CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BARASCH LIMP LEGS COULD NOT RUN FAST ENOUGH TO catch up with the figure in front of him. When he arrived at the gate, he found a slight woman staring through the bars into the factory yard. Expecting to find Grisha, he thought for a moment that the woman must be a friend of that troublemaker. He had never seen a girl hanging around the gate at this hour. As he approached, he called officiously, “Hey, what are you doing here?”
The figure turned around to reveal herself as Faigie Soffer, the wife of his employer, to whom Barasch had sworn eternal fealty only a few minutes previously. And here he was caught derelict in his duties on the night of Tisha B’Av. Since he had spent much of the last several hours feeling sorry for himself, he had no trouble now wallowing in self-pity over getting caught one of the few times he had deserted his and Beryl’s post.
“This rarely happens,” Barasch said, fumbling in his pockets for the keys.
“Yes,” said Faigie, assuming that the watchman was referring to her presence at the factory in the middle of the night.
Barasch managed to open the gate and said, “Come in.”
Faigie had not come with the intention of entering the factory. At least no conscious desire. After she had failed to receive the rebbe’s blessing, she had departed in great distress. The only person who she thought might influence the rebbe to change his mind was the little witch, Matti Sternweiss. The Krimsker Rebbe had even called him a tzaddik, which would give Matti all the more suasion. Faigie desperately wanted the blessing no less than Jacob had desired the angel’s, and like Jacob, she was willing to struggle all night. She had the patriarch’s objective: the establishment of a genetic line. If Matti hadn’t made such a vicious parting remark, she would not have hesitated to go to the Sternweiss home to enlist his aid again.
Faigie had no desire to return home to Beryl. In her present state, she would break down in front of him and reveal her desire for a healthy child. Beryl was no more at fault than she. Bringing the problem into the open would only make them miserable, each mutual glance a bitter reminder and subtle recrimination. And the way the rebbe had screamed that God only knew what would happen in her husband’s bed filled her with fearful misgivings. Perhaps she herself had “opened her mouth to Satan” by stating that one Itzik Dribble was enough. Might she not give birth to something even less desirable than Itzik?
Feeling defeated, she had wandered aimlessly away from the rebbe. Not realizing where she was headed, she was surprised to find herself leaning on the Soffer and Company factory gate. As she felt the cool metal of the protective bars on the warm night, she had two insights as to why she had wandered there.
Soffer and Company was the full, rich bank account that paid for Itzik’s empty head. She might remedy that by burning the factory to the ground; it wouldn’t be her first arson of the evening. Although the night had made her desperate, she knew that the crippled watchman lay inside, and his innocent presence prevented any serious consideration of the idea. Nevertheless, she had reached into her pocket, only to discover that her matches were not there. Matti had returned them to her—she was almost certain of that—so she must have lost them herself. Not that she couldn’t burn down a match factory with its own products. There must be myriads of finished matches crowded inside, each capable of destroying its own industrial creator and all his fellows. The thought of the matchsticks, however, determined that she could never burn down the building. Even if they were her unwitting opponents, each match was a beloved particle of Beryl’s hard-won world.
If the factory represented the fateful riches that impoverished her child, it also provided her a place where she could commune with Beryl’s mad ambition and mourn her own. In the offices of Soffer and Company, Beryl acted with a courage and passion that Faigie could muster only on her way to Krimichak. If husband and wife could neither share nor appreciate each other’s goals, they could at least recognize the ferocity with which each pursued his own. Far from soft Beryl, she could lean on his rigid fence and feel close to parts of him that she could never possess.
Faigie entered the factory yard like a calico cat visiting the neighbor’s garden, looking about with curious detachment and stepping carefully and quietly. Barasch, lantern in hand, led the way. Faigie followed along, staring curiously at the piles of neatly stacked lumber, pulleys, winches, wagons, and soaring chimneys as if she were touring her husband’s sleeping mind. Barasch went to check the office door and asked her if she wanted to go inside.
“Everything is so quiet,” she responded.
“Yes, I was gone for just a few minutes,” Barasch said, unlocking the door.
She entered after him and walked silently through the entire complex. Faigie said nothing, looking about and breathing deeply as if trying to capture an aura, a presence, a sense of someone who was not physically present. They toured the yards behind the factory all the way to the fence.
“That’s it. Everything is just fine, thank God. Reb Beryl can sleep tonight. You’ve seen everything except my room.”
Faigie said nothing, sniffing the warm air noncommittally. Barasch was sure that no damage to Soffer and Company lurked in his room, but, burdened as he was by various guilts—his guest Grisha the revolutionary, Barasch’s own desertion of his post, his awkward lust for Malka—he imagined that Faigie had been sent to spy on him. Beryl probably couldn’t sleep, and Faigie as a loyal wife had offered to examine things. Above all, Barasch wanted to appear forthright and open. If the authorities arrived tomorrow and had questions about who was at the factory during the night, it would be very valuable to have his employers testify that they had thoroughly inspected the entire premises and found nothing amiss, certainly that no strange persons were present. Faigie Soffer’s testimony about the factory visit, Boruch Levi’s about Barasch and Malka (with discretion, of course), and the Waksmans’ about his neighborly visit would provide him with several witnesses at three different places during the evening. Really very impressive. Barasch hobbled purposefully toward his room; Faigie followed in a quiet trance.
Tired from all the walking during the last several hours, Barasch quickly sat down in his easy chair. He wanted to apologize for leaving the factory, but he did not know how much Faigie knew. If she had been waiting only a few minutes, then his tardy arrival meant very little.
“Now you have seen everything,” he said.
Not listening, Faigie looked around like a visitor to a foreign land who finds everything very familiar. Here in this strange hut were Beryl’s stool, table, chair, and mirror.
Barasch cleared his throat quietly. “How long were you waiting at the gate?” he asked. His throat felt drier than the caked, dusty yard.
“Give me your shirt,” she said.
“My shirt?” he asked.
“Yes, the one you’re wearing. The seam in the sleeve is tearing. I’ve already mended it twice,” she said.
“You have?”
“Yes, it’s Beryl’s, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, it is,” he said, finally comprehending what she was talking about. “Of course, it’s Beryl’s. Everything here is Beryl’s. Your husband is very kind. He’s given me everything in the room. I’m wearing his shirt, his pants, and this is your husband’s chair, but it was in the office here so you might not recognize it. But you must remember your husband’s bed.”
“Your husband’s bed,” Faigie slowly repeated the rebbe’s words.
“Yes,” said Barasch, pointing to it. “Your husband’s bed.”
Faigie walked around the table and sat down possessively on the bed. She looked down at the familiar sheets and blanket, delicately fingering them.
“It’s all your husband’s. The bed, the blankets, the sheets, everything. He’s never far from my thoughts. I can’t tell you how generous he is with me.” Barasch delivered this encomium with his attempt at an ingratiating smile.
“Close the door, please,” Faigie said.
“It’s cooler this wa
y,” he protested.
“Close the door,” she repeated firmly.
“Yes’m,” Barasch said, hoisting himself to his feet.
When he turned back from the door, Faigie had taken off her shoes and was pushing back the sheets on the bed.
“Come over here,” she said.
Confused, Barasch hobbled over to the bed.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Is this my husband’s bed?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then I belong in it,” she explained.
“Oh,” he said, not understanding.
“Take your shirt off,” she ordered.
“But I don’t have a needle or thread. Beryl never gave me any.”
“Take it off and sit down right here.” She patted the sheet.
Barasch took off his shirt and sat down. He handed her the shirt and she flung it onto the table.
“Reb Beryl didn’t send you?” he asked, watching her disrobe.
“No, the Krimsker Rebbe did,” she answered. She didn’t think it necessary to mention Matti the witch, too. Barasch wouldn’t have heard anyway; he was breathing as heavily as a horse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WHEN THE HASIDIM APPEARED AT SIX-THIRTY FOR morning prayers, the hazy streets and shaded alleyways had a refreshing cool quality suggesting that after the night’s respite from the sun, the coming day would be more comfortable. Sparrows and starlings swiftly darted through the long shadows with energetic staccato calls. Butterflies—pale ivory, cadmium yellow, and regal orange mosaic limned in black—floated and leaped on delicate unseen wisps of air. The earthbound, hungry Jews plodded to the beis midrash to offer heaven their prayers and praise. Tired or rested, alert or befogged, all moved toward the overturned benches and disarray that meant Tisha B’Av morning.
When a number of hasidim had arrived, Reb Yechezkal signaled for Reb Muni to begin the preliminary service describing the morning sacrifice in the ancient Temple. The hasidim joined him in an undercurrent of droning and murmuring like the subtle diurnal rhythm of bees and other swarming creatures. Some latecomers conscientiously rushed to catch up; others simply joined the prayer in progress. With varying degrees of concentration, the congregation forged ahead in an active, concerted effort that left no time for personal reflections or private speculations.
The crescendo of praise should have reached its zenith with the cantor’s call to “Bless God Who Is Blessed,” the beginning of the service proper, but the Krimsker Rebbe had not appeared. Reb Yechezkal cautioned the cantor to wait. The rhythmic refrain of softly uttered praise came to an abrupt halt, and a sudden quiet burst upon those few who were still catching up; they immediately adopted hushed tones or with fervent lips articulated silently.
At this point the rebbe used to enter punctually. Now that the wondrous rebbe had returned so dramatically and so forcefully—receiving supplicants until all hours of the night—Reb Yechezkal was certain that the old regimen was to be observed.
Initially, the congregation sat expectantly awaiting the entrance of their beloved rebbe, the sun of Krimsk’s firmament. As minutes passed, hasidim rose and stretched to alleviate their acute physical discomfort on the overturned benches. With nothing to do but wait, they soon discovered that their attention began to wander.
Alexander Bornstein’s father reminded himself that he had to intone publicly a special blessing occasioned by his son’s fortunate escape. The mere thought of last night’s murderous attack at the pond moved him to put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. Alex looked up quizzically, and even though it was Tisha B’Av, the father smiled furtively. Alex shyly returned the smile. Comforted, his father considered whether or not to remind Reb Yechezkal to call him to the Torah to recite the special blessing. Deciding not to, he kept his hand on his son and looked up toward the rebbe’s study door, wondering whether the magic frog might be inside. When he made the blessing for Alex, he must utter it loudly enough so that anyone inside the study could hear it clearly. Overwhelmed with gratitude and on the verge of tears, he wished the miracle-working rebbe would enter.
Although Menachem Waksman shared the feelings of gratitude and relief, he remained concerned about Froika’s obsessive fears. The grisly premonitions were bad enough, but even worse, they might push the boy toward some imagined paradise in the Holy Land. If they did not fade in time, Menachem would insist that Froika speak to the rebbe. But Menachem didn’t want to be caught in the middle of any struggle between the Krimsker Rebbe and his own wife, Gittel. He hoped that after a few days the fright would disappear and Froika would return to the routine of Reb Gedaliah and the violin. Just let things get back to normal, and everything would be all right. And normal meant no more visits from that neighborhood drunk, Barasch Limp Legs. He had acted as if he planned to visit them regularly. Menachem had enough problems without that.
Boruch Levi was similarly reflecting that he could do very well without the company, much less the family membership, of Barasch Limp Legs. He was also considering Barasch’s midnight playmate, Malka. Now that Boruch Levi was certain to be staying in Krimsk and equally certain of financial security—promised by the holy rebbe himself—he had better marry off his slut of a sister before she started producing any little bastards. If Malka broke his mother’s heart, Boruch Levi would certainly break his sister’s head. His sainted mother hadn’t seemed very thrilled with the prospect of the cripple as a son-in-law. It was just as well; Barasch wouldn’t last very long. Malka needed some pious teamster who would keep her pregnant and make sure she behaved. The only thing Malka respected was a sound blow. Boruch Levi wondered how much a brotherin-law like that would cost.
Beryl was wondering about his beloved sylph, Faigie. He had been sick with worry when she had returned in the middle of the night. Exhausted, his wife had collapsed into bed. In response to his frantic inquiries, she told him that she had been to see the rebbe. She had assured Beryl that, indeed, he had been right all along. The Krimsker Rebbe was a very great man, and from now on she was following only his advice. But what was that advice, Beryl had asked. It was too late to discuss it, she had answered, and to Beryl’s surprise and dismay, she had leaned over into his bed on Tisha B’Av night and kissed him smack on the lips, telling him that she loved him. How could she do such a thing on Tisha B’Av after having visited the rebbe? he had demanded. “I’m only following the rebbe’s advice,” she had answered simply, and dropped off immediately to sleep.
Beryl spent the rest of the night wondering what the advice could possibly have been and why when she had kissed him he smelled smoke in her hair. In the morning as he was dressing, she rolled over and told him to leave Itzik at home so he could eat a good breakfast. Then she went back to sleep without explaining anything. She probably never would. Faigie was like that. How could he ask the rebbe? Beryl sat in the beis midrash wondering what the rebbe had advised her.
To Nachman Leib’s surprise, his son Yechiel had accompanied him to the beis midrash. Although Nachman Leib had cautioned Shraga to tiptoe quietly, Yechiel awoke nevertheless and asked them to wait for him. Nachman Leib sat between his sons, but he knew that the situation was temporary and even sensed that this was Yechiel’s farewell to the beis midrash. Nachman Leib was in no hurry for the rebbe to appear. He wondered where his older son would be sitting next year.
The Krimsker Rebbe was sitting on his study floor, wondering whether a frog could swim the ocean. He was at a loss to explain why he was considering a matter that did not hold any great fascination for him, but which, nonetheless, he could not get out of his mind. Floating amidst enormous, billowing gray waves, a large green frog steadfastly kicked its dark green legs in powerful jerking thrusts. As far as the eye could see in all directions stretched the undulating sea. The rebbe was watching the frog’s minute progress when Reb Yechezkal knocked.
“Yes?” the rebbe said.
Reb Yechezkal entered and closed the door.
“Oh,
it’s you,” the rebbe said, slightly surprised to see anyone other than a wet green frog.
Reb Yechezkal was taken aback. Had he forgotten some appointment of the rebbe? Who was the rebbe expecting?
“Well, what is it?” the rebbe asked.
“We have arrived at the morning service proper. Shall we wait for the rebbe?”
“Aha,” the rebbe said, “that’s it.” The sudden silence must have awakened him. He had been dozing and had abruptly opened his eyes to see the frog in the ocean. “I’ll be right in.”
For the second time in twelve hours and for only the second time in five years, the study door opened and the Krimsker Rebbe stepped across the threshold into the beis midrash. As he entered, everyone stood up, but this morning they were expecting him and greeted him much more quietly and soberly than they had the previous evening.
The hasidim watched the rebbe with affection and delight, but with little amazement. As expected, the rebbe sat low and still on his overturned table, and the cantor quietly concluded the preliminary praise service with kaddish, then chanted in a strong, clear, measured voice, “Bless the Lord Who is blessed.” The congregation answered, “Blessed is the Lord Who is eternally blessed,” and the cantor repeated it. Everyone then continued individually, “Blessed are You our Lord, King of the Universe, Creator of Light, Creator of Darkness, Creator of Peace, and Creator of Everything.”
The prayers continued in the most ordinary and routine manner. Reb Yechezkal called Alex Bornstein’s father to the Torah in order to make the thanksgiving blessing on Alex’s behalf, but even that hardly caused a stir as the congregation responded, “May He Who has treated you kindly, continue to treat you kindly in the future.” They sat languorously doing their duty, waiting for the day to end. The morning sun had brought a return of the enervating heat, and on a day without food or drink the increased temperature easily induced an indifferent lethargy. And, too, in the morning light the previous evening seemed far away. Everyone focused on the long, difficult, broiling fast day in front of them. To dwell on the past would only draw out the afflicting of one’s soul.
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