The tremble in Bluma’s voice was audible, though she fought to keep it still. “Are you sure?”
Yehuda Leib smiled sadly.
What else was there to wait for?
“Yes,” he said.
And, leaving the candles burning in the window behind them, they went back out into the rain.
It was only minutes until they were before Bluma’s house, its fragrance of sweet baking bread drifting out like a promise into the muddy street.
Bluma made directly for the front door, but Yehuda Leib continued climbing up the hill.
He had seen something.
In the little cemetery there was a new grave.
Yehuda Leib didn’t have to be able to read the stone to know who lay beneath it.
“I’m so sorry,” said Bluma, climbing up beside him.
“Yes,” he said. “I am too.”
And as long as they had watched the candles in her house, now they stood in the rain before the grave of Yehuda Leib’s mother.
“I couldn’t have stayed, anyway,” said Yehuda Leib after a long silence. “Moshe Dovid Frumkin would’ve made sure of that.”
Bluma nodded. “Probably. But it still would’ve been nice to say hello.”
“And goodbye,” said Yehuda Leib.
“And goodbye,” said Bluma.
“I don’t want to go back to Zubinsk,” said Yehuda Leib. “But I think I’ll have to start there. Perhaps I can hitch a ride as far as Kasrilevke and catch the train.”
“And then?”
Yehuda Leib shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Bluma shook her head tightly. “No,” she said. “No, that’s no good. I don’t care about the direction, but we’ve got to be moving toward something.”
Yehuda Leib’s eyebrows rose so far that the patch over his empty eye gave a little jump.
“We’ve?” he said.
“We’ve,” said Bluma, nodding.
“But what about your mother and father?” said Yehuda Leib.
“They’ve got each other,” said Bluma.
“You don’t want to live with them?”
Now Bluma wore a light, tight frown. “It’s just that there’s only so much time until…well, Until We Meet Again. I want to see what else is out there. And I’ve grown used to your footsteps beside me.”
This was the first time since learning of the death of his mother that Yehuda Leib allowed himself to cry.
Bluma gave him a little shove, tried to smile and frown at the same time, and somehow succeeded.
“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib.
But Bluma was looking back over her shoulder. “First,” she said, “I think I’d like to sit down and get myself dry, though. Maybe eat a few cookies.”
Yehuda Leib nodded. “Me too.”
“Good,” said Bluma, turning down the hill toward the light of the Chanukah candles in her parents’ window. “Are you coming?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to Catherine Drayton and Claire Friedman for helping me to lay foundations, and to Erin Clarke and Ruth Knowles for helping me to finish the house. Thanks also to Karen Sherman, Amy Schroeder, Artie Bennett, and Alison Kolani.
My further thanks are due to the members of the Ann Arbor Orthodox Minyan, especially Zvi Gitelman.
This book was largely written in New Haven, Connecticut, where my thanks are due to Mark Oppenheimer and the students of Daily Themes 2019 (eight of them in particular), and to Cyd, Rebekah, Ellie, Klara, Anna, and D. W. Oppenheimer, the members of BEKI (Beth El-Keser Israel), the Westville Shul, and Howard Ratner.
My thanks also to the denizens of many cemeteries, but especially Ann Arbor’s Fairview, New Haven’s Grove Street, and Þorlákshöfn’s churchyard.
Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed loving homages to Indiana Jones and the works of J. R. R. Tolkien in these pages—my thanks to everyone who brought those sterling stories into my life.
In the same spirit, my thanks to Anaïs Mitchell and Rachel Chavkin for Hadestown, in which I have found consistent inspiration. Further thanks to Chris Sullivan, whom I have never met, but whose Hermes I still carry with me.
While I’m mentioning inspirations: The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins by Eric Kimmel, with illustrations by Trina Schart Hyman. The music of Daniel Kahn & the Painted Bird, the Klezmatics, and Joey Weisenberg and the Hadar Ensemble. Reb Nachman of Breslov. The Maiden of Ludmir.
The house in which I wrote this book belonged to Jack Paulishen and his wife, Michelle. Toward the end of my time living there, Jack died. His legacy needs no contribution from me, but I would be remiss if I didn’t pause here to remember him.
That house was also the first home of my wonderful, bright, and beautiful daughter, Lilja Meital, who is napping upstairs as I type this. She opened new doors in my soul when I met her, and every day I am grateful that I get to be her Abba.
Lily, I love you forever.
For the contributions, assistance, and support they gave us in our attempts to grow our family, I offer my insufficient thanks to Melisa Scott, the workers on the labor and delivery floor at the St. Raphael campus of the Yale New Haven Hospital, and to the ljósmæður at Landspítali Íslands.
Finally, my gratitude and love for my wife, Livia, are immeasurable. If she weren’t such a private person, I would spill a lot of ink here telling you all about the many ways in which she nurtures me and my work, and perhaps you might begin to understand how I, among all claimants, am truly the luckiest man on earth.
In deference to her preference, however, I will simply close by saying this:
Thank you, Livia.
I love you.
NIKITA ARTINIAN
GAVRIEL SAVIT is an author and actor. His award-winning first novel, Anna and the Swallow Man, was a New York Times bestseller and has been translated into eighteen languages. As an actor, he has appeared both on and off-Broadway, as well as on stages around the world. He currently lives in Springfield, Illinois, with his wife, his daughter, and his dog.
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The Way Back Page 31
