“Where are the beetles?” I said.
“I trapped them by the pond.”
I found the beetles in cages made from brittle sticks and thorns.
Freedom, I wrote, striking the pen against the air. It was a hard word to make come alive, for what sort of shape should such a word have in the world? But I wrote it, and the cages dissolved.
In their new life, they were not my soft beetles anymore, but something changed. Wildness came to them, and joy. They pelted Matthew, who cowered behind his hands, and then they flew away.
Ink ran out of the pen in rivers. Ink drenched the garden, filling the gaps in the stone pathways.
Matthew sank with his arms full of new skin, impressions of beetle wings indented in his face. The ink ran around him but would not touch him.
The pen dissolved in my hands. A little bit of ink splashed into my mouth. It tasted like honey and lavender, and the scent of Persimmon Books.
With the beetles gone, I knew the garden wasn’t mine anymore.
I saw Matthew again when I was in my thirties. He wore grey slacks and an expression like his father’s, calm and tired.
“It’s been so long,” he said. He tried to greet me with a hug, but I shook his hand.
We talked of nothing. I never asked him about the garden. I almost wonder if he would remember. I think with experiences like that, you either remember them intensely or not at all. I gave him a recipe for peach cobbler, and we said we’d go for coffee, but of course we both knew we never would.
I hope someone has found the garden, with the dead leaf chairs and the algae pond, with the roses in strange colors that are nothing like the sunset, with the ink-stained stones. I imagine a girl finding her way there and breathing in the scent of leaf mold and petals, knowing she is home.
I think sometimes about the bit of ink I swallowed, and wonder if, like the beetles, I am changed from it.
When I had the pen, I only wrote what I thought should be true in the world. I think that’s what allowed my words to pull themselves up from the page and make themselves real.
The words I am writing now stay on the page, and I myself must go out into the world. It is hard, sometimes, to do it, but I remember that the way I shape my own story has power. I remember that I can write myself into the world, one word at a time, the way I once wrote a rose garden, and this gives me a sense of belonging that I never had at sixteen. Sometimes, I catch the truth of things, and watch as my words make their way into the world, taking shape, settling in the places they were meant to be.
Beth Goder (she/her) works as an archivist, processing the papers of economists, scientists, and other interesting folks. In the past, Beth has played percussion in a community band and been a member of a Renaissance Faire dance troupe, but now she spends most of her free time writing. Her fiction has appeared in venues such as Escape Pod, Fireside Magazine, and Flash Fiction Online. You can find her online at bethgoder.com.
Today, I am a Fountain Pen
Lawrence Miller
Author’s Note: Today, Jewish young people (and adults) of all genders can celebrate becoming B’nai Mitzvot, or Children of the Commandments. For most of Jewish history, this rite of passage was sadly reserved for boys and was a simple affair, at which the father of a boy would declare that his son was now legally responsible for his actions, and the boy would “become a man” in the eyes of society (and the law). A few hundred years ago, regional traditions of celebration around this ceremony sprang up, including in Poland, where this story is set. The giving of gifts increased in popularity, and in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, fountain pens were especially popular gifts. A more modern tradition arose for the boy becoming Bar Mitzvah to deliver a speech as part of the ceremony. These speeches so frequently included variations of “yesterday I was a boy; today I am a man” that they became known as “Today I am a Man” speeches. These two factors were humorously combined in a joke told by Jewish comedians about a boy who is so excited to receive gifts at his Bar Mitzvah, that when he steps up to deliver his “Today I am a Man” speech, he says “Today I am a Fountain Pen” instead. With fountain pens no longer as popular gifts, the joke is now dated, but remembered with fondness by the older generations. The title comes from that tradition. I grew up reading and hearing Jewish folktakes, and this is written in that style. The main character’s name, “Rivka Pippik” more or less means “Rebecca Belly-Button” in Yiddish. I received a fountain pen as a Bar Mitzvah gift myself, and now as an adult, I carry a fondness for them, which through Rivka’s stories, it is my pleasure to share with you.
1.
Once there was, or there wasn’t, a girl named Rivka Pippik, who lived in Chelevka, a shtetl about two hours’ walk from Lodz. Every morning, as Rivka’s older brother went to study Torah with the old men, and Rivka’s older sister went to mend clothes with the old ladies, Rivka followed her Zayde Shmuel to his workshop. Together they would turn wood into bowls and vases, bangles and boxes, stools and spoons, and of course, goblets. But her favorite things to make were fountain pens.
When Rivka Pippik was 12 years old, and she was tall enough to reach the treadles on the lathe and strong enough to use them, Rivka’s Zayde Shmuel asked Rivka why she liked making pens so much. “I suppose it’s because the smallest scrap of wood can be drilled and turned, and find a new life,” she said. When Rivka first started coming to her Zayde’s shop, her uncle Hershel was still making the pen nibs by hand, and the barrels of the pens were one solid piece. But now there was a factory in far-off England. Rivka’s Zayde Shmuel had ordered some fittings of brass, and a shipment had arrived, and they now had hundreds of fine nibs and tiny, delicate feeds just waiting to be used.
Rivka decided to turn a pen for her friend Anzelm as a gift for his upcoming Bar Mitzvah. As she worked, Rivka’s thoughts meandered back to her first days in her Zayde’s workshop: seeing his chisels and gouges, his wood blanks, waxes, and oils, and of course his lathe—sitting on her Zayde’s lap, a chisel in her hands and her hands in her Zayde’s hands. She smiled to herself as she guided the gouge along the turning wood, humming a tune she remembered her Zayde humming to her. Rivka’s Zayde offered to drill and work the oil into the barrel and cap, and Rivka accepted, and they assembled the finished pen together, Shmuel fitting it into a fine laquered box when it was complete.
When Rivka’s Zayde Shmuel passed away a week before Anzelm’s Bar Mitzvah, Rivka considered keeping the pen for herself, as it was the last project they had worked on together, but Rivka decided that her Zayde would have wanted it to go to its intended recipient. Rivka understood then that this pen represented not only the end of her collaboration with her Zayde, but also the start of her career as the sole woodworker of the Pippik family.
Rivka watched Anzelm’s face, a study of focus as he read from the Torah, his eyebrows furrowed as he guided the yad across the parchment and occasionally stuttered his way through, and Rivka felt pride in her friend Anzelm and in her work on the pen, and in her Zayde Shmuel, and it was with true pleasure that Rivka handed Anzelm the laquered box that Saturday afternoon.
This pen would be the finest Anzelm would own in his lifetime, and he treasured it always. Anzelm found himself drawn to writing with it in times of joy and in times of sorrow, and especially at times of transition. When Anzelm used the pen he felt confident and bold, and became known by his family and friends as a man who embraced new beginnings in all their forms.
2.
When Rivka Pippik was 19 years old, and she had arranged a favorable marriage for herself to Zocha Krawiec, the 21-year-old son of a successful tailor from Lodz, her father Chaim asked her what she intended to do once she became a wife. “I suppose I’ll make more buttons, so Zocha can use them in his father’s shop,” she said. Rivka’s father shrugged, smiled, and asked no more questions after that.
As the 26th wedding anniversary of Zocha’s parents Esther and Oskar fell about a month before the wedding, Rivka decided to make fountain pens fo
r Zocha’s parents as gifts. Rivka visited the most expensive furniture maker in Lodz and bought from him two blanks of dark Wenge, a wood so hard Rivka had to sharpen her gouge three times while turning the two pens. As she worked, Rivka imagined the life she was building with Zocha Krawiec, how happy they would be, what an attentive father Zocha would be to their children. For Zocha’s father, Rivka turned a bold curve, and oiled the wood so it turned nearly black, the striking grain shining through, as though revealing all the vibrant shades of black previously unseen by human eyes. For Zocha’s mother, Rivka turned a more delicate curve, ornamented the body with scrollwork, and oiled the pen to the same dark shade as its partner.
Oskar and Esther treasured their pens for the rest of their lives. Zocha observed (but never told Rivka) that while his mother had disapproved of Rivka previously, now she was optimistic about the life Zocha and Rivka could build together. Esther and Oskar found themselves drawn to these pens whenever life was bringing them exciting news; they used the pens to sign Zocha and Rivka’s ketubah (Zocha’s mother Esther and Rivka’s mother Hanna were the first two women to ever sign a ketubah in Chelevka). For the rest of her life, Zocha’s mother insisted on being treated as a partner in the tailor shop, and for the rest of his life, Zocha’s father agreed.
3.
When Rivka Pippik was 24 years old, and expecting her first child, her mother-in-law Esther asked her what she would do when the baby was born. “I suppose I will turn fewer bowls, since they take so long and babies need to eat so frequently,” she said. Rivka’s husband Zocha smiled and stroked Rivka’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, tenderly. Rivka’s father-in-law Oskar told Rivka that his banker, Szymon Abramczyk, had noticed Oskar’s pen, the pen Rivka made for him on the occasion of his 26th anniversary, and had asked Oskar where he had purchased it. Oskar had proudly explained that it had been made by his daughter-in-law. Would it be possible, Oskar inquired, for Rivka to turn a pen for Mr. Abramczyk as a favor to Oskar? Rivka of course agreed, and Oskar smiled, all the way to his eyes, first at Rivka and then at his son Zocha. What a wonderful match we made five years ago, Oskar thought.
Rivka Pippik hired a cart to take her to the sawmill in Brzeziny, where she examined a number of slabs before selecting one of cherry burl. Upon her return to her workshop, Rivka began scoring lines on the slab, dividing it into blanks, some the size for knife handles, the others the size for pens. After she had cut the first three blanks, Rivka felt the pangs of labor, and asked her uncle Hershel to call for Zocha. Rivka knew that Zocha and the baby were still hours away; she breathed first deeply, then quickly, through the next contraction, then finished cutting the blanks. As she cut, Rivka daydreamed about someday turning the business over to her own child. An hour later, when the contractions were too close together for Rivka to do much work, she returned home. An hour after that, Rivka’s mother Hanna arrived with the midwife. An hour after that, Rivka’s uncle Hershel arrived with her husband Zocha. An hour after that, the baby arrived. Rivka looked at the baby, and the baby looked back. Rivka thought the baby was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. “I shall call you Shayna,” said Rivka Pippik to her daughter.
When Shayna was two days old, Rivka Pippik returned to the workshop, still saturated with the joy and love she felt for Shaynelah. Rivka finished the pen for Szymon Abramczyk that morning, and gave it to her father-in-law Oskar when he visited that evening. Oskar invited Szymon Abramczyk to Shayna’s Simchat Bat (Shayna was the first little girl to ever have a baby naming ceremony in Chelevka), and delivered the pen to him there.
No one would have accused Szymon Abramczyk of cruelty or coldness, but after receiving the gift of the pen turned by Rivka Pippik, he found his heart more open to love of all kinds, sometimes of a kind he’d previously not thought possible. Szymon Abramczyk became more generous in his work at the bank and in his private life, and his fortunes increased as he did so. He found himself reaching for this pen to sign loan contracts, and all of those debtors became successful and repaid their loans in full and on time. His reputation with the bank increased, and Szymon Abramczyk later moved to Vilnius to head the bank’s prestigious branch in that storied city. In Vilnius he met and fell in love with a poet named Piotr Wielepolski, and while they could not marry, they became inseparable. Szymon survived the January Uprising with his spirit of generosity intact, taking no position in the fighting and helping to pay for the care of injured conscripts and insurrectionists alike. Szymon Abramczyk died peacefully, with Piotr at his side, at the age of 84.
4.
When Rivka Pippik was 39 years old, and someone had set fire to the Chelevka synagogue and all that remained of the torah was a bundle of scorched parchment and one half of one of the rollers, Rabbi Altschuler asked her if she would be willing to make new rollers for a new torah, as her Zayde Schmuel had once made for the now-ruined torah. “I suppose I cannot do less than my Zayde did. I will turn new atzei chaim. Please leave me what remains of the one turned by Schmuel.”
And so when Rabbi Altschuler and the congregation of the Chelevka synagogue buried the charred bundle of parchment in a genizah, they did so without the remaining pieces of the oaken roller; two disks and an ornate handle. By the time the new synagogue was dedicated, its ark contained a new torah scroll with atzei chaim constructed by Rivka Pippik. After the first shabbat service in the new synagogue, Rivka Pippik approached Rabbi Altschuler and presented him with a pen of fine oak. A slash of burned wood scarred the cap of the pen; Rivka had filled the scar with shellac and finished the pen with beeswax. Holding the pen one could hardly feel the difference, and the weight and balance were perfect. Could this pen be, asked an astonished Rabbi Altschuler, what remains of the original torah handle? Such a gift! Rivka patiently explained that the work of turning the wood had already been done years before by her Zayde Schmuel. Hardly a gift at all. Rabbi Altschuler smiled and patted Rivka Pippik’s face. Such a mensch, he thought, from a family of mensches.
Rabbi Altschuler kept the pen Rivka Pippik made from the burnt torah handle at his desk in the new synagogue in a place of honor. When he retired and young Aaron Chelewski became the new rabbi of the Chelevka synagogue, Rabbi Altschuler gifted the pen to him and explained its origins. Rabbi Chelewski kept the pen on his desk until many years later, when he died while composing a sermon. The pen was discovered on his desk, though not in his hand, and he was buried with the pen in his breast pocket. Neither Rabbi Altschuler nor Rabbi Chelewski ever used the pen, however; holding it made them feel haunted. But neither could either man bring himself to be free of it. Some ghosts must be, if not welcomed, at least borne.
5.
When Rivka Pippik was 61 years old, and her daughter Shayna’s daughter Adinah was old enough to become Bat Mitzvah but Rabbi Chelewski would not allow girls to become Bat Mitzvah, Rivka visited Rabbi Chelewski and asked him to reconsider. “I suppose I can do no less for the great-granddaughter of Schmuel Pippik, the granddaughter of Rivka Pippik, and the daughter of Shayna Pippik,” Rabbi Chelewski answered, glancing at the pen she’d made of the burnt etz chaim still displayed on the desk. If Rivka noticed the glance, or indeed the pen, she made no sign. Rivka thanked Rabbi Chelewski and left.
At her workshop, Rivka Pippik found one last cherry burl blank remaining from the slab she had bought just before Shayna was born. She got immediately to work, using her gouge to reduce the blank to the size of a pen, shaping a bold curve, adding scrollwork, brushing on and wiping off a light coat of stain to accentuate the detail, and finishing with wax before drilling and assembling the pen using one of her Zayde’s last English-made nibs and feeds.
Rivka Pippik’s granddaughter Adinah read from the torah, standing on a bimah that had survived the fire of the old synagogue (Adinah was the first woman ever to read from the torah in Chelevka), and the entire village agreed she was the most confident B’nai Mitzvah of her generation or the one before. Adinah received five fountain pens that day, including two others that had been purchased f
rom her grandparents’ shop, but she treasured the cherry pen given to her by her Bubbe Rivka most of all. All five of the pens wrote beautifully, but only the pen of cherry burl filled her heart with joy when she wrote with it. Later when she was married and her husband Mikhail went off to fight in the Great War, Adinah composed all of her letters to him using the cherry pen. Reading the letters always brought him joy, and after the war, writing with the pen always reminded Adinah of Mikhail’s safe return from the front. Adinah used the pen when teaching her own daughter Malka her Hebrew letters. When Malka decided to dedicate her life to the study of torah, Adinah made her a gift of the pen. “May you use it in good health,” said Adinah to Malka. After they fled to America to avoid the occupation, Malka became a Rabbi and moved with her husband and children to Ohio (Malka was the first woman from Chelevka to enter Rabbinical school). She kept her mother’s fountain pen with her on her desk for the rest of her life, and used it to compose her most joyous sermons.
6.
When Rivka Pippik was 83 years old, and her knees hurt and her eyes were rheumy, Shayna told her Adinah and Mikhail were taking Malka to America, and that Shayna was going with them, and asked if she would please come with them. “I suppose,” Rivka answered.
Together with her daughter, her granddaughter, and her great-granddaughter, Rivka Pippik visited her husband Zocha’s grave one final time. Rivka placed a pebble on top of the gravestone. “Zie gezunt, my love,” Rivka said, and Shayna smiled, a tear in her eye. Rivka Pippik asked if she could make one final stop, and of course Adinah agreed. They walked slowly (Rivka Pippik now did everything slowly) to the workshop where Rivka had spent almost every day since she was a little girl, when it had been Rivka’s Zayde Shmuel’s workshop. Rivka slowly gathered her chisels and gouges, her wood blanks, waxes, and oils, and placed them carefully next to her lathe. She found a matchbox containing a few old nibs and feeds, and she set to work.
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