No Time for Tears (2 page)

“It’s so cold. What are you doing out this early?”

Swallowing hard she answered, “I have to bring Manya back.”

His eyes narrowed in shock. Manya? … Manya was the wet nurse. She was always used when … he quickly rejected the thought. Still… “Why Manya?”

For a long moment Chavala stood silent. To speak at this moment would risk tears, and she could not risk
that
… She bit her lower lip hard, then, “My mother died early this morning.” Flat, matter-of-fact, to camouflage the awful hurt…

A gasp lay in Dovid’s throat, as though the loss were his. The pain of what Chavala felt seared through him like a knife. Mrs. Rabinsky had been like a mother to him when his own had died of tuberculosis. Then shortly after, he witnessed the burial of his father. That was before Chavala was born and he was only six. He remembered so well how Rivka had taken him to her home. She held him close to her for comfort, sang him to sleep with her soothing lullabies, fixed a bed on a board between two chairs, put down a straw mat and covered him with Avrum’s winter coat. She sat by his side until finally he fell into blessed slumber. In the morning she prepared a special treat of Chanukah
latkes
and sprinkled them with salt and pepper. But he could scarcely eat. “Why did she die?” he had asked. Her soft brown eyes looked at him. “Because, Dovid, it was God’s will. We are only mortals and God must not be questioned. He knows what is best. We must trust in His decisions.”

But why had God made such a decision? Who was God to take his mother from him? He did not like God. No, he would never like God. But he would always love Rivka Rabinsky … But this was not the moment for such painful memories. Grabbing his coat from the hook on the door, he slipped into it and joined Chavala. “I’ll go to Manya’s with you.”

“Thank you, but I can go alone.”

“Don’t try to show how strong you are. You’re only human, Chavala. You’re not an oak.”

“I want to do this alone,” she answered, without rancor.

He knew it wasn’t her stubbornness but her courage that spoke. To argue with her would be pointless. Picking her up in his arms, he walked awkwardly in the mud that came up to his ankles.

Chavala did not resist. She was too weary. In fact, there was a measure of gratitude while she rested in his arms, although she would not tell him so.

When they reached Manya’s hut Dovid walked up the broken wooden steps and put Chavala down. He looked at her eyes, which were not red and swollen from crying, but he knew the grief that lay hidden. If only she would show a sign of her despair, release herself from the torment she held in silence. What comfort that could bring to her! But to do that would also show her weakness, and Chavala would never permit herself that luxury. Not Chavala. She would suffer alone. She did not thank him for his help and concern, instead she turned from him and knocked on Manya’s door.

When Manya finally opened the door and saw the two standing there she knew at once the reason Chavala had come. Her large bulk trembled for a moment, then she invited them in, but Dovid said, “I have to go to the Chevra Kadisha.”

Manya shook her head. Poor Dovid was the one the task had fallen to of notifying the department of burials that his beloved Rivka Rabinsky was gone. Manya also knew that with Rivka’s passing all the understanding of a mother who nurtured Dovid’s soul and fed his body would be buried. He had loved her so. It was to her that he had been able to confide his great love for Chavala, the frustrations of manhood as well as his disillusionment with God. Not once had she taken him to task nor forbidden him to speak such blasphemy in her house. Instead she tried in her gentle manner to explain, “Where is there to go, Dovid, for help and solace if you forsake God? No mortal’s door is open for you to enter. You see, my darling boy, without the love of God we are lost He is there when our courage has faltered, if only we call on Him.”

He did not dispute her words, though they did not change him. He’d felt he didn’t need the love of God so long as Rivka’s door was open. And now it was shut, forever.

Manya put on her shawl, told her husband to attend to their child and with Chavala descended the steps into the water-filled rut.

Chavala slipped and fell face down in the mud.

Quickly Dovid helped her up. “Are you all right, Chavala?”

Throwing back her head, she answered quickly, “I’m all right, please let go of my arm.”

Releasing it, he knew her anger was not directed at him. It was the same anger he’d felt when his mother died and he wanted to break the world into a thousand pieces. But for them there had been the gift of Rivka to guide him through the troubled nights. Now he desperately wanted to hold Chavala close to him so that she too would know the healing power of love. Perhaps then the fire of her anger and grief would dissipate like smoke. But it was useless to try … Chavala would hug and nurture her pain … it was how Chavala protected her wounded soul from feeling too much. He watched as the two women walked clumsily down the road, and when they’d entered Chavala’s house and closed the door behind them he made his way to the Chevra Kadisha at the furthest end of the village, shaking his head in sympathy for her loss, which was also his.

Manya took the infant from Avrum. Without a word he got up unsteadily and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Chavala watched as the new one sucked greedily to get Manya’s milk. When the frail infant was satisfied and asleep Manya handed the baby to Chavala, and then the two sat in silence, each with her own separate thoughts.

Not so much out of curiosity but from a feeling that Chavala needed to talk, Manya asked, “What’s happened?”

The words seemed to stick in Chavala’s throat, then almost inaudibly she said, “Leah was sick … by now, who knows, she could be dead too. Why are we so cursed? Why, Manya? What have we done to offend God so much that He allows us to suffer this way?”

Manya swallowed hard. “I don’t know answers to life’s riddles. I only know God’s not to blame. Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have told you that—”

“My mother was a saint. I’m not. I think I hate the world, Manya. When I go into Odessa and see the way the rich Jews and the
goyim
live, I spit out. Why has God been so good to
them?
Why are they so privileged to have so much and we not a crust of bread? And my dear sainted mother died from neglect… where was God?”

“God was here, Chavala. It’s not God’s revenge.”

“Then whose? What does it all mean when those rich pious Jews run to
shul
and pray so loud that God should hear them? It’s very easy for them to pray on a full stomach, then go home to a warm house where their Russian servants serve them tea and upon us they look down. They don’t have to wait for a Leah to bring their children to life. The rich doctors of Odessa provide their survival. Their warehouses bulge with grain, and we starve. Where is justice, Manya? Where? We live out our few years in misery and who comes to help? Our good, rich brethren in Odessa ignore us. Wouldn’t you think, Manya, that God would look down from heaven and cry a little when the pogroms come? Isn’t it strange how God passes over the houses of those privileged ones in Odessa? No, Manya, for us there seems no help.”

“Please, Chavala, don’t say such things. It’s sinful to speak this way.”

“The truth is never a sin. At least it shouldn’t be. My mother is dead because of the sins of others … because we are forced to live like vermin. Where was God this morning when I asked Him for help? Was my voice so weak it couldn’t be heard? No, Manya, my mother died because God’s ears were elsewhere.”

Manya got up and looked at Chavala. Her enormous bulk actually trembled. She would listen to no more. It was enough. “Get the baby ready so I can take her home … I’ll be back,” she said, and left, her feelings a mixture of outrage and pity.

Chavala stared down now at the child in her arms. “I swear to you, my little Chia, your life will be different than mine. I swear, I
promise
.” Chavala was so deep in her own thoughts she’d not heard Dovid come into the house, nor noticed as he stood framed in the doorway. When she looked up and saw him, she knew the death wagon had arrived to take her mother away. She did not move from her chair as she heard the muted voices and footsteps go in and out of the bedroom. She also heard the sound of her heart beating like a drum. Handing the little Chia to Dovid, she rushed to the pail and was sick. For a moment she stood weakly against the drainboard, breathing hard. Then, grabbing up her heavy shawl and wrapping it around her, she ran from the house to follow the wagon as it made its mournful way to the Chevra Kadisha. When it stopped she stood rooted in the mud as she watched the body of her mother being taken inside. Soon the women would be preparing the body, putting it into the white burial shroud. The sight of it in her mind was almost more than even she could stand. How long Chavala remained outside she did not know, but something deep inside her was brought up sharply as she remembered the other children.

She turned slowly and walked away. When she arrived at Mrs. Greenblatt’s, the door was opened and the woman’s eyes looked into Chavala’s grief-stricken face. There was no need for words.

It had taken little time for the small village to learn of Rivka Rabinsky’s passing. Mrs. Greenblatt held out her arms and brought the girl close to her. Stroking the girl’s lovely hair, she finally said, “It’s life, Chavala. We must learn to accept that we are all only mortal. The years of our lives are arranged and we must understand that…”

Chavala found little comfort in such well-intentioned words. Jews for centuries had accepted their fates with passive resignation. Not Chavala. Who devised such a plan, she cried out inside herself. God? What had the pious soul of her mother done to offend anyone, much less God? Why should she have been taken away so quickly? She should have been allowed to live, to have seen her children grow up to maturity. No, there was no justice. How could Chavala be comforted in a deity so cruel, or so indifferent? She separated herself from the embrace. “Thank you for your kindness, and now I want to take the children home.” She followed Mrs. Greenblatt into the kitchen, where her brother and sisters sat in absolute silence at the table. Looking at their stunned expressions, she was furious at what had deprived them of so much. And so damned unfairly.

They got up all at once and embraced Chavala as the tears fell from their eyes. They spoke together, the words tumbling from their frightened lips … “Mama’s dead, Chavala,” said Moishe…. “What will happen to us?” asked twelve-year-old Sheine. Ten-year-old Dvora looked at Chavala as though she could find the answers to chase her fears, and the youngest, eight-year-old Raizel, who could not fathom what dying was… “Why did mama go away from us, Chavala?”

In spite of her effort to console them there was still a bitterness showing. “Because God decided He needed mama more than we do … now dry your tears. I’ve come to take you home. You must be strong. Papa needs us.” As she adjusted Raizel’s babushka she added, “You have a sister. Yes, children, rejoice. Little Chia is the gift mama gave us … now, come.”

How quickly God wanted back what belonged to him, Chavala thought. What had come from the earth was returned to the earth … According to Jewish law the burial took place as soon as possible. It denied any display of ostentation, insisted on the starkness of burial rights. It was a tradition of thousands of years that a Jew was to be buried in an unadorned pine box, and the body laid to rest in a white linen shroud. It was not only a
mitzvah
but the duty of the entire village to attend the funeral as one family. It was almost a commandment. For Rivka Rabinsky the
landsmen
not only paid their respects but mourned her passing. They stood in the rain and watched the coffin being lowered into the cold ground and in that moment sobs reverberated through the morning air. In the minds of many was the thought that what they were now witnessing one day would be theirs, that their days too were numbered and that eventually all roads led to the grave. How important it was for mortal men to walk humbly with God … Don’t forget it…

Avrum bent down and placed a tiny bag of ancient holy dirt on top of the coffin as the tears fell from his wrinkled face. “Sleep in peace, my beautiful Rivka … my days will be lived in grief until I lay side by side with you.”

The children clustered close to Chavala as they watched. The eeriness in the small cemetery, the solemnity of the rabbi intoning the eulogy would trouble their dreams through the long, long nights to come.

All was silent now as each mourner threw a handful of soggy earth over the grave.

Dovid caught Chavala’s arm as she faltered for a moment, then with Avrum and the children they walked slowly away from the cemetery.

The next seven days were spent in mourning as the men sat on the floor and prayed the ancient psalms for the dead while the women of the village paid homage to the bereaved Rabinskys by sharing the little food they had….

A month had passed and now Avrum spent his every waking moment in the room he had shared with his beloved wife. Behind the closed door he stood in silent prayer. His grief was so consuming that Chavala could barely watch as he sat, mute, with the children at supper. He had eaten so little that his clothes clung to his emaciated body and the furrows of his face had deepened so that he was almost unrecognizable. It seemed that almost overnight his hair had turned completely white. His shoulders were bent. His eyes were vague, and the little he said was mostly beyond comprehension.

It was difficult for Chavala to work at her sewing this particular morning. Her mind was a confusion. She stopped pedaling and stared out of the window. The first snow had fallen during the night, and the sight depressed her, as did her thoughts. Papa, it seemed, would never recover from his loss, never again would be a father the children could look to for protection and to provide even the meager living he had made for them before. His only comfort seemed to be the time he spent praying in his lonely room. His days were passed in the synagogue—praying to atone for all his sins—and when he returned at night he seemed oblivious to everything. Nothing Chavala could say helped. But they needed a father, not a shadowy figure who lived in grief.