Puppet (3 page)

SUNDAY, APRIL 2, 1882

Esther kept invading my dreams that night. She was hovering above the Tisza River, her dress made of clouds and her feet clad in shiny red boots. Her face was serene and her lips were parted in a gentle smile. I called to her.

“Esther, where are you? Your mother is looking for you. Come home!”

“I am home.”

She disappeared behind a cloud, and I woke up, more tired than when I had lowered my head to my pillow. Ma was snoring gently, and Clara was sucking her thumb in her sleep. Pa's bed was empty He was always up before daylight, gone to Mr. Rosenberg's fields. Pa worked even on Sundays.

I dragged myself out of bed and washed my hands and face in the trough in the kitchen. I fed the chickens and
geese and drew water from the well for them. I collected the eggs the hens had laid and put them in a tin bowl on a shelf in the kitchen. I would sell them in town later.

I was happy that I had milk for Clara's breakfast. It was time to wake both her and Ma.

I carried Clara to the outhouse despite her bitter complaints. She was good-natured but never first thing in the morning. As I held her in my arms, I noticed how light she was for a three-year-old. I decided to cut another slice of bread for her breakfast, even though Pa got mad when the loaf was eaten up too quickly.

When we returned to the house, Clara fell on her food like a hungry puppy.

Next, it was Ma's turn. I kissed her cheek. Her face was hot against my lips. Her eyes fluttered.

“Good morning, my daughter,” she said with her sweet smile.

I propped her up against her pillow. Mornings were her best times. Sometimes she was even able to drink some milk.

Clara finished her breakfast and I settled her down on the floor to play with her doll. I sat at the foot of Ma's bed, like I did every morning, for our daily talk.

Ma glanced around the room.

“It's so nice and clean. Has a little angel come to our home to clean it up while I was sleeping?” she teased me. “Julie, my love, I am thirsty” she said. “Please give me a little water.”

I poured milk into a tankard and gave it to her.

“There you go, Ma,” I said. “The milk'll make you brawny again.”

“You mean that I should drink the milk, Julie, because it'll make me strong again,” Ma corrected me gently.

Ma used to be a seamstress for fine ladies before she got sick and she learned how to speak properly from them. She wanted me to be well spoken, like the ladies whose clothes she used to sew. “It will open doors for you, my girl.” Her dreams for me seemed to make her happy.

Ma's workbox with its neat rows of different-colored yarns, needles, thimbles, and the sweetest little scissors occupied a place of honor on the floor next to her bed. From time to time, she would ask me to give her the box and she would run her fingers over its contents with a wistful look on her face.

“I'll be sewing again for my ladies before you know it,” she'd always tell me as she snapped the lid closed.

“You will, Ma! You will!”

From the time I was a little girl, she taught me how to sew a straight seam and to patch a torn sleeve with stitches so tiny you could barely see them.

“You'll be a fine seamstress someday,” she always promised me. “When I'm feeling better, I'll teach you all I know now that you're old enough. And when I save a little money, we'll apprentice you to a dressmaker in Budapest.” I knew that we'd never have enough money and that Pa would never agree to such a plan. But I never contradicted her.

She refused to drink the milk and passed me the tankard.

“It's water I need,” she said. “Save the milk for yourself and for Clara. Your pa likes his milk too.”

There was no convincing her. I could see by the whiteness of her lips that her pain had returned. I got off the bed and filled a tin cup with the water left in the bottom of the jug and gave it to her. As I swept the floor I pretended not to notice that she pulled out a small packet and a thimble from beneath her pillow. She dipped the thimble into the packet and then dumped the white powder from it into the water. She drank the liquid down greedily.

A few minutes later, she called to me.

“I am feeling stronger. Today is going to be one of my good days. I just know it!”

I had been afraid to share the village news, but now the words tumbled out of my mouth.

“You won't believe what happened, Ma. Esther has disappeared! I just hope that nothing bad has happened to her.”

“What do you mean disappeared?” Ma asked.

“Nobody has seen her since she left for Kohlmayer's on an errand for Mrs. Huri. She was so sad the last time I saw her. I am scared for her.”

“That poor child!” Ma said. “I just hope she hasn't done anything foolish.”

“What do you mean, Ma?”

She sighed.

“It's just that unhappy people sometimes …”

Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed. I shook her hands.

“Wake up, Ma! Don't sleep! What were you going to say?”

She didn't reply. I could tell by the shallowness of her breathing that she was fast asleep. I put her hands on top of her blanket and patted them. When I straightened up, I was startled to find Clara standing next to me.

“Why is Ma always sleeping?” she asked. “Why doesn't she ever do anything?”

“Hush your mouth. Don't talk like that about Ma. Can't you see she's sick? That's why she sleeps so much and can't do the things she used to.” I took a deep breath. Ma was always telling me to be more patient with Clara. “Don't you remember what it was like before Ma got sick?” I asked. “Don't you remember how good Ma's cooking used to be? How much she used to laugh?”

Clara shook her head and began to bawl.

I picked her up and rubbed her back. I cut a crust from the bread in the kitchen and gave it to her.

“You can eat this if you promise to be a good girl. I have to go to the village well now. I'll be back in time for church.”

I gave Clara her doll again. She was happily gnawing on the bread and cradling her baby in her arms when I left the house.

SUNDAY, APRIL 2, 1882

Esther's mother was the first person I saw at the well. I waved to her, but she didn't notice me. She was busy talking to the women gathered around her. I could see the women shake their heads. When she finally saw me, she rushed to me, wild-eyed, the scarf on her head askew.

“She is still missing! She hasn't come home and nobody has seen her! Dear Lord! Where could my girl be?”

Three or four Jewish men were crossing the square to their church. One of them separated himself from the others and approached us. Behind him was Morris, holding Sam's hand. The boys were dressed in their usual black and white, and the man wore a long black coat and a black hat. His clothing gave him a forbidding air, but his expression was kind.

“Mrs. Solymosi,” he said. “I'm so sorry for your troubles.”

“Do I know you?” she asked angrily.

“I am Joseph Scharf, the shamash — I mean, the beadle in the synagogue.” His Hungarian was perfect, but he spoke it with a strong foreign accent. “These are my sons, Morris and Sam.” The boys remained silent.

“Hello, Morris, Sam,” I said.

Morris nodded but wouldn't meet my gaze.

Esther's mother recoiled from them. She bumped into me and I must have made some kind of noise for the man's eyes shifted to my face. He must have read by my expression that I didn't understand him. “By synagogue, I mean our temple,” he said, pointing at the building. “I am the shamash, the caretaker. My job is to keep the synagogue in good order.”

He turned his attention back to Esther's mother.

“I decided to speak to you, Mrs. Solymosi, because I heard your daughter is missing. I know how worried you must be, for I have two sons.” He smiled at the boys and patted the little one on the head. His younger son tugged at his trouser leg and Mr. Scharf scooped him up into his arms. Morris was drawing circles in the dirt with the toe of his boot. I saw him glance at my bare feet and then look away. Mr. Scharf spoke again.

“Don't worry, neighbor,” he said to Mrs. Solymosi. “I am positive your daughter will be found. The same thing happened in Hajdunanas not long ago. A child was lost
there. The whole town turned out to look for her. People said Jews got hold of her.”

Mrs. Solymosi's shoulders stiffened and she stared at Mr. Scharf rigidly. He seemed oblivious of her discomfort.

“And you know what happened next?” he continued. “The girl returned home! She had fallen asleep among the weeds on the riverbank. I'm sure the same thing will happen to your daughter. She'll come home!”

He finally noticed Mrs. Solymosi's silence. A deep flush traveled up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Don't misunderstand me, missus,” he stammered. “I only told you the story because I wanted to help.”

When Mrs. Solymosi remained mute, he touched the brim of his hat and turned on his heels.

“Come along, Morris,” he said. “I want to hear Solomon Schwarcz leading the service.”

Solomon Schwarcz must be the new butcher, I thought. Morris followed his father wordlessly while Sam, still in his father's arms, stuck out his tongue.

Mrs. Csordas bustled up to us. “What did the Jew want?”

“He told us about the lost girl in Hajdunanas.”

Mrs. Csordas leaned closer. “Don't you believe a word that Jew says!” Little drops of spittle sprayed from her mouth. “They're liars, every single one of them! They must have stolen that girl in Hajdunanas.” She lowered her voice so I could barely hear her. “You know what these Jews do? Every year, before their Easter, they kill a Christian child and
use his blood to make their matzo!” She spat on the ground.

Mrs. Solymosi's face turned ashen. I caught her as she began to crumple. I sat her down, leaned her against the base of the well, and fanned her face with my apron.

“The Jews. The Jews must have killed my Esther!” she moaned. “That's why Esther didn't come home.”

The women's voices rose in excitement.

Mrs. Solymosi grasped my hand and dug her nails deep into my flesh. “Did you hear that, Julie? Mrs. Csordas is right! The Jews murdered my Esther! They're the ones who killed your friend!” As she spoke her voice became stronger and full of venom. She struggled to her feet. “The Jews killed Esther for her blood!”

A murmur of assent ran through the crowd.

I realized that I knew almost nothing about the Jews among us. Except for Ma's sewing for them and me selling them eggs, I didn't have anything to do with them. I did call on Dr. Weltner when Ma got sick, but I had no choice. He was the only doctor in town. The Jews were strangers in our midst. They kept to themselves. They didn't even speak Hungarian among themselves, only German and their funny-sounding Jew language. They dressed differently from us and always kept their heads covered. Could it be possible they used our blood to make their Easter bread? If they didn't kill Esther, then who did? If she was alive, my friend would have come home. The Jews had to be responsible. There was nobody else. The Jews must have killed her.

Then I remembered how Mr. Rosenberg hired my pa to work on his farm when nobody else would give him a job and how my pa hated him for it. I remembered how Dr. Weltner gave Ma medicine without her being able to pay for it. I remembered Mrs. Scharf sending soup to Ma. Finally I remembered the kindness in Mr. Scharf's eyes when he told us the story of the missing girl who had been found. I even thought of Morris. He had been a sweet-natured little boy. Could such people be capable of such a terrible thing? Could everybody be wrong? I didn't know what to think.

“Make no mistake about it, Mrs. Solymosi,” said Mrs. Csordas. “The Jews murdered your daughter.”

“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Csordas?” I asked. “I'm not saying the Jews didn't kill Esther, maybe they did, but we don't know for sure. I'm praying to the Good Lord that Esther is still alive and will come home. Mr. Scharf seems to be a kind man. I think he just wanted to set Mrs. Solymosi's mind at ease.”

Mrs. Csordas jabbed me in the arm with an angry finger.

“You don't know what you're talking about. That poor child is dead. The Jews are never up to any good. I live eight steps from the synagogue and yesterday afternoon I heard faint shouts in a child's voice coming from there!” She looked around to make sure she had everybody's attention. “The voice I heard came from underground! That's not all,” she continued, “I can hear their infernal praying from my house. Their service is usually finished by eleven o'clock
in the morning, but yesterday they didn't leave until noon. Something must have been going on there!”

“You see, Mrs. Csordas knows the Jews are guilty!” cried Mrs. Solymosi.

She flapped her aprons in agitation.

Old Mrs. Csordas stepped closer to Esther's mother. “The Jews must be responsible for the disappearance of your daughter!” she said. She wagged her finger at Mrs. Solymosi. “I am warning you! You must report the Jews to the town magistrate!”

Ma was flushed and breathing heavily when I returned home. I wiped her face and hands with a damp cloth and fluffed up the pillows behind her head.

“Ma, you won't believe what happened at the well. Mrs. Csordas and Mrs. Solymosi say the Jews killed Esther.”

“That's nonsense!” Ma said. “Mrs. Csordas is a foolish old busybody and you mustn't listen to her. Poor Mrs. Solymosi. She's lost her common sense because of her grief. You mustn't pay attention to her either.”

“But, Ma, everybody says the Jews killed Esther!”

She raised herself to her elbows with great effort.

“People can be foolish. They don't know much about the Jews, although they've lived among us for as long as I can remember. Tisza-Eszlar is as much their home as ours. They are ordinary people, both good and bad. They aren't devils who would do the terrible thing they are accused of.”

She smiled. “Wasn't Mrs. Scharf kind to send me soup? Morris was a good boy. Do you remember playing with him in Mrs. Rosenberg's garden?”

“I just saw him, Ma, with his father.”

I told her what Mr. Scharf had said to Esther's mother.

“I've never met Mr. Scharf, but I hear he is a good man. It sounds to me as if he was just trying to put Mrs. Solymosi's mind to rest.”

Her voice faltered and she licked her chapped lips.

I filled a cup with water, but she waved it away.

“It's foolish to blame the Jews,” she said and closed her eyes.

I hurried to get Clara ready for church.