Berta took a sip of the tea and then another and soon color began to creep back into her cheeks. She was beginning to see that moving in there was her only real option and that she was lucky to have it. “Are you sure about this? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind. To have you and the children here with me? What more could I want? And besides, you’re my sister. Where else would you go?”
A few days later Berta and Vera packed up the apartment. Professor Bardygin made room in his section of the basement so she could store her furniture there. The rest, clothes and a few toys, she packed up in the suitcases. She and Samuil loaded them into a wheelbarrow that she had borrowed from the green grocer down the street. Vera wanted to help her down the hill, but Berta said no. “You can’t do for me anymore, Verochka. I’m on my own now. I’m going to have to get used it.”
She hugged Vera good-bye, picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow, and started down the hill with the children in tow. It was heavy and hard to maneuver, especially when she came to the corner and had to let the wheel bounce down over the curb. It tipped over, and the suitcases spilled out onto the cobblestones, but fortunately an old porter and a soldier were there to help her put them back again, and they even helped her across the street and up on the opposite curb. Eventually, with Samuil’s help, she got the hang of it and was able to maneuver it down the streets and through the crowds. She didn’t want to meet anyone she knew, so she kept off Davidkovo Street and took shortcuts through the alleys and courtyards whenever she could. Samuil was excited and thought of it as an adventure. Sura wanted to know when they could move back home and be with Masha again, who would now be staying with the professor.
That night Berta, Lhaye, their children, and Zev all crowded around the little table in the front room and ate a supper of soup, bread, and boiled beets. There were three adults and six children in the two rooms, three if you counted the tiny kitchen. Berta’s things were piled in a corner of the front room. This would be her place for now, a corner of an apartment on Dulgaya Street in the Jewish neighborhood.
“No matter what, just know this is your place too, Bertenka,” her sister said as they were clearing away the dishes. “It is not much, but it’s a place of your own and it cannot be taken away from you. So you can stop worrying. You have family that will take care of you. You are not alone.”
Berta squeezed her hand and managed a smile. She looked at her suitcases piled up in the dark corner and at the brown water stain on the wall above them. She thanked her sister, but really she was thinking about the roof and wondering where she could find a bit of canvas to protect her belongings.
Later Lhaye spread out some blankets on the iron stove top so that she, Zevi, and the children could sleep over the dying coals. She offered the spot to Berta, but she declined it and instead made a bed for herself and her children on a pallet in front of the stove. For the first few hours she lay there watching the glowing coals through the cracks in the stove, trying to ignore the scratching and scurrying in the walls all around her. Then she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. After a few hours she gave up and went into the front room. There she put on several layers of clothing and wrapped herself in a blanket. She brought a chair over to the window and wiped off the lacy pattern of ice that formed on the inside of the glass so she could watch the snow fall through the circle of lamplight across the street. It was deserted now. The refugees had been ordered out. Some went on to an uncertain future in the provinces, others to camps in Siberia or northern Russia. The people were gone, but bits and pieces of their belongings were left there: an old straw mattress lying in the gutter, a bundle of old clothes, a handcart with a broken wheel, a pair of shoes frozen stiff in the snow.
She saw an animal race through the gaslight, casting a long shadow on the building behind it. It was small, a weasel or perhaps a sable, something wild in the middle of the city. For some reason it reminded her of Hershel and she ached to be with him. She closed her eyes and remembered what it was like to lie next to him, to smell his hair, taste his lips, to feel his body against hers, the way his muscles worked, the way his pleasure came with hers, and the tranquility they shared afterward.
She tried to send him a thought. She pictured it like a flowing tendril of hoarfrost moving out from Cherkast, to the rest of Little Russia, to Russian Poland, Germany, and on to the western front. It moved west to France, to England, out across the Atlantic to New York and then to Wisconsin, which she pictured as a city like Cherkast. There an icy tendril moved across the cobblestone streets until it found him asleep in his sister’s house.
Are you there?
It would come to him in a dream. He would wake and remember it.
Are you there?
And then he would reply. He too would sit by the window and send it off. She wondered if it would take the same path or come back to her by a different route.
And then she had it, clear as clean water.
Are you there?
But it was only her own thought back again, lonely and lost: It had traveled all across America, across the Pacific Ocean, across Siberia to Russia, to Little Russia. And finally back to the room on Dulgaya Street.
Chapter Fourteen
March 1916
ON THE MORNING before Purim, Berta found the can of kerosene outside the door with a note attached to it: For Madame Alshonsky. She and Lhaye had been up late the night before embroidering gifts for the children and as a consequence had used far too much of it to light their work. Since Lhaye would be spending most of the day baking and preparing the meal to break the fast for Queen Esther, it was up to Berta to rise before dawn and go down to the market for more. It was still dark when she left the apartment that morning and so she nearly tripped over the can on her way out the door.
“No signature?” asked Lhaye. She was rolling out the dough for the hamantashen. The mohnelach was already hardening on the cookie sheet. “Who could’ve left it? Did you do a kindness for somebody?”
“I’ve barely left this apartment, you know that.”
“Maybe it’s for Purim?”
“Kerosene for Purim? And who would give me a present? I don’t even know anybody.”
Lhaye picked up the baby before he had chance to crawl toward the hot stove and handed him to Berta. She took him in her lap and entertained him with a bunch of measuring spoons.
“Maybe somebody thinks they know you?”
“Here? Who knows me here?”
“Maybe they know Hershel?”
“Why should they know him?”
Lhaye took a bite of the mohnelach. “It’s good. Nice and sweet. Know what that means? Going to be a good year.” She went back to her rolling pin. “It’s a mystery, that’s what it is.”
“And even if they knew him, why would they leave me a can of kerosene?”
“Maybe he helped someone and now they’re helping us. Why should we question it? Ven dos mazel kumt, shtel im a shtul. If fortune calls, offer him a seat. Here, give me the baby. I’ll get Vulia to watch him. You pluck the bird.”
That night the neighbors came in to read the Megillah, the book of Esther, and break the fast. They brought noisemakers so that every time Haman’s name was mentioned they could spin the handles and make a loud racket. The men stamped their feet and the children spun their graggers until there wasn’t an apartment on the street where one could find peace and quiet. When the people upstairs came down to complain they were invited in to stay. Soon the little apartment was filled to capacity and people were spilling out into the hallway and even into the street. The crowd stood around, talking over each other and eating mohnelach and hamantashen and washing it down with good strong tea.
The next day Berta and Lhaye cooked all day for the celebration that night. Zev should have been in shul reading the Megillah for a second time, but instead he went to work. He was a Bolshevik and had nothing good to say about the ritualistic nonsense of his forebears. It was a sore subject between him and Lhaye
. She nagged him to go to shul and to stop lighting his cigarettes on the Shabbes candles. In turn he begrudged her the few kopecks for a Shabbes goy.
That night the Purim players came to their courtyard and put on a play about King Artaxerxes, Haman, Mordecai, and Esther. There were songs; a man dressed as a woman; three-cornered hats made out of brightly colored cardboard; and kozeh, the goat, a man dressed in a goatskin decorated with beads, coins, and little bells.
Berta and the children stood on the sidelines and watched the play, clapping and singing at all the appropriate parts. After that came another play about Joseph, more songs, and even some pathos. To lighten the mood, kozeh came bounding into the circle, leaping into the air, twirling and shaking until all the bells, big and small, were ringing. He sang a nonsensical song that made the children laugh and even Sura forgot her shyness and joined in.
IT WASN’T long before Berta’s money was gone and she had to rely on Lhaye and Zev for her most basic needs. To their credit they never complained or even mentioned the work that awaited her down at the factory. They didn’t have to. She knew where she was headed and so did they. She had even begun to wake up before dawn to the sound of the factory whistle.
She hadn’t thought of another line of work until she went to Alix’s house, one afternoon in late March, to sell the pearl bracelet. She thought she might get a better price from Alix than from the Baranov brothers. She purposely made an appointment on Thursday, because the Tretiakovs always went to the Melgunovs’ for a late supper after the theater on Thursdays and she knew Alix would want to wear it that night and be more likely to accept her price without question. So at half past four she arrived at Alix’s house and was shown into the sea green parlor.
Berta had been counting on tea at Alix’s all day long. Since she had to rely on Lhaye for her food, she had taken to eating less and that day had eaten nothing in anticipation of a proper Russian tea. She was not disappointed. There were cakes and tea sandwiches and a large plate of scones. When Alix left the room to have a word with the cook, Berta scooped up several sandwiches and four scones and put them into her just-in-case bag. She had a fleeting notion of regret, that she was not only manipulating her friend to get more money out of her, but also stealing food from her as well. Then her stomach rumbled and all thoughts of regret evaporated.
When Alix returned, Berta took out the velvet pouch and removed the bracelet. She had no feelings about it now. It was no longer the bracelet Hershel had given her when Samuil was born. Now, it was simply food.
“Put it on,” Alix said eagerly, holding out her wrist.
For a moment Berta was worried that the bracelet wouldn’t fit. She put it around Alix’s wrist and tugged on it a little to make the clasp lock. “Perfect,” she said, thinking that if it had been a millimeter shorter, she would’ve gone hungry that night.
“It’s not too small?” Alix asked, moving her hand this way and that so she could see it from different angles.
“No, it’s a little snug, but they’re wearing them like that.”
Alix looked at her doubtfully. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How much? Give me a bargain. I’m your best friend.”
Berta quoted her a price that was twice what the Baranov brothers would give her.
“It that a good price?”
“Of course. You think I would take advantage of you?”
Alix apologized for doubting her and went to a cabinet decorated with carved shells and seaweed and got the money out of a little box. Berta stuffed the bills into her bodice, kissed her friend twice, once on each cheek, and saw herself out. On the way down the hill she stopped off in a little public square and sat down on a bench to eat her tea sandwiches and scones. There she surveyed her feelings and found that she was relieved and happy to have the money, but saddened by the change in her friendship with Alix. Alix was no longer her best friend. In fact she was no longer a friend at all. Alix was a customer.
After that, she sold a brooch to Maria Gerasimovna Melgunova, who had no problem doing business with Berta Alshonsky as long as she came to the back door like any other tradesman. When Berta ran out of jewelry to sell she borrowed some from the Baranov brothers, who were happy to give it to her at a steeply discounted price. Their discount plus a modest markup kept her out of the factory and her children fed. After that she acquired other customers, some strangers, some former friends. Soon she was branching out into furniture, shoes, clothing, whatever was wanted. She knew where to get the best merchandise at a discount and how to make profit.
By the summer, Anna Mikhailovna Vishniakova had heard that Berta Alshonsky could find anything at a good price, even with the war, and ordered a gilt mirror of good quality. Berta had such a mirror stored in the professor’s basement. She wrapped it in burlap and took the train to a station that was several versts from Anna Mikhailovna’s estate. Since she didn’t have the money to hire a cart, she had to walk all the way with it. It was hot and her shoes hurt and she was worried about breaking it. A small convoy of trucks passed her loaded with supplies for the front. Their heavy tires left a choking cloud of dust in their wake, which stuck to her sweaty face and made it hard to breathe. There was a family of muzhiki at a haying station near the road, an old man, his wife, and several young girls, who stopped by their cartload of hay to watch the pretty woman, with arms like sticks, carry the heavy gold mirror down the dusty road.
Finally she reached the country estate, limped up the stone steps, and knocked on the door. It was opened by Olya, the maid from Moscow, a bony Slav with a faint moustache and prominent cheekbones. She stood there, taking Berta in, while wiping her hands on her apron.
“Who is it, Olya?” called her mistress from somewhere inside.
“It’s the house Jew, Madame,” Olya called back, keeping a wary eye on Berta. “She’s come with your mirror.”
“Tell her to go around to the back,” called out Mikhailovna.
“Yes, Madame. You heard her,” the maid grumbled, blocking her way. She nodded to a path that led around to the back and then shut the door.
Berta stood on the steps and looked out into the yard, to an oak and birch stand just beyond the grass that was ablaze with the color of autumn. The fallen leaves formed choppy waves at the base of the trees and dead branches poked bony fingers up through them like the skeletal remains of fallen soldiers. She was not the house Jew. She would never be a house Jew. She was Berta Alshonsky, temporarily reduced in circumstances. She had no doubt that her situation would soon right itself. There had been a mistake. She was not meant to live like this. She was meant for her former life and soon it would be returned to her.
She picked up the mirror and went down the steps. The sky was a cloudless expanse of white and somewhere in the stand of oaks she heard the monotonous drone of a woodcutter’s saw. For the time being she would have to ignore the unsavory parts of her life, the little terrors, the slights and insults, the injuries to her pride and the bitter uncertainties of the future. She had room for only simple thoughts now: keep going, turn a profit, bring food home, and extract the most out of the least. All the rest was a distraction that kept her from a good day’s work. She decided to add a surcharge on to the price of the mirror: 5 percent for the journey, 5 for the heat and dust, and another 5 for having been mistaken for a house Jew.
THERE WAS a one-story house of weathered wood and peeling plaster that shared a courtyard with three similar houses. It was just off Davidkovo Square near the zemstvo building and directly across from the Church of the Resurrection. It wasn’t a very fashionable neighborhood. These weren’t fashionable people. The owner of the house was the assistant manager of a textile plant owned by Yuvelir’s family. In the past Berta wouldn’t have known these people. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to stop and speak with them, to exchange a pleasantry or ask about their children. Now everything was different. Now they were her customers and she couldn’t afford to be picky.
It was J
anuary 1917 and the country had been at war for nearly two and a half years. Everyone was talking about revolution. The consensus was that it was only a matter of time. Bread was scarce in the cities. People had to wait in long lines for it, only to find that the bakeries had run out of flour. Food shortages were everywhere. The factories were on strike. The war was going badly: inexperienced leadership, wholesale desertion, and the rolling stock had proven inadequate to supply the front. There was a stench of decay in the air. Russia was festering. Everyone knew it was going to be bad, but no one imagined how it could be much worse, with people dropping everywhere of disease, of starvation, of war, young and old and even children, the bodies piling up like hayricks after the autumn harvest.
Berta stepped off the curb and crossed in front of a sledge that was being pulled by its driver. The man had a harness over his shoulder and he trudged through the snowy street pulling his heavy load, his face screwed up with the effort. She jumped over a mound of snow in the gutter and landed up on the other side, ignoring the taunts of three soldiers who were standing over a fire in an old drum. One of them was roasting chestnuts over a grate and selling them in paper cones.
She followed the little walkway around to the back of the house where the dvornik was shoveling out the courtyard. He looked up briefly when she passed but said nothing and returned to his work. She tried to knock on the door, despite the heavy bundles in her hands, but soon gave up and kicked it several times instead. She didn’t want to put the packages down because it was hard to pick them up again. She was wearing men’s gloves that were too big for her and made it difficult to hold things. She wanted to take them off but knew she would be risking frostbite. There was a sharp wind, and the sun, a dull orb in the sky swaddled in clouds of frost and snow, hung over the domes of the Church of the Annunciation.
She heard a voice from inside: “Nastya! It’s the boy with the wood.”
The Little Russian Page 23
