The Sisters of the Winter Wood

by Rena Rossner

  “More like oil on fur,” I say, because it’s sleek and shiny and I never feel like I can tame it. It will never be white and light like hers and Laya’s.

  “Do you want me to braid it for you?” Mami asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Come here, my zaftig one,” Tati says. “Your hair is fine; leave it be.”

  I cringe: I don’t like it when he calls me plump, even though it’s a term of endearment, and anyway, I know what comes next. Laya walks in and he says, “Oh, the shayna meidel has decided to join us.” The pretty one. I concentrate on braiding my hair.

  Laya grins. “Gut morgen. How was your walk?” She looks at me.

  I shrug my shoulders and finish braiding my hair, then sit at the table and lift a cup of tea to my mouth. “Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu melech haolam, shehakol nih’ye bidvaro—Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, by whose word all things came to be.” I make sure to say every word of the blessing with meaning.

  “Oymen!” Tati says with a smile.

  Instead of trying to be something I will never be, I do everything I can to be a good Jew.

  6

  Laya

  When I was outside

  gathering eggs,

  I searched the sky,

  hoping to see something—

  anything.

  One night I heard

  feathers rustling

  and turned around

  and looked up—

  a swan had landed

  on our rooftop.

  It was watching me.

  I didn’t breathe

  the whole time

  it was there.

  Until it spread

  its wings

  and took off

  into the sky.

  Every night I pray

  that it will happen again

  because if I ever see

  another swan,

  I won’t hold my breath—

  I will open the window

  and go outside.

  That’s why I rake my gaze

  over every flake of bark

  and every teardrop leaf,

  hoping. I see that

  every finger-branch

  is reaching for something.

  I am reaching too.

  Up up up.

  At night I feel

  the weight

  of the house

  upon my chest.

  It’s warm

  and safe inside,

  but the wooden planks

  above my head

  are nothing like

  the dark boughs

  of the forest.

  Sometimes I wish

  I could sleep outside.

  The Kodari is

  the only place

  I feel truly at home.

  But this morning

  I’m restless

  and that usually means

  something is about to change.

  That’s what the forest

  teaches you—

  change can come

  in the blink of an eye—

  the fall of one spark

  can mean total destruction.

  There is a fever

  that burns in me.

  It prickles every pore.

  I’m not happy with

  the simple life we lead.

  A life ruled

  by prayer and holy days,

  times for dusk and dawn,

  the sacred and the profane.

  A life of devotion,

  Tati would say.

  The glory

  of a king’s daughter

  is within.

  But I long for what is

  just outside my window.

  Far beyond

  the reaches of the Dniester,

  and the boundaries

  of our small shtetl.

  It hurts,

  this thing I feel,

  how unsettled

  I’ve become.

  I want to fit

  in this home,

  in this town.

  To be the daughter

  that Tati wants me to be.

  To be more

  like Liba.

  Prayer comes

  so easily to her.

  Mami understands

  what I feel

  but I also think

  it scares her.

  She is always sending me

  outside, and I’m grateful

  but I also wonder

  why she doesn’t

  teach me how to bake,

  or how to pray.

  It’s almost like she knows

  that one day

  I will leave her.

  Sometimes I wish

  she’d teach me

  how to stay.

  I close my eyes

  and take deep breaths.

  It helps me

  resist the urge

  to scratch my back.

  I want to crawl out

  of this skin I wear

  when these thoughts come

  and threaten to overwhelm

  the little peace I have,

  staring at the sky,

  praying in my own way

  for something else.

  Something is definitely

  inside me.

  It is not glory,

  or devotion.

  It is something

  that wants to burst free.

  7

  Liba

  Night falls and Tati comes home from work. It’s well past eleven. Laya is already asleep beside me. She was restless all day, I could sense that—and I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but I never got the chance. Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.

  And another.

  The knocks are so loud, they feel as if they could wake the dead. I can’t imagine how Laya sleeps through it. I creep to the top rung of the ladder to our loft, where I can just barely see the door. Tati goes to open it. Mami baked all day and into the night—babka for matters of the heart—and I wonder if she knew that this was coming.

  Is it the Tsar’s army? Have they come for Tati? So many men from our town have been conscripted recently. Their absence in the village is felt—lights in windows have gone out all over town.

  I know, we all know, that something as small as a knock—the rap of knuckles on wood—could change our lives forever. If the Tsar’s army comes for you, they take you for twenty-five years. And we know it means some people might never return.

  I wait for the world I’ve known to crumble, with the scent of chocolate in the air.

  “Who is it?”

  There’s a muffled answer and Tati unbars the door.

  A man I’ve never seen before steps inside. He bows before my father and I see Tati put a hand over his mouth and cry out.

  “Yankl?”

  But the man doesn’t rise until Tati places his hands upon his head and blesses him.

  “Ye’varech’echa Adonai ve’yish’merecha—May God bless you and keep you …” I don’t understand why my father says the priestly blessing. He normally only says it on Friday nights with his hands on Laya’s head and mine—just after we sing “Shalom Aleichem” inviting the angels into our home and before he blesses the wine.

  The man lifts up his head and kisses my father’s knuckles.

  “Yankl!” my father says again. The men embrace. “What brings you here?” Tati asks. “How did you …?”

  “It wasn’t easy to find you, Rebbe, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Mami takes a step forward and bows her head in his direction. “Can I offer you something hot to drink? I just made babka.”

  “This is Adel, my wife,” Tati says to the strange man. And to my surprise, the man looks at her and says, “I remember.”

  He wears a large cloak that looks like a bearskin, and underneath it, a satin overcoat with white stockings that end in large black boots.

  “Please—take a seat.” Mami beckons the men
to the table as she goes to the kitchen. I can hear her fill the kettle and put it on the fire.

  The man sits down at the table and stares at Tati. “It’s good to see you, Berman.”

  Tati grunts. “What brings you all this way, my brother?”

  Tati has a brother?

  The man starts to sway back and forth at the table as if in prayer. “Oh-yoy oh-yo-yoy, oh-yoy,” he chants. “The Rebbe is sick, Reb Berman. He doesn’t have long to live.”

  I see Tati’s face go slack, white almost, like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Here, have a tipple of something.” Mami takes out the schnapps and offers both men a glassful.

  The man—my uncle?—takes a healthy gulp, shudders, and continues. “We need you to come home. The Rebbe needs you, Berman … we all need you. Please come back before it’s too late.” He takes another gulp of schnapps, then picks up the mug of tea.

  Tati shakes his head. “I have to speak to my wife.”

  “There isn’t much time,” Yankl pleads. “It may be too late already.”

  “Then what are you doing here? Leave,” Tati growls, and slams his glass on the table.

  “Berman …” Mami goes to put her arms on Tati’s shoulders.

  “I said I’d never go back, Adel. You know that.”

  “You can’t send Yankl back out into the cold.”

  Tati grunts and says, “Will you stay the night?”

  Yankl stands up. “No. You’re right. I should head back right away. I gave you the message.” He shrugs. “What you do with it is on your conscience.”

  “Get out of my house!” Tati yells.

  “Berman!” Mami scolds.

  I hear Laya turn over in bed.

  Tati grumbles, “Es tut mir bahng—sorry,” and looks up at his brother. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  Yankl walks to the door.

  “Yankl, I didn’t mean it. You can stay the night. You are always welcome in our home,” Tati says.

  “It’s all right,” Yankl says. “I’d best be going back.”

  “I’ll pack you up some food,” Mami says, “and a thermos of tea.”

  He hesitates, then nods.

  Mami busies herself in the kitchen, but otherwise there is silence in the room. The brothers seem to look everywhere but at each other.

  “A bi gezunt,” Mami finally says, bringing him a packed basket. She adds in a low voice, “I’ll talk to him. He’ll come. Don’t worry.”

  And just as quickly as he’d come, the man is gone.

  “Why did you tell him that?” Tati growls when she closes the door.

  Mami sits down at the table and takes Tati’s hands in hers. “Calm yourself, Berman. You have no choice, and you know that. You must go back to Kupel. You have to pay your respects.”

  “No choice is also a choice,” Tati grumbles. “They never had respect for you, or for me and my choices.”

  “Maybe he wants to make amends …”

  “We haven’t had word in over a dozen years. They cast us out! I swore to you. I swore to myself that I would never go back. And now they want me back? Me, they said, not you. I won’t go.”

  “Yankl didn’t say that,” Mami sighs. “You know how I feel about your family … but if your father goes to his oylam, chas v’shalom—God forbid—and you don’t make it back there, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  “And then they’ll never let me leave. I’m next in line. You know that. And if they won’t accept you, I want no part of it. What—I should leave my wife and daughters to go see a father who never approved of me?”

  Mami’s long thin hands grip Tati’s large ones tightly, her knuckles white. “Yankl wouldn’t have come unless the situation was dire. I think you should leave now. Tonight. I’ll stay here with the girls.” She looks into his eyes and says, “I trust you. I know that you’ll come back for us.”

  “It’s not about trust, Adel,” Tati says ruefully. “What would happen if you went back to your family?”

  Mami shakes her head. “I could never.”

  “So why is this any different?”

  “Because the Rebbe is on his deathbed! Really, Berman?”

  “And if Dmitry was dying?”

  Who is Dmitry? I wish I understood half of what they are discussing. Everything feels both foreign and familiar all at once, as if these are someone else’s parents—but also, as if these are things I’ve heard them discuss in my dreams.

  “It’s not the same and you know it. I’m sick of this life we lead,” Mami says. “A hovel at the edge of the forest? A shtetl full of nebbishers who talk behind our backs every chance they get. This town is a dead end. We are on the brink. Maybe this is your chance at salvation. To reclaim all you lost.”

  “Maybe we should go to your family, then, eh? Reclaim them.”

  “You know we can’t do that.”

  Tati raises his voice. “So why is this any different?”

  Mami starts to cry.

  Tati gets up and goes to put his arms around her. “You chose this life. You chose me. Are you saying you regret that choice?”

  “No, never!” Mami looks up. “But maybe you can have both. Them and me. You have a chance now. You know I never will.”

  “Adel.” He hugs her tightly and sighs. “I will only go if you come with me.”

  “What? And leave the girls?” Mami’s voice is shrill and I hear Laya turn over in bed again.

  “If we get there and the Rebbe, my Tati, is willing to finally accept you,” he says in a voice that sounds cracked, “publicly, then we can come back here, get the girls, and move back to Kupel. But I won’t expose them to that kind of spectacle unless I know what my father’s answer will be. They must accept you first. That’s my condition.”

  “We can’t leave the girls.”

  “The kehilla will take care of them. And anyway, they don’t have travel permits. None of us do. I won’t take the girls on the road and expose them to that kind of danger. If we are caught, it will mean certain death.” Tati rubs his hand across his forehead. “For now, they’re safer here in Dubossary.”

  “Are you meshugge? They’ll be prey to any man!”

  “Liba won’t let that happen. She’s stronger than she knows.”

  “Maybe we should tell them …”

  Tell us what?

  “No! We said we’d wait until they got engaged and we’ll keep to that. No need to worry them before that. The townsfolk are mensches. They’ll take care of our girls and keep them safe.”

  “No girls should be without parents,” Mami says.

  “Liba will keep house until we return. She’s nearly eighteen.”

  “Which is even more of a reason for us all to go back. What kind of future does she have here? You always say that no one from this town will marry our girls. Well, here’s your chance. Liba is almost of age. You can’t wait forever. It’s time, Berman.”

  “When the time comes, I will find them worthy husbands. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “When? How old does Liba have to be? You’ll wait until she’s too old for anyone to want her and then see what’s left? Let them come with us. Please?”

  My skin suddenly feels cold, coated with pinpricks of ice.

  “No!” Tati says. “My girls are more precious to me than rubies and pearls. I won’t risk their lives on the roads.”

  I can tell that Mami’s crying in earnest now.

  “Adel …” Tati’s voice is instantly soft.

  “No!” Mami cries. “I gave up everything I was—everything I had—for you. I did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough. Not here, not there, maybe not anywhere. There’s no love lost between me and your family. But it’s not like things are all that much better here. I hear what people say. I know how they talk. Please go alone. Do it for me. For us. Get his blessing. Then come back safe and sound and we’ll either stay here, or we’ll go.”

  “And what if they don’t let me leave? What if I can’t come back? What if my fa
ther is on his deathbed for months? I can’t take that chance. I’ll be lost without you. You know how they get into my head. You are my life, gelibteh, I can’t go without you by my side.” He lowers his voice and suddenly sounds nothing like my father. “I don’t trust myself when I’m with them.”

  Mami shakes her head and makes a fist. “And if someone murders the girls in the night, or ravages them, you could live? You’re a beast to think to leave them.”

  “I am a beast,” he chuckles, “but I haven’t acted like one in many years, and you know that better than anyone.” Then he looks at her solemnly. “In times like these, people change. Maybe everything will be different. And if not …” I can see my father swallow hard, his jaw working. “You’re right. I have a responsibility to my parents. At least to mourn, to say kaddish at my father’s grave if it comes to that.”

  “You know … if things don’t work out … there are other places we could go. People speak of America.”

  “America is a fairy tale.”

  Mami throws her hands up in defeat. “You’re impossible.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

  Tati takes a deep breath and softens his tone. “The girls will be okay. We will come back for them, I promise. Adel … I know you think that I’m against you in this, but I’m not. It is honestly safer for Liba and Laya to stay here.”

  Mami seems to make a decision. She gets up and walks across the room. She takes something out from the trunk beneath their bed.

  “Adel …” Tati whispers.

  “Don’t stop me, Berman. I need to think. I have to get out of this cabin.”

  Mami holds up something white that looks like a cloak, and drapes it over her shoulders. She rubs her arms as if goose pimples dot her skin. She begins to shiver and shake, then hunches down on the ground as if she’s in pain. Her arms arc up, graceful, yet contorted at odd angles. The air shimmers. I don’t understand what I’m seeing, only that I can’t look away. Little wisps of white start to coat her face, then her arms, and feathers, long and white, burst out of every pore. The dress she’s wearing falls to the floor in a pool of cloth, leaving her naked, except it’s not skin I see anymore, but soft white down that shines in the light. She curls into herself, like a white ball of cloud, except for her arms—they reach for the sky. I blink, and in that instant, her arms become ivory wings, feathered and majestic in the moonlight that streams down from the skylight above our heads. My mother is a swan.