallen. With a royal gesture, she restrained him.
Grisha didn’t quite grasp what she was doing. It had been so very warm, but he was surprised when her fingers nimbly unbuttoned a faded gray blouse. He turned as she slipped one thin arm out, then the other. Still one step behind her, he caught a glimpse of something ropelike falling away, an expanse of flesh, and then he was dimly aware of Rachel Leah stepping daintily out of a skirt—even several skirts, and then out of undergarments.
Grisha glimpsed an expanse of pale flesh and quickly turned away.
“Yes,” Rachel Leah announced firmly.
Confused, Grisha shook his head ever so slightly so that he would not see her.
“Yes,” she said again, gently understanding his difficulty. Grisha felt light agile fingers unbuttoning his tunic. Before he could smooth it, it was falling away from him, and then he felt her remove his visored hat.
“No,” he protested softly, but her light fingers fluttered about him until all his garments, NKVD and personal, had fallen in a lifeless heap below.
She reached up and turned his head to face her.
Although he was afraid, he couldn’t successfully resist, and she came into his sight.
“Yes,” she said, gently insistent.
Fighting an impulse to turn away, he looked at her fearfully. Dmitri Cherbyshev came to mind, and Grisha was afraid that if he did unite with her, blood would gush forth from him, polluting them both in a crimson orgy.
“No!” he said sharply. God, he thought, how he should have shot that disgusting degenerate. But even as he said it, Rachel Leah smiled. Blushing, Grisha looked at the wife of all his adult years. After the sight of her billowing, unkempt gray hair, her body was not a surprise. Pale and slight, her flesh no longer supple, her body sagged, but it did so all in the same direction, downward. For someone who did nothing but sit in a closet, she seemed surprisingly well fed; the slightly drooping flesh softened the wiry angularity of her youth. It was as if her flesh, beginning with her head, had drifted gently downward away from her face, leaving it thin and pointy. Her narrow shoulders were surprisingly straight. Her small, soft drooping breasts were still feminine, but lay as if attached to her pale, sloping stomach. Then Grisha, in spite of himself, looked lower and saw something that amazed him. One aspect of Rachel Leah’s appearance had dramatically improved. In her youth her hips and buttocks had been slight, almost boyish, but now the downward flow of flesh had transformed them, gracefully rounding them and giving her the rich, fertile pear shape of womanhood.
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