“After what happened at the pond tonight, Froika can’t sleep from fright, so we are keeping him company,” Gittel explained.
“From fright?” Barasch asked. “What happened at the pond tonight?”
Since Gittel did not trust Froika to speak, she told the complete story herself. Barasch, who wanted to stay at the Waksmans’ for as long as possible, listened avidly, affecting amazement, sympathy, remorse, horror, joy, and thanksgiving as the narration demanded. In addition to hanging on every word, he evinced further interest and concern through his numerous and specific questions, for many of which Gittel had to rely for an answer on Froika, who succinctly supplied the desired information in a dull monotone. Gittel excused Froika’s rude brevity by explaining that the boy didn’t want to talk about it since it was so terrifying. Barasch assured everyone that he understood Froika’s reaction perfectly and couldn’t be any more sympathetic had it been his own child.
The only time the communal felicity faltered was at the mention of Rabbi Chanina’s magic frog. Barasch admitted his ignorance of this wonderful creature, thereby calling attention to his continual absence from the beis midrash. This occasioned an embarrassed pause before Gittel related the events between the Krimsker Rebbe and Itzik Dribble. “How marvelous!” exclaimed Barasch, and Menachem concluded definitely that Barasch was drunk.
When Gittel finished the story, Barasch said, “Froika, you have a lot to be thankful for. Thank God you and your friends returned safely. Yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that you were saved by a miracle.”
“It is late,” Menachem said, inviting the drunk Barasch to leave.
“I’m still frightened, and I can’t sleep. Since my family is tired, perhaps Barasch will keep me company,” Froika appealed to the visitor.
“Of course I will. I know what it is to be a boy and be frightened,” Barasch responded magnanimously. “Of course, after such a miracle, you should have faith, Froika.”
And now talking of faith! Drink alone could not have done this to poor Barasch. Someone must have hit him on the head, thought Menachem. He’s speaking as if his head, and not the Bornstein boy’s, had been held under water. Froika couldn’t possibly be left alone with him.
“We must leave Krimsk,” Froika said and looked at Barasch to see his reaction.
The cripple looked nervous, and Froika interpreted this as evidence that Barasch and Yudel the Litvak must be planning their imminent exodus.
“Froika, stop talking foolishness,” his father said.
“He doesn’t show it, but he’s very frightened,” Gittel explained.
“Of course,” Barasch agreed, thinking that any road out of Krimsk would lead to a penal colony.
“Thousands of Jews were murdered in Kishinev,” Froika remarked.
“This is Krimsk, thank God,” his father said.
“Thank God,” Barasch said dutifully. Thank God this is Krimsk and not some Arctic forest.
“It can happen here, too, and sooner or later it will,” Froika declared.
“God forbid!” his father said.
“God forbid,” Barasch echoed.
“Froika, bite your tongue!” his mother barked.
“No, I won’t bite my tongue, Mother. The goyim can do what they please with us. Had Casimir drowned Alex, what would have happened to him? Nothing, except he would have gotten better service and lower prices in the Krimsk market. The goyim believe blood libels—they will go on killing us. Do you know what those crazy Krimichak boys are saying now? They believe Grannie Zara was Jewish. Whatever they didn’t like about her will be blamed on us. Have you ever heard of anything so crazy?”
“What? Grannie Zara was Jewish?” exclaimed Gittel, believing it immediately and wholeheartedly.
“Yes, the goyim are crazy,” Froika said, slightly pleased with himself for saying something that amazed his mother.
“She didn’t speak Yiddish,” said Barasch.
“How do you know so much about what happened in Kishinev? Did Reb Gedaliah talk to you about it?” Menachem asked his son.
“No, I found a newspaper in a trash barrel in town,” Froika explained, ever so slightly relocating the trash barrel. “Father, why don’t we go to America?”
“What would we do there, Froika? We are Jews, and the rebbe, all the great rabbis, say that even the stones in America are trayf,” Menachem said quietly. Obviously, the thought had occurred to him, too.
“Of course,” Barasch said.
“There must be somewhere to go,” Froika suggested, looking directly at Barasch, but Barasch hoped that he could remain where he was for a good long time.
Menachem asked, “Where, Froika, where?”
“Are the stones in the Land of Israel trayf, too?” he asked provocatively.
Again Barasch seemed indifferent.
“No, son, they’re not,” his father answered.
“Then why don’t we go there?” Froika asked bluntly.
Nothing from Barasch, but Menachem answered, “The Jews who are going to Israel do not believe in God and his Torah. The rabbis call them wicked. It doesn’t make sense that unholy men should rebuild the Holy Land, does it?”
“I guess not, but it doesn’t make sense to stay in Krimsk,” Froika repeated.
“Krimsk is our home,” Menachem said.
“Yes,” agreed Barasch sincerely. “Thank God. Krimsk is our home.”
“Don’t you understand that? Man must have a home. We aren’t gypsies who can wander about the countryside,” Menachem said.
“I don’t understand. In America the stones are trayf, in the Land of Israel the Jews are trayf—only in Krimsk and Kishinev are both the stones and the Jews kosher, which would be fine except for the fact that the goyim keep flinging those kosher stones at the kosher Jews,” Froika said bitterly.
Menachem thought Froika was exaggerating. America and Israel had their share of problems, too, but he chose not to answer. His son was speaking in his mother’s uncompromising tone, and Menachem had learned long ago never to argue with that.
“What do you think, Barasch? What would you do about the pogroms?” Froika asked.
Barasch coughed, then stretched his long leg over his short leg, and then his short leg over his long leg, and then he suddenly stopped as if he had run out of combinations of long and short. He looked at Froika as if he were a police investigator. He wondered how far Grisha had gone. He sensed a trap. His forehead burst into sweat when he thought that Grisha might have been apprehended and revealed their discussions and where they had taken place. Froika’s question could put him in the bottom of a coal mine. His tongue felt limper than his leg.
“Your father is right, Froika. Krimsk is our home. It’s not so bad,” he said simply.
Froika looked at Barasch and his simpering smile. True, the man could not talk openly in front of his parents, but he seemed sincere.
“What should we do about the pogroms?” Froika asked.
Barasch looked around to see if a police stenographer crouched in the corner or hovered behind one of the chairs. Even Barasch could not hypocritically suggest prayer or study or evoke divine protection.
“I am maimed, Froika. One can get crippled anywhere. Even in America or the Holy Land,” Barasch said, suddenly believing his own words.
“We just sit here waiting for it to happen?” Froika said aloud.
Barasch was sympathetic to the boy. Froika was too young to work, and when he did, he would probably become a shoemaker like his father. It was one thing to own a match factory or to live comfortably inside one, it was another to be a poor shoemaker whose son gets drowned by the goyim. Barasch coughed and recrossed the legs he was so fortunate as to have mangled without crossing any oceans.
“Practice,” Barasch said with certainty. “You should practice your violin.”
Froika looked at Barasch as though he were Itzik Dribble. “I’m going to bed,” he stated.
“Good,” his father said.
“Of course,�
�� added Barasch.
“Good night,” his mother said, although she was interested in hearing more about the discovery that Grannie Zara was a Jew. This helped confirm her theory that all the great people were Jews. It added to her sneaking suspicion that Tsar Nicholas II was one as well. How could anyone but a Jew love a whiny violin? Hadn’t someone once mentioned something about the tsar and Reb Zelig being switched as infants? But it was too late for the boy. He had been through enough for one day. She turned to Barasch and said, “Good night.”
Barasch had wanted to stay longer, but he himself seemed to have terminated the evening by his remarks.
“Good night,” he found himself saying.
As he reached the road, he decided that it was too late for any more social calls, so he headed back toward his wonderful room in the fortresslike factory. Boruch Levi’s home was now dark. He wondered whether Malka, wonderful, sensual Malka, was asleep. Barasch felt a deep-rooted urge for a companion and offspring. Tonight he felt different, better than he had felt in a long time. In spite of having been caught with his pants down and having spoken like Reb Yechezkal the sexton to Froika, he felt a satisfaction that had long eluded him—the joy of belonging. He was a part of Krimsk. Some desired him, some tolerated him, some supported him, some ridiculed him. Plain, homey Krimsk. No more revolutionary foolishness for him. As he marched along with a sense of well-being, he thought he saw a single figure moving in front of him. His heart fell. Could Grisha be returning? If so, he would surrender him to the police. No one was going to be a better citizen in Krimsk than Barasch!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CLUTCHING MATTI TIGHTLY, FAIGIE HAD RETURNED over the stepping stones to the Krimsk side. No sooner had she set her foot down than she released him and reverted back to the pleasant, relaxed, confident woman whom Matti had met earlier in the evening at that exact spot. Had she not casually asked him, “Do you think the cat and broom are destroyed by now?” Matti would have believed that their journey across the stream to Grannie Zara’s had been simply a nightmare of his dark imagination. “Good,” she had responded to his assurances, and they paused to rest a minute.
For a moment, Matti thought that Faigie had stopped to retrieve her towel or even to dip, but he soon realized that he didn’t much care anymore. Drained both physically and mentally, he had had enough for one night. Upon their return, an energy exchange had occurred. Faigie had become loquacious, alert, and animated, whereas he had become dull, quiet, and depressed. She seemed perfectly pleased with his company, but Matti wanted to get rid of her. He was reminded of Jacob’s crossing the stream, wrestling with an angel all night and then, lamed, returning home.
Grannie Zara was nothing but old grandmothers’ foolishness to him. His frightening and momentous struggle in her cottage had been with Faigie, and he thought he had won, but now he was not so sure who had bested whom. Exhausted, his own urine and blood soaking his thigh, he was lamed, all right, but Faigie seemed whole, even vivacious.
Matti just wanted to go home, wash, and rest. He walked away from Faigie and started along the Krimsk path. She quickly rejoined him and chatted amiably about the weather and a hundred other nonsenses. Saying nothing and ignoring her, Matti slowly felt his way through the leaf-enshrouded darkness, but Faigie walked along with a natural, easy gait, just as if she could see in the dark like a cat. Matti had no idea what the night’s events might mean to him, to her, or to anyone. He was too tired to care. When they emerged from the forest, Matti wordlessly turned away onto a path that skirted Krimsk and would take him directly to his house.
“Matti, wait a minute, please,” Faigie called.
She followed a few steps after him and called his name again. He turned around, expecting a thank you, but Faigie reached out and lightly touched the damp front of his pants pocket. Although not his primary concern at the moment, he was embarrassed at having wet himself when she had screamed.
“It happens,” he said.
“Please show it to me,” she requested with a conspiratorial charm—even a flush of pride at having guessed Rabbi Chanina’s magic frog’s hiding place.
Amazed at her obscene interest in his boyish anatomy, Matti said, “You crazy whore,” and marched away.
Faigie couldn’t comprehend his vulgar hostility. After everything he had done for her, she didn’t understand why he should treat her as among the uninitiated. Even with his proficiency in the black arts, he remained a child. Faigie understood that growing up is difficult for everyone, even for witches, and she regretted offending him. Turning down the road toward the Krimsker Rebbe, she soon regained her good spirits. Everything had gone so well.
Everything did not go so well at the rebbe’s. Faigie came to the beis midrash doorway, but decided that was inappropriate. She went around to the family’s private apartment and awakened Rachel Leah, who greeted her kindly and asked her to wait a few moments. The girl went to consult her mother. Although she had recently gone to bed, poor Shayna Basya seemed half dead. Rachel Leah had to poke her into wakefulness. When the rebbetzin awakened sufficiently, she told her daughter to escort Faigie to the rebbe’s study and announce her. Shayna Basya dismissed her daughter’s fears of disturbing the rebbe so late, saying impatiently, “He awakens with the night,” but when Rachel Leah knocked on the study door, she received no response other than steady snoring. She knocked louder and was ready to quit when Faigie pushed her aside and started a banging that Rachel Leah expected to splinter the door. The rebbe mumbled a “Yes,” and Faigie rushed into the room unannounced. Rachel Leah quietly closed the door and returned to her own room.
Faigie found the dozing rebbe seated on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Rebbe,” she began. “I am here to ask for your blessing.”
“You have it,” he said, and promptly closed his eyes.
When she repeatedly addressed him to no avail—the loud snoring sounded like a motor in need of oil—Faigie sat down next to him and pinched his arm. The rebbe awakened with a start and began to rub his arm, although he did not associate Faigie with the pain. Faigie plunged into the story of her evening. Much to her surprise, the rebbe did not respond at the mention of Grannie Zara. Yawning, he asked Faigie to come back in the morning, but she refused to leave, saying that she had to have his blessing this very night. She related her visit to the witch’s but could detect no response in his obtuse, hazel stare. He listened passively to her tale of Matti’s escorting her to Grannie Zara’s and destroying the broom and the cats.
“You killed her cats and burned her broom?” he asked sleepily.
“No, I didn’t. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Matti Sternweiss did. He’s a witch, I know,” she said, somewhat embarrassed to be gossiping, but it seemed to her that the rebbe should know about it.
“He’s a tzaddik, I know,” the rebbe corrected her.
Faigie did not argue the point; she suspected that the two might not be so very different from one another. She explained to the rebbe that one Itzik Dribble was enough, and now that things had concluded satisfactorily at Grannie Zara’s tonight, she was certain that with the rebbe’s blessing everything would be all right.
“What makes you think we are partners? Either you go there or you come here. You went there; you are her customer. Good night,” the rebbe said and flicked his wrist.
But Faigie didn’t leave. “Of course you are partners. For me and all the simple Jews. Yes, you are partners and I demand your blessing,” Faigie said.
“Madness,” the rebbe replied calmly. He yawned. This foolish woman was not a very serious person.
“But true, rebbe. You sent your magic frog to the witch’s this very night. If you did that, you can give me your blessing. Everyone says an old woman came to you, and nine months later she gave birth to a healthy set of twins.”
The rebbe shrugged.
“It’s not true?” Faigie demanded.
“I had nothing to do with it. God must have! Stop desecrating His name throu
gh witchcraft and pray to Him the same as I do,” he said and then added, “In the morning.”
“You think everybody sits around thinking about holy things like you do? Well you’re wrong; they don’t. You once said visiting Grannie Zara was like building the golden calf. Yes, it is, and I’ll tell you why the Jews built the golden calf—because they had to.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the rebbe answered, with a glance at the door intended to encourage his visitor’s departure.
“I do. Who would take his own gold and build a golden calf if they didn’t have to? They had to, and so did we. We didn’t create the world, God did,” she said. Then she continued, “My child looks like a golden calf—”
The rebbe interrupted, “Itzik has a wonderful soul.”
“Rebbe, I want a healthy child. Give me a healthy child!” Faigie cried.
“I can’t,” the rebbe said wearily.
“I won’t leave here without your blessing!” she said fiercely.
The rebbe raised his voice in harsh protest. “What are you wrestling with me for? You’re not Jacob, and I’m not an angel. What are you doing here? You want a healthy child? Go to your husband’s bed. God knows what will happen in your husband’s bed. I don’t!”
Small Worlds Page 18
