Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

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My mother died in the prime of her life. She was barely thirty-one years old. Few and harsh were the days of her life. She sat at home the entire day and never stirred from within. Her friends and neighbors did not visit, nor did my father welcome guests. Our house stood hushed in sorrow, its doors did not open to a stranger. Lying on her bed my mother spoke scarcely a word. But when she did speak it was as though limpid wings had spread forth and led me to the hall of blessing. How I loved her voice. Often I would open her door just to hear her ask, Who’s there? I was still a child. Sometimes she rose from her bed to sit by the window. She would sit by the window dressed in white. She always wore white. Once a relative of my father’s was called into town and seeing my mother, took her for a nurse, for her clothes misled him and he did not realize it was she who was unwell.

Her illness, a heart ailment, bowed her life down. Every summer the doctors would send her to the hot springs, but she would turn back shortly after leaving, for she said her longing gave her no peace, and once again she would sit by the window or lie on her bed.

My father began to ply his trade less and less. He no longer left for Germany where, as a bean merchant, he had traveled year after year to deal with his clients. In those days and at that time he forgot the ways of the world. Returning home at dusk he would sit by my mother’s side, his left hand tucked behind his head and her right hand held in his own. And every so often she would lean forward and kiss his hand.

The winter my mother died our home fell silent seven times over. My mother forsook her bed only when Kaila went in to tidy up. A carpet was placed in the hallway to absorb the sound of each and every footfall, and the odor of medicine wafted from one room to another. Every room was encumbered with grief.

The doctors arrived unsummoned and refused to leave, and whenever we asked whether her health had improved all they said was, With God’s help. Meaning all hope was lost — there was no cure. But my mother didn’t sigh or complain, nor did she shed any tears. She lay quietly on her bed and her strength fled like a shadow.

But there were days when hope tugged at our hearts and we believed that she would live. Winter had come and gone and the earth was arrayed in the first days of spring. My mother seemed to forget her pain and we saw with our own eyes how her illness abated. Even the doctors consoled us, claiming there was hope: spring was drawing near and the sun’s rays would soon reinvigorate her body.

Passover was at our doorstep and Kaila made the necessary preparations for the holiday, while as mistress of the house my mother attended to her duties and ensured nothing was amiss. She even made herself a new dress.

Several days before the holiday my mother, having left her bed, stood before the looking-glass and put on her new dress. Shadows glimmered over her body in the mirror and the light of the living illumined her face. My heart beat with joy. How beautiful was her face in that dress. And yet the new dress was not that different from the old one. Both were white and the dress she now discarded was good as new, for being bedridden all winter she had had little use for clothes. I’m not sure in what I discerned a sign of hope. Perhaps a scent of hope blossomed from the spring bloom she pinned above her heart — or was it that the medicinal odors had faded away? A new fragrance freshened our home. I was familiar with a variety of perfumes but had never before come across one so delicate. Once though, I inhaled the scent of such sweetness in a dream. Where could this fragrance have come from? For my mother did not dab herself with feminine perfumes.

My mother rose from her bed and sat by the window where there was a small table with a drawer. The drawer was locked and the key to the drawer hung from my mother’s neck. My mother opened the drawer without making a sound and removed a bundle of letters which she then spent the rest of the day reading. She read until evening. The door opened twice, three times, but she did not ask who was there, and when I spoke to her she did not answer. When she was reminded to drink her medicine she swallowed the contents of the spoon without making a face or uttering a word. It was as though their bitterness had vanished. And no sooner had she drained her medicine than she returned to her letters.

The letters were written on thin paper in a clear, immaculate hand. They were written in short and long lines. Seeing my mother reading I told myself she would never relinquish the letters, for she was bound to them and the drawer by the string around her neck. Later that afternoon she took the bundle, secured it with the string hanging around her neck, kissed the letters and the key and tossed them into the wood stove. The flue, however, was blocked and only one ember flickered in the stove. The ember gnawed through the thin paper, the letters burned in the fire and the house filled with smoke. Kaila hastened to open the window, but my mother forbade her to do so. The letters burned and the house filled with smoke. And my mother sat by the open drawer and inhaled the smoke from the letters until evening.

That night Mintshi Gottlieb came to inquire about my mother’s health. Mintshi was her close friend. As young girls they had studied together under Akaviah Mazal. For close to three hours Mintshi sat by my mother’s bedside. “Mintshi,” my mother said, “this will be the last time I see you.” Drying her tears, Mintshi said, “Leah, take heart, you will soon regain your strength.” My mother remained silent, a solemn smile playing over her feverish lips. Suddenly she clasped Mintshi’s right hand in her own and said, “Go home, Mintshi, and prepare for the Sabbath. Tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to my resting place.” This occurred on a Thursday night, which is the dawn of Friday, the Sabbath eve. Taking hold of my mother’s right hand, Mrs. Gottlieb spread out her fingers and said, “Leah.” A stifled sob held back her words. Our spirits sank.

My father returned from work at the store and sat by the bed. My mother’s solemn lips hovered over his face like a shadow as she bent forward and kissed him. Mrs. Gottlieb rose, wrapped herself in her coat, and left. My mother got out of bed and Kaila entered to change the sheets. The hem of the white dress rustled in the semi- darkness of the room.

My mother returned to her bed and swallowed the medicinal syrup my father offered her. And she took his hand and placed it above her heart, and said, “Thank you.” The drops of syrup trickled one by one on his hand like tears. My mother took a deep breath. “Rise now,” she said, “go and have some dinner.” “I cannot eat,” he replied. Again she urged him to eat until he finally withdrew to the dining-room. And he ate the bread of tears and returned to my mother’s bedside.

Regaining some of her strength, my mother sat up and held his hand a second time. She then had the nurse sent home and instructed my father to inform her not to return. And she lowered the wick in the lamp and lay still. “If only I could sleep,” my father said, “I would do so. But since God has deprived me of sleep, I will sit, if I may, by your side. Should you ask for me I will be here, and if not I will know that all is well with you.” But my mother would not hear of it. So he returned to his room and lay down. He had not slept for many nights and as soon as his head touched the pillow he fell asleep. I too lay down and slept. But suddenly I awoke in alarm. I leapt out of bed to tend to my mother. She lay peacefully in bed, but, ah, she had ceased to breathe. I woke my father up and he cried with a great and exceedingly bitter cry, “Leah!”

My mother rested peacefully on her bed, for her soul had returned to the Almighty. My mother yielded up her soul and on the Sabbath eve at twilight she was borne to the cemetery. She died a righteous woman, on the Sabbath eve.

Throughout the seven days of mourning my father sat in silence. In front of him was my mother’s footstool, and on it lay the book of Job and the Laws of Mourning. People I had never seen came to comfort us. Not until the days of mourning had I known there were so many people in our town. Those who came to comfort us suggested my father prepare the headstone. My father, however, remained silent, he didn’t say a thing. On the third day, Mr. Gottlieb arrived. “Here,” he said, “I have brought the epitaph for the headstone.” Everyone stared in surprise, for my mother’s name was formed out of the first letter of each verse and the year of her death was inscribed in every line. Gottlieb then spoke to my father about the stone, but my father barely listened to his words. And so the days of mourning passed.

The days of mourning passed and the year of mourning drew to an end. A somber grief hung over us and lingered that entire year. My father resumed his work, and when he returned from his store he ate his food without uttering a word. And in my misery I said to myself, My father has forgotten me; he has forgotten his daughter is alive.

Around that time my father stopped reciting the Kaddish, and approaching me he said, “Come, let us go and choose a headstone for our mother.” I put on my hat and gloves. “Here I am, Father,” I answered. My father drew back in surprise, as though noticing for the first time that I was wearing mourning. He opened the door and we left the house.

Once on our way, my father stopped in his tracks and said, “Spring has arrived early.” And he passed his hand over his brow as he spoke. “If spring had not been late a year ago she would still be alive.” My father sighed. We walked on and skirted the town, and my father placed his hand in my own and said, “This way.”

As we approached the outer limits of the town we suddenly came upon an old woman digging in her yard. My father greeted her and said, “Please tell us, good lady, is Mr. Mazal home?” The woman set aside the spade she had been digging with and answered, “Yes, Mr. Mazal is at home.” My father grasped my hand firmly. “Come, my daughter, let us go in.”

A man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The room was small and pleasant-looking and sheaves of paper were piled on the table. The man’s face was veiled in sorrow. “I have come to ask you to write the epitaph for the headstone,” my father said. And it suddenly dawned on him who we were, and he covered the sheaves of paper and welcomed us, and he stroked my cheek and said, “You have grown a great deal.” Looking at him I was reminded of my mother, for the way he moved his hands resembled my mother’s gestures. And my father stood before the man; each facing his brother. “Who knew then,” my father said, “that Leah would leave us.” The man’s face brightened for a moment as my father appeared to encompass him in his grief, but little did he know that my father had directed his words at me. The man extracted a sheaf from under the heap of papers and handed it to my father. My father took the sheaf and as he read his tears blotted the tearstains on the page. I stared at the sheaf and the script and was astonished. I had seen such a page and such writing before. Even so, upon seeing something, I often feel that I have already seen that very same thing before. Nor were the tearstains foreign to me.

My father read the poem to its end without saying a thing, for his words were held back in his mouth. And he put on his hat and we departed. We walked into town and arrived home just as Kaila was lighting the lamp. I prepared my lessons and my father read the epitaph for the headstone.

The stonecutter arrived and carved the headstone according to my father’s wishes. And he copied down Akaviah Mazal’s epitaph on large sheets of paper. And my father and I stood on either side of the stonecutter in order to choose the lettering for the headstone. But none of the letters seemed right to my father. And there was a bookshelf in our home, and one day, after sifting in vain through the sheaves of paper, my father went to fetch a book from the shelf and his eyes lit up as he leafed through his books. In those days our home was shrouded in a merciful melancholy. And at that time, as my father searched for the right lettering for the headstone, he all but forgot my mother. And he never grew weary, as a bird collecting twigs for its nest never tires in flight.

And the stone engraver arrived and thumbing through the books and letters, he found a script for the headstone. That was during the first days of spring. The stone engraver set about his work outside. As he struck the stone the letters clustered into rhymes, like bees drawn to the sound of their companions swarming among fieldstones. The headstone was made of marble. And the stone engraver filled in the letters in black. In this way he shaped the letters on the headstone. And he coated the heading in gold. And once the work was completed the headstone stood over her grave on the appointed day. My father then rose and went to the cemetery along with the townsfolk to recite the Kaddish. He rested his head against the stone and grasped Mazal’s hand. And since the time we went to the cemetery to raise the headstone, my father and I have visited her grave daily — apart from the Passover holidays, for one must not enter a graveyard on the holy days.

“Shall we go for a walk,” my father said one day during the intermediate days of Passover. I put on my festive dress and approached him. “You have a new dress,” he said. “It is for special occasions,” I answered as we set out.

Once on our way, I thought to myself, What have I done, for I have made myself a new dress. Suddenly I felt God stirring my conscience and I stood still. “Why have you stopped?” my father asked. “I couldn’t help thinking, why have I put on my holiday dress,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come.” I removed my gloves and rejoiced as a gust of cold air enveloped my hands. We continued on our way.

As we reached the outskirts of town, my father turned off the road in the direction of Mazal’s home. Mazal hurried towards us as we entered. Removing his hat, my father said, “I have searched through all her belongings.” After falling silent for a moment he sighed and conceded, “I have labored in vain, I sought, but did not find.”

My father saw that Mazal did not grasp the meaning of his words. “I thought to publish your poems and I looked through all her drawers, but I could not find a thing.” Mazal shuddered. His shoulders shook, and he didn’t say a word. Shifting from one foot to the other, my father stretched out his hand and asked, “Do you have a copy?” “There is no copy,” Mazal answered. My father drew back, frightened. “I wrote the poems for her, that is why I did not make any copies for myself,” Mazal added. My father sighed and raised his palm to his head. Mazal then grasped the corners of the table and said, “She is dead.” “Dead,” my father answered, and fell silent. The day waned. The servant entered and lit the lamp. My father bade Mazal good day. And as we left, Mazal extinguished the lamp.

In those days classes resumed at school and I applied myself to my lessons all day long. In the evening my father returned from his work at the store and we supped together. We sat hushed over our food and neither spoke a word.

“Tirtza, what are you doing?” my father asked one spring evening as we sat by the table. “I am preparing my lessons,” I replied. “And have you forgotten your Hebrew?” he asked. “I haven’t forgotten.” And he said, “I will find you a teacher and you will learn Hebrew.” My father then found me a teacher to his liking and brought him home. The teacher, at my father’s urging, taught me grammar, for as with most of our people, my father believed grammar was the soul of the Hebrew language. The teacher taught me the Hebrew tongue, the rules of logic, and the meaning of “What profit hath man.” I was left breathless. And in addition to grammar, a melamed—a teacher for beginners — instructed me in the Bible and prayerbook. For my father had me study under the teacher’s guidance subjects that other young girls did not know, while the melamed came and taught me all that they did know. He appeared daily and Kaila would bring him a glass of tea and cream cake. If the evil eye had taken hold of her she would approach the melamed and he would whisper into her ear. And when he spoke, a smile in the depth of his beard glimmered as in a mirror.

How tired I grew of grammar and its endless rules. I could not make head or tails of the meaning of such words as Bedingungs-Buchstaben and Sprach-Werkzeuge. Like a parrot I chattered a string of meaningless names. Once the teacher exclaimed, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity.” On another occasion he was approving as I parroted whatever he said word for word. I commanded my brain: Onwards! I cried out to my memory: Help me!

One day the teacher arrived while the melamed was still in the house. The teacher waited and waited for the melamed to leave. He, however, did not go. Kaila came from the kitchen as they sat and said to the melamed, “I dreamt a dream and my spirit has been shaken.” “What did you see, Kaila?” he asked. “I saw a small Ashkenazi with a red wool cap on his head.” “What did the Ashkenazi do?” he asked. “He hiccupped and yawned,” she answered, “and since I woke up that morning I can’t stop sneezing.” The melamed stood up, closed his eyes, and spat three times in front of the teacher. Then, all in a whisper, he cast his spell. But before he could finish the teacher leapt to his feet in anger and exclaimed, “Wickedness and fraud! Are you throwing sand in the eyes of an innocent woman?” And the melamed called after him, “Heretic! Are you belittling the customs of Israel?” And in his rage the teacher spun on his heel and stomped out. From that day on, the melamed stayed vigilant for the sound of the teacher’s footsteps. But the teacher stopped coming and the melamed taught me the weekly portions, which we hadn’t studied yet and which we set out to learn now that the teacher came no more. And I remembered his pleasant voice, for a spirit of grace and supplication swept over me.

Summer arrived and the golden grasshopper took to the air. Its strains swelled about us as it spread its thin wings and its coppery belly gleamed in the daylight. Sometimes we heard from within the muffled sound of the house-grasshopper striking its jaws against the woodwork. My heart would then beat feebly, fearing death; for such a sound heralds death.

And in those days I read from the Book of Joshua and Judges, and at that time I found a book among my mother’s books, may she rest in peace. I read two chapters, for I told myself, I will repeat the words my mother read, may she rest in peace. I was dumbfounded, seeing as I understood what was before me. I read on and the stories were familiar to me. Reading my mother’s books, I felt like a little child who in hearing his mother chuckle and chirp suddenly recognizes his own name.

School recessed for the summer holidays. And I sat at home and altered my dresses, for they had last been worn before my year of mourning and no longer fitted me. One day, while my father was at home, the doctor called on us. My father was delighted by his visit, for he had lived in the company of doctors during my mother’s lifetime, may she rest in peace. The doctor told my father, “Look at you both sitting indoors while summer beckons.” He grasped my hand and felt my pulse as he spoke, and when he leaned over me I recognized the odor of his clothes. It was just like my mother’s odor when she was ill. “How you’ve grown,” the doctor said. “In a few months I won’t be able to call you child any more.” And he asked me my age and I answered, “I am fourteen.” Then, noticing my dress, he asked, “You also know how to sew?” “Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth,” I replied. The doctor smoothed his mustache with two fingers as he laughed, “A bold girl, and looking for compliments.” Turning to my father, he added, “Her face is the very likeness of her mother’s, may she rest in peace.” My father turned and gazed at me. Kaila then came from the kitchen with marmalade and a pitcher of water. “My, it’s hot today,” the doctor exclaimed, and he opened a window. The streets were silent for want of passersby. We lowered our voices as people do when all about them it is very quiet. The doctor drained his glass of water, covered the marmalade with a bowl, and said, “You have been sitting here in town long enough, now you must find yourselves a place for the summer.” My father nodded, a sign that he would follow the doctor’s advice, even though it seemed his heart was not in the matter.

At that time Mrs. Gottlieb invited me to spend the remaining days of my vacation at her home. My father agreed, saying, “Go now.” But I answered, “How can I go alone?” And he said, “I will come and visit.” Kaila stood dusting by the mirror and winked at me as she overheard my father’s words. I saw her move her lips and grimace in the mirror, and I laughed to myself. Noticing how my face lit up my father said, “I knew you would listen to me.” Then he left.

Once my father had gone I told Kaila, “How strangely you behaved, making faces in the mirror.” Kaila appeared angry. “What’s wrong, Kaila?” I asked. “Have you lost the use of your eyes?” she retorted. “Kaila,” I cried out, “May God be with you, but do speak up, please — and stop tormenting me with all sorts of riddles.” Kaila wiped her mouth angrily and said, “If you do not know, my dove, then just take a good look at your father. Why, he’s nothing but skin and bones and creeps around like a shadow on the face of the earth. When I was polishing his shoes I thought to myself, Where did he collect such mud, and it suddenly dawned on me that his shoes were caked with earth from the cemetery. I also recognized his footprints by her grave, which he visits seven times a day.”

Only then did I fathom Kaila’s thoughts and the meaning of her insinuations in the mirror: if I stayed with the Gottliebs my father would feel obliged to come and see me and would no longer visit the cemetery. I gathered my dresses and folded them in my trunk. And I filled the iron with coals to press two or three blouses before leaving for the Gottliebs. The following day, my father sent my clothes ahead with the young servant, and at noon we ate together, and then rose and departed.

The Gottliebs’ home is on the edge of town, a short distance from the road leading to the train station. A large tract of land lies between it and the rest of the town. The building is a cosmetics factory and its rooms are large and empty. For in constructing the plant, Gottlieb had told himself, I will build my factory large enough to house all my employees, and my factory will be renowned throughout the country. We crossed the town and arrived at the Gottliebs. Mintshi emerged from the garden where she had been picking cherries, and hurried toward us and welcomed us and led us back into the garden. Partchi then came at her summons, carrying two bowls of cherries and Mintshi invited us to sample the freshly-picked fruit.

The day waned and Gottlieb returned from the factory. Partchi set a table out in the garden. The pale blue night cloaked us in its pleasing warmth. The moon stood in a heaven swarming with stars. A songbird fluted its purest song and the train’s whistle sounded from the station. After the meal Gottlieb asked my father, “Would you care for a smoke?” “In the dark?” I interjected in astonishment. “And why shouldn’t he smoke in the dark?” Gottlieb asked. “I once read that every smoker longs to gaze at the red ashes and the plume of incense rising from his cigarette,” I replied and added, “That is why the blind do not smoke, for being blind they see neither ash nor smoke” “Haven’t you learned yet that books and all their profundities are of little use?” Gottlieb said, laughing. “In my case I first learned to smoke in the dark. Lying on my bed at night, I treated myself to a cigarette as soon as my father fell asleep. You see, I chose to smoke at night because I feared doing so in front of my father during the day. Partchi, bring the cigarettes and cigars, and don’t forget the matches and ashtray.” “If my husband smokes today then it is indeed a good sign,” Mrs. Gottlieb said to my father. Mr. Gottlieb, however, pretended not to hear her words. “Now I will tell you what I have read. In bygone days, if a man smoked a pipe they hung it from his nose, for they said that there was death in the tobacco, and the government dealt harshly with anyone who sold tobacco in the country. Even now, my friends, a worker from my own factory was put behind bars for importing tobacco from a foreign land, for our government, you see, has monopolized the tobacco industry.” Gottlieb was always grumbling about the actions of the government and he had little patience for government employees of any kind.

That night my father did not prolong his visit, for he said, “Tirtza must learn to stay in your company without me.” Mrs. Gottlieb then led me to a small room and kissed me on the forehead and left. The room contained an iron bed, a table, a closet and mirror. I lay on the bed by the window and as a breeze blew through the trees, I fancied I was being cradled in a hammock in the garden. At daybreak fresh rays of light lit up my window. The sun graced the wings of birds trilling from their heights. I jumped out of bed and ran outside to the well, where I splashed my face with spring water. Partchi then called me to the table.

There was no joy in the Gottliebs’ home; he would criticize his wife after each meal she prepared. “What’s this I’m eating — straw?” he would exclaim. Since her husband dealt in perfumes, Mrs. Gottlieb went to pains to preserve his sense of smell and avoided cooking anything too spicy. Moreover Partchi, the daughter of Gottlieb’s deceased sister, was not made welcome in their home. Mrs. Gottlieb gave the girl no peace. Mintshi and the girl’s mother had quarreled, and now the daughter was being punished for her mother’s iniquities. And Gottlieb was cross with her, lest it be said his sister’s daughter walked barefoot. Few visitors called on the Gottliebs. Mr. Gottlieb met with his business associates in his office at the factory, and Mintshi refrained from befriending other women from town. In this she resembled my mother, may she rest in peace. When together they had been like the two Austrians who meet outside of town and one says to the other, “Where are you going?” and the other replies, “I’m off to the forest to be alone.” “Why, I also want to be alone,” exclaims the first. “Let’s go together.” Thus I sat by Mrs. Gottlieb’s side, her only companion.

Mrs. Gottlieb was a diligent woman. Yet she never appeared to be busy, whether working at home or in the garden. And even when she paused in the midst of her chores it seemed as though she had just arrived to admire the job done. I sought her out at least seven times a day, yet I never felt I was intruding upon her affairs. During my stay with the Gottliebs we evoked the memory of my mother, may she rest in peace. And at that time Mintshi told me how Mazal had loved my mother, may she rest in peace, and how she had loved him in return, but her father had opposed their union for he had already promised her hand in marriage to my father.

I lay on my bed at night, asking myself, What if my mother had married Mazal? What would have become of me? I knew such speculations to be fruitless, and yet I did not abandon them. When the trembling that accompanied my musings finally ceased, I said: Mazal has been wronged. He seemed to me to be like a man bereft of his wife and yet she was not his wife.

Summer dragged on. All day long I lounged under the oak and birch trees and stared into the blue sky. Sometimes I strolled to the factory and chatted with the herb gatherers. They were as carefree as the birds of the field and their spirits never seemed to dip even for a single day. I will wander in the woods with them and forget my sorrows, I told myself. But I did not join them, nor did I escape into the woods, and I lay idle for hours on end. “Look, our friend is boring a hole through the heavens,” Mr. Gottlieb said laughing as he saw me staring up at the sky. And I laughed along with him, though with a heavy heart.

How I loathed myself. I burned with shame without knowing why. At times I pitied my father and at times I secretly grew angry at him. And I poured my wrath upon Mazal as well. I recalled the fluttering blows of the grasshopper against the walls of our home at the onset of spring, but death no longer frightened me. Sometimes I asked myself: Why did Mintshi Gottlieb upset me by telling me of bygone memories? A father and mother, are they not man and woman, and one flesh? Why then should I brood over secrets from before my time? Yet I thirsted to know more. I could not calm myself down, nor could I sit still for a moment. And so I told myself, If Mintshi knows what happened, surely she will tell me the truth. But how will I open my mouth to ask? For my face turns crimson at the mere thought of speaking. I gave up all hope — I would never know the rest.

One day, however, Gottlieb left for an long journey and Mintshi asked me to sleep in her room. And again she began to speak of my mother and Mazal. And what I had least expected was told to me.

“Mazal was still a young man when he arrived here. He had left Vienna to travel around the rural townships and he came here as well. He came to see the town, and since coming to our town some seventeen years ago, he has never left.” Mintshi spoke in a low voice and a cold gust of air rose from her words. It was the very chill I had felt upon touching my brow against the marble slab of my mother’s headstone, may she rest in peace. Mintshi swept her left hand across her brow and exclaimed, “What more can I tell you that I haven’t already said?” She then shut her eyes as though in a dream. Mintshi suddenly started awake and fetched a bound diary that was popular among educated girls a generation ago. “Read this,” she said, “for I have copied Mazal’s journals. I have copied all that he wrote in those days.” I took the notebook that Mrs. Gottlieb had copied and slipped it into my bag. I never read in Mintshi’s room at night since the light of a candle prevented her from falling asleep. And the following morning I read all that was written in the book:

How I love the rural townships during the summer months. The market is hushed, a town and its inhabitants, a pot with flowers that peer out and no one to admire them. Her sons are in hiding, the sun has driven them into their homes, and I walk solitary in a peaceful land. I am a student at the university and God has led me forth to one of the towns. As I stood in the street I saw a woman standing by a window and she placed a bowl of millet on its sunlit sill. I bowed to her and said, “Won’t the birds feast on your millet?” I had barely finished my sentence when a young girl appeared at the window and she stared at me and mocked my words. I was nearly put to shame and lest the young girl sense my confusion I said to her, “May I have some water please?” The young girl then offered me a glass of water from the window. “Why have you not asked the man in to take a rest?” the woman said to the girl. “Does he not live in foreign parts?” And she said, “Come in, sir, come in.” And I turned and entered the house.

The household appeared prosperous and a man in his prime sat over a volume of Talmud. He had dozed off over his books and he now awoke and greeted me and asked, “Who are you and what brings you to our town?” I returned his greeting and replied, “I am a student and have come to see the countryside during my vacation.” They were struck with wonder at my words. “Look now and see for yourself,” the man said to the girl. “The learned come from afar to admire our town, and all you ask is to leave us and our town. Now you can banish that thought.” The young girl listened and remained silent. Her father asked me, “So you are studying medicine, you wish to become a doctor?” “No, sir,” I replied, “I am studying philosophy.” The man was surprised to hear this and said, “I always said philosophy wasn’t to be learned in school, for the true philosopher is the man who broods over scholarly tomes and fathoms their meaning.”

The day waned and the man told the girl, “Bring me my sash and I will recite the minhah. Don’t feel embarrassed at my reciting the afternoon prayer.” “I too will pray,” I exclaimed. “Bring me the prayerbook,” he said. She then hurried to fetch the prayerbook. And he took the prayerbook and showed me the passage we would read. “Sir,” I said, “there is really no need, I know the prayer well.” The man was surprised to hear that I knew the prayer by heart. He gestured toward the east where an embroidery hung on the wall, and I read all that was embroidered on the mizrah:

Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee

And he who shall cleave unto Thee.

For those who seek Thee shall not fail

Nor shall they be put to shame

Those who seek and dwell within Thee.

As soon as I had finished praying I extolled the mizrah, for indeed it was splendid. My words, though, were like the sun’s dying rays at dusk, illuminating only the fringes of the east, while the whole is left in darkness, for I could utter but a fraction of the praise that swelled within me.

The woman set the table and bid me share their meal. The dishes were placed before us and we ate. Although the food was not abundant, consisting of just cornmeal with milk, we nevertheless lingered over our food as the man spoke of all that had happened to them, for he had once been wealthy, trading with the landed gentry and investing his money in field crops. Such was his way year after year. But riches are not everlasting. The owner of the estate did not keep to his end of the agreement. Money he took but produce he did not give. A bitter and prolonged quarrel ensued between the two men and what remained of the fruits of his labor was frittered away in legal fees. Though bribing is a criminal offence and it is forbidden to bribe a state judge — and even the gentile is subject to the laws of the land — the overlord offered the judge gifts so that the verdict would not go against him. “Eternity may well come to an end,” he said, “and still I wouldbe far from ending my account of all that came to pass in those days. My adversary slandered me with false accusations and my eldest son, though disabled and exempt from serving the Emperor, was pressed into the army, and the same overlord was a high-ranking officer and my son died under the crush of his iron fist.”

“But a man should not mourn the loss of imaginary possessions, blessed be the Holy Name for He has not taken His merciful eye from us. Even though the Almighty has not blessed me a second time with wealth and happiness, I thank the Lord daily, for we are not lacking in food. And yet whenever I call to mind the inflictions wrought upon my son, I am tempted to choose death over life.”

The members of the household dried their tears and the woman asked her husband, “If he were alive today, how old would he be?” “What sort of woman-talk is this?” he answered. “Do not lay reproach on the Almighty; the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, blessed be the name of the Lord. How splendid are the words of Malbim, blessed be his memory, concerning the verse, “he shall shave his head over the loss of property” — for it is forbidden to do so over the dead.

The oil in the lamp was nearly spent and I rose from the table and asked, “Tell me please, is there an inn in town, for I will not be able to continue on my way tonight.” The man and woman conferred and said, “There are a number of inns but who knows if you will find comfort in any one of them. Ours is a small town and the inns are of the plainest sort, for respectable guests seldom come here and anyone who isn’t accustomed to such conditions will not find such inns very restful.” The man glanced at his wife and said, “A stranger shall not sleep outside. I will open my door to a guest.”

The young girl then brought a candle and lit it and placed it on the table as the oil in the lamp was spent. We sat together for another hour. They did not tire of hearing about the wonders of Vienna where the Emperor lives. I felt deeply drawn to their way of life. Later that evening they prepared a bed for me in a corner of the house and I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

And I started awake at the sound of a man’s footsteps. The master of the house stood by my bed, his prayer shawl and phylacteries under his arm and the Morning Prayer on his lips. “Ah, sir,” I cried out, “you are on your way to pray while I lie in the lap of indolence.” The man smiled. “I have already prayed,” he said. “I am on my way back from the synagogue, but be at ease, my son.” And seeing my discomfort, he added, “If you have slept soundly then lie back and rest; the time will come soon enough when there will be no sleep. But if you are awake then rise and we will breakfast together.” After eating I made to pay for my food. The woman and her daughter drew back in shame and the man smiled and said, “Such are the ways of the city dweller, they do not know that an act of charity is honored and that it is a sacred duty to invite a guest into one’s home.” I thanked them for letting me stay in their home for the entire night and morning. “Blessed are you in the eyes of the Lord for your kindness,” I exclaimed. And as I turned to leave, the man inquired, “Where will you be going?” “I will walk the length and breadth of the town,” I answered, “for that is why I have come.” “Go then in peace,” said the man. “But return to eat with us at noon.” “I am unworthy of such kindness,” I said. And I walked into town. Presently I arrived at the Great Synagogue which housed a rare prayerbook whose gilt letters were inscribed on deerskin parchment. But the gold was obscured by a film of smoke that had risen from those martyred in the name of the Holy One and had seeped through and blackened the pages. And I walked over to the Beit Midrash. The sun’s rays beat against its walls. The pupils, seated before the altar, had removed their coats and were surprised to see me. They implored me to speak of other houses of learning, and visions of distant places lit up their eyes. And I left the House of Study and turned towards the forest. I was overwhelmed with grief as I approached the green and somber woods. And I fell to my knees and lay amid the scrub by the oak trees. The Lord’s mercy did not leave me. Suddenly I remembered the invitation extended to me to share the mid-day meal and I rose and returned home.

The members of the household reproached me as I entered, “We waited for you and you did not come. We thought you had forgotten us and so we ate without you.” “I went for a walk in the forest,” I explained. “I am late and now I will be on my way.” But the woman looked at me and said, “You will go nowhere before having eaten.” And she fried me some eggs. “The cantor will pass before the Ark of the Law,” said the master of the house, “he will pray in the synagogue. Eat something, and then come with me to the synagogue. The bed we prepared for you yesterday is still in its place. Stay with us another night and tomorrow you will be on your way.”

I do not play an instrument nor can I carry a tune. And my knowledge of music is slight, nor do I understand it. When dragged to the opera I sit and count the windows. But I now told the master of the house, “Very well, I will accompany you.” I will not describe the cantor’s singing, nor will I speak of what was on my mind just then. Rather I will speak of what I did when we returned.

I returned with the man and after eating we sat on the doorsteps of his home. So, I told myself, have I not longed to travel the length and breadth of the countryside? If I stay here one more day I will surely use up all the days of my vacation. It is fine to explore the countryside, my heart cried out suddenly, but to sit here is even better. I was in the best of health and in those days the thought of taking time off never even crossed my mind. It was like one of those notions a man acquires without knowing how it might bear on his own life. Alas, those days have passed and are gone and whatever peace of mind I had has been swept away with them. The following morning I asked the members of the household, “Tell me, do you happen to have a spare room, as I wish to remain in your company for the rest of my vacation.” So they led me to their succah, a festival booth that also served as a room. “Stay here as long as you wish,” they said. And the woman prepared my meals, while I in turn instructed their daughter in language and reading skills.

I lodge in the home of these good people. They have vacated a special room for me — the festival booth built as a room. There is even a small stove in the booth. Some will say it has no use, but soon enough winter will come and we will warm ourselves by its heat. And I sit in my rooftop den and look down at the town. From my perch I can see the huge marketplace where women sit, their baskets laden with vegetables. They sell the rotten ones while they keep the good ones until they rot too. And there is a wellspring in the center of the market with water gushing from its two spouts, and the country girls draw from its source. A Jew suddenly approaches one of the young girls, desiring to drink from her pitcher. “Jew,” I call out from my garret, “why do you drink drawn water? Don’t you have the entire well in front of you? And spring water at that?” But the Jew does not hear me. For he is hunched over while I dwell in the heights.

And a new voice resounded in the house. The voice of a young woman. I folded my coat behind the windowpane to catch a glimpse of myself before descending to see the young woman. Leah introduced me to her friend Mintshi. I greeted her with a bow. Returning to my room I spent the rest of the day lost in delusions and fancied Mintshi lived in the capital, and while there she had witnessed the respect lavished on me when my poems were praised in public. When she returned home, her mother said that a man had lodged in her room. “And what’s his name?” she asked. “Akaviah Mazal.” Then her heart skipped a beat, for she had had the privilege of knowing me. My God, how I held my head high. And I buried myself in religious, ethical tracts; perhaps it would extinguish the glowing ember of lust burning within me. But I could not stamp it out and I sought comfort in moral precepts: You shall love the Lord your God, et cetera, with both inclinations — the good and the bad — taught the Sages of blessed memory. If only it were so.

The students at the Beit Midrash were delighted to see me. They sought to study the ways of Haskalah literature— and is there a better teacher than I? Today two boys came to see me and instead of reading the Gemara they pored over the contents of profane books. And in my presence one of the boys started to read a German poem, and the one chanted while the other read. My students sigh and ask only to be enlightened by the new literature. As for me? My only desire is to follow in the path of the Lord all the days of my life.

What is God’s path? A man takes to the road and his strength fails him. His knees buckle and his tongue is parched. He stumbles seven times and rises without reaching his longed-for destination. The road is long and the illusions are myriad. The man will then say to himself: Perhaps I have strayed from the path, this is not the way. And he will turn off the path he first took. And turning off the path, he sees a light flickering in the distance. Although he does not know yet whether this is the right way, who will say that the man erred in choosing a path different from the first? Even though I am a teacher of the “Haskalah,” I declined the boys’ request. How will I provide for myself if the lining of my purse is empty? I am like a thief who stumbles upon a pouch of coins, returns the pouch to its owner, and then snatches the money back from the owner’s pocket, for he is a thief and cannot live otherwise. I teach Leah and her friend Mintshi, as well as the sons of the rich. My friends mock me in their letters, and my father, seeing that I have abandoned my studies at the university, weeps for my fate daily. Summer swept by and my vacation drew to an end, but I did not return home.

How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of Tabernacles. We hung from its boughs red lanterns and assembled in it the finest of the household utensils. As Leah made to hand me the mizrah, a ring came undone and fell from one of its corners. Leah took the ring and slipped it on my finger. She then untied the crimson ribbon fastened to her locks and with it secured the mizrah to the wall, reading out loud, “Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee.” I read on, “And he who shall cleave unto Thee.” Suddenly we both blushed, for her father and mother were peering in, their faces beaming with joy. They called me master of the house as we sat together in the booth, and they thought of themselves as my guests. Leah came to the booth at least seven times a day. Sometimes she brought food and other times she cleared the table. And we thanked God for bearing us aloft toward love. How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of the Tabernacles. But the festive booth is now stocked with beans and lentils for a bean merchant has rented the booth to store his merchandise. I have left my home, I have abandoned my booth, and I have rented a room on the outskirts of the town. My lodgings are small and peaceful. An old woman tends to my needs, she prepares my meals and washes my linen. I am surrounded by peace and quiet, yet my heart knows no peace. Mr. Mintz, who has rented the booth, is a wealthy man. His trade has spread throughout the land and Leah’s father has promised him his daughter’s hand in marriage. And I am but a poor and unworthy teacher. They befriended me when I came from the city. Ah, they drew near me with their words while their hearts were elsewhere. How strange are the ways of my brethren.

In addition to instructing Leah in language and books I also taught her Hebrew. Her parents had been happy to see her learning the Holy Tongue. But her father came to envy her knowledge, and he drew us apart. Ah, sir, surely she will not forget all that I taught her. She will brood over the poems I have written, and though she has left me she will hold fast to my teachings.

One day I went into town and saw Leah’s father and swiftly made to leave. But he ran after me and said, “Why have you run off, I must talk to you.” My heart pounded. I knew he had nothing to say that could possibly calm me and yet I stood and listened. He is Leah’s father, I thought, he will speak of Leah. He then glanced sideways and seeing no one in sight, continued, “My daughter is ill. She suffers from the same illness as her brother.” I remained silent and he continued as he had begun, “She was not born for toil, physical labor will be the death of her. If I don’t assure her complete rest she will die before my own time has come.” He appeared suddenly to take fright at his own words. At last he raised his voice and blurted out, “Mintz is a wealthy man, her health will be restored under his care. That is why I have promised her to him. He will send her to the mineral springs and will provide for all her needs.”

“Ah, sir, another illness altogether afflicts your daughter’s heart, which all the spas cannot heal. And I said I would cure her, but you drew us apart.”

As I moved away from the man I slipped off the ring Leah had given to me. For she is engaged to another man. And a sudden chill swept over my finger.

So ended the chronicles of Akaviah Mazal.

Twice, three times a week my father arrived at the Gottliebs and dined with us in the garden. A soothing dusk veiled the table and dishes. We ate by the light of the fireflies. The red lanterns by the tracks lit up the night, for the railroad was not far from the Gottliebs’ home. Rarely was my mother’s name mentioned. And when Mrs. Gottlieb did speak of her you could not tell that the name of the departed was on her lips. Only when I grew accustomed to her words did I understand that she acted out of good sense.

My father made every possible effort to turn the conversation to my mother, may she rest in peace, exclaiming, “We are the miserable widowers.” How strange his words were — it was as if all of womankind had died and every man was a widower.

One day Mr. Gottlieb journeyed to see his brother. He was a wealthy man and Gottlieb hoped he might join his business and contribute to the factory’s expansion. Mintshi, who normally did not like to interfere in her husband’s affairs, let slip more than she wished. Suddenly she realized what she had done and seemed to ask me to forget what she had just recounted, and she told me of her first visit to her father-in-law’s house when the groom had entered and welcomed her, and then had turned on his heel and left. Mintshi had been greatly distressed by his abrupt manner. But he was no sooner gone than he returned, and before she had time to recover he asked to kiss her and she had drawn back, offended. Mintshi had not known at the time that she had been greeted at first not by the groom, but by his brother, whose features were identical to the groom’s.

The holidays were coming to an end. “Stay until Tuesday evening,” my father said. “I will come Tuesday evening and we will return home together.” He was suddenly seized by a spasm of coughing. Mintshi poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught a cold, Mr. Mintz?” she asked my father. “Indeed,” he answered, “I have considered leaving my work.” We listened in astonishment as he continued, “If not for my daughter I would wipe my hands clean of my trade.” How strange a reply. Does a man leave his trade because of a slight cold? To wear a long face would only have led him to think that he was ill. And so Mrs. Gottlieb said, “What will you do then, write books?” We all laughed. He, the merchant, such a practical man, sitting down and writing books.

The train’s whistle sounded. Mrs. Gottlieb exclaimed, “My husband should be here in ten minutes,” and fell silent. Our conversation was cut short as we waited for Mr. Gottlieb to arrive. Mr. Gottlieb entered. Mintshi peered at him intently; her eyes ran over her spouse. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose and chuckled like a man intending to amuse his listeners. He then spoke to us of his travels and what had happened at his brother’s home. On arriving, he had found his brother’s wife sitting with her son. And he lifted the boy up on his lap and leaped up and whirled him about. They had been surprised, for the boy followed him fearlessly even though he had never seen him before. Mr. Gottlieb’s brother entered while they were playing and the boy stared first at his father and then at his father’s brother — his eyes darting from one to the other in disbelief. All of a sudden he turned his face away, burst into tears and flung his small arms out to his mother, and she embraced him as he buried his face in her bosom.

I returned home and to school. And my father found me a new Hebrew teacher, a Mr. Segal with whom I studied for many days. Mr. Segal came three times a week, and not liking to skip from subject to subject, divided my studies into three parts: one day of the week I studied the Bible, another, grammar, and on the third day I studied composition. Segal set out to explain the Holy Writings in a lucid manner, and he did not refrain from teaching me the commentaries of our Sages. Hours were spent over such commentaries and exegeses, leaving us little time for the Book. He spoke to me of all the splendors which until then I had not found in books. Wishing to revive our language, whenever I spoke he would say, “Please, say it in Hebrew.” He spoke with a certain flourish, like an advocate, and delighted whenever he stumbled upon a passage that resonated in his heart, for a prophet had spoken, and the prophets, after all, knew Hebrew.

Of all the hours spent in study I cherished most those devoted to composition. Segal would relax and lean back, his left hand under his head and his eyes firmly shut. Ever so quietly he would read from the wellsprings of his heart without glancing even once at the book. Like a musician plying his instrument during the darkest hour of the night, his heart brimming to its banks, without a glance at his notes, playing only what God had placed in his heart — so was this man.

My father paid Segal three gulden a month for my studies. After clipping the notes together, I would quietly hand them over to Segal. Segal, however, counted the money openly, and exclaimed, “I am not a doctor and needn’t be paid furtively. I’m a worker and am not ashamed to receive a salary for my labors.”

And my father toiled ceaselessly at his work. Nor did he rest at night. When I went to sleep he would remain seated by the lamplight. Sometimes I rose in the morning to find the light still lit beside him, for being preoccupied with his accounts he would forget to extinguish the light. My mother’s name no longer hovered on his lips.

On the eve of Yom Kippur my father bought two candles: one candle, the candle of the living, he lit in the house, and the other, the memorial candle, he took to the synagogue. My father brought the candle to the synagogue, and as I accompanied him, he said, “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Remembrance Day for the souls of the dead.” His voice shook as he spoke. I bent forward and kissed his hand.

We arrived at the synagogue. I peered through the lattice and saw one man greeting another in the midst of the assembly, asking forgiveness of the other. I then saw my father standing in front of a man without a prayer shawl, and I recognized Akaviah Mazal and my eyes misted with tears.

The cantor intoned Kol Nidre and his singing waxed from one moment to the next. The candles flickered and the building filled with light. The men swayed between the candles, their faces covered. How I loved the holiness of the day.

We returned home without speaking a word. The stars of silence in the firmament and the candles of the living in each home lit up our way. We took the path leading to the bridge, for my father said, “Let us rest by the water for a while, my throat is choked with dust.” From within the rippling water the nocturnal stars peered out at the stars in the sky. The moon broke through the furrowed clouds and a low murmuring sound rose from the water. From his heavenly heights God sent forth silence. I shall never forget that night. The candle of the living bent its flame towards us as we arrived home. I read the Shema and slept till morning. I was roused from my sleep in the morning by my father’s voice. We left for the house of prayer. The sky had veiled itself in white as was its custom in autumn. The trees cast their russet leaves earthward and the old womenfolk bestirred themselves to gather the leaves into their homes. From the surrounding farmhouses thin plumes of smoke rose where the dry leaves burned in the stoves. People wrapped in white garments swayed back and forth in the courtyards. We arrived at the synagogue and prayed, meeting in the courtyard between the morning prayer and the additional service, and then again between the additional service and the afternoon prayer. My father asked whether the fast was not too great a strain for me. How my father’s voice confused me.

I barely saw my father during the holiday. I studied in a Polish school and we were not exempt from class during our own holidays. Returning from school at noon I would find my father and the neighbors crowded together in the succah. And I would eat by myself, as there was no place for women in the booth. But I was consoled by the coming of winter. Late in the evening we supped together and then bent over our work by the light of a single lamp. And the white oval shade cast its light over us as our heads merged into one black presence in the shadows. I prepared my lessons and my father put his accounts into order. At nine o’clock Kaila set before us three glasses of tea, two for my father and one for me. My father pushed aside ledger and pen, and reached for the glass of tea. One glass he drained steaming hot, and the second he drained cold after dropping into it a lump of sugar. We then resumed our work, I my lessons, and my father his accounts. At ten o’clock my father would rise, stroke my hair, and say, “And now go to sleep, Tirtza.” How I loved his use of the conjunction “and”. I always grew happy in its presence: it was as though all that my father told me was but the continuation of his innermost thoughts. That is, first he spoke to me from within his heart and then out loud. And so I would say to my father, “If you are not going to sleep I too will not sleep, I will stay up with you until you go to sleep.” But my father did not pay attention to my words, so I would go to bed. And when I woke I would find my father still bent over his accounts, his ledgers crowding the table. Had he risen early or had he not slept the entire night? I did not ask nor did I ever find out. Late into the night I told myself: I will go now and appeal to his heart, perhaps he will listen to me and rest. But I would fall fast asleep before ever getting out of bed. I knew my father intended to leave his business, and that wishing to set his accounts in order, he now bent over his affairs with redoubled effort. I did not ask what he would do afterwards.

I turned sixteen and was no longer obliged by law to attend school. When the school year came to an end my father sent me to a teacher’s college. He did not send me because of my talents. I had no talent for teaching, but I showed little enthusiasm for anything else as yet. I believed at the time that a person’s future was determined by others. And I told myself so be it. My relatives and friends were baffled. How in the world will Mintz make a teacher out of his daughter?

To labor is our lot and therein lies all hope. We knew the teachers among the Hebrew women to be different from the Christian, for the former were sent to remote hamlets where, being Jewish, they were harassed by the cruel-hearted villagers. And one’s earnings were quite spent by the time one arrived at the village, for all of it went on travel. And yet a great number of Hebrew women attended the college.

The college was a private institution and Mazal was employed there as a teacher. Once a year the principal traveled with his pupils to the district capital where the pupils were examined. The schoolgirls then applied themselves to their studies with redoubled effort. A girl was put to shame if she returned without a certificate in her hand, for the travel expenses were high. And she made herself a new dress before departing, and if she returned from the examination and had failed, her rival would say, “Why, you have a new dress. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before.” “It is not new,” the girl would answer. And the other would say, “Didn’t you sew it to wear for your examinations? But where is your certificate?” And if the girl happened not to be wearing her new dress, she was asked, “But where is your new dress, the one for your examinations?” That’s how they would remind her of her shameful lack of a certificate. This is why the girls labored unceasingly at their studies. If the brain did not grasp then they drilled their lessons in by rote, for what the brain cannot do, memory shall.

I was surprised that Mazal gave no sign of recognizing me when I arrived at the college. I asked myself: do I not find favor in his eyes? Does he not know who I am? For days on end I could not keep myself from brooding over such feelings, and I studied twice as hard and was never idle.

In those days I loved to take solitary walks. No sooner had I finished my lessons than I would set forth to the open fields. If I happened to meet a friend on the way I did not call out a greeting, and when hailed I answered in a low voice, lest the person join me, when all I desired was to walk alone. Winter had arrived.

One evening I was out walking when I heard a dog barking and then the sound of a man’s footsteps. I recognized the man: it was Mazal. And I wound my handkerchief around my hand and waved it before him in greeting. Mazal stopped in his tracks and asked, “What is wrong, Miss Mintz?” “The dog,” I replied. “Did the dog bite you?” he asked, startled. “The dog bit me,” I answered. “Show me your hand,” he said, almost breathless. “Please,” I said, “bind the handkerchief for me over my wound.” Mazal took hold of my hand with shaking fingers, and as he held my hand I unwound the handkerchief and jumped up in the air, exclaiming as I laughed out loud, “There is nothing, sir! Neither a dog, nor a wound.” Mazal was so taken aback by my words that for a moment he could only stand there frozen, knowing not whether to scold me or laugh. But he quickly recovered, and then he too laughed loudly and cheerfully, and said, “Ah, you are a bad girl. How you frightened me.” He then accompanied me home, and before leaving he stared deep into my eyes. And I told myself: surely he now knows that I know he knows my secret. But I thought to myself, I will be grateful if you do not remind me of that which you do know.

That night I tossed and turned in my bed. I thrust my hand into my mouth and stared at the designs on my handkerchief. I regretted not having asked Mazal into the house. If Mazal had entered we would now be sitting in the room and I would not be nursing such delusions. The following morning I rose and gloomily paced about overwrought with emotions. Now I stretched out on my bed and now on the carpet, and I was beguiled by a fickle wind of delusions. Only towards evening was I able to calm down. I was like someone with a case of nerves who dozes off during the day and starts awake at night. Calling to mind all that I had done the previous day I rose and tied a red string around my wrist as a reminder.

The days of Hanukkah had arrived and geese were slaughtered. One day Kaila left to ask the rabbi a question and a man well advanced in age appeared. “When will your father be coming home?” he asked, and I replied, “Sometimes he comes at eight and sometimes at seven-thirty.” “In that case I am early,” he declared, “for it is now five-thirty.” I said, “Yes, it is five-thirty.” And he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

I drew up a chair for him. “But why should I sit,” he said. “Bring me some water.” And as I poured him tea into a glass, he exclaimed, “He asked for water and she gave him tea.” He then poured some of the tea from the glass onto his hand and cried out, “Well, well, and the mizrah?” Turning towards the wall he continued, “In your grandfather’s house a man didn’t have to ask such questions, for the mizrah hung on the wall.” He then rose to his feet and prayed. I took two, three large, dollops of goose fat and placed them in a bowl on the table. The man finished praying and ate and drank and said, his lips dripping with fat, “Schmaltz, my dear, schmaltz.” “Here,” I said, “I will bring you a napkin to wipe your hands.” “Rather bring me a slice of cake,” he said. “Do you have a cake that doesn’t require hand washing?” “Yes, and enough to spare,” I said. “I will bring you some cake at once.” “Please don’t hurry, you can bring the cake along with the second helping. Will you not give me another helping?” “Why, of course.” “I knew you would, but you still don’t know who I am. It doesn’t matter,” the man said softly. “I’m Gotteskind. So your father is indeed late today.” I glanced at my watch. “It is a quarter after six, my father will not arrive before half-past seven.” “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “But do go on with your work. Don’t let me disturb you.” I reached for a book. And he said, “What’s that you have in your hands?” “A book of geometry,” I replied. Gotteskind seized the book and asked, “And do you know how to play the piano as well? No? Why didn’t they teach you how to play the piano? Why, I’ve just come from the pharmacy where the pharmacist told me he would never wed a woman who didn’t know how to play the piano. ‘Listen, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said, ‘I’m prepared to live in a small town since I can’t afford to buy a pharmacy in the city.’ But I failed to mention that he isn’t really a pharmacist but the pharmacist’s assistant. But what does it matter, assistant pharmacist, pharmacist, it’s all one and the same. Surely you’ll say: why, he doesn’t even own a pharmacy. It doesn’t matter, soon enough he’ll purchase himself a pharmacy. ‘And so, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said to me, ‘here I am about to settle down in a small town. If my wife doesn’t play the piano she will surely die of boredom.’ So, knowing how to play an instrument is a rare gift indeed, apart from the enjoyment of striking the keys, think of it also as a source of wisdom. But the hour of seven is about to strike and though I said I would go, will your father not be arriving soon?” Gotteskind stroked the wisps of his beard and continued, “Indeed, your father should realize that a faithful friend is waiting for him. And so, man knows least where his good fortune lies. The clock is striking two, three, four, five, six, seven. Let the clock be witness to the truth of my words.” I grew weary, but Gotteskind prattled on, “Why, you didn’t know who I was, nor did you hear mention of my name until today. And I knew you before you were formed, it was through my good services that your mother wedded your father.”

He was still talking when Kaila arrived and we set the table. “You are also an accomplished housekeeper?” Gotteskind exclaimed with surprise. “And you said your father will soon return. If so, let us wait for him,” Gotteskind said, as though having just made up his mind to wait.

My father arrived a little before eight. “We mentioned your name and here you are,” Gotteskind said to my father. “Lo, the clock has struck. It will be witness to the truth of my words.” And he winked at my father and went on, “I came to see you but behold the Almighty has also shown me your daughter.”

That night I dreamt my father gave me away in marriage to the high chief of an Indian tribe. My entire body was impressed with tattoos of kissing lips and my husband sat opposite me on the sharp edge of a crag, combing his beard with the seven talons of an eagle. I was struck with wonder, for I was certain that Indians shaved their heads and beards. How then had my husband acquired such a thick crop of hair?

Four days had lapsed since I met with Mazal. I did not go to school. And I feared lest my father would take notice and fret over me. I was of two minds whenever I thought of returning to school. Perhaps I would blush with shame upon seeing Mazal? And if Mazal was absent that day perhaps I’d shudder in anticipation of the sound of his footsteps? And what if I arrived after classes had begun, and what if he then suddenly cast his eyes upon me? In the end I did leave for the college, but only to find another man reading out our lessons. I asked one of the students, “Why hasn’t Mazal arrived today?” “He didn’t come yesterday either, nor the day before, and who knows if he will ever return to the college,” she replied. “Your words don’t make any sense,” I said. “A woman’s hand is in the matter,” she replied. I shuddered at her words. The girl went on to tell me how Mazal had been forced to leave the school because of the teacher Kefirmilch who received from his grandmother an allowance earned as a servant in Mazal’s home. One day she had slipped the money in an envelope taken from her master’s letterbox. Kefirmilch unsealed the envelope and discovered a letter written to Mazal by one of the schoolgirls in the college. It so happened that the girl’s father had lent Kefirmilch some money. Kefirmilch now told the man, “Forget my debt and I will give you your daughter’s letter written to her lover Mazal.” And hearing what had happened, Mazal, left the college lest the institution’s name be tainted by his presence.

I returned home, relieved at not having seen Mazal at the college, and I did not tell myself: he has been stripped of his livelihood. From now on I will rarely see Mazal but neither will I blush in shame if I should happen to see him. And I suddenly loathed going to school. I stayed at home and helped Kaila with the housework. How I recoiled in horror whenever I thought of the aging schoolmistresses. Should I waste my life bent over books I couldn’t understand and end up like one of them? Caught in such thoughts I forgot my own work and neglected the housework. I longed to leave the house, to fill my lungs with fresh air and stretch my legs. I rose, buttoned my coat, and went out. Once on my way I turned in the direction of the Gottliebs’ home. Mintshi hastened towards me and took my hand and warmed it in her own, and she peered deep into my eyes, eager to know what tidings I brought. “No news,” I said. “I went out for a walk and turned in your direction.” Mintshi took my coat and seated me by the stove. After drinking a glass of tea I stood up and prepared to leave, for I had heard that the tax inspector was expected for dinner and I was afraid I would disturb Mr. Gottlieb in his business affairs with him.

The earth was drenched in rain and I remained at home. All day long I read books or else sat in the kitchen and helped Kaila with her chores. Desire no longer tugged at my heartstrings. I knew no wrong.

At eight o’clock my father returned home. He quietly removed his shoes and slipped on a pair of felt slippers. The faint shuffle of his slippers brought back to mind the stillness of the house. The table had been set before his arrival and when he arrived we sat and ate. After dinner my father returned to his accounts and I sat by his side until ten o’clock, when he rose and said, “Now, my daughter, to bed.” Sometimes he would stroke my hair with his warm hand and I bowed my head. My happiness was too great to bear. So the rains came and went.

The sun rose over the town and the puddles were nearly dry. I lay wide awake in the morning, unable to sleep, as I sensed that something ominous had taken place. I turned towards the window where a faint bluish light shone. How could such a light have existed unbeknownst to me? Several moments passed before I realized I had been fooled by the curtain. And still my happiness did not leave me.

I leapt out of bed and dressed. Something had happened. I would go now and see what it was. I ventured out. And I stood spellbound whichever way I turned. I peered into the shop windows and the windows glowed in the daylight. And I told myself, I will enter and purchase something. I did not know what I would buy, but I insisted, I’ll buy something and Kaila won’t have to trouble herself. But I did not go into any of the shops and I turned and set out towards the bridge at the edge of town. And there was a cluster of dwellings under the bridge on both sides of the banks. Pigeons flitted from roof to roof and a man and woman stood on one of the rooftops mending its shingles. I called out good-morning to them and they returned my greeting. And as I made to walk on, I caught sight of an old woman waiting, or so it seemed, for me to ask her the way. But I did not ask. I returned home and gathered my books and left for the college. But the college had become alien to me. This house is a den of boredom. I realized there wasn’t a soul to whom I could pour out my heart, and my disdain grew and I could not bear my studies. So I thought, I will speak to Mazal. I did not know how he could help, still, I welcomed and toyed with the thought all day long. But how was I to approach him? I dared not approach his home, nor would I find him outside. Winter passed, the snow melted and we did not meet.

At that time my father fell ill and Mr. Gottlieb came to inquire of his health, and he told my father that he was expanding his factory, for on becoming a partner in the factory his brother had given freely of his own money and the government had stopped putting any obstacles in their way since an important minister had sought his help after taking a bribe. “My dear sir,” the minister had told Gottlieb, “all the bureaucrats, including the Emperor himself, hunger for money. There isn’t a minister in this country who won’t accept a bribe. Let me give you an example,” said the minister. “When we ask, what makes Mr. So-and-so unique, are we not surprised when we are told, why the length of his nose is five centimeters. But five centimeters is indeed the length of every proboscis.” “Heaven forbid I should condemn them,” Gottlieb said to my father, “but their hypocrisy maddens me. Today you shower them with gifts and tomorrow you are a complete stranger to them. In this I admire the Russian bureaucrats; at least they accept a bribe without pretending to be honest.”

As I accompanied Gottlieb to the door he exclaimed, “From one sickbed to another.” “Who is sick?” I asked, concealing my confusion. “Mr. Mazal is ill,” Gottlieb answered. For a second I longed to accompany him. And yet I restrained myself and did not go.

“Isn’t it amazing, Tirtza,” my father said, “Gottlieb has always been a hardworking man and hasn’t ever complained at being childless. So who will inherit the fruit of his labors when his final hour comes?” My father asked me to bring his ledger and he sat up in bed and worked until suppertime. The following morning he rose from his sickbed in good health, and that afternoon left for the store, while I set out to Mazal’s home.

I knocked on the door, but there was no sound nor did anyone answer. I then said, thank God, the man is not home. Still I did not move. All at once, thinking that no one was at home, my hand grew bold and I knocked loudly.

Several moments passed and my heart beat feebly. Suddenly I heard someone stirring within the house and I took fright. Just as I meant to go, Mazal appeared. He greeted me buried in his overcoat. I lowered my eyes, and said: “Mr. Gottlieb dropped by yesterday and mentioned that sir was taken ill and I have come to inquire of his health.” Mazal did not say anything. He beckoned me into his home with one hand as he clutched his collar with the other. I shuffled my feet in misery and he said, “Forgive me, Miss, for I cannot speak like this,” and he vanished into the back room only to reappear several moments later dressed in his best clothes. Mazal coughed. The room suddenly grew silent and the two of us were alone in the room. “Please, sit down, Miss,” he said, drawing a chair to the stove. “Has your hand healed from the dog bite?” he inquired. I stared into his face, my eyes filling with tears. Mazal took my hand into his own. “Forgive me,” he said. His soft voice was warm and full of compassion. Little by little I grew less embarrassed. I stared at the room I had known as a child and suddenly it seemed new to me. The heat from the stove warmed my body and my spirits revived within me.

Mazal put a log into the stove and I hastened to help him. But in my haste I thrust my hand out and knocked a photograph off the table. I reached out for it and noticed it was a photograph of a woman. She bore the appearance of a woman who never lacked a thing, and yet her brows were knitted in worry, for her happiness was uncertain. “It is a photograph of my mother,” Mazal said as he set it in place. “There exists only a single photograph of her, for only once in her youth was she photographed. Many years have since passed. Her face no longer resembles the face you see in the photograph, but I will always cherish the likeness of her face as captured here. It is as if time passed and yet nothing changed.” What prompted Mazal to speak? Was it the room’s stillness, or was it my sitting by his side at dusk? Mazal spoke at length, and he told me of all that had happened to his kind mother. And he said:

“My mother is a member of the Bauden-Bach family and all the Bauden-Bachs are apostates. Her grandfather, Rabbi Israel, was wealthier than all his countrymen. He had a winery and fields and villages. He gave generously to scholars and he built centers of religious study. And at the time his name was lauded in print, for he dispensed freely of his money and gold in honor of the Torah and in pursuit of its study.

In those days it was decreed that all lands owned by Jews would be confiscated. Hearing this, Rabbi Israel spared no effort to protect his land, but all his efforts came to naught. So he changed his religion and returned to his home and estate where he found his wife reciting the morning prayer. ‘I have converted,’ he announced. ‘Hurry now and take the children to the priest.’ The woman recited the Aleinu, saying, ‘Who has not made us as the heathen of the land,’ and she spat three times and pressed her lips to her prayerbook, and she and all her sons went and changed their religion. Close upon that time she bore a son who was circumcised by my great-grandfather, Rabbi Israel, for they kept the Lord’s commandments and only in the eyes of the gentiles did they behave as Christians. And they rose in their station and received the same respect accorded to nobles. The new generation, however, forgot their God, their creator, nor did they return to their religion when the decree was nullified, nor were they God-fearing, nor did they live by the commandments of the Torah. The only commandment they followed was to sell their leaven to the rabbi’s emissary on the eve of Passover, for otherwise Jews would not touch their corn wine. Such is the law concerning leaven which is not sold to a gentile on the eve of Passover. My mother is the granddaughter of the youngest son. And she sat over the catechism yet all the priest’s efforts came to naught. But time is too short to recount all that she suffered until the day the Lord took mercy on her and she found peace in his shadow. For she was also sent to a convent school and she was placed in the hands of harsh teachers. But she did not follow their ways. And she bent her mind over what was sealed and concealed from her. One day my mother found a picture of her grandfather and he looked like a rabbi. ‘Who is he?’ she asked. ‘It is your grandfather,’ they replied. My mother was stunned. ‘What are those locks of hair falling over his cheeks, and what is that book he is reading?’ ‘He is reading the Talmud and he is twirling his earlocks,’ they answered, and they told her grandfather’s story. Thereafter she walked about like a shadow and she tossed in her sleep at night on account of her dreams. Once her grandfather appeared and took her on his knees and she combed his beard. Another time she saw her grandmother holding a prayerbook in her hands. She then taught her the holy letters, and when she awoke she wrote down the letters on a tablet. It was a miracle, for until that day my mother had never set eyes on a Hebrew book.

And there worked in her father’s home a young Jewish clerk and she told him, ‘Teach me the laws of the Lord.’ And he said, ‘Alas, I know them not.’ Just then the rabbi’s emissary arrived to buy leaven. The clerk urged her, ‘Speak to him.’ And my mother told the emissary all that I have recounted. ‘Madam,’ said the man, ‘Pray come to my home today and celebrate with us the Passover holiday.’ So that night she went forth to the man’s home and she dined with him and his family and her heart inclined towards the God of Israel and she longed to follow His laws. That clerk was my father, may he rest in peace. He never studied the Torah or the commandments, but God created him pure of heart. My mother cleaved unto him and together they cleaved unto their faith in God. After their wedding they left for Vienna, and said, ‘No one will recognize us there.’ And he lived by the sweat of his brow and they did not turn to my mother’s father for help. My mother gradually adjusted to her new station. My father toiled at his work. And he deprived himself of the fruits of his own labor, his one desire being that I study in the best of schools, gaining through knowledge and science a footing in the best of society, for he knew that he would be unable to leave me any money to speak of on the day of his death. In my father’s eyes it was as if I had been barred from my own inheritance, for had my mother not married him, I would now be the son of a noble family. But my mother had no such designs upon the world. She loved me as a mother loves her son.” It was getting late and Mazal finished his account, and said, “Forgive me, Miss, for I have spoken at great length today.” “Why excuse yourself,” I replied, “when you have done me nothing but good. I now know that you do not despise me, for you have opened your heart to me. Oh, don’t hold back your words anymore!” Mazal passed his hand across his eyes, “Heaven forbid that I should despise you,” he exclaimed. “I am glad to have spoken of my mother and to have found an attentive ear, for I miss her a great deal. But since you feel I have been sparing with my words I will go on and tell you more.” Mazal then told me how he had come here, and yet he did not mention my mother and her father. He spoke of the hard times he had endured. He had yearned with all his heart to complete what his mother had set out to accomplish upon returning to the God of Israel, for he had returned to his people. Yet they did not understand him. He walked as a stranger in their midst — they drew him close, but when he was as one of them they divided their hearts from him.

I returned home in high spirits. I reeled like a drunkard and the moon poured its beams and shone upon my path.

As I walked I said, what will I tell my father? If I speak of all that happened between Mazal and myself he will listen and grow angry. But if I am silent a barrier will rise between us. Now I will go and speak to him, even if he is incensed he will see that I have not concealed my actions from him. I arrived home at the same time as the doctor who had come to pay us a visit upon hearing that my father was ill, and I clamped my mouth shut and did not say a thing, for how could I speak out in front of a stranger? And I did not regret doing so, as my secret consoled me.

I sat peacefully at home. I did not join the company of other young girls, nor did I send letters of greeting. One day, however, the postman arrived with a letter for me. And the letter was written in Hebrew by a young man called Landau. “As the errant wayfarer raises his eyes to the godly stars on a bleak night,” its author wrote, “so do I now dispatch my letter to you, fair and resourceful maiden.” My teacher Segal appeared for our lesson as I was reading the letter. “I have received a letter written in Hebrew,” I said. “I knew you would,” he replied. Segal then told me the young man was a pupil of his and that he was the son of one of the village tenants.

Eight days passed and I forgot the letter. One day I left for the college and caught sight of a woman and a young man. Seeing the young man I was certain that he was the author of the letter. Later in the day I told my father and he laughed, saying, “The son of villagers.” But I thought to myself, Why has the young man behaved this way and why this strange encounter? Suddenly I pictured the young man. I imagined his discomfort and how he had blushed and I regretted not having answered his letter in case he had waited for my reply and had been offended. I would write to him the very next day, I resolved. Though I did not know what I would write. My body then grew numb under the balmy weight of sleep. This is the sweet slumber in which the blood runs smoothly in our arteries and the soul is soothed. Two, three days passed without my penning a reply to the young man and I told myself, It is too late to answer. But it so happened that while preparing my homework and innocently scribbling with my pen on paper, I suddenly found myself replying to the young man. I wrote only a few lines, and reading over my letter I thought that surely this was not the sort of answer that he hoped to receive. Nor did the paper earn my favor. Still, I sent the letter knowing I would not write another of its kind. I will not write any more letters to him, I told myself, for my mind is not intent on letter-writing. Several days passed without a letter from the young man, and I was sorry not to hear from him. But I gradually forgot the young man and his letters. It had been my duty to reply and I had done so. One day my father asked me, “Do you remember the woman and young man?” “I remember,” I replied. “Well,” he said, “the young man’s father came to see me and he spoke of his son. The family is a good family and the young man is learned.” “Will he come here?” I asked. “How can I know,” he replied. “But I will do as you decide, for you have not kept your thoughts from me.” I bowed my head. God, Thou hast known my heart. “So then,” my father added, “we will not go to the stargazers and astrologers, nor will we ask them whether my daughter will find a groom.” And he did not refer to the matter again.

One Sunday evening my father came home accompanied by a man. He asked us to set the kettle on the fire and light the large lamp, and he also looked to see whether the stove gave off a warm glow. Then they sat by the table and talked. The man did not take his eyes off me. I returned to my room to work. But as soon as I sat down at my desk a winter carriage drew to a halt under my window and Kaila came and announced, “Guests have arrived. Why not go straight to the living room.” “I can’t,” I said, “for I have a great deal of work to finish today.” But Kaila wouldn’t leave me alone, and she said, “It is a night that calls for celebration, your father has ordered me to make blintzes.” “In that case,” I replied, “In that case I will help you prepare the meal.” “No,” Kaila insisted, “get you now into the living room. The man who has just arrived is a handsome lad.” “Is Gotteskind also present?” I asked Kaila disdainfully. “Who?” she said. “Gotteskind,” I replied. “Have you forgotten the man and all he had to tell us?” “Your memory is a marvel, Tirtza,” Kaila replied, and left.

The food was ready to be served and I entered the living room and stared in astonishment, for the young man was now transformed into another person altogether. He no longer seemed ill at ease as when I had first seen him. And his black goatskin hat heightened the charm of his red cheeks.

Landau soon returned a second time. He arrived in a winter carriage wearing a wolfskin overcoat. And he smelled of a winter forest. No sooner had he sat down than he was up on his feet again. He was on his way to see the coppersmith and had passed by to ask whether I would join him on his journey. My father gave me his fur coat and we left.

We galloped under the moonlight along trails powdered with snow. The gleam of hooves mingled with the song of the horses’ harness bells. I sat to the right of the young man and gazed out of the animal pelt. Buried in my overcoat I was unable to speak. Landau reined in the horses in front of the smith’s house and alighted. He then lifted me out of the carriage and we entered. Our glasses were filled with brandy and apples were baked in our honor. And Landau asked the smith to come to our village the following day as the kegs in the winery needed mending. The members of the household hung on his every word, for he spoke with the authority of a prince. I too stared at Landau and was astonished. Was this the young man whose letters were the outcry of a solitary heart? On our way back I did not bury my face in the folds of my overcoat, as I had grown used to the cold. And yet we did not exchange a word, for my heart was girded in silence. Landau too remained silent, only now and then speaking to his horses.

And my father said to me, “The old man Landau has spoken to me of his son, for his heart is drawn to your heart, and now tell me what I should say.” Seeing my discomfort, however, he added, “There is time for us to talk about the matter, after all, the young man is not about to be conscripted into the army and you are still young.” Several days passed and Landau once again began writing me high-flown letters filled with visions of Israel and its land. His roots were in the village and since boyhood he had tilled its soil, and the land did not cease to nourish him with dreams and visions. With time his letters stopped arriving and he would occasionally come into town on foot. He was constantly on edge lest he be found fit enough to be pressed into the king’s army. He would roam at night in the market and streets with the penitents. I shuddered in anguish whenever I recalled their late-night melodies. And I thought of my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had come to an untimely end in the army. So I told myself that if only I could accept Landau I would now be his wedded wife. One day I ran into Landau on his way into town. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks sallow and his clothes reeked of stale tobacco. He had the appearance of a sick man. Returning home I seized hold of a book, telling myself, I will study and soothe my grief. But my throat hurt and I could not study. I then opened the book of Psalms and read out loud. Perhaps God will think of him and the young man will not perish.

And at the Gottliebs workers were busy constructing a left wing to serve as a home for Gottlieb’s brother who, as partner to the factory, had come to live with him. Once the wing was completed Gottlieb held a housewarming party. Until that day Gottlieb had never held a housewarming party, for only then was the house built to his liking. Gottlieb was transformed. He even altered the cut of his beard. I saw the two brothers and laughed, remembering how Mintshi had been startled when she had first come to their father’s home. During lunch Gottlieb removed a letter from his pocket and said to his wife, “I almost forgot, a letter has arrived from Vienna.” And she asked, “Is there any news?” “No news,” he said. “He sends his blessings for the housewarming. And his mother’s condition hasn’t changed — it’s neither better nor worse.” I realized they were speaking of Mazal, for I had heard his mother had taken ill and that he had left for Vienna to see to her health. And I recalled the day I had visited his home and the memory was a blessing to me.

After the meal Mintshi strolled with me into the garden. She had been restless while sitting with her sister-in-law and now she looked back on earlier times. “Screwy,” she suddenly called out, and a small dog leaped towards her. I almost took fright. Mintshi fondly patted his head and said, “Screwy, Screwy, Screwy, my boy.” Although I disliked dogs I stroked his coat and patted him. The dog looked at me warily and then barked in approval. I hugged Mintshi and she kissed me.

Their large home stood a short distance away. The clamor of children and the untiring sound of a woman’s voice rose from within. The sun set and streaked the treetops red and a sudden gust of cold wind blew. “It has been a hot day,” Mintshi said in a low voice. “Summer is almost over. Ah, I cannot bear all this commotion. Since the day they arrived even the birds in the garden have fallen silent.” The dog barked a second time and Mintshi growled back, “What’s wrong, Screwy?” She then turned to me and said, “Have you noticed, Tirtza, how a dog will bark whenever the postman approaches?” “We don’t have a dog at home,” I replied, “and no one writes me any letters.” Paying no attention to my words, Mintshi continued, “The letter my sister-in-law sent after she left, telling me of her safe return, was delayed, for apparently it had slipped behind the gate and the postman had scribbled on the envelope, ‘I have not delivered this letter to your door because of the dog.’ Screwy, my clever one, come here!” Mintshi called out to the dog and resumed stroking his coat.

The evening twilight enveloped us and a light lit up the windows. “Let’s go in, Tirtza, and prepare supper.” As we walked back Mintshi said, “Mazal will soon return,” and she embraced me. We entered the house. That evening the factory hands came to toast their masters, as they had not come during the day when the guests had been present. Mintshi set a table for them and when their hearts were merry with wine, they burst into song. And the worker who had been released from prison warmed our hearts with tales he had heard straight from the mouths of the prisoners. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose, as was his way. I looked at Mintshi. Her face exuded verve and vigor and her sorrow was nowhere to be seen.

The holidays were over and the autumn skies lowered over the town. My father was preoccupied with his business and did not come home for lunch. I came to appreciate the autumn season and the splendor of its might. The sight of the russet woods and coppery leaves fortified the land far and wide.

My studies at the college resumed and grew more serious. That year our tutors ushered us into the classroom where we were expected to show our skills in teaching. I displayed little talent. Even so, I did as I was told.

Akaviah Mazal returned to town. He spoke to the local chroniclers and gathered material on the history of our town. When he unearthed ancient relics in the cemetery, Mazal’s heart was so filled with joy in his work that he did not even heed the principal’s summons to resume teaching at the college, for Kefirmilch had long been forgotten.

At that time my father’s sister arrived, for her daughter’s praises were being sung here and she had come to see the young man. This aunt of mine was quite unlike my father in the way she took pleasure in life. “I am glad, my daughter,” my father said, “that you are fond of your aunt. She is a good woman and she is gracious and pleasant in every way. And yet I am not fond of her; perhaps it is because of you that I disapprove of her.” And he fell silent.

My aunt returned to her home at the end of autumn. I cut across the open fields on my way back from the train station. The train’s whistle faded in the air. Potatoes were unearthed from the bare fields that shimmered under the yellow sun and red currants gazed up. I remembered the tale of the currants and I walked in a daze.

I passed a farmhouse where I had bought fruit in the summer and the farmer gave me a bouquet of asters. I took the autumn flowers and continued on my way. Now as I walked home I noticed I was close to Mazal’s home. I will go there and bid him good day, I thought to myself, for I have not seen him since he returned.

Mazal was not at home and the old servant sat by the doorway, waiting for him. Because of her grandson, Kefirmilch, she had had to leave her master’s house, and she had gone to live in a neighboring village. And now, on her way into town with her harvest of wheat, she had stopped to see how he was faring. The old woman spoke of her master’s good deeds. I was pleased to hear such words of praise, and as I turned to leave I scattered my flowers by the door.

Several days later we received a parcel from my aunt. She had also thought of Kaila and sent her a new dress. My father looked and said, “So, she has sent gifts. But she did not come to look after you when your mother passed away.” Only then did I understand why my father resented his sister.

Autumn drew to an end. A tinge of leaden white obscured the eye of the heavens as swirls of mist were driven every which way and the rooftops shone under a thin drizzle of rain. A tainted melancholy spread over the land. The last shriveled leaves bent under the weight of the raindrops. Clouds, wind, rain, and cold. The raindrops chilled and froze and pricked like needles in the flesh. The stove was lit and Kaila spread thatches of hay on the windowsills. The stove blazed the entire day as Kaila cooked for winter. Soon snow began to fall and cover the lanes, and bells from the winter carriages jingled merrily. Leaving the college one day I caught sight of some girls with ice-skates slung over their shoulders. They were going to skate on the river, and they persuaded me to join them. I bought myself a pair of ice skates and slid along the ice with them. Snow drifts covered the frozen earth. The woodsmen chopped timber in the streets and the crisp winter air mingled with the fragrance of wood shavings and split wood. The days grew colder, the snow creaked under the soles of every passerby. And I raced along with my girlfriends, swallowing the river with our skates.

Those were fine times when I skated on the river. My body grew stronger and my eyes widened in their orbs and were no longer overcast with melancholy. My flesh and bones had found a cure. I ate heartily and when I sat down to read a book I lost all sense of myself. Twice on returning home I tiptoed up to Kaila as she bent over her work and suddenly lifted her into the air. Kaila cried out in vain, for I clashed my skates together and the din drowned out her voice.

But such times did not last for long. Although the sun was not to be seen, the snow melted. And when I went down to the river I found it deserted. The ice had almost thawed and crows perched on the loose floes of ice. It was then I felt sharp stabbing pains in my chest, and the doctor came and gave me medicine, and forbade me to exert myself over my lessons. “But sir,” I said, “I have to complete my studies this year.” “If that is so,” he replied, “your turn to teach the villagers will come a year from now.” And having gone that winter with the schoolgirls to skate on the ice I grew almost fond of the college. If the thing on which love depends ceases, love ceases.

Now the house was swept clean for the Passover holiday. And I fetched old books from the closet to give them a good airing. Whenever I found a book with a damaged binding I told myself, I will take it to the bookbinders. And rummaging through the closet I found the mizrah that had hung in the home of my mother’s father, and I tucked it into my bag along with the books, intending to take it to the glazier, for its glass casing and gilt frame were cracked and scraped, and the crimson ribbon that my mother, may she rest in peace, had used to hang the mizrah was torn. And as I was about to leave, the seamstress arrived with my new spring dress. I quickly slipped on the dress, put on my hat and set out with the books and the mizrah for the bookbinder and the glazier. While at the bookbinder Mazal came in and stared at the books I had brought and then at the mizrah that was wrapped in broad sheets of paper, and he asked, “What is that book?” I removed the paper and said, “One moment, sir,” and I unwound the string that I had twisted round my hand after running into Mazal and the dog, and I fastened the string to the mizrah and hung it on the wall. Mazal stared in disbelief. I read what was written on the mizrah: Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee. Mazal bowed his head. I blushed and my eyes filled with tears. One moment I longed to cry out: You have brought upon me this shame! And the next moment I longed to prostrate myself before him. I made to leave, not wanting to linger at the bookbinder’s.

But I stepped outside only to find Mazal standing on my right. I laughed and said loudly, “Now you know, sir.” My throat burned and I could hardly bear the sound of my own voice. Mazal grasped my hand. His hand shook like his voice. He looked askance and said, “Soon we shall be seen.” I dried my tears and tidied my hair. “Let them look,” I said, still upset. “It’s all the same to me.” We walked on for a short while and, reaching the corner of my street, Mazal said, “Here is your father’s house.” I stared hard into his face. “I will not go home,” I declared. Mazal remained silent. I was at a loss where to go. Many thoughts stirred within me and I feared lest Mazal abandon me without my having said a thing. Meanwhile we left the town behind and approached the edge of the woods. The verdant forest was about to burst into leaf. Birch trees opened their buds and a new sun rose over the woods. Mazal said, “Spring has arrived.” And he gazed at my face and knew I was annoyed by his words. And he swept the palm of his hand over his head and sighed.

I sat on a tree trunk and Mazal was ill at ease and groped for words. He stared at my dress, my spring dress, and said, “The tree is still damp and you are wearing a light dress.” I knew the tree was damp and that my dress was light. All the same I did not rise and I even took pleasure in my discomfort. Mazal turned pale, his eyes dimmed and an odd smile swept over his lips. I thought he would ask, Has your hand healed from the dog bite? My spirits weighed upon me. But I suddenly sensed a joy which until that moment I had never experienced, a wonderful warmth kindled within my heart. I quietly smoothed my soft dress. It seemed then that the man with whom I sat in the woods on that early spring day had already revealed to me all that was harbored in his heart. And I was startled to hear Mazal say, “I heard your voice at night. Was it you at my window?” “I was not by your window,” I replied, “however I have called out to you from my bed at night. I think of you every day, and I looked for traces of you in the cemetery, by my mother’s grave. Last summer I left some flowers and you came and went but you did not stop to smell my flowers.” “Now let me tell you something,” Mazal said, “such feelings will pass. You are still young. Another man has not captured your heart yet. That is why your heart is set upon mine. The men you have met were shallow, whereas you were not bored in my company and so you swore to yourself, It is he. But what will you do the day you find the man who will really capture your heart? As for me, I have come to the age when all I desire is some peace and quiet. Think of your future, Tirtza, and admit it is best we part before it is too late.” I gripped the tree trunk and a stifled cry escaped from within me. “Let us remain good friends,” Mazal said, placing his hand on my head. “Friends!” I cried out. How I loathed such romantic nonsense. Mazal stretched out his warm hand and I leaned forward and kissed his hand. And Mazal rested his head on my shoulder, which he then kissed.

The sun set and we made our way home. A spring chill, doubly potent after a sunlit day, settled in my bones. “We must talk again,” Mazal said. “When, when?” I asked. Mazal repeated my words as though he did not grasp their meaning. “When? Tomorrow, before dusk, in the forest.” “Fine.” I looked at my watch and asked, “At what time?” “At what time?” Akaviah repeated, “At six o’clock.” I bent over my watch and kissed the very same numeral on the face of the watch. And I relished the warmth of the watch that hung over my heart.

I made my way home and my body shook all over. My bones quaked from the cold as I walked, and I told myself: once home it will pass. But when I got home, rather than diminish the fever only grew worse. I lost all desire to eat and my throat burned. Kaila brewed me some tea and added sugar and a slice of lemon. I drank the tea and lay on my bed and pulled up the covers. But I was not warmed.

I awoke, my throat burning. And I lit a candle and then snuffed it out, for its flickering flame hurt my eyes. The wick’s thin curl of smoke and my cold hands only increased my discomfort. The clock struck and I took fright, as I imagined that I was late in meeting Mazal in the forest. I counted the hours and prayed to God to keep the hour we’d arranged to meet from ever arriving. Three, four, five. Ah, I should get up, but I was overcome by sleep. Why couldn’t I sleep until now? Soon I would meet Mazal, a restless night in my eyes. I must get out of bed and rid myself of any traces of sleep. But how can I wash when I have caught such a bad cold? I fumbled against the bedposts and finally managed to get out of bed. I shivered from cold and knew not where I stood. Here is the doorway, or is it the closet door? Where are the matches, and where the window? Why has Kaila drawn the curtains? I could slip and crack my skull against the table or stove — damn it! Where is the lamp? This time I won’t find a thing, perhaps I’ve been struck blind. And now, just as I’ve lost all hope of finding myself a man, Akaviah Mazal will take me to be his wedded wife, and as one who leads the blind, so will Mr. Mazal lead me. Ah, why did I even dare talk to him? I have found my bed, thanks to a merciful God. I lay on the bed and covered myself, yet I fancied that I was still on my feet, walking. I tramped for a good many hours. Where to? An old woman stood by the road waiting for me to ask her the way. Wasn’t she the old woman I first saw last month, when one bright day I ventured out of town? The old woman opened her mouth. “Here she is,” she said. “I barely recognized you, aren’t you Leah’s daughter? Aren’t you Leah’s daughter,” the old woman exclaimed, snuffing tobacco. And prattling on she did not allow me a word in edgewise. I nodded my head: Yes, I was Leah’s daughter. The old woman said, “I said you were Leah’s daughter didn’t I, while you swept by me as if it did not matter a straw. The lambs are ignorant of the pastures where their mothers grazed.” The old woman snuffed a second time, “Did I not nurse your mother with my own milk?” I knew this to be a dream, yet I was confused: my mother had never been nursed at the breast of a stranger, how dare the old woman claim she had nursed my mother. I hadn’t seen the old woman for a great many days, nor had I thought of her, and this gave me further cause for surprise. So why had she suddenly accosted me in my dream? Wondrous are the ways of dreams and who knows their paths.

My father’s footsteps woke me and I saw that he was sad. He gazed at me with tenderness through his bloodshot eyes. I felt ashamed of the mess in my room. My new dress and my stockings lay scattered on the floor. For a moment I forgot it was my father who stood before me, all I could think of was that a man was present in my room. I shut my eyes, filled with shame. I then heard my father’s voice addressing Kaila, who stood by the door, “She’s asleep.” “Good morning, father,” I called out, no longer ashamed. “Weren’t you sleeping? So how are you my child?” “I’m fine,” I replied, straining to speak in a clear voice, but a spasm of coughing took hold of me. “I caught a slight cold and now I will get up, for my cold is over.” “Thank God!” my father said. “But I suggest that you stay in bed today my child.” “No, I must get up,” I cried out stubbornly, for I imagined my father would prevent me from going to my groom.

I knew that I had to throw myself on my father’s mercy. Perhaps he would forgive me for having done that which is forbidden. My good father, my good father, I called out from within my heart, and I took courage and exclaimed, “Father, I was betrothed yesterday.” My father stared at me. I longed to lower my eyes, yet took heart and called out, “Father, didn’t you hear?” My father remained silent, thinking I had spoken out of my fever, and he whispered something to Kaila that I could not hear. He then went to the window to see if it was shut. Regaining my strength I sat up in bed and said to him “Although I caught a chill I am now better, sit by the bed, for I have something to tell you. Let Kaila come too, I have no secrets to hide.” My father’s eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets and worry dimmed their light. He sat on the bed and I said, “Yesterday I met and spoke to Mazal. Father, what is wrong?” “You are a bad girl,” Kaila exclaimed, frightened. “Hush, Kaila,” I retorted. “I have opened my heart to Mazal. But why go on like this, I am betrothed to him.” “Who ever heard of such a thing?” Kaila exclaimed, wringing her hands in despair. My father calmed Kaila down and asked, “When was this done?” “I do not remember,” I replied, “even though I glanced at my watch I have forgotten the hour.” “Have you ever heard of such a thing,” my father said in embarrassment and laughed. “She doesn’t know when it happened.” I too laughed and all at once I heaved a deep sigh and my body shook. “Calm down, Tirtza,” my father said in a worried voice. “Lie in bed for a while, later we will talk.” And as he turned to go I called out after him, “Father, promise not to speak to Mazal until I tell you to do so.” “What can I do,” he exclaimed, and left the house.

As soon as he had gone, I took pen, ink and paper and wrote: My dearly beloved, I won’t be able to come today to the forest, for I have caught a cold. Several days hence I will come to you. In the meantime, be well. I am lying in bed and I am happy, for you dwell in my thoughts all day, undisturbed. I then bade Kaila send the letter. “To whom have you written,” she asked, letter in hand, “the teacher?” Knowing that Kaila did not know how to read or write, I replied in anger, “Read and find out for yourself.” “Don’t foam at the mouth, my bird,” Kaila said. “The man is old while you are young and full of life. Why, you are just a child and barely weaned at that. If it weren’t for my rheumatism I would carry you in my arms. But I have been thinking of your decision. Why fuss over a man?” “Good, good, good,” I cried out laughing. “Hurry now and send the letter, for there is no time to waste.” “But you haven’t drunk your tea yet,” Kaila said. “Let me bring you something hot to drink and water to wash your hands with.” Kaila soon returned with the water. The chill subsided somewhat, my body grew warm under the bedcovers, and my weary bones seemed to melt into the sheets. Although my head burned, its heat was soothing. My eyes flamed in their sockets, and yet my heart was content and my thoughts had calmed. “Look, you’ve let the tea go cold,” Kaila exclaimed, “and I’ve already brought you something hot to drink. It’s all because of your endless brooding and soul-searching.” I laughed and was overcome by a pleasant weariness. I barely managed to call out, “Don’t forget the letter,” before a welcome slumber settled over my eyes.

The day waned and Mintshi Gottlieb arrived. “I heard you were ill,” she said, “and I have come to see how you are feeling.” I knew my father had sent for her and so I concealed my thoughts and said, “I caught cold, but now I am well.” Suddenly I seized hold of her hand and stared into her eyes, and said, “Why are you so quiet, Mrs. Gottlieb?” “But we haven’t stopped talking,” Mintshi replied. “Although we haven’t stopped talking we haven’t mentioned what is really important.” “What’s so important?” Mintshi exclaimed in surprise. And suddenly she added sourly, “Did you expect me to congratulate you?” I placed my right hand over my heart and thrust my left hand towards her, crying, “Indeed, why haven’t you congratulated me?” Mintshi frowned. “Don’t you know, Tirtza, that Mazal is very dear to me, and you are a young girl, while he is forty years old? Even though you are young, you can plainly see that a few years hence he will be like a withered tree whereas your youthful charm will only grow.” I listened and then cried out, “I knew what you would say, but I will do what I must.” “What you must?” exclaimed Mrs. Gottlieb in astonishment. “The obligations of a faithful woman who loves her husband,” I replied, laying stress on my last words. Mrs. Gottlieb was silent for a moment and then opened her mouth and said, “When are you meeting?” I glanced at my watch. “If my letter has not reached him yet then he will now be waiting for me in the forest.” “He will not wait for you in the forest,” Mintshi said, “for he too has surely caught cold. Who knows if he isn’t lying in bed? Why, you have behaved like schoolchildren. I can scarcely believe my ears.” “Is he ill?” I asked, alarmed by her words. “How can I know if he is ill?” Mintshi replied. “It certainly is possible. Haven’t you behaved like little children, sallying into the forest on a winter day in a summer dress?” “No!” I cried out. “I wore a spring dress on a spring day.” “Heaven forbid,” she said, “if I have offended your pride by saying you wore a summer dress on a winter day.”

I was surprised that both Mintshi and my father spoke circumspectly. Still, my happiness did not leave me. While I was absorbed in my own thoughts Mrs. Gottlieb said, “My task is an odd one, my dear friend. I must play the bad aunt. But what can I do? I thought your folly was that of a young girl, but…” Mintshi did not complete her thought, nor did I ask her the meaning of the word “but.” She sat by my side for another half hour and upon leaving kissed my forehead. And I savored in that kiss the tang of a new flavor. I embraced her. “Ah, little monster,” she cried, “you’ve messed up my hair. Let go of me, I must tidy my hair.” And picking up the mirror Mintshi laughed loudly. “Why are you laughing?” I asked, affronted. Mintshi gave me the mirror. And I saw that every inch of its surface was scratched, for I had etched into the silver the name Akaviah Mazal over and over.

A week passed and Mazal did not come to inquire about my health. At times I reproached him for fearing my father and acting in a cowardly fashion, and at times I feared that he too was ill. But I did not ask my father, nor did I have any desire to talk of the matter. Then I remembered the legend of the Baron’s daughter who had loved a man from among the poor of the land. “It shall not come to pass,” her father had decreed. Hearing her father’s words the girl took ill and nearly died. And seeing how ill she was the doctors had said, “The wound is grievous, there is no healing of the fracture, for she is stricken by love.” Her father had then gone forth to her suitor and implored him to marry his daughter. So I remained confined to my bed as sundry visions washed over me. And whenever the door turned on its hinges I asked, “Who’s there?” My heart beat feebly and my voice was like my mother’s voice at the time of her illness.

One day my father said, “The doctor tells me you have regained your strength.” “Tomorrow I will go out,” I replied. “Tomorrow,” my father said, frowning. “Please wait another two or three days before going out, for who knows if the open air will, heaven forbid, not harm you. Three days hence and ours will be a different road. Stay here until the Memorial Day for your mother’s death and we will visit her grave together. You will also find Mr. Mazal there.” My father turned to go.

His words puzzled me, how did he know Mazal would come? Had they met? And if so, was it out of good will? And why had Akaviah not come to see me? And what was to happen? I was so excited that my teeth chattered and I feared I would fall ill again. Why had Akaviah not answered my letters? I cried out. And suddenly my heart was silenced, I ceased mulling over my thoughts, and I drew the covers over my hot flesh and shut my eyes. The day is still far off, I told myself, now I will sleep and the Lord will do what is good in His eyes.

What then happened to me I shall never know, for I lay on my sickbed for a great many days. And when I opened my eyes I beheld Akaviah seated in a chair, and his face lit up the room. I laughed in embarrassment and he too laughed, and it was the laugh of a good man. Just then my father entered and cried out, “Praised be God!” He then strode towards me and kissed my brow. I stretched my arms out and embraced and kissed him, “Oh father, father, my dear father,” I exclaimed. My father, however, forbade me to utter another word. “Calm down, my joy of joys, calm down, Tirtza, be patient for a few more days and then you will talk to your heart’s content.” Later that afternoon the old doctor arrived. And after examining me he stroked my cheek and said, “You are a courageous girl. This time you’ve come round, and now all the medicines in the world won’t do you any harm either.” “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” Kaila cried out from the doorway. Winter drew to an end and I was saved.

I was married on the eve of Shabbat Nahamu. A mere ten people were called to the bridal canopy. A mere ten and the entire town buzzed, for until that day such a simple wedding had never been witnessed in our town. And after the Sabbath we left our town for a summer resort and found lodgings in the home of a widow. The woman served us breakfast and dinner, but we lunched at the dairyman’s house in the village. Three times a week a letter arrived from my father, and I too wrote regularly. Wherever I chanced upon a postcard I sent it to my father. Akaviah did not write other than enclosing his regards. And yet he gave a different shade of meaning to each of his greetings. And a letter arrived from Mintshi Gottlieb telling us that she had found us a place to live. And she drew a ground plan of the house and its rooms on a sheet of paper. Mintshi wished to know whether to rent the lodgings, thereby assuring us of a home on our return. Two days elapsed and we did not answer Mintshi’s letter, and on the third day there were peals of thunder and flashes of lightning and all morning a hard rain poured down. The landlady came to ask whether to light the stove. “But it is not winter yet,” I said laughing. And Akaviah told the woman, “If the sun has drawn in its flames then the heat from the stove will be sweeter sevenfold.”

“Today,” Akaviah said to me, “we will answer Mrs. Gottlieb’s letter.” “But what shall we say?” I asked. “I will teach you how to put reason to good use,” my husband said, “and you will know what to answer. Mrs. Gottlieb has written us a letter to say she has found us lodgings, and this did not come as a surprise, for we are indeed in need of lodgings, and the rooms are agreeable and the woman is a woman of good taste as well as a friend, which gives us all the more reason to trust her words.” “In that case I will write and say that the lodgings please us.” “Wait,” Akaviah said, “someone is knocking. The landlady is here to light the stove.” And the woman kindled the fire with the wood she had brought. She then told us how she and her forefathers and her fathers’ forefathers were born in this very village. She would never leave the village; here she was born, grew up and would die. It was beyond her why people left their birthplace and wandered to the far corners of the world. You have a home? Honor it and dwell in it. And if you say, ‘I like my friend’s garden,’ well, why don’t you plant a garden yourself? Why should the air stink in your own neighborhood, while it smells good in another part of town where your friend lives?” My husband laughed at her words and said, “Her words ring true.”

The rain had stopped, but the soil hadn’t dried yet. The fire blazed in the stove and we sat in our room and warmed ourselves. My husband said, “We have had such a good time that we nearly forgot about our future lodgings. But listen to what I propose and tell me whether it seems right in your eyes. You are familiar with my house, if it is too small we could add a room and live in it. Now we must write to Mintshi Gottlieb to thank her for her labors.” We wrote Mintshi a letter of gratitude, and to my father we announced our decision to move into Akaviah’s home. Our plans did not please my father, for Akaviah lived in a peasant’s house. Yet my father did repairs on the house and he also built us a new room. A month passed and we returned. My home won over my heart. Although it was no different from the other farmhouses, a different spirit dwelled within it. And as we entered we were greeted by the sweet fragrance of potted flowers and a freshly baked cake prepared by Mintshi for our homecoming. The rooms were attractive and cozy, for the hands of a wise woman had adorned them. An adjoining servant’s room had also been built. But there was no maidservant to serve the house. My father sent Kaila but I promptly sent her back, preferring to eat at my father’s until we should find a young maidservant. And we would arrive at noon and return in the evening.

At the end of the holiday my father left for Germany to conclude his business affairs and consult with doctors. And the doctors directed my father to the city of Wiesbaden. Kaila then came to our home to help me with the household chores.

We soon found a young maidservant and Kaila returned to my father’s home. The girl came for only two, three hours a day at the most. I then said, How will I manage all the housework by myself? But soon enough I realized it was far better to have the servant come for a few hours than for the entire day, for she would leave after completing her duties and then there was no one to keep me from talking to my husband as much as I pleased.

Winter came. Wood and potatoes were stored indoors. My husband labored over his book chronicling the history of the Jews in our town and I cooked fine and savory dishes. After the meal we would go out for a walk, or else we would stay at home and read. And Mrs. Gottlieb gave me an apron she had sewn for me. Akaviah caught sight of me in the large apron and called me mistress of the household. And I was happy being mistress of the house.

But times will change. I began to resent cooking. At night I would spread a thin layer of butter on a slice of bread and hand it to my husband. And if the maidservant did not cook lunch then we did not eat. Even preparing a light meal burdened me. One Sunday the servant did not come and I sat in my husband’s room, for that day we had only one stove going. I was motionless as a stone. I knew my husband could not work if I sat with him in the room, as he was accustomed to working without anyone else present. But I did not rise and leave, nor did I stir from my place. I could not rise. I undressed in his room and bid him to arrange my clothes. And I shuddered in fear lest he approach me, for I was deeply ashamed. And Mrs. Gottlieb said, “The first three months will pass and you will be yourself again.” My husband’s misfortune shocked me and gave me no rest. Was he not born to be a bachelor? Why then had I robbed him of his peace? I longed to die, for I was a snare unto Akaviah. Night and day I prayed to God that I should give birth to a girl who would tend to all his needs after my death.

My father returned from Wiesbaden. He retired from his business, though not wanting to remain idle he would spend two or three hours a day with the man who bought his shop. And he comes to visit us at night, not counting those nights when it rains, for on such nights the doctor has forbidden him to venture out of the house. He arrives bearing apples or a bottle of wine or a book from his bookshelf — a gift for my husband. Then, being fond of reading the papers, he relates to us the news of the day. Sometimes he asks my husband about his work and grows confused as he speaks to him. Other times my father talks of the great cities he has seen while traveling on business. Akaviah listens like a village boy. Is this the student who came from Vienna and spoke to my mother and her parents about the wonders of the capital? How happy I am that they have something to talk about. Whenever they speak together I recall the exchange between Job and his friends, for they speak in a similar manner. One speaks and the other answers. Such is their way every night. And I stand vigilant, lest my father and my husband quarrel. The child within me grows from day to day. All day I think of nothing but him. I knit my child a shirt and have bought him a cradle. And the midwife comes every so often to see how I am faring. I am almost a mother.

A night chill envelopes the countryside. We sit in our rooms and our rooms are suffused with warmth and light. Akaviah sets his notebooks aside and comes up to me and embraces me. And he sings a lullaby. Suddenly his face clouds over and he falls silent. I do not ask what causes this, but am glad when my father comes home. My father takes out a pair of slippers and a red cap — presents for the child. “Thank you, grandfather,” I say in a child’s piping voice. At supper even my father agrees to eat from the dishes I prepared today. We speak of the child about to be born. Now I glance at my father’s face and now at my husband’s. I behold the two men and long to cry, to cry in my mother’s bosom. Has my husband’s sullen mood brought this about, or does a spirit dwell in womankind? My father and my husband sit at the table, their faces shining upon me. By dint of their love and compassion, each resembles the other. Evil has seventy faces and love has but one face.

I then thought of the son of Gottlieb’s brother on the day Gottlieb came to his brother’s home and his brother’s wife sat with her son. Gottlieb lifted the boy up in the air and danced, but his brother entered and the boy glanced now at Gottlieb and now at his brother, and he turned his face away from them both and in a fit of tears he flung his arms out to his mother.

So end the chronicles of Tirtza.

In my room at night, as my husband bent over his work and I was afraid of disturbing him, I sat alone and wrote down all I had treasured up in memory. Sometimes I would ask myself, Why have I set my memories down, what new things have I seen and what do I wish to leave behind? Then I would say: It is to find solace in writing, and so I wrote all that is written in this book.

Translated by Gabriel Levin

Revised and Annotated by Jeffrey Saks

Annotations to “In the Prime of Her Life”

In the Prime of Her Life / Heb. Bidmi Yamehah, an adaptation of Isaiah 38:10, describing King Hezekiah’s nearly being stricken down by illness in the prime of his life. The reference is doubly resonant with our story when we consider the Talmud’s suggestion (Berakhot 10a) that the cause of his illness was an initial refusal to marry and father children; i.e., trampling upon a normal structure of family life.

Kaddish / Mourner’s prayer, recited during the year of morning following the death of a close relative.

Melamed / Heb. teacher; a tutor hired to teach Jewish studies.

Bedingungs-Buchstaben and Sprach-Werkzeuge / “conditional phrases and linguistic methods”; i.e. German grammatical terms.

Sash / According to custom to wrap a ritual belt around the waist prior to prayer.

Minhah / Afternoon prayer.

Mizrah / Decorative sign indicating East and the direction toward Jerusalem in which prayers are recited; often embroidered with Biblical verses and the like.

Blessed is he who shall not forsake… / From the Musaf prayer of Rosh HaShanah.

Malbim / Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel Wisser (1809-79), better known by the acronym Malbim, was a Russian rabbi, Hebrew grammar, and Bible commentator.

He shall shave his head… / Job 1:20.

Beit Midrash / House of Study.

Succah / Festival booth used during the holiday of Succot; cf. Lev. 23:42–43.

Haskalah / The Jewish Enlightenment, 18th–19th century movement that advocated adopting values of the European Enlightenment, pressing for better integration into general society, and increasing education in secular studies.

Gemara / Talmud; main body of the Oral Law comprising a commentary on the Mishnah.

Kol Nidre / Solemn opening prayer of Yom Kippur.

Shema / “Hear O Israel” (Deut. 6:4), central declaration of faith and a twice-daily Jewish prayer; also recited at bedtime.

Screwy / In Hebrew the dog’s name is Me’uvat, meaning broken, damaged, warped, bent (cf. Eccl. 1:15, “A twisted thing cannot be made straight…”) — the translation cannot contain all the meanings contained in the name, including a mild hint of sexual perversion.

Shabbat Nahamu / “The Sabbath of Consolation”, nickname for the Sabbath following the mournful three week Summer period commemorating the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple.