Katerina (13 page)

I wanted to cry, but my tears welled up within me, and I didn’t utter a word.

I opened my eyes, and I was afraid to stay in the house
any longer. Henni’s appearance had horrified me. There and then, I decided to set out. “Why won’t you stay longer? It’s cold out,” the landlady pleaded.

“I must be on my way,” I said without explanation.

The snow was silent and a cold sun glittered in the sky. I wrapped up Benjamin and paid the sum we had agreed upon. The woman, to my surprise, wasn’t satisfied and asked for more. I added more, but I couldn’t seal my lips, and I said, “Why did you do that?”

“I demanded what was coming to us, no more.”

“Hadn’t we agreed on a price?”

“We did everything required—and more,” the woman replied in frightfully businesslike tones.

Not until I was outdoors, in the cold sun, did I feel what my days in the
mohel
’s house had done to me. In my heart I regretted that we had parted that way. There’s no touch in this world that doesn’t leave a scratch. I wanted to go back and ask forgiveness, but for some reason I didn’t. Now, when I picture that woman, I know she wasn’t evil or miserly, just bitter. Her barrenness cried out from within her.

I stood at the village square and didn’t know which way to turn. Without Henni’s jewels, who knows where I would have ended up. I bundled Benjamin in two fur wraps, and he slept quiedy. His tranquil sleep strengthened me, and I was willing to set out on foot.

“Where are you going?” An old peasant stopped his wagon.

I told him the name of the nearby village.

“Get up.”

“How much must I pay?”

“Nothing at all.”

After an hour’s ride, he asked, “Where are you from?”

I told him.

“But you don’t look like someone from a village.”

“Then from where?”

“I don’t know.”

“From the village, father, from the meadow.” The old melody of my mother tongue rose within me.

“There’s something in your voice.”

“What, father?”

“Some other tune.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And what were you doing here?” he probed.

“I was visiting relatives,” I lied.

“I wouldn’t let my daughter go out on a trip alone.”

“Why?”

“The road spoils you. A person soaks up foreign terms, foreign gestures. We Ruthenians must watch ourselves. Jews ruin everything. Now they’re spoiling our women. You mustn’t work for the Jews. The Jews corrupt one’s soul.”

I got down at the next village square and was glad to be free of that man and his reproaches.

15

T
HE SNOW MELTED,
and a bright sun hung in the sky. I regretted the incident with the
mohel
’s wife. Had it not been for that scratch, I would bear her face with love. Now the memory was stained, and I will remember only her last look. That aftertaste did not cloud my spirit for long. I immediately saw that I was in a Jewish street full of good smells.

It turned out that Passover was coming. Anyone who has ever been in a Jewish home at Passover will never forget it. The ceremony lasts about three weeks—about two weeks of preparations, the holiday itself, and the end. The stages are clear, without any superfluity. I was with Rosa only a few years, but still the holidays are stamped into my flesh like fire. Now the air is purged of all odor; its cleanliness chokes me. Now there are no Jews in the world, and I’m the only one, in secret, evoking the memory of their holidays in my notebook. Were it not for the world to come, there would be no purpose in my old life.

I’ve put the cart before the horse. I was in Zhadova on
market day, and everybody was gathered in the square. Toward Passover, everyone whitewashed the outer walls of their homes. The low houses, which were steeped in mud all winter, now rose from their humble position, standing straight and sparkling in light blue. “From the depths, I cried to you, O Lord,” we read in the Book of Books. Anyone who has ever seen the low houses rising out of the mudbanks understands that verse literally.

While I was still riveted to the spot, the old urge overcame me. For more than two months I hadn’t had a drink. I sipped two drinks and came right out, so that Benjamin wouldn’t get used to those odors or to the language of the peasants. In the tavern, people do what they please. There, nothing is permitted or forbidden. I swore in my soul that for Benjamin’s sake, I would keep my distance from taverns. I wanted to raise him in quiet, clean surroundings. Benjamin’s face was open, and a great light canopied his eyes. When he opened his big, bright eyes, a smile would break out between his lips. Three times a day I used to nurse him, and those few hours of closeness were my joy.

I rented a room from a Jewish family. The Jews are very strict on Passover, yet it’s not a panicked strictness but an attentive caution, like a gradual purification.

I paid the rent in advance and received an attic room. My status in that area was strange. The Ruthenians scented out that something had gone wrong in me. The look of my face, though, hadn’t changed, but a few movements, perhaps a few accents in my speech, had become warped. With the Jews, my status was clearer: I was a servant in a Jewish house, spoke a good Yiddish, was familiar with the practices
and customs, and they had to be careful in front of me. A Jew is a cautious creature, and he’s especially cautious with servant women who have worked in Jewish homes.

“How many years did you work for the Jews?” The landlady interrogated me.

“Many years.”

“With observant people?”

“Also with observant people.”

“And why don’t you go back to your village?”

I was used to these questions. Every servant woman is suspect of thievery, of tale-bearing. In her presence one doesn’t speak openly. But what is there to do? I also understand that secret language, and that amuses me. More than once I wanted to reveal it to them: I understand every word, every remark, and every hint. You have nothing to fear; I won’t steal and I won’t inform on you. I only want refuge at night.

Now it seemed to me that they regretted renting me the attic. I seldom went downstairs, only once or twice a day, no more. The landlord never ceased reproaching his wife for renting the attic. “Where will I have a place to myself during the holiday? Where can I open a book? Every corner is taken. It won’t be easy to get that stranger out of the house.”

“What can I do?” the woman apologized. “She paid me in advance. A nice sum, you can’t deny.” The landlord wasn’t appeased. He exacted a promise from her that she would never rent out the attic again.

But in the meanwhile I had a broad view from the window. In the center were many Jewish houses, low, small
shops, among them a tailor’s and a cobbler’s. On rainy days the light in the sky was extinguished, and the place looked like a gray, flat swamp, but on days when the sun shone, the place sprang to life and all the preparations were in full swing.

I was glad to have Benjamin with me in that hubbub. I remember clearly how my beloved Benjamin used to gather up the last remains of leavened bread on the eve before the holiday and utter his blessings by candlelight. The actual burning of the leavened bread took place the next day. That burning involved no particular ceremony, but to me it seemed as though a great secret was hidden in that small activity.

The landlord never stopped grumbling. “Why did you let a stranger into the house just before Passover? I saw her wandering around the kitchen. I don’t know how I can lead the Seder. It’s not enough for me that there are goyim outside. Now they’re in my house.” The landlady didn’t respond to him any longer. Finally, she said, “What can I do? I made a mistake.”

Those clear voices were hard on me. But I didn’t take offense. I knew the Jews well. All year long they lived a hard, scattered life. On his holiday a Jew wanted to be by himself and with his book. In order to diminish my presence, right after nursing, I went down to the streets of the village. Every day the preparations for the holiday intensified. Only among the Jews is there that anxiety. Seen from a certain distance away from the market, they looked like tiny workers passing tiny bricks from hand to hand and bringing them rapidly to the scaffolding, where the bricks were carried up
to build a great wall. Only on the very last day before the holiday did the bustle recede, and a kind of calm suddenly fell on the streets and muted them.

The holiday came. I opened the door of the attic so that Benjamin could absorb the story of the Exodus from Egypt in its entirety. A baby learns in its mother’s womb, and even more so outside it. It was important for him to soak up those melodies while he was still an infant. I remember my beloved Benjamin conducting the Seder. It was a Seder without any formalities or grand gestures. Now too I identified the sounds, and I knew: They’re dividing the matzoh, dipping, eating parsley and bitter herb, and I was happy that Benjamin was absorbing those sounds unobstructed. When the day came, though I would no longer be in this world, he would remember and say: Almighty God, where did I hear those voices? They’re familiar to me.

Benjamin was developing, and he looked like a six-month-old baby. I spoke to him a lot and explained to him that this was his second stop. The first was with the
mohel
, who had removed his foreskin and hurt him. Now it was Passover, the time of our freedom, and it was important to hear the melodies of freedom that were filling the house. I told him about little Moses, whom they hid from the murderers in a basket. For many days he drifted on the great river, and when he grew up he became a savior, because he saw with his own eyes how great was the travail and how hard the servitude.

The intermediate days of Passover were half holidays. People stood in the street and conversed. There was no haste. Sometimes it seemed to me that it wasn’t a holiday
but rather a kind of excitement. The Jewish holiday, especially Passover, echoed over a distance. Every holiday painted the sky with its colors. Passover, for example, was bright blue. I wanted to tell that to Benjamin, but Benjamin didn’t listen to me. He was completely immersed in suckling. He nursed hard and weakened me. But I overcame my weakness.

The days were warm now, and the windows of the houses were opened wide. I too went out to the grass, spread a blanket, and put Benjamin down on it. Benjamin had gotten plump, I found. His eyes were wide open and lively, and he followed every sound. But as for me, my spirit was clouded. I no longer saw my dear ones in my dreams at night. My sleep was deep but opaque, as though I lay at the bottom of a pit. Where are you, my dears? I groped, and I awakened soaked with sweat. Most of the day I was outdoors. I kept away from the taverns so as not to be tempted. There were many taverns in this little village, mostly belonging to Jews. During the holiday and the intermediate days, the odor of vodka wasn’t perceptible, but now it wafted into every corner, arousing desire in me.

The landlady wasn’t talkative; her face was turned inward, and when I asked her something, she answered with the utmost brevity. At night I woke from a nightmare: a Ruthenian thug had tried to snatch Benjamin from my arms. He looked like one of my cousins. I struggled with him with all my strength, and when I couldn’t overcome him, I sank my teeth into him. He let go and cleared out. That bad dream left its mark on me. The next day I felt very weak. My fingers were frozen. I did go down to the grass, but I
didn’t let Benjamin play on the blanket. I held him in both hands. That evening I heard the landlord ask his wife, “When is she going to leave us?”

“In two weeks.”

“It’s hard for me to bear her.”

“She doesn’t do anything. She’s quiet.”

“I need that attic like air to breathe. Why did you do that to me?”

“We didn’t have any cash, don’t you remember?”

“For cash you deprive me of my corner?”

“Excuse me,” said the woman in a choked voice.

The next day I got up early, packed up my few belongings, wrapped up Benjamin, and announced that I was leaving the house.

16

I
HEADED NORTH.
It was easy to travel in that season. The roads were full of wagons and carriages. You got up on a wagon, and no one asked you where you were headed. At night we used to sleep in little inns, tucked away out of sight, deep within the hilltops.