“What? They are going to America?”
“Yes, and we must talk about this. Basia is our best fund-raiser. She speaks Russian and Polish and Lithuanian and has even been learning English.” Reuven had sensed that Basia was different from most traditional Jewish wives. She participated more in conversations. He rarely saw her without a book in one hand, even when she was stirring a pot on the stove or feeding a child.
“It is getting too dangerous now for Basia and the children.” Lovotz paused. “I do not need to tell you how dangerous it is getting. And it will get worse before it gets better, before the revolution.” He stopped again. When he spoke again he did not look directly at Reuven. “The baron Radzinsky is a truly noble man. He is an aristocrat not simply of birth but of spirit. He has given me enough money for both you and your sister’s passage to America.”
Reuven could hardly believe his ears. “I can’t believe it! This is too wonderful.” He gasped. He was to go to the Goldeneh Medina. He would find Uncle Chizor. He and Rachel would get out of the farshtinkener country forever. To America! Rachel toddled into the room. He swept her up.
“Rachel, we are going to America. Can you believe it? Rachel, you and me in America!” And he pictured the strangely shaped blue claw of lakes on his uncle’s map and then the place called Florida that hung like a sausage into the ocean and far to the west, California and the Pacific Ocean. He pictured it all—a vast continent in which there was no Pale and where Jews could live anyplace they chose. Rachel wriggled out of his arms and began dancing a little jig.
“America America!” she cried.
But he knew that she no more understood the meaning of the word America than she had the word gone she had chanted when they were on the road. Still the din of her high voice and the stomp of her feet made a pleasant melody in Reuven’s ears.
But suddenly within this din, between the cries of “America” and the stomp of Rachel’s little feet, Reuven sensed a pocket of silence. Lovotz Sperling was sitting perfectly still, simply staring at his hand, which rested on the table. Was there something wrong?
Reuven reached out for Rachel and told her to hush.
“Is there something wrong, Lovotz? Did the baron really give you the money or are you having to pay for us?”
“Oh no no, my boy.” He looked up and shook his head, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes.
They would be leaving for America in a week. They would take a train to Austria, then another to Germany, and then board a ship in Bremen. Basia was sewing like crazy. She made new dresses and warm little caps for Rachel and new trousers for Reuven. The family’s generosity knew no bounds.
Lovotz escorted Reuven all over Vilna. He took him to the cafès where he met the head of the cobblers’ and the weavers’ unions. He took him to the shulhoyf, the courtyard of the great synagogue where the gifted scholar, the Vilna Gaon, Elijah Ben Solomon Zalman, had held forth a century before. They wound their way through the labyrinth of alleys and covered passageways of the Jewish quarter. In Berischeva, it seemed that all the shops had to do with the physical necessities of life—markets, locksmiths, carpenters, cobblers. But here in Vilna there was all that and more. There were bookshops, chess clubs, a writers’ cafè, and yes, even a music store that sold instruments and sheet music! They stopped now in front of one on the daily walk that had become part of Reuven and Lovotz’s routine.
“Go on in, Reuven. We have passed at least three shops like this in the last two days and I always see you slow down then quickly hurry along. You have lost your violin, my boy, but you haven’t lost your music. Go in.”
“But I can’t afford anything.”
“Of course you can’t. You’re going to America. You hardly have money to spare.”
“I have no money at all.” Reuven laughed.
“But you can still look.”
Reuven and Lovotz walked into the store. The owner greeted Lovotz warmly.
“Shalom, Isaac.”
“Shalom, dear Lovotz.” The shopkeeper came up and embraced him. “How goes it all?” So even music store owners are part of the Bund, Reuven thought to himself.
“Meet my cousin Reuven. A violinist—a gifted one, I believe.”
Isaac was a tall gaunt man with wiry hair and very dark eyes. His sharp nose pointed down at such a steep angle it seemed in danger of sliding off his face. He raised one eyebrow and began to speak.
“Aah, we have many good violinists here in Vilna. You know, the academy and all. We turn out some very fine violinists.”
“Turn out” seemed an odd way to talk about music or any kind of art or artist. But maybe this was part of this new industrial way of speaking. Reuven had heard much of this in the last few days. Basia and Lovotz were constantly talking about production, labor, and market value. But could you talk about art in this way? It wasn’t piecework. It wasn’t a product.
Isaac had disappeared behind a tall counter. When he came out in front, he held a beautiful violin.
“A Guarneri,” he said.
“A Guarneri!” Reuven exclaimed.
“Aah, he knows a Guarneri!” Isaac spoke in a slightly patronizing tone.
“Of course!” Reuven said.
“Try it,” Isaac said.
“All right.”
Instinctively Reuven tuned the instrument and began to play the Dvo?ák, the piece that Uncle Chizor had brought the night of the seder. He remembered to stress the first six notes and then follow with great calmness on the next measures. Within seconds he was lost in the music. He had never heard such a sound come from a violin. It was right what they said about the Guarneris. There was a purity of sound that was unbelievable. So pure yet so warm.
When he had finished playing, Isaac came out from behind the counter. He put his hand gently on Reuven’s head. There were tears in his yes. “You’re the finest I have ever heard,” he said simply. Then he turned Lovotz. “Take him to the academy. They must hear him there.”
“It will only frustrate them.”
“Lovotz, what are you talking about?”
“The boy leaves for America in two days.”
“Aah, I see.” Isaac shook his head.
And once more Reuven spied that faint shadow in his cousin Lovotz’s eyes. Was it that Lovotz was sad for him to be going to America because he wanted him to continue his music studies here? But Lovotz had said it was becoming too dangerous. If it was too dangerous for his wife and children, was it not too dangerous for him and Rachel? Reuven was confused. As they left the shop and walked down the street, both Reuven and his cousin fell into an uncomfortable silence. There were things that Reuven wanted to ask, but he was afraid to, and he felt that there might be things his cousin wanted to say but that he also was hesitant.
“Let’s stop here and get a coffee,” said Lovotz.
It was the writers’ cafè. They had been there once before. Reuven had noticed that there were a lot of women similar to Basia at the tables—intense, with their noses stuck in books or often arguing loudly with the men. They dressed immodestly too. His own mother had never appeared without a kerchief or wearing her Jewish wig, her sheitel. These women, well perhaps they were not married, but they exposed their own hair, and many of them wore dresses with open collars and sleeves that did not reach the wrists. They were full of talk and humor, and the men were often the butt of their jokes.
Lovotz ordered coffee for them both.
“Different from Berischeva, eh?” he asked.
“Yes!” Reuven took a deep breath. The words just came to him. “Cousin, it is as if you just read my mind. Are you a mind reader?”
“Not quite, and I doubt that I read all of your thoughts.”
“No.” Reuven paused. “I wish you could.”
“How do you mean, Reuven?”
“Cousin Lovotz, something is bothering you. I know that.”
“Now who is the mind reader?” Lovotz sighed and muttered to himself.
“What?”
“Basia would be furious.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lovotz looked directly into Reuven’s eyes. “Reuven, this is very difficult. You are right. Something is troubling me, and in truth I have no right to be troubled by this.”
Reuven waited, not saying a word.
“I …” Reuven could tell that Lovotz was searching for the right words. “I was hoping, Reuven dear boy, I was hoping that you might want to …” He was speaking very slowly now, as if weighing every word. “Become a member of the Bund and that instead of going to America, you might remain here with us and … and …”
“Join the revolution.” Reuven finished the sentence.
“Yes.” Lovotz looked down at his hand on the table. His pale cheeks flushed slightly.
“But what about Rachel? I am her brother.”
“Right.” Lovotz spoke the word emphatically. “You are her brother.” Was there an emphasis on the word her? Was something left unsaid—that you are our brother too?
Lovotz now leaned forward. He heaved up his withered arm, and with both his hands, one shrunken and white the other large and incredibly powerful, he grasped Reuven’s hand. It was a very odd sensation. One of Lovotz’s hands felt limp and even cold, the other was warm and seemed to tingle with life.
“Look …” Then Lovotz’s eyes rolled toward heaven. “God forgive me. Look …” He began again. “We need you. You are young and strong. You speak Russian well. You are smart and quick. You would be invaluable.”
“But Rachel?”
“Rachel is a baby.”
Please, prayed Reuven, don’t say she is so young she will forget me. Please don’t say that.
“But already you see how she loves our children. Basia will take her to America, to New York. We have been sending money to friends there. Basia will take care of her as if she is her own. She will be happy. She will be with other children. She will be in America. In America, she will go to school. She will have a chance. There is no chance here for a Jewish girl. These women who sit here in the cafè”—he gestured toward the intense women that Reuven had noticed when he came in—”they have fought and fought to get what they have. In most cases, their families hate them for this independence. They have gone against an old and outdated tradition. Yes, they are independent, but they will never be free—not in the way they would be in America. Rachel will remember you. Basia will make sure of that, and someday, probably not so far off, you will go to America too.”
Reuven was silent for a long time. What Lovotz Sperling had proposed was unthinkable, unimaginable. He and Rachel had been closer than any two people for these last weeks. He had carried her on his back across the Pale of Russia into Poland. They had hidden in ditches, built snow caves to sleep in. He had cajoled her, scolded her, hushed her, clamped his hand over her screaming mouth, felt the furious light of her dark eyes. She was as much a part of him as a vital organ in his body. To leave her would be like cutting out a part of himself. Why couldn’t Lovotz understand any of this? But still, Reuven felt very deeply for his cousin. He felt he owed him a considered opinion. His mouth began to move mechanically. With the first words he knew he was lying, and he knew Lovotz knew it. “I shall think about it, cousin. I shall consider this most carefully. Yes. Lovotz, give me some time. I must get used to the idea. Give me some time.”
Lovotz patted his hand. Reuven felt no warmth this time. It was merely a gesture. “Yes, of course, of course. Shall we go? I think it is time for us to get back home,” Lovotz said.
Yes, cousin.
They got up to leave. As they were walking out of the cafè, Reuven felt Lovotz pat his shoulder and then grip it with that amazingly strong hand. It was not an empty gesture. It was one full of deep affection. This man is so good, Reuven thought.
They were walking by the Strashun Library.
“I will take you there tomorrow. No time today. There are tens of thousands of volumes of ancient Hebrew texts alone. Some are among the earliest ever printed. Yes, indeed, just twenty years after Gutenberg invented the printing press. As a book dealer I am often called in to advise them on the authenticity of certain materials.”
They had just turned a corner when something rushed out of an alley. Reuven heard a funny popping noise and was about to turn to Lovotz and ask him what it could be when he suddenly realized that Lovotz was standing stock still and clutching his stomach with a look of frozen horror on his face. Then his cousin crumpled against him. There was almost no weight to the man. A terrible shriek cut the air as both Reuven and Lovotz fell to the cobblestones.
“Cousin!” Reuven gasped as he held Lovotz in his arms. Reuven’s right arm, his bow arm, supported the light weight, and he stared in disbelief as he watched his hand turn red with blood. People were rushing up to them.
“My God, it’s Lovotz Sperling… .”
“The bastards shot Lovotz!”
“Make way … give him air.”
Reuven thought, This cannot be happening. Not again. This is not Berischeva. Scores of people now crowded about them. Reuven looked into Lovotz’s face. His eyes were open and focusing on Reuven. A small bubble of blood burbled at the corner of his mouth. He was trying to talk.
“Don’t talk, cousin, don’t talk. We’ll get you to a doctor. Save your strength. Don’t talk.” Oh please God, Reuven prayed, do not take this good man.
Lovotz’s mouth kept trying to make the words. There was so much blood. So much blood from such a tiny man. Then someone was peeling Reuven off of Lovotz’s blood-slicked cloak.
“No no!” Reuven heard himself saying. “I’ll stay here with my cousin and help get him to the doctor. He’s so light. I am very strong.”
He felt someone’s touch on his head. “Reuven, he is gone. It is no use.”
“No, he is all right, I tell you. Lovotz?”
An arm clasped him. He looked around. It was Isaac, the music shop owner. Tears were streaming down his face.
“They got him.” Jagged words tore from Isaac’s throat.
What was this man saying? They? Who was they? Why did they want to shoot Lovotz? “I don’t understand.”
“Agents, my boy. Secret agents. They know about the Bund. They know how powerful it is becoming.” While they talked, Isaac had been moving Reuven away from Lovotz.
“This cannot be.” Reuven kept shaking his head and repeating the words.
“It is difficult for the young. You have seen so little.” At this Reuven stopped walking. Anger flushed through him. “No, sir, you are mistaken. I have seen too much.” And a torrential sob ripped from his throat.
After Lovotz was murdered, it seemed to Reuven that he existed in a timeless zone—unlike when his own family was killed and there had been no time to think but only to act, to snatch Rachel up and run. Now there was time to think. He wondered how in such a short space of time this man Lovotz Sperling had come to occupy such an enormous place in his mind, and then gently invade his heart. He thought back to that afternoon in the writers’ cafè when Lovotz had asked him to become a member of the Bund, to let Basia take Rachel to America. It had been unthinkable then, and even when he had replied that Lovotz should give him some time so he could get used to the idea, Reuven had believed in his heart that he would not consider. But now he had to think about it. He was cornered. Cornered by murder, by blood, and by the shining promise of real safety for Rachel in America—the Goldeneh Medina, the Golden Country that had drawn his uncle. Uncle Chizor’s words came back to him now. “But you see, Reuven, I am not a revolutionary. I am a tailor. I have nobody to save except myself. I have anger. But I guess not enough to stay and turn the whole place upside down. And I have no patience. Yes, I am an impatient man. Very impatient, and that is why I choose to leave.”
But did Reuven have enough anger? Or maybe it was really a question of love. Did he have enough love to let Rachel go?
For Rachel it was a game. It was just like the good night game except it was the good-bye game. Sh
e was bundled into her new coat and her new shoes. Basia and the four children stood on the platform where they would catch the train that would take them to Vienna. There they would then catch another train to Bremen, where they would board a ship to America.
“Bye-bye.” She kept waving. “Bye-bye, Reuvie.” And then she would rush into his arms. What would happen when they all boarded the train and Rachel figured out that her brother wasn’t coming? When would this knowledge dawn on her? Reuven and Basia had discussed the departure endlessly. Reuven had thought that he should not come to the train station at all, or perhaps put them all on the train and then quickly disappear before the train pulled out. But Basia was against this.
“No,” she had said. “Rachel must see you waving good-bye on the platform. I do not believe in tricking children. She will cry, yes, but we will explain to her that you will be coming to America later on. In the meantime, you will write her letters and send her little presents.”
In the end, Reuven had agreed.
And now the train was pulling into the station. A porter had been hired to help them with their bags. Basia had it all planned out. She explained to the porter that they wanted the seats on the platform side so she could hold Rachel up to the window to wave to Reuven.
There was a great creaking and whoosh of steam as the train pulled to a halt. Basia began issuing orders like a field commander. Miri, the oldest, held the baby. Yossel was instructed to hold on to Miri’s cloak and not to let go. Basia picked up Rachel. The porter went first with their bags and secured the seats. When he came back down again, he began helping them up the steps. He took Rachel in his arms momentarily while Basia mounted and then handed her to Basia. Rachel started to lift her hand for bye-bye, but it dropped softly onto Basia’s shoulder. Quickly they were inside and Basia was holding Rachel up to the window. Basia picked up Rachel’s hand and began waving it for her.
Reuven stood on the platform waving, waving like crazy. He could not make himself smile. He tried, but each time his lips pressed together into a grimace. It seemed to Reuven there was nothing left in the world other than this train window, himself, and the confused little face behind the glass.
Broken Song Page 8