Vilna My Vilna

by Abraham Karpinowitz

  Tamara was seen with various officers, but nothing stuck. She found herself a tiny room on Shavelske Street so she wouldn’t interfere with her friend’s good fortune. It really was good fortune. Thanks to the lieutenant, Leyke and her son were saved. During the Soviet retreat from Vilna in 1941, the lieutenant placed them on a military truck that took them deep into the hinterland. Leyke wanted to take Tamara with them, but because of the urgency of the situation and the general turmoil, it didn’t happen. The lieutenant cursed in the name of his mother, screaming that the German troops could show up at any moment.

  And Tall Tamara? She didn’t have to suffer under the Germans for long. On Wednesday, the seventeenth of September 1941, only ten days after the Jews of Vilna were driven into the ghetto, Tamara stood with almost 1,300 Jews on the field at Ponar—the place not far from the city where the Germans murdered the Vilna Jews.

  Tamara had had her own special luck. They didn’t drive her into the ghetto; she was already there. Shavelske Street lay in the heart of the Vilna ghetto.

  During the first months of the brutal German rule of Vilna, Tamara tried her hand at various things. She sold chicken giblets and got what she could from Hershele the Porter. Until she fell, as if into a whirlpool, between the evil decrees stipulating that to stay alive she needed a certificate from the Germans, called a Schein, allowing her to work and stay alive.

  Tamara stood with the other women on the field at Ponar, gazing into the distance. Who could she have been thinking about? She was absolutely alone. She had no one. She’d been abandoned as a child and was raised in an orphanage. She’d earned her living as a waitress for Zuske the Professor in his bar on Konske Street, until he told her that with her legs, she could make good money if she stood on a street corner.

  The order was given to undress.

  Tamara did not undress. She dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of her plump arms without giving any indication that she would undo even a button. Tamara refused to obey the German who stood opposite her with his machine gun. She was taller than him. Standing in her cotton dress with its red and blue flowers, she looked him straight in the eye without reacting to his shouting. He didn’t shout for long. A moment later Tamara lay in the sand, felled by a hail of bullets.

  That’s how Tall Tamara, the last Jewish streetwalker in Vilna, met her death.

  A woman who was wounded and managed to crawl out of the pit at Ponar during the night and return to the ghetto told us what had happened.

  12

  The Great Love of Mr. Gershteyn

  After Siomke Kagan drove the flirtatious actress Regina Tsuker out of town with his review in the Vilner tog newspaper, the theater curtain stayed closed. Siomke was a harsh reviewer. He didn’t tolerate any hanky-panky. If a touring actor in Vilna dared utter a coarse word on stage, he found himself impaled on the tip of Siomke’s pen. And the clever bastard had quite the pen, a veritable sword.

  No one was surprised when Dina Halperin came within a hair’s breadth of suffering the same fate as Regina Tsuker had.

  When Dina Halperin and her partner Sam Bronetsky came to Vilna to save the season, the troupe came back to life. Had their situation lasted any longer, the actors wouldn’t have been able to buy what they needed for Passover. Even Velfke Usian, with his restaurant on Yiddishe Street, had started to grumble: “How long should I keep feeding the actors on credit?”

  During Passover the theater revived. Dina Halperin and Sam Bronetsky staged a melodrama with singing and dancing. It was a hit—the public bought tickets. Dina danced and sang, and Sam played the seducer. But Siomke Kagan screwed up his nose, especially at a few of the lines from one of Dina’s songs. She sang,

  Sometimes when I see a redhead,

  Seems to me his pencil lacks lead.

  I don’t want a man with hair bright red,

  But a swarthy black-haired man instead.

  At first Siomke planned to submit a review tearing the performance to shreds. He wrote the sentences: “Songs containing double entendres that are an affront to good taste and to all redheads shouldn’t be sung in Vilna. Everyone understands precisely what is meant by ‘his pencil lacks lead.’”

  But Siomke decided to take another look at the performance. He watched Dina Halperin perform with so much charm, sharing her smile with each and every person in the dark hall. So Siomke went to speak with the visiting actress about changing the lyrics of the song before he gave his review to the Vilner tog.

  The next day Dina Halperin sang,

  “I quickly grow tired of a redhead.

  Looks like tsimmes in a pan of lead.

  No, I don’t want no redhead,

  But a swarthy black-haired man instead.”

  Siomke Kagan had toned down the original. He tore up his previous review.

  Siomke became a regular backstage visitor. He was really taken with Dina Halperin. She had a beautiful alabaster face and black almond-shaped eyes with a dewy radiance like the waters of the Viliye at dawn on a summer morning. She was also well-read, often with a book in hand.

  There was no lack of beautiful girls in Vilna. You could fill a second city with them. Siomke, a slender youth with an eagle nose, only had to stretch out his hand, and one of them would happily climb the Hill of the Crosses in the late evening with him. But Siomke ignored them all. He was only interested in spending time with Dina.

  Bronetsky wasn’t very happy with this situation. He muttered, “Some fool shows up before every performance and drives us all crazy.” It was true that Siomke had written a very good review, but he’d noted that an actress like Dina Halperin deserved a better repertoire. Bronetsky took this as a personal affront. He only knew how to sing ditties and tap dance, but not how to play King Lear. Mendke the stage manager, who understood more about the theater than the actors, told Bronetsky not to interfere. “Just let Siomke run around between the sets. Don’t start up with the press.”

  Siomke brought his friend, Mr. Gershteyn the teacher, to a performance. Usually, Mr. Gershteyn only attended the theater when the Yung-teyater Company from Warsaw performed Cry Out, China. He ignored shows like With Open Eyes and The Model. But Siomke really wanted to introduce Mr. Gershteyn to Dina. Afterward, Mendke joked that Siomke had brought a tomcat to pass judgment on a bowl of sour cream.

  Siomke was a good few years younger than the teacher, but this in no way interfered with their friendship. However, standing beside Mr. Gershteyn, Siomke looked like a rooster beside a pheasant. Dina Halperin took one look at Mr. Gershteyn and completely forgot that Siomke, her admirer, was standing right next to the teacher. Dina had good taste. Even though Siomke Kagan was well-built, Mr. Gershteyn, with his aristocratic mustache and his thick head of hair that was graying at the temples, completely outshone him. It took only an instant for Siomke to feel completely extraneous. He really regretted dragging the teacher to meet Dina, but there was no turning back.

  Dina struck up a conversation with Mr. Gershteyn and completely forgot about Siomke. Mr. Gershteyn was infatuated with the actress. If Bombe, the assistant director, hadn’t shouted that the curtain was about to go up, Dina and Mr. Gershteyn would have kept right on talking. They decided to get together at Velfke Usian’s restaurant after the performance to celebrate their meeting with tea and a frying pan of latkes.

  Siomke didn’t do Mr. Gershteyn any great favor when he introduced him to Dina Halperin. The teacher was smitten with the actress from the first handshake. It wasn’t surprising. Dina Halperin’s smile, her pearly Yiddish with a hint of a Warsaw accent, and everything about her appearance disturbed the bachelor’s emotions.

  Dina became a regular visitor at the Re’al Gymnasium where Mr. Gershteyn taught and conducted the student choir. Mr. Sher, the drawing teacher, said that Dina Halperin didn’t have a single unnecessary gram of flesh on her. “Every part of her body is perfectly shaped. She carries herself like a mature woman only recently emerged from her youth.”

  Siomke saw that there wasn’t even a
crack left for him between Dina Halperin and Mr. Gershteyn. He took his knapsack and set out for Trok where the Gypsy camp stood next to the lake. Siomke fit right in there. He knew the Gypsy language and even drank with Kviek the Gypsy king. Siomke also had a special relationship with Kviek’s daughter. At night, she taught him to whisper in her language.

  Mr. Gershteyn was completely infatuated with Dina Halperin, so he had no regrets about his friend’s departure. There was only one problem—the pair had no place to be alone. The teacher lived on Literatzke Lane with his spinster sister. Like her brother, she’d given up on ever getting together with anyone. She ran his modest home and the teacher couldn’t imagine anything else.

  Sam Bronetsky watched their every move. He kept badgering Dina with the same questions. “Where were you? Why are you running around the city? What business do you have at the Re’al Gymnasium? You want to be a teacher? Being an actress isn’t good enough for you?”

  Dina was drawn to Mr. Gershteyn like to a magnet. This wasn’t because of his masculinity, nor his sturdy gait with his walking stick, nor his gentle touch. Rather, his conversations that had no connection to premieres, successful theater box offices, or plans for a new musical comedy transported her to imaginary worlds where songs are everywhere and children reign.

  Everyone in Vilna had their eyes on Mr. Gershteyn and Dina Halperin. The students at the Re’al Gymnasium watched Dina Halperin stroll around the schoolyard during recess time, hanging on Mr. Gershteyn’s arm and talking passionately. They knew their teacher doted on the actress. He wouldn’t spend time with just any woman. That’s precisely why he’d remained a bachelor: he was too picky.

  Mr. Gershteyn and Dina Halperin walked down Daytshe Street toward Velfke Usian’s restaurant. The troupe had decided to eat there. Mr. Gershteyn really wanted to go home, but Dina urged him to go to Velfke’s with her and he couldn’t deny her wishes. The pair walked down an aisle formed by the hucksters, the guys who lure customers into the ready-made clothing stores. Winking at each other, the jokers lined up on both sides of the street. Sarah Klok left her sewing notions shop, swelling the crowd with her little group of salesgirls. Everyone was enamored with the couple. Tsalel the Nose, the biggest ready-to-wear clothing merchant, said the pair was made to measure. “You can’t do better.” Only Sarah Klok, who was no great beauty (people said she needed to shave), grumbled about the romance.

  Mr. Gershteyn and Dina Halperin walked together. No one on Daytshe Street begrudged the teacher his choice. They knew him from the choir concerts he conducted of the Society of Friends of the Re’al Gymnasium. For a beautiful piece of music or a lovely song, people in Vilna were willing to walk all the way to Lipuvke at the edge of the city.

  There was someone else who was unhappy with the romance: Sam Bronetsky. He happened to be leaving Bendel’s barbershop next to the German church when he noticed the couple on the other side of the street. Dina and the teacher didn’t see him. They were too wrapped up with each other.

  Daytshe Street was bustling. It was Tuesday, a market day. People were buying and selling trousers, nails, rope, and calico dresses. There was plenty to buy on Daytshe Street, especially because the day had turned out sunny and clear, typical of the weeks after Passover. The recent rain had washed all the signs clean, and the Yiddish letters and the pictures of gloves, corsets, and double-breasted suits were glowing. People were running around in the courtyards on their way to dentists, dressmakers, shoemakers, and tinsmiths. Business was brisk. Customers searching for bargains pushed and shoved each other at every cart laden with merchandise and at every corner stall.

  In the midst of this din, Sam Bronetsky searched for the right words to say to Dina. He was furious. He’d already told her a number of times to stop. Dina had explained to him that Vilna was no ordinary town. “It’s important to get involved with a little culture here. Mr. Yankev Gershteyn (this is how she referred to him, using his full name) is well respected in Vilna. He’s a musician and a conductor. My involvement with him brings honor to our entire troupe.”

  Sam Bronetsky would have gladly forgone the honor, but he didn’t want to provoke Dina. After all, she drew the audiences, not him. “She’s young and there are no children. She could easily say to me, ‘Good-bye and good luck.’ Things like that have happened in the theater world.” But the entire business with Gershteyn was more than Bronetsky could bear. He would have to speak with Dina. This could not continue.

  Bronetsky made his decision and then crossed the street. On his way to the restaurant, he nearly got caught in the shaft of Shimon the Coachman’s carriage. The horse whinnied as if to make fun of the actor. If that wasn’t enough, from his coach box Shimon cursed people who don’t bother to look where they’re going.

  Sam Bronetsky arrived at the restaurant feeling more upset than he would have liked. But there was no arguing at Velfke’s. The actors slipped Bronetsky a few shots of whisky. They toasted Dina Halperin’s success. They didn’t forget Bronetsky. The troupe had made money and treated themselves to a second round of chopped liver with griven. The restaurant was hopping, and Bronetsky’s anger subsided. Mr. Gershteyn was sipping a glass of wine and enjoying himself. He didn’t get too chummy with the actors, who also behaved themselves. They looked up to Mr. Gershteyn, so they were careful to watch their tongues and not let fly with words better left unsaid.

  Mr. Gershteyn walked toward his home on Literatzke Lane, brooding over the situation with Dina. “It’s true that Sam Bronetsky didn’t say anything at Velfke’s restaurant, but his eyes spoke volumes. And no wonder. What man would want to suffer that? But really, what’s the big sin? After all, nothing’s going on.”

  Mr. Gershteyn didn’t want to fool himself. Deep in his heart he knew full well this wasn’t “nothing.” He was completely focused on Dina and thought of nothing else.

  Acknowledging the situation did nothing to ease the teacher’s mind. He knew his involvement with the actress had become a major topic of conversation in Vilna. As he walked home, he went over these thoughts in his mind. At the corner of Literatzke Lane he berated himself: “You old goat, you’re making a complete fool of yourself. Why are your thoughts so muddled?” But his heart refused to listen. The slightest reminder of Dina Halperin set it pounding madly, driving away all reason.

  The theater took a few days break. Sam Bronetsky left for Warsaw to arrange a tour of Romania. The director of the Bucharest theatre was waiting for him there. At first, Sam Bronetsky had insisted Dina go with him, but she’d said she didn’t have the strength. “I deserve a little rest after performing night after night.” So Bronetsky relented and traveled on his own. He figured nothing could happen in just a few days. “I’ll be back before she does anything with the teacher.”

  Mr. Gershteyn and Dina were both in the city. He was hoping to take her to Verek, outside of Vilna. It was just before Shevuos and everything was green. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t too hot. Everyone in the city was enthralled with the scent of the blooming lilacs adorning the treetops on every street. “Imagine what it’s like now in Verek,” Mr. Gershteyn said to Dina, hoping she’d go with him.

  The teacher rescheduled all his lessons to the morning. During the long recess, he strode off with his walking stick in hand to get Dina. She was wearing a white dress with a low-cut neckline and a straw hat with a wide brim. Her beauty took the teacher’s breath away. They walked to the Viliye and boarded the steamship Smigly for the trip upstream to Verek.

  Standing on the upper deck of the steamship, the pair leaned over the railing to watch the water pour out from under the paddlewheel. Dina was delighted watching the roiling water and the shore of the Viliye, where the willows, bent like old men, struggled for a piece of ground among the proud white birches. She breathed deeply, exhilarated by the breeze that opened up the folds of her dress like a sail on a sunny outing. Dina realized how good it felt to take a break from performing and escape to sunny freedom. She quietly pressed Mr. Gershteyn’s hand to thank him
for his invitation.

  When they arrived in Verek, Mr. Gershteyn wanted to take Dina to the local palace. From the lovely terrace in the palace park you could see all of the surrounding area. But Dina just wanted to walk along a path by the water that led to the edge of the forest. She sat under the first tree they encountered. But first, Mr. Gershteyn spread his jacket out on the mossy ground to protect her white dress. They sat there without speaking, watching a ladybug crawl lazily towards one of Dina’s knees.

  There wasn’t another soul in sight. The teacher didn’t know what to do. Should he take her hand? Dare he place a kiss on her blushing cheek? He was inexperienced with the opposite sex and his bachelor ways encased him like the bark of a tree. He and Dina were absorbed in a conversation whose thread kept breaking. Finally Dina laughed and said, “How about something to eat?” They walked to the inn to get potatoes with buttermilk and fresh radishes.

  The sun began to set. Mr. Gershteyn and Dina Halperin sat on the balcony of the inn and watched the shadows snuggling into the vines and climbing the wall of their refuge. The innkeeper had recognized Mr. Gershteyn from his field trips with the gymnasium students. She’d sent him and his lady friend up to the second floor where there were rooms for rent. The worldly goye, who could recognize a couple in love from kilometers away, assumed they’d stay the night. But they simply sat on the balcony as though nothing was going on between them and said nothing to the innkeeper.

  They failed to notice the moon replace the sun and bathe the balcony in a pale light that nestled up to the window. Nightingales began singing as though at the command of an invisible conductor. When one bird became silent, another started up. “In the area around Vilna,” the teacher explained to Dina, “the nightingales have always sung beautifully, especially in Verek, on the roof of the Slomyanke Inn.”