The Sisters of the Winter Wood

by Rena Rossner

  leer and joke,

  looking very much

  like brothers.

  I know the language

  of siblings.

  One stops

  just where the glen

  meets the stone circle

  past the river.

  He listens to the trees.

  I hold my breath

  and stand stock still

  still still.

  His eyes meet mine,

  just for an instant.

  I run.

  17

  Liba

  The door to the cabin opens in a rush of air and light.

  “Liba, Liba, Liba, wake up, wake up!”

  I groan and turn over in bed. Did I fall back asleep? “What time is it?” What’s wrong with me?

  “Who knows? Time to get up, up up.” Laya shakes my arm. “You’re like a hibernating bear.”

  I shoot up in bed, heart pounding. “What did you say?”

  Her eyes meet mine and I see fear in them. She opens her mouth, then closes it, as if she realizes what she just said.

  “Laya,” I say, “what—?”

  “You have to come,” she says, interrupting me. “You have to see—there are strange men in the glen.” She tugs at my arm.

  I rub my eyes and start pulling on clothes as fast as I can. “Men? What kind of men?” Swans?

  “Come on!”

  “I’m coming.”

  I mumble my prayers as I follow her down the ladder.

  “I got up early, milked the cow, checked for eggs, and brought in the wood, then I heard singing and the sound of wings. Birds, I thought …”

  I swallow hard. Birds? Tears well in my eyes. I’m not ready for this. Could they have come for her already? I wish Tati was still here. I wish Mami had told me more …

  “I heard a melody last night in bed, and this morning, it sounded closer. First I went to the river, and I saw a flock of swans …”

  “What?” My heart takes off inside my chest.

  “They flew off so I came back home. But the sound just kept getting closer and closer. So I went back out into the woods. I hid. I waited and watched.” Laya’s hands flit, fast as hummingbird wings. It’s not something I can un-see now. Not something I can un-know. “Come …! Follow me.”

  My feet drag, but Laya’s steps are light.

  She pulls me outside after her into the woods; we crouch behind a bush. And I see them. Swan-men? Could it be? I sniff the air. No. Something other. And I shiver because I don’t know how I know. My heart beats even faster, because sniffing the air is something Tati would have done, and suddenly I feel more bear-like than ever.

  “Laya, let’s go back inside,” I whisper.

  The tallest among them, coal-haired, cocks his head at the trees, listening. He takes out a tiny flute and begins to play, almost as if he can tell he has an audience. His face is pointed from his nose down to his chin; he has small eyes and his teeth are narrow. There is something almost rat-like about him. He plays and the music makes the forest come alive. I wouldn’t have believed it if Laya had told me, but I see it with my own eyes. The leaves and branches sway to his tune, and we watch as winding twigs and offshoots make their way to him, brown snakes of vines, green-crowned. A tree charmer? Is there even such a thing?

  We cannot look away.

  The tendrils weave themselves into a circlet of leaves and nuts and stems. A crown. The coal-haired one places it on a rock and looks straight at us, at Laya. He winks.

  She gasps and makes to turn away, but his voice is honey-sweet and kind. He whispers, uncovering a tray of red and orange fruit, “Come buy, come buy.” And before I can pull Laya away, before I can tell her that we should run, that we should hide, that I don’t like the look and feel of this, Laya is up and walking towards him.

  She empties her pockets; she has no coin. But still she walks towards him, entranced. “Laya!” I whisper. “Laya!”

  He shrugs and bows in the direction of the crown as if to say, This is a gift.

  He blows a kiss and just as I feel like I’m about to bound out of the bushes on all fours and scare him away from my sister, he sets off again, accompanied by the same bells and whistles.

  Laya runs over to the rock. She gazes at the crown from all angles. She pokes it. Nothing moves.

  I walk towards her. “Chap nit! Don’t touch it,” I say.

  “Why not? It was a gift. He meant it for me. I like it.”

  “Haven’t you read any fairy tales? This doesn’t end well.”

  “And you read too many books. Fairy tales are narishkeit.”

  You’re wrong. I close my eyes and rub my face. They’re real. And I think, Maybe she doesn’t know?

  We hear the flute again off in the distance, and Laya looks like she wishes to follow it. I put my hand on her arm. “Laya … shoyn.” I shake my head, “let’s go home.”

  She picks up the crown and lovingly caresses every curve of its branches. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “What if it’s enchanted?”

  “Oh shush. There’s no such thing.”

  “Right. Just like there’s no such thing as a man playing a flute and trees dancing and turning themselves into a crown. Cast that thing off.”

  Could they have been swan-men? I still wonder. Somehow I know they’re not, but something doesn’t sit right. Who are they? Or better yet, what are they? And why are they here?

  Before I can stop her, Laya places the crown upon her white-gold head and laughs and twirls.

  “Laya, take that thing off right now.”

  “Never!” she laughs.

  “Then I’ll take it from you,” I say, and make to grab it.

  “No!”

  Laya runs back in the direction we came from, and I barrel after her.

  I chase her through the forest, the yard, then to the river, but Laya is faster.

  “You can’t have it. It’s mine.” She squeals and climbs a nearby tree and hides it at the very top. When she climbs down she says, “See if you can get it now,” sticking out her tongue at me.

  “No good will come of this,” I tell her.

  “No good comes of anything anymore,” Laya says sadly.

  “Just don’t bring it in the house.”

  “Yes, Mami,” she mocks in a sing-song voice.

  I scowl and lumber back to the cottage.

  We hear the sound of birds, a call and answer. We stop and look up at the sky. Laya turns her head from one side to the other, as if to trace the sound. A blur of white rushes through the trees, and then takes off.

  18

  Laya

  Later that afternoon

  I go back out

  to the forest.

  I tell Liba

  that I’ll be in the orchard

  looking for winter

  berries and nuts.

  But really, I’m looking

  to get lost.

  When I’m alone in the forest

  I watch the shadows

  and the sounds of all the birds,

  the water rushing, always

  rushing rushing rushing

  on its way to somewhere.

  I am rushing too.

  I just don’t know where.

  When I was little

  I used to ask Tati questions.

  How do birds fly?

  (Because God wills it.)

  Does God live in the sky?

  (God is everywhere.)

  Why do we pray?

  (Because God likes

  the sound of our voices.)

  I never liked his answers;

  I don’t think

  he liked my questions.

  After a while I stopped asking,

  and started looking

  for my own answers.

  Birds fly because they have wings.

  God doesn’t live anywhere—

  I’m not sure he exists.

  We pray because it makes us feel
r />   like someone’s listening …

  even if they’re not.

  If I go back down

  to the river,

  maybe Jennike will be there.

  And I can watch her skates fly

  across the ice

  and pretend she’s me.

  Sometimes when I’m at the river

  the spaces between

  my fingers tingle,

  and my toes.

  It’s an itch I cannot scratch.

  My back aches

  when I look at the sky.

  I feel my neck

  stretch, like my whole body

  yearns for something more,

  and I’m sore for days.

  I never knew before

  what any of it meant—

  the rushing

  I always felt

  in my veins.

  But now I know

  what it is

  what I am.

  And I wonder

  if that swan

  that I saw

  on our roof

  was looking for me.

  I still don’t know

  what any of it means.

  Only, that when I see

  birds fly

  it feels

  like hunger.

  19

  Liba

  I feel the crown of leaves and branches outside like a vechter—a sentinel up in the tree, watching over us. I don’t like it there.

  I don’t sleep well that night. I hear the fingers of the trees tap-tap-tapping against our windows and I imagine crowns of twigs come to life, growing tendrils of vines that wind their way in through the cracks in the logs of our cabin and twist their way around Laya’s neck and my wrists and ankles, binding us here.

  Something in the woods feels off to me, like Tati said he felt that night at the wedding. I hear whispers in the trees that sound like more than wind. My eyes pop open and I think I hear the patter of bird feet above our heads, like the stories Mami told me. I don’t know what I fear more—the woods or the sky. But surely I’m being silly. There is nothing to fear in these woods, in this small town. Nothing ever happens here.

  Yet, I check my fingernails ten times today at least. I feel my teeth with my tongue for sharpness. I feel the hair on my arms, constantly trying to tell if it’s grown. I’ve never been beautiful. I will never be beautiful. But I never wanted to be a bear.

  Except today I want to protect my sister. For the first time ever, in the woods, I think maybe I wouldn’t mind some claws after all.

  I try to keep busy with chores all day. I take the milk that Laya brought in and make it into cheese and butter, like Mami taught me. Laya feeds and cares for the chickens, and takes their eggs. The birds have never liked me, and now I know why.

  I go to the bee glade behind the copse of trees to the side of the house and jar some honey. Laya goes to forage for herbs and nuts and berries in our orchard and further afield, while I tend to our small garden. I try to keep Laya from going out, in fear of those men we saw, but she is gone before I even get a chance to bring it up. Should I keep her inside? Jail her? Is that what Mami would have wanted? I’m not sure I could if I tried.

  And worse, for the first time I wonder if she’s even safe with me. What if I shift suddenly. What if I become the bear that she should fear? Maybe what happened to Tati with Aleksei can happen to me too?

  I bake all day. It is the only thing that keeps my hands busy. I try to remember Mami’s recipes. I put ingredients into a bowl and judge by scent alone. A little flour, butter, cinnamon, too much, no, just enough, and honey, yes, a bit more. For Mami it is effortless. She’d stick her hands into a bowl, and suddenly there’d be cake and dough and bread. Is it magic or skill? I don’t know, but whether I like it or not, it seems I have only my nose to guide me.

  I bake lekach cakes—for happiness—trying to force myself to smile. If I smile enough, will it make me feel happy?

  “Let’s go to town tomorrow,” Laya says at dinner. “Maybe we can find out who those men were and where they came from …”

  I furrow my brow at her.

  “And we can visit the Glazers,” she continues, “and check in with them and tell them we’re okay. Maybe we can even get a tipple of something …”

  “Laya!” I shout, but then feel bad. I shouldn’t be shouting at my sister.

  “I’m joking … sort of,” she grins. “Something to warm us up on cold winter nights … it couldn’t hurt …”

  “Tati would never approve!” I say.

  “Oh hush. Mr. Glazer always poured me a bissl when no one was looking. We’re nearly adults, you and I. If I were married at fifteen like Sara Bayla, nobody would say boo to whatever I wanted to drink.”

  “You plan to get married now? Good luck with that. To whom?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “And anyway, that’s not a reason to visit the Glazers.”

  Laya rolls her eyes at me. “Well, they certainly haven’t visited us yet.”

  “It’s only been a day!”

  “Come on, Liba … let’s go to town tomorrow. Maybe we’ll see Dovid …” She waggles her eyebrows. “The wine is just a bonus!”

  She’s right: a trip to town won’t hurt. Though spring is on its way, it’s still winter and there are no fruits or vegetables to eat. Zusha’s vineyards may not be full of crimson clusters of grapes, but he has other fruit trees in his orchards, and who knows what else he secreted away for winter? And I wouldn’t mind talking to Hinda. She has a soft-spoken way about her.

  It was terrible when the army came to take Isaac, their only son, away. He’s serving in the Tsar’s army now, like all the others that have been taken, and he will do so for years … some say as many as twenty. I shudder and say a silent prayer that they will never come for Tati.

  “Liba …” Laya reaches over and touches my cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine!” I shake her hand off.

  “Let’s go visit the Glazers, and after, we can go sell some honey in the market.”

  “I suppose so.” It’s better than staying here, where I feel like a sitting duck, listening for the ominous sound of wings above our heads and dreaming of renegade tree crowns and strange men in the woods.

  “We could sell cheese too, and your lekach cakes! Oh, why didn’t we think of this before?” Laya claps her hands.

  “Because Mami and Tati don’t want us to peddle anything. You heard the story about the herring barrel.”

  “Well, Mami and Tati are gone, in case you didn’t notice. And we have to find a way to live.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Liba?”

  “Hmm?” I start another bowl of batter for the honeycakes.

  “Did Mami … umm … talk to you before she left?”

  I look up and her dark eyes meet my blue ones. This is it. This is when I’m supposed to tell her everything … but what if she thinks I’m a beast, a monster? I’m not sure I’m ready to share the way I feel just yet.

  I sigh. “I was up when Yankl came that night. I heard everything they said. Mami spoke to me a bit after that, telling me more about why Tati has to go … why we’ve never met his family …”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Laya interrupts.

  I shrug my shoulders. “There wasn’t time,” I say as I mix the batter in the bowl. But my mind races. I’m scared, Laya, I want to tell her. There are changes happening to my body and there’s nobody here to explain them to me—I’m becoming a bear, not a beautiful swan like you. I’m afraid that I’ll lose control, that soon I’ll hurt everyone around me. I want to tell her everything—all my fears. But the words don’t come.

  Silence feels like a tangible thing between us.

  “I think it will do us both good to get out,” Laya says, breaking the silence.

  I look back up at her and see a spark in her eyes and I smile.

  “We could be taken advantage of …” Laya taunts.

  “I
think I can protect myself,” I snort.

  “Hey!” Laya cries. “And you think that I can’t?”

  I shoot her a look.

  “Right. Of course. Sensible Liba. Liba always does everything right. Liba doesn’t dance with boys at weddings, or talk to strange men in the woods,” Laya sings.

  “Oh shush … wait … how many strange men have you talked to?”

  “You’re ridiculous,” Laya shakes her head.

  I sigh. “Let’s see how many more cakes I can make.”

  The next morning, we pack up a basket and set out on our way.

  “Liba, do you ever wonder what life is like for other people in other places?” Laya asks me as we walk.

  “Of course I do—everyone does,” I say.

  “But do you ever wish you could live somewhere else?”

  I pause to think. “Like in Kupel?”

  “No, I mean, someplace completely different. Far away from here.”

  “Like Eretz Yisroel?”

  “I don’t know. Or another country.”

  “Well, actually … Dovid’s family sent his oldest brother Avrom to America.”

  “Really?”

  “They want him to check it out and if things are good, they may join him there.”

  “Would you ever think about going to America?”

  “I mean, I like to read about other places, but I’m not sure I’d want to live somewhere that foreign. The more I think about it, the more I want to stay here. I’m not even sure I want to go to Kupel.”

  “But … don’t you want to get married? Haven’t you always said that you were waiting for Tati to find you the perfect match—a Chassid from his town? Someone as learned as you are?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I’m not sure that’s what I want anymore. I don’t know if I want to marry someone I’ve never met. Life is good here—the Jews and non-Jews get along and work side by side in the tobacco factory, and the dried fruit plant. We have everything we need right here.”

  Laya snorts. “Except eligible bachelors. And Jews who don’t hate us because we’re different …”

  “That’s not true. The Glazers and all the men from Tati’s shtieble like us—and the others—they just don’t understand. It’s human nature not to understand someone who’s different from you.”

  “I don’t believe that. I think all people are the same—Jew, non-Jew—we’re all human, God created us all.”