Authors: Anouk Markovits
“Nothing—I’m sorry.”
One hand came down as the other scribbled
Nuremberg
. Reading about the Nuremberg defense, Atara had understood without translation, the words were the same in Yiddish: Befehl ist Befehl,
an order is an order
; they were following
orders, the Nazis had said. To Atara, it seemed a good question, whether one should ever obey orders blindly, but Rabbi Braunsdorfer might rail: “Are you, God forbid, equating the Lord’s command to a Hitler command?”
Atara’s pen hatched diagonal lines over
Nuremberg
, hatched, crosshatched, stippled—short lines of equal weight, dots of equal circumference, her pen stamped another pattern of closure, to honor the Lord. The dots filled the margin, the margin bled onto the page—
“Miss Star, would you translate sternly.…” Rabbi Braunsdorfer liked to pun on all the girls’ names and
Atara Stern
, which combined
crown
and
star
, stimulated the inclination.
Atara read the Hebrew text and translated:
“Measure for measure the Lord punishes, the Lord is just.…”
“Thank you. The holy Chazon Isch, peace be upon his soul, explains: Before the war, Jewish parents sent their children to secular schools; they kept their children’s bodies alive while sacrificing their souls.
Measure for measure
the Lord struck these parents; He destroyed their children’s bodies.” Rabbi Braunsdorfer’s voice rose to a high nasal pitch. “And it was an act of grace! In an act of grace, HaShem relieved these Polish communities of free will before they deteriorated entirely.
“Some murdered children belonged to God-fearing parents? Then suffering must be attributed to Bitul Torah: not enough Torah. And when there was enough Torah, the suffering of innocents must be attributed to yesurim shel ahava,
the torments of love; God torments the few who do not sin to permit them to reach a higher station in the next world.”
Atara had stopped taking notes. She did not wait for Rabbi Braunsdorfer to call on her.
“Does the Lord stay to watch, when children are burning?”
Heads turned.
Rabbi Braunsdorfer pulled back his chair.
The bell rang.
Rabbi Braunsdorfer closed his Expanded Rabbinic Bible and descended from the platform. There was a pause, and the usual roar of the girls’ pent-up voices exploded in the classroom. Atara’s pulse quieted down.
Nothing had happened. She had asked a real question and nothing had happened.
She was leaving the little library under the eave when she came nose-to-nose with the principal regaining his balance as if his ear had been glued to the door. They stood on the landing; she in her plaid dress, her lace collar; he in his gray suit and gray goatee—he was short for a man. He did not look straight into her eyes but to a point behind her right shoulder. His goatee lifted as he swallowed.
“Dirty hands take hold of sacred texts vizout approfed mediashun.”
“Pardon?”
He enunciated slowly. “Dirty hands take hold of sacred texts vizout approofed mediation.”
Dirty hands?
She had been studying holy books, not forbidden books.
“Should I not use the library?”
His right hand moved in circles as his spoke. “Some zink: I do not have to study zis but out of choice I vill. Neverzeless, it is not petter. To study vat you are not commanded to study is mental exercise—like crossvord puzzle or chess, but here, in zis school, ve do not seek to stimulate ze mind.”
“No?”
“In zis school, ve seek to stimulate ze soul—ze
soul
, not ze mind. If a girl vants to uplift her soul and be near ze Creator, she studies vat she is
commanded
to study. Do you know ze rules of tennis doubles? In doubles, you stick to your side of ze court. Only a busybody rushes onto her partner’s side. Poaching never pays: you leaf your side of ze court open and you spoil ze game. Ven you open a holy pook, ask: Am I entering someone else’s territory? Zink about it. Good night.”
The principal started down the stairs. Atara saw him in tennis whites, running after the ball on his side of the court.…
Despite the principal’s warning, Atara returned to the low-ceilinged library. Now, when she opened a book, the letters scolded: “Tsk tsk …
dirty hands
! Moses received the Law at Sinai and passed it on to Joshua, who passed it on to the Elders, who passed it on to the Prophets, who passed it on to the Men of the Great Assembly; they did not pass it on to Atara, daughter of Hannah.”
*
T
HE PRINCIPAL
called Mila into his office before Passover break.
“Zo, you are returning to Paris.… Are you curious about ze vorld, outside?”
Mila protested. Everyone was curious, sometimes, but her deepest desire was to marry a son of Torah and raise a Jewish family.
“Good, good. Zen you must not befriend evildoers.”
Mila nodded.
“You vant to help Atara, yes?”
Mila’s heart beat faster.
“Vat does Atara vant? Vat are her zoughts, her plans?”
The words Atara might have used almost left Mila’s mouth,
Atara wants to make her own choices
, but instead Mila offered: “Atara studies more intensely than any girl here.”
The principal cleared his throat. “Is Atara interested in boys?”
“Of course not!”
“Zen vy, vy does she not accept answers zat are clear? You and all her friends must show Atara you disapprove.” His finger wagged. “It is an obligation to hate ze vicked. Show her zat she vill lose you.” He paused. “You, too, are in danger. Reputation iz a fragile vase, one false move ze vase breaks … vat, vat else do you have, poor orphan?” His thick
lenses muddled the color of his eyes. “Zink about it.” He rose. “Have a safe trip and kosher Passover.”
Mila stumbled out. Atara’s questions were getting them both in trouble. One girl had even asked whether Atara came from a freier
(free-thinking)
home and why had she been admitted to the seminary? The habitually agreeable Mila had snapped: “Atara’s father is the great Torah scholar Zalman Stern who follows the Rebbe’s every edict.”
*
M
ILA
and Atara kissed Zalman’s hand, they kissed and hugged Hannah as the younger children tugged at their sleeves and skirts; they kissed and hugged their siblings. Atara noticed Schlomo, just thirteen and returned the day before from his yeshiva abroad. Schlomo stood at a distance, biting his lower lip—a bar mitzvah boy does not kiss a sister even after a lengthy separation. Atara waved to him, awkwardly; the boy flushed and stormed away.
Hannah pressed a hand against her lower back and let out a short moan. Atara rushed with a chair. “Sit, Mama, sit!”
Mila rushed with a low stool. “Here, Auntie Hannah, here!”
Hannah sat and sighed with relief. “My daughters are home.”
Atara lifted Hannah’s swollen foot, placed it on the stool; Mila lifted the other swollen foot, placed it on the stool. Hannah smiled, extended her legs. The light bounced off the tight mesh of her compression stockings as off a metal plate.
The backs of Hannah’s knees were knotted plums, her feet were purple deltas. The doctor had warned and threatened, but what were high blood pressure, varicose veins, and exhaustion when one considered Hannah’s siblings who never returned? Hannah’s belly had swelled again.
Leaning back in the chair, Hannah said, “Now tell me, my Torah scholar girls, what have you learned? Tell me everything.”
Mila turned to Atara. “Now, when we open a T’nach, we read not only Rashi but also Sforno and Ibn Ezra and—”
Hannah leapt up to grab the coin a toddler was pushing up his nose.
Atara had leapt faster. “Sit, Mama, sit!”
Every day, Mila and Atara schemed and strategized so Hannah would rest her rounding belly. They took over Passover cleaning. From early morning until late at night, they hunted crumbs of unleavened bread. They sang as they scoured the seams of the parquet and behind bookshelves and armoires; they sang the French songs that made Atara melancholy for the lycée and the new seminary songs that Mila liked best. At times, Mila scampered up to Atara and kissed her cheek—best friends, sisters for life. Atara kissed her back, for life.
A couple of times, Mila fell out of harmony. Atara held the note, waiting for Mila to find her voice again, but Mila ran out of the room.
Vat, vat else do you have, poor orphan?
At the seminary, where no other girl had parents nearby, Mila had felt less of an orphan, but the principal had chosen to remind her.
Mila leaned over the baby’s crib, pressed her cheek against the soft baby skin. Everything was limpid when she looked into his wide eyes, when she tickled him under the chin and he gurgled with rapture.
“Milenka, the baby needs sleep,” Hannah called.
Mila stepped away from the crib.
If the Lord asked for the baby? Mila tiptoed back to the crib. The baby cooed, wiggled arms and legs. Mila hugged her elbows and rocked from side to side; she leaned into the crib, kissed the baby’s cheeks, wildly, kissed his tiny toes. The Lord would not ask for
this
baby.
During the middle days of Passover, the girls coaxed Hannah into accompanying the children to the Luxembourg Gardens. When Hannah sat on a park bench and turned her wan face to the sun, when Hannah inhaled deeply, as magnolia petals settled pink and white on the spring lawn, the girls were euphoric—Hannah was tasting life, this life. But the lull soon faded. Someone somewhere needed Mama’s attention, prodding, protruding duties, more urgent than an ache for rest. The girls crashed from paradise, to Hannah’s abrupt hurry. Hannah
gripped a toddler’s hand and heaved her heavy belly far from magnolia alley, while other mothers sat on the park benches.
T
HE RETURN
to the seminary neared and Mila grew unsure of herself, of what things meant; she changed her mind and changed it again. What did the principal want her to do? Was Atara in danger?
First Schlomo left for his yeshiva abroad, then the girls prepared to leave.
Hannah called them into the living room; she opened the dark walnut chest and showed them the fine eiderdowns and white nightgowns, prettier than any nightgown Mila or Atara had ever worn. “The Lord willing, the chest will soon be full.” Hannah kissed her girls, enjoined them to heed their reputations. The entire family stood on the balcony as the taxi turned the corner.
May the Lord bless you. May He guard your steps.…
*
T
HE HOUSING
assignments had been changed. Mila now shared a room with the most popular girls at the seminary, including two cousins from a wealthy family who had spent the war years in Switzerland.
Atara shared a room with girls who devoted the longest time to prayers; quiet girls who blushed when it was their turn to read aloud a verse; girls who would never raise a hand to ask a question.
“Mila, here!” In the front row of the classroom, Zissi and Goldie, the two cousins from Switzerland, waved and pointed to the empty seat between them.
Mila did not notice Atara entering the classroom, did not notice Atara’s surprise when she saw that Mila had not kept a seat for her. Now Atara and Mila would sit apart in class all semester. It was deemed unfriendly to ask to switch seats.
When the lunch bell sounded, Mila’s neighbors whisked her to the dining hall where they steered her to their table, bubbling their admiration for Rabbi Braunsdorfer’s intellect and wit; the girls were agreed, Rabbi Braunsdorfer’s classes in Jewish Thought were the most uplifting.
Mila noticed there was no seat for Atara at her table. When Atara entered the hall, Mila’s chest tightened. It would be hard to switch tables later.
Atara found a seat in the rear.
When Mila looked back, Atara was shredding a slice of bread, crushing the crumbs between her fingers, rolling the crumbs into pellets. Mila pushed back her chair and rose.
“But Mila, you must say grace at the same table where you blessed the bread!”
Mila’s hands gripped the edge of the table. It was important to make new friends. It was immature to do everything with Atara. She let herself fall back into her chair.
Zissi resumed her story: “We were telling you about our Passover excursion on the Lac Leman.…”
Mila turned her head. A T3 girl was whispering in Atara’s ear. Atara stopped rolling pellets of dough and brushed the crumbs aside; it was forbidden to waste bread.
On the Sabbath, Atara went to fetch Mila for their weekly walk, but Mila had been invited to the home of a rabbi teacher, to take care of the babies. Mila’s roommates reminded Atara that it was a good deed to take care of a teacher’s babies, and it was also practice.
Mila returned just in time for the Third Meal.
When the girls rose to circle the holiness of the Sabbath, Zissi and Goldie held Mila’s hands as Mila’s gaze searched for Atara. When Mila saw Atara standing near the door, Mila’s eyes pleaded, inviting Atara into the round, but the circle spun faster, every three steps, the circle hopped, Mila between Zissi and Goldie.
Atara noticed Zissi’s headband in Mila’s hair.
She could still hear the girls’ singing as she climbed the stairs to the little library. She opened an Expanded Rabbinic Bible. As dusk filled the room, the letters blurred and lifted from the page, they turned, hopped, and circled. Her hand
pressed onto the open book. The letters fell back into place, Scripture center top, gloss both sides and below.
She started to read, but again the letters stirred, the lines written centuries apart joined and then marched together, circling her future in a changeless round of faith—nothing new could happen, not since Moses at Sinai.
But then one letter escaped and spiraled out of the room. Soon more letters hovered and spun in their own directions. She pressed her hands on the open book but the letters kept lifting, hopping, unfurling into open shapes that turned, turned … turned into the lycée’s forbidden poems and math formulae. Laboratories, experiments, alembics, stylish bell skirts swayed on the horizon in dazzling galaxies.… Ah, to think gratuitous human constructs!