Katerina

17

WINTER CAME ALL AT ONCE, and strongly. The inns were empty and cold, and the landlords were irritable. Benjamin cried, and I was helpless. The winter winds now prevailed over the area. I stood next to the windows, which were coated with frost, stamping my feet in great desperation.

I was willing to pay any price to heat the room, but the landlord was stingy about every piece of wood, stubbornly repeating the same argument: One must save. Who knows what frost we could expect this winter. Just a few days ago the roads were full of people, wagons, coaches galloping in every direction, and now there was no memory of them, only winds and snow.

One of the wagon drivers agreed to take me to the railroad station, but in the end he changed his mind.

“I’m willing to take the chance,” I told him.

“A mother with a tender babe mustn’t take risks,” he reproached me.

He was afraid, and he had reason to be afraid: The storms raged and plucked at the roofs of the houses.

Finally, I had no alternative but to threaten the proprietor of the inn. If he didn’t give me wood, I would summon the police. That threat made an impression. Immediately, he let me take wood from the storeroom.

“We thought you were softer,” said the landlord.

“Why?”

“You speak fine Yiddish.”

“So for that we have to freeze?”

“I understand,” said the proprietor of the inn, without explaining himself.

Imperceptibly, the winter, which assailed me and confined me in that miserable inn, aroused my old, dormant vitality. I was talking the way they talk in the village, without ceremony. Let people know that the world isn’t lawless. Benjamin also mustn’t be soft. A weak Jew arouses dark instincts.

“You must be strong,” I drill into Benjamin. He laughs, and his laugh has the sound of glass bells. If you are strong, your mother will be strong too. Indeed, Benjamin gained strength from day to day. His hands gripped me powerfully. And when he got angry, he scratched. The scratches hurt me, but I was pleased by his anger. After he scratched, he crawled under the table, hiding and laughing.

I trained Benjamin to stand. Standing demanded a great effort from him, but he triumphed and stood steady. I had no doubt that he would be muscular and sturdy. His vocabulary also grew from day to day. Now he made a lot of sounds. To make him laugh I would whisper a word in Ruthenian to him. He would laugh as though I had uttered absolute nonsense.

Outside, there was no change. Snow was heaped up on top of snow. I had no need of luxuries. I bought provisions from the landlady and cooked modest meals. Benjamin ate everything and had a healthy appetite. In the evening, he dropped to the floor and fell asleep. His ability to fall asleep was astonishing. He fell asleep instandy. From him I learned that the line between wakefulness and sleep is very thin. My sleep wasn’t tranquil. Visions invaded me from all sides and made me dizzy. The landlord raised the price of firewood again. He claimed that the market price had gone sky high. I paid him without a murmur. I had a hunch he was profiteering. The landlord knew that now I couldn’t leave, so he could take advantage of me. I paid him. Later I didn’t keep silence, and I told him: “You mustn’t profiteer. The Jews received the Torah, and they must observe it.” The landlord was surprised by my argument. He spread out his bills and receipts before me and showed me that he wasn’t profiteering. On the contrary, his losses were great. I didn’t believe him, and I told him that I didn’t believe him. That winter my hunches got stronger, and I wasn’t afraid to express them.

“You’re embittering my life.” He appealed to my conscience.

Benjamin had changed me. I became slightly plump, but my movements weren’t confined. I crawled with him under the table, jumped rope, and rolled the length of the room with him.

The members of the household were wary with me, seldom speaking in my presence and then weighing every word before it was uttered. They were afraid I would inform on them. I had no intention of informing. Tale-bearing is a contemptible trait. Only the basest people are informers. I wanted to tell them that, but I knew that my words would only increase their suspicion. I remembered: Scoundrels had informed on Rosa, and Rosa had had to run from office to office to disprove the false accusation. When she came home, she would fall on the floor and weep in great sorrow and shame. I wouldn’t inform, because the Torah commanded us not to spread gossip, I thought of telling them, but immediately changed my mind, lest it sound self-righteous.

In a short time, when we got to Czernowitz, I would read to Benjamin from books. Benjamin would open his big eyes and listen. That thought, for some reason, moved me greatly. Now every little movement of Benjamin’s brought me to tears. I must be strong, I told myself, and I stifled my tears.

The next day the storm died down, and a bright winter sky was revealed in its full splendor. I must set out, I said, as though a home were waiting for me in the distance. During the past weeks I had found that my presence was very burdensome to the landlord. Every time I appeared in the corridor, the landlady drew back. The landlord didn’t show himself very much, either. He ignored me. My room was very close to their bedroom, and they didn’t allow themselves a single superfluous word. Don’t talk, I heard the landlord’s voice.

I packed up my few belongings, wrapped Benjamin in furs, and paid. The landlord didn’t ask for anything extra, and he didn’t say thank you. No one was in the hall of the inn at that time, and I set out without a blessing.

The bright sun didn’t lessen the cold. The chill was fierce, but I knew I had to leave that place behind and move on.

“Climb in.” A peasant stopped his sled.

“Where to?”

“Czernowitz.”

“How did you know?”

“I guessed.”

Thus he decided instead of me. He was an old peasant, transporting a few crates of apples, some bundles of dry fruit, and a box of fresh dairy products in his sled. In the front corner he had left a vacant spot for a passenger.

“I don’t like riding alone,” he confided.

“How long will we be traveling?”

“Till evening.”

Benjamin fell asleep in my arms. Only now did I notice how much he had grown during the winter months. His face had filled out and golden hair covered his forehead; the folds in his cheeks had melted, and a new layer of pink padded them.

“Where do you live?”

“In the city,” I stated flatly, without furnishing details.

“But you’re from the country, right?”

“Correct, uncle.” I used village language.

“You work for Jews?”

“Correct, uncle.”

The trip was fast and even, and in the afternoon we stopped at a tavern. I had a very strong urge to go up to the bar and order a drink, but I controlled myself. I stayed in my seat and watched over Benjamin’s sleep. It was a Ruthenian tavern, the kind that gave off the stink of manure and vodka day and night, and which one didn’t leave till one had inebriated each and every limb in one’s body.

When the peasant returned to his sled, he scolded me for not coming in and sharing a drink. A person without a drink isn’t a person. Drink arouses the body and allows a person to speak openly.