Before she knew it, they were dancing. This is a sin, she thought, her head swirling with fear and consequence. A sin beyond forgiving. She encountered the faint rustle of her underskirt as she moved, and it made her conscious of the heat between her thighs. With his hands upon her spine, she shuddered; her face was closer to his than it had ever been to any man, so close she could almost taste the moisture of his breath.
“I learned that dance in Kiev,” he said. “What do you think?”
She felt an intense aching rise from deep within her; an urge so vast, so keen, she feared it would pulse and pulse forever, smothering her utterly. She was wide-awake for the first time in all her life. But as her pleasure mingled with fear, her hands turned to fists as she pushed him from her shuddering body. She turned abruptly and sprinted away from him and all that he had done to her. Perchik had set alight a beacon within her—her lifelong emptiness the aperture, his mind the shaft of light cascading through into a darkened room, illuminating all.
Who was this man? Where had he come from? Would it change him and all he was? Would it matter? No, she thought. She did not need to know.
She could feel his eyes upon her as she ran up the path.
She did not look back.
ten
HODEL WAS STILL CONVINCED SHE WOULD BE RELEASED. EVEN after so great a number of weeks had passed that she could no longer account for them.
She sent letters to her family—the prison allowed her that brief luxury. The pain in her hands was terrible as she worked them to write again. He sits in prison; I work, she would scribble, hands weak and unpracticed. She gave the letters, thick with intimacy and lies, to the jailer, and she had to trust they would reach her family as the jailer slipped her words into the void of his deep-set pockets. She prayed the letters would find them and give them solace.
The full force of winter’s anger had bellowed in, endless and wretched, and as a result her food was even less wholesome, the room caked with frost, and the want of air, of physical movement, and an isolation as profound as any hunger had completely drained her of her sanity.
One night, unable to stand the silence any longer, she spoke into the darkness.
“You!” she said abruptly. “You there!”
The jailer made his way to the bars, holding his lantern with his usual detachment. She pointed to her cheeks to indicate the marks upon his own.
“You are a criminal.” He made no movement whatsoever. “And now you are in their employ?”
The jailer stepped away from the bars in what Hodel thought at first was an attempt to ignore her, but he returned momentarily with a chair and sat down upon it, placing the lamp near enough that she could feel its warmth.
“When I first arrived here,” he began, most solemnly, “I was taken to a station house full of Poles who had fought in the war of independence.”
“The war of independence?” She had not heard of any war referred to in that manner.
“Ah, Tygrysek, you have found me out.” He grimaced. “I am a Pole.”
So this explained it. His foreignness. His mysterious, particular misery.
“Their staffing is low, and I am not violent. I have been assigned to serve for life on this side of the bars. No matter.” He paused a moment and shrugged. “Russia has seized Poland’s most devout women and most charitable sons for nearly a century. “Most of the prisoners here are from what is now left of the town of Lodz.”
He looked away.
“Poland. Our own land. Our people. In the beginning we hoped revolt might save us. We all detested the occupation, and many lost their jobs in the great recession—was it five years ago it began?” It was clear time had run away from him. “They let the oldest go first. My two young sons stayed on for three more years, supported our family. Fine young men. Hardworking. Bright.”
Hodel could not believe how beautifully he spoke—his voice was bell-like.
“By winter, over one hundred thousand workers across Poland had lost their jobs. Japanese War. A ravaged economy. But then came the conscriptions to the Russian army, the never-ending Russification, the lowering of wages and working conditions. We only wanted our freedom.”
She thought of her own people in Anatevka. Before she left, there had been whispers of Jews dislocated from their villages by the tsar, entire townships being emptied of their people. She thought of the pogroms—the governmental demonstrations her father swore were nothing more than rumor. She adored him, but Tzeitel’s ravaged wedding was too close for her father’s gleaming optimism. Her papa—a father just like the jailer.
“What else could we do?” Obviously the wound still festered, for his face was full—full of an emotion no longer available to him. “In June, Russian police opened fire on the demonstrations, killing ten. Among the dead was my son. The elder: Krzesimir is his name. Was his name. So young. Not even your age I would think. They buried the dead in a mass grave. It was all any of us could do to contain our fury, and thus the funeral escalated into an even greater revolt met by the Cossack cavalry. We threw stones—they were all we had. They returned with guns, killing twenty-five. Among them, my other son. Jerzy.”
This man had once been human after all.
“I threw myself upon his body and held his head as the life left his eyes. He was so afraid and left this world so angry. When the fighting ceased, I took Jerzy up into my arms and carried him on my back toward home. I did not wish for them to take my boy, to watch another son buried in a pile. But they seized me, shouting that I had stolen property of the empire and that I was now a criminal. I watched Jerzy’s corpse crumple as they carted me away. . . .”
He stared at the light upon the floor, his eyes dead from deep within.
“We wished only for fairness. We thought our voices could liberate. But no, the only thing our voices liberated was savagery.”
The reflection from the lamplight danced in the wet blackness of his eyes.
“I was brought straightaway to this place, thief directly burned upon my face. I am happy they have marked me. For now it is not merely I, but they, who shall never forget what they stole from me. . . .”
The light briefly flickered, making the mark of his branding seem somehow more wicked than before.
“There is an expression in Polish: my nigdy spotykajq znowu—never we meet again. This is the way it is for those of us left behind in grief. In any exile. Siberia never relinquishes her prey.” That conviction seemed to run deep. “The only way to find ourselves once again among those we loved would be to meet them in this place of torment”—his throat caught—“or in the kingdom of heaven.”
She stared up at him, his face starkly illuminated by the lamplight waning from below.
eleven
THERE CAME, IN THE MURKY WORLD THAT WAS HER RECURRING dream, a great knock, abrupt and horrible. Then came another.
“Hodel!” a voice cried out.
The knocking was upon a door. The same impenetrable door that had been before her for countless nights of dreaming now.
“Are you there?”
She was! Her hands fumbled in the darkness—for a wedge, a handle, some means of opening the door to the voice behind it in any way whatsoever.
“Hodelleh! Open up!”
“I am trying!” Hodel wailed in desperation to the unknown voice.
Mind throbbing, her fists beat against the door with all that was left of her spirit. At once she felt it shift. The door jolted. Light flooded her feet as the door began to open from the other side.
“Hodel!” the voice rang from behind the door.
The light grew stronger with every jerk of her shoulder, every push from her own body as she felt hands tugging from the other side.
At last it opened. She could not believe her eyes. Standing before her, quite calm, and as if no effort had been exerted whatsoever, was Tzeitel.
“Hello, Hodelleh.”
“Tzeitel!” The joy in her heart could not be measured! Her own sister! And in so queer
a place as this!
“How are you?” Tzeitel asked brightly from the doorway, as if this were no great meeting at all.
“I—” Hodel could scarcely get out a word before her sister reached for her shorn head.
“Your hair . . .” Tzeitel whispered, fingering what were now softly forming curls at the base of her neck.
“I know.”
“It is . . .”
“I know.”
She noticed a scurrying beyond the door frame, and she cocked her head to see: inside were figures moving through a familiar kitchen. The room was steaming from the blazing oven, and now she could make out every recognizable member of her family going about their noisy business—how wonderful a thing to see them all again! A heavenly scent of meats broiling overwhelmed her. “Vos kocht zich in teppel?” she asked. “What is cooking?” And she moved to enter the room.
“No!” Tzeitel cried, her arm extended between them. “You may not come in, Hodel.” Her words were so firm, her expression so dogged as she blocked the door and looked behind her nervously, steeling herself. “Not right now.” The sisters exchanged a look of mutual desperation. “I am so sorry.”
Hodel felt a prickling furor in her eyes. She blinked. The room behind Tzeitel began to blur and dissipate. Hodel felt her legs shake, her soul weeping—trapped between—so close to heaven and yet so barred.
“Take this.” Tzeitel reached behind the door and pushed a small, hot roll of bread into Hodel’s chest, the heat of it so unfamiliar that it shocked her. Tzeitel shook her sister and, with a gravity upon her normally composed face, spoke severely. “Go with God,” she said before shutting the door.
“Tzeitel!” Hodel wailed. “Tzeitel!”
Then she was once more alone in the darkness. Upright in her cell, she inhaled abruptly, her eyes wide.
A great clang rang out from beyond—a prisoner was being carted away, having been snatched up from eating his dinner.
“Little bitch!” he screeched as the guards dragged him along. “You dare look at me!” Throwing scraps at her, he roared, “I’ll choke you with that hair they cut from your rotting head!”
Not once in all her time here had Hodel ever been this afraid: afraid that her family had forgotten, afraid for Perchik’s life, afraid for her own, afraid that the roll would choke her.
Afraid the darkness might snuff her out altogether.
Bread had always been a point of light in Hodel’s life, since the day Hodel and Chava had received the ancient family bread-making traditions. This was a very special moment in the lives of all the women of Golde’s family, a tradition passed down for six generations. Tzeitel had received her lesson just a few years earlier, and although Hodel and Chava were admittedly far less interested in the import and mechanics of bread-making, they nevertheless were thrilled that their moment had arrived at last. They stood on either side of their mother in eager anticipation.
“Bread,” began Golde with a little preparatory cough, “is life. Everything in life is braided together like the very plaits of challah itself.”
The girls sat in wonder. Never had Mama appeared so majestic. Golde presented the ingredients carefully upon the tabletop before them.
“According to our traditions, the three Sabbath meals and two holy meals on holidays each begin with two complete loaves of plaited challah bread. This custom pays tribute to the manna—the name of a food that God provided for the Israelites during their travels in the desert when our people wandered for forty years. It was said to be sweet to the taste, like honey that fell from heaven.”
“After the Exodus from Egypt!” Hodel exclaimed, very smug about knowing the answer.
“Yes, Hodel.”
“The bread fell right out of the sky?” said Hodel.
“Apparently,” Golde said dryly. “In any case, the manna did not fall on the Sabbath or holidays; instead, a double portion would fall the day before the holiday or Sabbath so that the Lord could rest—just as He commanded us to do.”
She looked hard at the girls, making certain they followed.
“So. Hold your hands together as if you are going to drink from them. That is a handful. Yes?” They nodded. “So. Three and a half handfuls of grain—that is important, the three and a half handfuls per loaf. There is a reason we do not begin to teach our daughters the secrets of doughmaking until their hands are grown enough to make the proper measurements! Well, go ahead and do it, girls; we haven’t all day!”
Chava moved to the bowl of grain and cupped her hands obediently, looking to her mother for approval.
“That is it, Chaveleh, very good.” Chava beamed. It was not often she received praise for her work in the kitchen. “One handful of water. A cooking spoonful of oil. A fistful of sugar if you have it.”
The sisters placed the items on the long wooden baking tray their mother had used all their lives, but not until this moment did they understand what went into the golden loaf that always emerged as if by sorcery. “Two large pinches of yeast, and now the secret.” The girls leaned inward to take in Golde’s measured whisper. “Three eggs. If you can spare them, use three. Save one yolk and place it aside for glazing the top. But in the dough, use two full eggs and one white. It will give your challah, and all the challah this family makes, an additional something.” Golde smiled broadly, and Hodel realized her face hurt from smiling back.
“Gather it all together, fold it upon itself . . . over . . . and over again . . . once more now. Yes. Now it looks very much as it does when I have you take over, yes? Next give it a good long beating.”
Hodel and Chava, both covered in specks of ingredients, exchanged a look and a chuckle, pounding the dough as their mother continued.
“Abraham had his wife, Sarah, bake bread for the visiting angels as a sign of hospitality. Because of this, God not only made their loaves fresh for an entire week, but He also made certain that Sarah’s bread would always satisfy all who shared their table—no matter how little they ate. God commanded Adam and his family to eat bread gained “from the sweat of his brow” in the book of Genesis. Bread nourished the Jews in the desert in the book of Exodus. Bread was one of the grain offerings sacrificed on the altar at the Temple in Jerusalem, and was later on the family table as a symbol for the altar.”
Hodel’s arms burned from the exertion, and her pace slowed.
“Now we allow the bread to rise for a while before we knead it once again.” The girls looked relieved, and Chava even wiped her brow with her apron. “Sometimes it can happen very quickly, and sometimes it takes up half the day. That is why it is always important to make certain the bread preparations are done early. But I have prepared a loaf ahead so we may continue on.”
The girls looked spent.
“Once the dough has risen a little, puncture it and knead it once more, adding a splash of water if need be.” She watched her girls, smirking a little. “And perhaps take turns kneading this time.” Golde handed the duties over to Hodel first. Chava threw her sister a smug glance of victory. “So, you know of course about the good deed, the mitzvah, of what is called hafrashat challah—separating a portion of the dough before the braiding. This term is where the name challah bread comes from, of course. The term challah also refers to the one-tenth portion of dough that we set aside for the kohen—the direct descendants of our biblical Aaron, who were commanded to give this piece as a sacrificial offering to God. This custom of the separation and destruction of a portion of challah has become one of our female duties.”
Hodel nodded. She was filled with an unanticipated sense of pride.
“Now, my girls, it is time to plait the bread.”
Chava glanced at her sister eagerly.
“First, separate the dough into six pieces.” The girls obliged. “Some women prefer four strands, some five, others three,” Golde continued, her voice suddenly stern. “But the women in this family have always done six. Proudly.”
The girls nodded. Proudly.
“Sprinkle your
baking tray with flour. Rub it well into the wood. Then take each of the six pieces and roll them between your hands briskly until they are nice long strands. It may be sticky, so use a bit of flour to keep it clean. Good.” She smiled, watching them together. Hodel’s eyes were ablaze. Chava’s tongue stuck out slightly as she concentrated; she looked perfectly childlike. “Good. Long and lean—just like Hodelleh, eh?”
Hodel smiled, rolling her eyes.
“What?” Golde said. “It is no bad thing! All my girls are shain vi der lavoone—as pretty as the moon. And who is ashamed of that? Not me. Now, on top of the baking tray, attach the strands together at one end by giving the ends a little pinch.”
They did, Chava pushing Hodel out of the way a little in her excitement.
“Now. Divide the six strands into three sections—one on the far left, one on the far right, and four in the middle with a space in the center. Take the strand at the far right and bring it all the way over to the far left side, being careful not to break the ropes of dough.”
Describing the distinct family plait so sacred to her, Golde beamed, her face alight.
“Take the remaining egg yolk and lightly brush the top of the loaf to give it the golden color, and then place it in the oven.”
Hodel had never seen Chava so keen to participate in the kitchen, so she allowed her the honors. They closed the oven door and sat down before their mother again.
“Bread has always been linked to the cycle of life. Fertilization, growth, and death of the plant. The process of kneading, baking, and eating. It is believed that bread is so complex a creation, man could never have thought of it alone. Bread reminds us that God is taking care of us.”
After Anatevka Page 5
