Katerina

16

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

After my nightmare, fear didn’t loosen its grip on me. It sometimes felt as if my entire village was chasing me. I knew it was only vain imagining, an impression, restlessness, but it was hard for me to dislodge the fear. I ran from place to place, and every morning I blessed my life and my son’s life.

Just a year ago I had had strong bonds with Rosa and with Henni. I spoke to them face to face, without barriers. Now my sleep was thick and dreamless. I woke up in panic and started to pack my belongings.

“Where are you hurrying to?” a familiar voice suddenly asked me in clear Yiddish.

“I have to get to Czernowitz,” I answered for some reason.

“But drink something first. Give the boy something to drink. In this season there are wagons, and if fortune smiles on you, you’ll even find a coach.”

Her voice was like the essence of silence. Only a believer has such a quiet voice. She prepared porridge for the baby and a mug of coffee for me. The old woman’s soft movements calmed me, and I wanted to weep. Benjamin clung to me and smiled.

“Where are you from, my dear?” she asked.

“I’m a gentile.” I didn’t conceal it.

“I see,” said the old woman. “But you’ve soaked up a lot of Jewishness.”

“For years I worked in the home of an observant Jew.”

“But your voice tells me that you were always close to the Jews.”

“Since my youth.”

“And now what do you want to do?”

“I want to raise my son, Benjamin, in a clean, quiet house. I want to keep him away from coarse voices and from crudeness. I want him to see a lot of trees and a lot of water, and I don’t want him to be in the company of horsemen.”

The old woman looked at me with her good eyes and said, “It’s been a long time since I heard a voice like yours. Who was that woman you worked for in your youth?”

I told her.

“And where is that woman?”

“She was murdered by thugs, she and her late husband.”

“They don’t give us any peace, my dear. Here too the murderers’ hands are full of blood. My son-in-law, may he rest in peace, was murdered ten years ago, in this courtyard. He was sitting on a bench and drinking a cup of coffee, and suddenly the murderer came and struck him with an ax.”

“And you aren’t afraid to live here, mother?”

“I rise every morning and deliver my life and all my wishes into God’s hands. Let Him do with them as He desires. Once I was very frightened of death. Now I am no longer frightened. I have many dear ones in the world of truth. I won’t be alone there.”

The village Jews were creatures of a special kind. The trees and the silence purified their faith. They spoke about matters great and small with the same simplicity. The peasants admired them, were afraid of them, and when their bigotry welled up, they murdered them.

“The Jews should leave the village. The village is a trap,” I said.

“You’re right, my dear. But I’ll never leave here. Here I was born and here, apparently, will be my grave.”

I paid her for the night’s lodging and added a few pennies.

“You added too much. A person must save his money for times of trouble,” she said.

I looked at her face and said to myself, A person doesn’t meet a countenance like this every day. People are stingy and mean as if this world were an eternity. I shall preserve her face in my heart. That day, her face told me that death is not the end.

The sun was full, and I walked on foot. I was happy with Benjamin, and happy among the trees. When I got tired, I would spread a blanket on the earth and offer him whatever was in my bag: cheese, soft bread, a tomato, a mashed egg. He ate everything that came to hand. There was no need to feed him. And when he was happy, he rolled on the grass like a puppy, laughing and voicing little bleats like a baby kid.

But the nights frightened me. I tried to overcome fear, but fear was stronger. Sometimes Benjamin also woke from a dream and scared me. I told him that dreams are meaningless: Your mother’s at your side; she’ll always be at your side. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I hugged him hard, and he calmed down.

In the morning Benjamin spoke his first word. He said, “Mommy,” and he said it in Yiddish. He immediately laughed out loud.

“Say it again.”

He laughed and said it again.

Now it was clear to me that Yiddish would be his language. That discovery made me happy. The thought that my son would talk Rosa’s and Benjamin’s language seemed to fill my heart with new hope, but why did my hands tremble?

The next day I taught him a new word: hand, I showed him my hand, and he said, “Hand.” He rolled on the grass with the words, repeating them with the sweet accent of a baby, bringing tears to my eyes. The green meadows extended as far as the horizon and evoked in me, against my will, the meadows of my native village. Now they seemed so far away to me, as if they had never existed.

So we went on. Every night in a different inn. The proprietors of the inns didn’t always smile upon us. It was fortunate that I could pay for a hot meal. After a day of walking, the two of us were bone weary. Benjamin spoke a few words of Yiddish, and everybody laughed.

“Where did he learn?” asked the Jewish owner of an inn.

“From me.”

“What does he need that for?”

“So he won’t be a goy.”

I knew that answer would make him laugh, and he did laugh indeed.

It was very hard for me to do without a drink. I promised myself not to drink, and I kept my promise, but I paid in blood. At night I woke up short of breath, my hands trembling. It was a hideous torture, and sometimes I asked myself if it wouldn’t be better to have a drink. After all, it was no sin.

I shall never forget that summer. But the autumn abruptly came and cut off my happiness. It was a muddy autumn, flooded with wild rains, which would suddenly slash down and drown the roads in mire, and we would be in a neglected inn, among toughs and drunkards, the floor full of filth and the bed not clean.

“Where’s the kid from?”

“He’s mine.”

“Why does he talk Yiddish?”

“He doesn’t talk. He just babbles.” I tried to shield him.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Why?”

“Take him to a village quickly so that he’ll learn a human language. Even a Ruthenian bastard is a Ruthenian. Only children of the devil talk Yiddish.”

“He’s not a bastard.”

“What is he then? Was he born with a priest’s blessing?”

“He’s mine.”

To my misfortune, Benjamin began to recite all the words I’d taught him. I tried to shush him, but I didn’t succeed.He laughed and babbled, and every word that came out of his mouth was clear and distinct. It was impossible to mistake them; the child was talking Yiddish.

“Get him out of here,” shouted one of the drunkards.

“Where can I take him?”

“Take him outside.”

I was depressed and had a few drinks. The drinks warmed me and imbued me with courage. Fear left me, and I informed them clearly, leaving no possibility for misunderstanding, that I had no intention of returning to my village, no matter what. The village was full of coarseness and wickedness, and not even the beasts of the field were innocent there.

“Servant girl,” one of them cursed at me.

“Villain,” I didn’t hold my tongue.

“Whore!” he said, and spat.

I left the inn and found refuge in a barn. I blocked the window with two big bales of hay, wrapped up Benjamin, and clutched him tightly to my body. After an hour of shivering, he fell asleep in my arms.