Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life (9 page)

“Hah! Did you say something?”

“I said, may you fall asleep for good, my Sime-Yoysef.”

As soon as I’d show up, she’d probably drop a peeled potato to the floor and drawl, in her high-pitched voice, “Look who’s come back, the little brat! Well hello!” She wouldn’t let me take off my coat or undo my scarf, and before I could do anything I would be sent to fetch two or three pails of water.

But all that would be happening only tomorrow, a good many hours away. Meanwhile, I was still sitting at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s window. The church was growing darker and darker, sinking more deeply into blueness. The sky around the cross was still red. That must be the place where the wicked are burned and roasted.

At that moment, I imagined I heard Grandpa’s voice. It sounded muffled, as if coming from the other side of the door. But in an instant the door was flung open and an unexpected voice, certainly not one from these parts, burst into the room.

“Why is it so dark in here?”

I tore myself away from the window. I could have sworn it was Mother.

“You’ve just arrived?” I heard Grandpa say in the darkness, his voice seemingly dark, too.

“I just came in on the omnibus. But why is it so dark in here?”

Grandma woke up from her nap. “Is that Frimet?” she asked drowsily.

“Yes, it’s Frimet,” Grandpa said. “But turn on the light. A person could go blind here.”

“And where’s my Mendl?” asked Mother.

“Here I am, Mameshi!” I called out and, leaping off Grandpa’s worktable, rushed to the door, where stood the shadowy figure of my newly arrived mother.

Her clothes gave off a frozen smell, like steel.

“Mendlshi?” Mother’s cold hand reached for my face. “Let me take a look at you. Come closer.”

I raised my face and she lowered hers. Between our two faces there was utter darkness. Grandma kept fumbling with the lamp, which wouldn’t light. Nevertheless, despite the gloom, Mother could sense how I looked.

“Oh, my poor child! Oh, woe is me! How skinny you’ve gotten!”

“Thank God for that much, at least,” Grandma snorted.

“Why didn’t you write me that he was so sick?” Mother complained to Grandma.

“First of all, I did write you.”

“Only that he wasn’t well.”

“What more did you want?”

“I’d have come running.”

“And that would have cured him? But never mind. Grandma knew what she had to do, didn’t she, Mendl?”

By now the room was filled with the warm, rosy glow of the lit lamp. Grandpa hung up his heavy winter coat, with the slit in the back and the two big buttons on either side. Grandma called the particular garment the
goyishe yupitze
, that Gentile sheepskin. She detested it. But Grandpa, running a hand over the worn yellowish hide as though he were stroking the head of a beloved grandchild, declared proudly, “It’s not a
goyishe yupitze
but a
zhupan
, like the Polish aristocrats wear.”

“
Zhupan, shupan
,” Grandma mocked. “Imagine, a Jew who likes to wear only Gentile garments!”

Mother was still standing at the door, like a stranger. She had come back from Warsaw, wearing a long, black overcoat with an even blacker fur collar. The length of the coat, or maybe its blackness, made her seem taller than she’d been before she went away. She’d already covered me with kisses. Now, in the rosy light, she hugged me again.

“My poor darling, how sick you must have been!”

“Sick, shmick …” Grandpa interjected, ready to return to his worktable. “Take off your coat. Why are you standing like that?”

Mother undid her head scarf, took off her long, black coat, and threw it on the bed. Grandma eyed it warily, relegating it to the same category as Grandpa’s
zhupan
.

I see you’ve got yourself a new coat,” Grandma said, stroking the fur collar.

“It’s a gift from Gitl-Hodes.”

“Is that so? Hmm … And how are they doing?”

“We should be doing as well.”

“And how’s Hersh-Wolf?”

“Like always.”

“And how’s his hand? Can he move it again?”

“Yes, thank God.”

It was only now that I took a good look at Mother.
Without the coat she looked just the way she always did, before she went away, except that she now had on a new wig, very black and shiny, with a curl in the front, like a bird. The new wig made her face seem fuller, smoother, maybe even younger.

“And how are Gitl-Hodes’s children, they should be well?” Grandma kept up her inquiries.

“All’s fine. Pini’s working in a pharmacy.”

“And Paula?”

“She’s already graduated from the gymnasium.”

“And Shlyamekl?”

“He’s about to be married.”

Mother, of course, was talking about her rich sister in Warsaw, Aunt Gitl-Hodes, who lived in a big house with many rooms and balconies, and whose children weren’t called Mendl like me, but Pini and Paula. There was supposed to be another boy, Antshe, their youngest, who was always referred to as Mali, “the little one.” I’d never met any of them. I only know that from time to time, I’d be wearing short pants with brass buttons down the sides, hand-me-downs from that same Mali.

“And how’s Mali?” I chimed in.

“Ah,” Mother broke into a smile. “He’s no longer ‘the little one.’ He’s all grown up, God bless him. He already goes to gymnasium.”

Grandpa, by now sitting in his work corner, with his back to us, turned around and, thrusting out his little white beard, said, “Oh, is that so? Attending the gymnasium is he?”

“Yes, he’s already in the third class.”

“And does he wear a uniform?”

“Of course, he does, just like the one you’re working on.”

“Ooh, ah!” Grandpa said in a voice full of amazement. “It’s a shame you didn’t bring an old uniform of his back with you.”

“Whatever for?”

“So I could take a look at how they sew uniforms in Warsaw.”

“Not better than you, Father.”

“Dark-blue ones, with silver buttons?”

“Yes, exactly like here.”

“Mmm … it’s the same the world over.”

Grandpa seemed to take much satisfaction in the fact that in Warsaw they made the same uniforms as they did here. He put aside his work and was prepared to hear more news from Warsaw.

“And who makes his uniforms?”

“A tailor, of course. Who else?”

“Do you mean to say that there’s a Dovid-Froyke in Warsaw, too?”

“He thinks he’s the only man in the world,” Grandma interjected.

“Don’t mix in, old woman! We’re talking serious business.”

I stood wedged against one of Mother’s knees. She kept stroking me, hugging my face, and sighing softly.

“And what else is new?” Grandma broke the silence. “Did you actually get to draw up Tsipele’s betrothal agreement?”

“Yes, Mother. You can wish me
mazel tov
.”

“May you truly have good fortune. Is he a decent fellow?”

“A brush-maker.”

“A brush-maker?” Grandpa frowned. “A brush-maker, of all things! Why not a tailor?”

“And a tailor has more status than a brush-maker?”

“A tailor’s a somebody, and a brush-maker’s nothing but a brush-maker.”

“He’s not good enough for you?” Grandma turned her steel-rimmed spectacles on him.

“Certainly not.”

“So that’s it. He’s not good enough for Dovid-Froyke.”

“He’s taking her without a groshen,” said Mother softly.

“He’s doing me a favor? Maybe we should pay him.”

“Don’t listen to that fool,” said Grandma angrily. “And where was the betrothal agreement drawn up?”

“At Avrom-Ayzik’s.”

“Why not at Gitl-Hodes’s?”

“Who knows … rich people. Maybe they didn’t think it suitable.”

“Sure! Bring a brush-maker into the family …” Grandpa got in the last word.

Grandma quietly lowered her face. Grandpa plied his needle furiously.

“And how’s poor Avrom-Ayzik? Is he still out of work?”

“Struggling to keep body and soul together. He owes a lot of money,”

Mother replied.

“And how’s his Sime-Leye?”

“Pretty as a picture.”

“Why don’t they arrange a match for her?”

“It just doesn’t seem to happen.”

Grandma sighed deeply. The room grew silent. The three of them sat there with drooping heads, as if they’d just dropped off to sleep.

Poor Avrom-Ayzik. His was truly a sad story.

He was the full brother of Mother, Aunt Miriam, and the wealthy Gitl-Hodes of Warsaw. I knew him well.

Uncle Avrom-Ayzik visited us last year at Rosh Hashanah time. He had a long, thin, blond beard, looked at the world through spectacles, and wore a stiff eight-sided hat, of a sort that nobody before him had ever worn nor would ever wear after him. He talked in a drawn-out, sing-song voice, and on Rosh Hashanah-Yom Kippur he actually led the services in the tailors’ synagogue.

They said that he chanted the prayers so sweetly that one wanted to kiss every word. But what good was that to him if, alas, he couldn’t make a living, or if he couldn’t marry off his beautiful daughter, Sime-Leye, unless the promised money for the dowry arrived from his son in London. But the money was never sent.

Yes, things were certainly sad at Uncle Avrom-Ayzik’s.

That’s what Mother told us while untying the parcel Aunt Gitl-Hodes had sent with her and out of which tumbled a pair of laced shoes, a long-sleeved jacket, a cap with a sharp peak, trousers, and vests. A veritable treasure trove!

But this time I wasn’t thrilled by any of it, especially the cap with the peak.

“I’ll never wear it,” I said, not even wanting to touch it.

“Why not? It’s such a nice cap.”

“No one in our
kheyder
wears a cap like that.”

“So you will.”

“No, I won’t.”

The clock struck hoarsely. I counted the strikes, fully ten, though the hands only pointed to nine o’clock.

“Have you seen Leyzer yet?” Grandpa suddenly asked

“No,” Mother replied uneasily.

“I actually wondered why you didn’t go straight home.”

“I’ll never go back there again.”

Two dumb-struck faces, Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, looked up at Mother in puzzlement. I, too, didn’t understand what she had just said.

“You’re not going back?” Grandma finally gasped.

“I’ve had enough of that yoke of mine.”

The grandparents’ old faces looked as if they were hard of hearing.

“What, Frimet, not again!” Grandpa said.

“I can’t put up with it any more, all those curses he wishes on me. He should only …”

“Sh … sh … Don’t you start cursing,” said Grandma, rising abruptly from her wooden chest.

“He ought to be ashamed of himself,” Mother continued. “Not even a Gentile curses at his wife the way he does at me.”

“When did he have time to curse you?” said Grandpa. “You weren’t even here.”

“He cursed me in a letter. So what if I went away? I have only one daughter. I shouldn’t go to her celebration?”

“You could have told him you were going away,” said Grandpa.

“How could I have told him when he’s hardly ever home?”

“What do you want, he should stay home and play with you?”

“Who’s talking about playing? But he has no right to stop me from going to my child’s engagement.”

“But not a living soul knew where you’d disappeared to. That’s not a Jewish thing to do, abandoning husband and child, just like that!”

“Too bad! So he had no one to do the cooking for him!”

“You think he can do his own cooking?”

“Let him cook, let him not cook. I’ve had enough of him!”

“Have you got someone else to take his place?” Grandpa said with a wink. “You’re not a young woman any more, you know.”

“Enough already, you old fool!” Grandma trembled all over. “And you, Frimet, stop making those jokes and go home.”

“You’re throwing me out, Mother?”

“I’m not throwing you out, God forbid, but a wife has to go home to her husband.”

“I don’t ever want to see him again! What kind of a life do I have with him? Alas, he darkened my young, my most beautiful years! He talked me into believing that he was well off, that he owned a farm. A curse on that farm of his!”

Mother’s eyes reddened and took on an ugly look. Her nose, too, reddened and seemed to grow sharper.

“Nu, let it be,” said Grandma, seeking to smooth over Father’s transgressions. “Don’t think he hasn’t been here asking about you.”

“So he did me a big favor.”

“He’d show up in the courtyard several times a day.”

“In the courtyard? And to come into the house was beneath his dignity?”

“But you know yourself,” Grandma said, as if imparting a secret, “that we two never got along that well.”

“Whom
does
he get along with?”

“Well, he’s not from the worst … It’s late already, but tomorrow, God willing, you’re gong home.”

“No, Mother, even if I have to scrub other people’s floors, I’m never going back to him.”

“What got into you over there in Warsaw?” Grandpa could no longer contain himself.

“In Warsaw, they live like people. Gitl-Hodes is a real lady, like a German lady. And what has become of me? With Berl—may his soul rest in peace—I used to live in a place with big rooms, with brass handles on every door.”

“Well, with Berl …” Grandma heaved a sigh. “Things never turn out the way one wants them to.”

They continued talking until late into the night. They totally forgot about me.

I heard everything, but for the life of me couldn’t make out why Mother had returned from Warsaw so angry with Father. It should have been the other way around. To my mind, it was Father who should be angry with Mother, since she was the one who disappeared without telling him where.

To tell the truth, I bore Mother no ill will. I was only put out by the mention of her first husband and those big rooms and the brass door handles.

What kind of comparison was that! Her first husband had been a
feldsher
, a barber-surgeon in Konskowola, whereas my father only dealt in hay. What had all that to do with big rooms and brass door handles?

The following morning I busied myself getting ready to return to the
kheyder
. I got up earlier than usual, washed myself thoroughly, put on the strange trousers that Mother had brought back from Warsaw, and made sure I had the two bagels that Grandma had buttered for me.