Katerina

6

“YOUR EYES ARE RED,” said the mistress of the house.

“Dreams tormented me,” I lied.

Meanwhile, life resumed its open course: rising, tidying the house, washing, and ironing. During pauses or at night, I used to tell the boys about my home, about the meadows and the rivers, all the beloved things preserved within me from my childhood. But so they wouldn’t think that everything was quiet and pleasant, I rolled up my sleeves and showed them the scars on my arms.

More than once I observed them in their sleep and said to myself: Dear Lord, they’re so frail. Who will defend them in a time of trouble? Everybody hates them, and everybody wants to harm them. More than once I spoke about it to them. Boys of their age in the village ride on horseback, go out to the pasture, sharpen scythes. Ten-year-olds are like twenty-year-olds, with their hands in everything. They swim in the river and drift on rafts, and when they need to, they join in fights. When I told them about all those wonders, they looked at me very attentively and wonderingly but without fear. They, apparently, knew what to expect in the future. They were prepared for it. Talking with them, in any event, always amused me: They learn to ask at an early age. I didn’t mind if they asked. I told them about everything. My stories made them laugh and amazed them. They asked about details, sometimes about the tiniest details.

For amusement, I too began asking. They were miserly in their answers. Don’t talk too much. That’s a general rule that the Jews are very strict about. I had also learned how to be quiet, for a different reason. My mother beat me several times for shooting off my mouth. Since then, it’s been hard for me to talk.

Meanwhile, I received greetings from my village. My cousin Karil looked for and found me. The winter rains were bad, the harvests were meager, illness had spread among the cattle. My old father needed a little money now. Karil spoke in a temperate and serious voice. I undid my kerchief and gave him everything I had. “Have you any more?” he asked.

“That’s what I have.”

“When will you have more?”

“In a month or two, when they give me.”

“Honor thy father and thy mother.” My old cousin found the proper occasion to preach a moral lesson to me. He also added, “Honor not only with speech but also with money.” The way the peasants use verses from the Bible makes me laugh.

In that short time, my cousin managed to tell me that my father’s wife wasn’t as good as my mother. She was lazy, pretended to be sick, and last summer they hadn’t seen her in the field. The details recounted in his stories brought my native village before my eyes, my father and my mother. Now I felt the strangeness that had been suspended between myself and them, as though a yawning abyss and a black river separated us. Almighty God, what happened? I wanted to scream. All that beloved green was once mine. What had seized it from me? I didn’t know then that my few years in town had molded me, changed me, and all the possessions I had brought from my ancestors’ house were lost. But never mind. I had received far more, more than I was worthy of. The Jews didn’t abandon me. I was with them all along the way.

The next day the cold sun shone and the mistress of the house announced to me: Passover is coming. Who still remembers a Jewish Passover here? I’m the last one, it seems to me. Those weren’t easy days for me: I worked hard; I scoured pots with sand. Afterward, I used to dip them in a barrel of boiling water, to scorch them. Those smells are still encased within me like hidden secrets. Years in the service of the Jews are no laughing matter. The Jewish odor is a complex affair. In my childhood, I heard people say that the Jews smell of soap. That’s a lie. Every one of their days and every one of their holidays has its own smell, but particularly pungent are the aromas of Passover. For many years I lived in the midst of those fragrances.

Passover has many odors, but for me the flowers of spring became flowers of mourning. On the second day of Passover, in the middle of the street, the master of my house was murdered. A thug attacked him and stabbed him to death. Every Passover they kill a Jew, sometimes two. I heard afterward in the tavern how he was killed. One of the toughs decided the master of my house would be the victim that year, because he had refused to sell to a peasant on credit. That was only an excuse, of course. Every Passover they make a sacrifice. This time the lot fell upon Benjamin.

Thus, in broad daylight, my beloved was murdered. Forgive me, Jesus, if I say something that won’t please You, for if there was one man whom I loved in my lifetime, it was the Jew Benjamin. I have loved many Jews in my life, rich Jews and poor Jews, Jews who remembered they were Jews and those who tried to forget. Years passed before I learned to love them properly. Many hindrances prevented me from drawing close to them, but you, Benjamin, if I may address you personally, laid the foundation for my great love, you, in whose eyes I did not even dare look, whose prayers I heard from a distance, and it’s doubtful whether I ever entered your thoughts even once. You taught me to love.

In their burial arrangements, as in other ritual matters, the Jews are frightfully practical. All their pain and mourning are without a melody, without a flag, and without a flower. They lay the body in the grave and rapidly cover it, without delay.

The next day, after the funeral, I was sure all the Jews would gather up their belongings and flee. I too felt a fear of death, but to my surprise, no one left the city. The lady of the house sat on the floor with her two children, and the house filled with people. The weeping was scant, no one cursed, and no one raised his hand against his fellow man. God has given and God has taken away; that’s the verse, and that’s the moral. The common opinion that the Jews are cowards is baseless. People who lay their dead in an open pit, without decoration and without glory, are not cowards.

I stayed secluded so that no one would see my mourning. Thoughts tortured me all week long: the sight of my mother’s face and of the face of Jesus. But more clearly than anyone I saw Benjamin—not a ghost, but as I had seen him for five years, sitting at the table, his face turned inward, but illuminated.

After the week of mourning, Rosa got up and went to the store; the children returned to school. Benjamin’s death accompanied me everywhere. Had I not been afraid, I would have gone and thrown myself on his tomb. That concealed mourning sent me back to the tavern. I had a few drinks. I didn’t get drunk; I came home foggy. On the way, one of my Ruthenian acquaintances met me and proposed that we spend the night together.

“I’m sick,” I told him.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you leave the Jews?”

“They’re good to me.”

He twisted his face into an expression of contempt, repugnance, and disgust. He spat and turned away. That was the end of my intimate relations with my fellow Ruthenians. Within my soul I decided that I wouldn’t leave the house, even if my salary was low, from now on. Benjamin’s death brought me close to his wife, Rosa. We used to talk a lot about the boys, insults, and wounds. The Jews don’t indulge in idle talk, but Rosa, in her time of suffering, drew close. More than once we would stay deep in conversation until late at night.

Thus I bound my soul up with theirs. I raised the children as though they were my own. Rosa trusted me, and she didn’t lock the cabinets or dressers. The division of labor was simple. She worked in the store, and I worked at home. The children studied and got on excellently, and along with her, I felt pleased at their every success.

I used to flee my former friends, but they pursued me everywhere, and always with the same question: “What’s the matter with you, Katerina?”

“Nothing at all,” I decided to answer.

Sometimes I used to go into the tavern, sip a drink or two, but I didn’t sit for a long time. Life in my native village fell further behind me. I continued going to church, but only on holidays. The Jews are evil, the Jews are corrupt, they must be rooted out, I would hear on every corner. That muttering reminded me of winter in the village. The young men in the village used to organize to hunt Jews. For many days they would talk about it and laugh. The hunt included horses, dogs, and scarecrows, and in the end they used to haul an old Jew into the village, torment him, and threaten to put him to death because he had killed Jesus. The old man would beg for his life, and finally, he would have to pay his own ransom in cash, standing in shock for a long time after the ordeal.

Meanwhile, I learned that my father had passed away. No one bothered to inform me. A peasant from the village who I happened to meet told me. When I returned home and told Rosa, she told me, “Take off your shoes and sit on the floor and mourn for your father as if he had died today.”

“My father didn’t love me.”

“That makes no difference. We are commanded to honor our fathers.” That answer astounded me with its simplicity. I took off my shoes and sat. Rosa gave me a cup of coffee. I didn’t mourn for my father, may God forgive me, but for my secret love.

Abraham and Meir taught me to read, and I am very grateful to them. There’s no greater pleasure than reading. I open a book and gates of light are open before me. My mother tongue grew impoverished in my mouth, and when I talk with a peasant, I mix a few words of Yiddish in with my language. The peasant laughs and asks, “Where are you from?” And when I tell him that I’m a Ruthenian, a village girl, he reprimands me. One peasant cursed me out loud, calling me a witch, worse than the devil.

True, after Benjamin’s death I grew thinner. My gait wasn’t as firm as before, food that wasn’t Jewish was hard for me to digest, vodka gave me heartburn, but I wasn’t weak or sick. True, many dreams filled my sleep, and that’s not a good sign. All dreams augur ill. Sometimes it seemed to me that I saw black angels and sometimes birds of prey. When I awoke, the smell of blood surrounded me on all sides. The dreams returned night after night. I hadn’t told Rosa about them, but finally I could no longer withhold them, and I told her. Rosa’s response surprised me: “What do you want? They always lie in wait for us.”

Apparently, she didn’t know how right she was. At Hanukkah, hooligans burst out of the tavern and ransacked Jewish stores. The snow was deep, roads were cut off, and the cry for help went unheard. The toughs did their bloody work without hindrance. They didn’t spare women or old people. Their cries rose up to the heavens, but no one came to their aid.

The next day the police counted twenty-one dead, including three children. Rosa had protected her little store with fierce tenacity, but the hooligans were stronger than she was and they strangled her.

I shall never forget that funeral in the snow. The dead outnumbered their mourners. Snow fell without letup, and the silence was like ice. The peasants shut themselves up in their homes like wild beasts in their lairs. I hugged the children to my breast and swore on Rosa’s grave that I wouldn’t abandon them.

Sometimes it seems that time has stopped its flow: I am still at home, by the sink, washing their shirts, polishing their shoes, and escorting them to school. The air outdoors is clear. The years have only sharpened its clarity. My love for Benjamin did not flag and wasn’t forgotten. I see him sometimes very distinctly, but Rosa is closer to me, like a sister. With her I can converse at any time, for hours. And always, it is as though she is sitting by my side. A kind of untarnished practicality. Once, I was unable to value that forthrightness properly. Now I know, you, my dear ones, are my root on this earth. I have served in many homes during my long life, I have loved many people and some of them loved me, but from you, Rosa, I drew strength and patience.

Now, almighty God, no other soul is close to me on this earth. They’ve all perished in horrible deaths. Now they are stored up only within me. At night I feel them. They crowd in close to me, together, and with all my strength I try to protect them. All the people around here are informers and wicked. No one is upright and no one is merciful.

Sometimes I hear their voices, quiet, but very clear. I understand every word. The link hasn’t been severed, thank God, and we continue our long summer conversations, the good winter conversations, and you, my sons, Abraham and Meir, your ironed uniforms, your briefcases strapped to your backs, your fine report cards—you’re all within me. The years have not made you part from me. Now I am here and you are there, but not far away and not estranged.