The book of Numbers stated, “When a man makes a vow to the Lord or takes an oath to obligate himself by a pledge, he must not break his word but must do everything he said.” Perchik knew the passage well.
How could their families disapprove of a thing so sweet, not to mention sanctioned by God? Tevye and Golde treated Motel Kamzoil almost as their own son—he and his widowed mother, Shaindel, found in them a very warm and welcoming home. If their parents only knew of the depth of their feelings, how could they feel anything but gladness?
Perchik picked up his rucksack and stormed out of the yard, disgusted. Forced parental will combined with the priority of money? It all reeked of Gershom. He was disappointed in his new friend Tevye and stalked down the road toward town.
Suddenly, belting past him up the path came Motel Kamzoil. He was running at a frightening speed, lungs screeching, without time to even acknowledge Perchik as he passed, and at this, Perchik turned on his heel and followed him back to the yard.
Every so often, miracles happen here on earth—miracles that are not at all of God’s making. These are the glories belonging to mankind itself. They incubate within, like a long-dormant seed, gestating in the innermost recesses of a soul. A man must marshal every scrap of courage for the sake of this burgeoning phenomenon, and he must do so in the face of absolute, darkened uncertainty. But if one can confront the waiting and the fear, one will have earned the greatest human reward achievable in this life. The time will come to flourish. One must stretch one’s confines until the miracle expands, emerging at last in a great flash of light, so that all that was once dull and gray is now colorful. On this day, that miracle happened.
“Reb Tevye, I might be poor, I might be nothing, but I am devoted to Tzeitel, and even the poor have a right to happiness.”
He had said too much—but it was that or say nothing. Motel Kamzoil did more than stand up to the only authority who truly could permit or prevent his life’s happiness. He had become a man before their eyes. It was far greater a thing than self-actualization (which is no small thing). Motel grew that day—not so much for himself, but in order to deserve her. He earned Tzeitel. He burst through his threshold, fought for her, and won. It was the greatest act of heroism Perchik had ever seen.
It was not until that moment that Perchik realized he wanted Hodel in a way he had never wanted anything before. He too would have to earn and fight for Hodel. But as quickly as he realized it, he despaired, for he knew he did not deserve her.
It was good that Perchik had felt that way so long ago, as here in Nerchinsk their marriage was truly tested. But they had made a home for themselves as best they could, adorned with that most priceless of décor: love.
“This is lovely, my darling,” Perchik said as he observed a table thrown together from sheets over a crate, with a centerpiece of found branches at its heart. Perchik admired the lovingly arranged decorations, the carefully prepared teas, and best of all, the welcoming of neighbors into their ramshackle home and the offering of what hospitalities they had to share.
“Tzeitel always said, A lovely tablecloth and a handsome centerpiece go such a long way.’ I will never forget that. She said it before scolding me for some form of household negligence or another.” She shook her head at the recollection, laughed, and kissed him.
Their large room attached to the Volosnikovs’ house was filled with the loving gestures that transform a run-down dwelling into a home.
There was a knock upon the door.
“Perchik?” called the voice of Dmitri Petrov. “I have brought the papers.”
Dmitri Petrov was over often—one could quite easily assume he lived there himself, an extension of their happy home. He would come and join them after hours for tea, discussions, and, most likely, for the company of thinkers, though more than anything he was there to escape Yevgeny.
In their company, one could see the rare sight of Dmitri Petrov at ease: the quiet smile, the occasional chortle of laughter, and even, after perhaps one sip of vodka too many, the odd murmur of singing that so surprised them all.
“Come in, come in!” Perchik opened the side door that the prisoners used.
“Good evening, Perchik,” Dmitri said as he entered. “Hodel,” he added, nodding in the general direction of her kerchiefed head. He turned back to Perchik and handed him the papers. “There is news from the city.”
“Excellent!” Perchik took up the papers and shut the door fast. “This is excellent.” He wrapped his arm around his wife as he showed her the papers. “There is news from the city,” he said to her.
“I heard him,” she droned, then kissed the soft skin peeling beside his eye and brushed the flakes away as best she could. She looked over to their guest. “Come, Dmitri, let me look at you.” Still cloaked in his work attire, Dmitri edged closer to her but stayed at a distance. “You look pale and have far too many worries on your face.”
“I have not been sleeping,” he replied. “It is that damn Yevgeny. He snores like a wolfhound!” Perchik and Hodel laughed, and even Dmitri cracked a smile; the couple made him feel so infectiously pleasant.
“Make yourself at home,” said Perchik. Dmitri stood still a moment before removing his coat and hat. Perchik smiled at this, his hand grazing Hodel’s waist as he made his way to a tattered chair, his other hand clutching the papers, and Hodel adjusted the thick woolen headscarf that had come loose at the base of her neck.
The makeshift teapot, which had been fashioned from a tin cup, started to rattle.
“Tea’s ready!” she announced, and she neatly poured tea into two cups and hot water into a third, for she never did care for tea. She placed the cups on a tray that had been pilfered from the dining hall and brought the tray over to the sheet-covered crate that served as their kitchen table. “Bread!” She jolted, remembering, and as she stood, the scarf containing her hair came unfastened.
Soft, wavy tresses poured out in rippling lines—they cascaded from her head, spilling an ocean of color so deep a brown, one became lost in its infinity. It begged for one’s eyes to close.
“Oops!” she cried, gathering the locks together.
Dmitri carefully lifted the scarf from the floor and extended it to Hodel, adjusting his glasses as he stood.
“You dropped this,” he said.
“Oh, thank you.” She smiled at Dmitri, her throat letting out a little laugh. “Nothing can hold in these locks!”
She twisted her hair into a ropelike knot at the base of her neck, and then, with a single graceful gesture, she breezily placed the scarf atop the coif to secure it all in tidy bundle. Then, careful not to spill his tea, she sat firmly down upon her husband’s lap.
twenty-two
PERCHIK WOKE WITH A JOLT FROM HIS SLUMBER.
Sitting upright, he looked about, taking in the strange-smelling bed. Where was he? Ah, yes. University. His head was thick and pounding—each thud of his heart a thunderous hammer’s blow at the base of his brain. He sank, folded over, skin sweating out the stink of yesterday’s liquor. His hands gripped the sides of his skull. Stop the beating, his thoughts wailed.
It was then he noticed a woman asleep beside him. The dark-haired stranger was breathing hard, yellow teeth bared in her gaping mouth, brown scum lining the crevices of her oily fingers. The stench of her was palpable in his throat. He shuddered. Took in the sight of her. He groaned. No one is appealing the morning after, he thought. This nauseating creature is no exception. He covered his face in almost comedic shame. What an idiot. Had he met her in the tavern? Had he paid for her in town? He remembered nothing. Only whirling flashes: color. Music. The first fetid bite of her mouth on his. God, women all looked and spoke and smelled alike. . . .
He was nineteen years old. This was a an average morning.
He stared across his dismal little room—gloomy and airless, with the blazing premature light of late spring strewn as haphazardly across the space, detritus visible on every possible surface. Unlaundered clothing, piles of un
touched lesson books, scraps of uneaten food in various stages of spoilage, countless bottles, soiled linens, and in the farthest corner, stacks and stacks of aging, unopened letters from a certain Rabbi Syme.
Though Perchik had been pulled from Rabbi Syme’s tutelage long ago, he had remained a strong presence in the young man’s life through their correspondence. But Perchik could no longer stand being believed in—belief was heavy; it was burning sunlight in his eyes. There was a time when Perchik had been grateful for the rabbi’s consistent, deep investment in him. That time was over. They had long since lost touch. Perchik could no longer bear it.
University was not the dreamworld he had imagined. The crash of this fantasy—one he had created from a primitive place of survival— destroyed him. He felt at times as if it were a death fight between his ideals and the truth of the world. The people here were no less disappointing, no less competitive, duplicitous, judgmental, or small-minded. It was only their vocabularies and the landscape that differed. Someone always had to be better than another. Someone always had to have more. It seemed to Perchik that those who were least deserving of accolades were always the ones fighting for and receiving them. It made him sick. Coming from an upbringing where everything had been counted, he longed for a world in which acquisitions bore no weight. He knew now that such a world did not exist. The world belonged to his uncle and every man like him.
He was now committed to stupefying himself into oblivion. What else mattered? What was the point of modesty? It was absurd. Offensive. The world is sad, he thought to himself, glancing once more at the awful stranger beside him in the bed. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and held his breath, allowing the pressure to build behind them for a moment before he released a full exhalation.
Perchik was not worse than other men. It was true that he drank himself stupid and sometimes paid for access to the bodies of women— all done with the funds of his uncle’s patronage. Yes, these actions would most definitely incur the wrath of his uncle and their conservative community. But so what? So what? he thought. He preferred it. Offense was neither here nor there. Perchik knew that what disgusted Gershom most about his nephew was what disgusted him about all brilliant men: the innate knowledge of their brilliance—endemic to brilliance itself. Fuck brilliance, Perchik thought, clutching his head harder still. This so-called gift had kept Perchik from everything he had ever desired in his life.
He winced. The woman shifted beneath the fetid sheets. He clutched his face and groaned again.
An idiot. That is certain.
twenty-three
PERCHIK GAZED UPON HIS WIFE FROM ACROSS THE ROOM.
Hodel’s assignments often varied according to the wants of the camp. She would attend the hospital ward one day and work the kitchens the next, as many of the wives did. She would cook in vast quantities, clean endlessly. She swept, organized rations, and attempted to maintain as reasonable a level of sanitation as possible, often to no avail.
But just now Perchik caught a flash of the girl he had first encountered. He smiled to himself. How they had kept their guards up! Never had Perchik felt so strongly for a woman, and it had frightened him. He had never met a living soul like her.
So many men had encountered Tevye’s second-eldest and been intimidated by her passions, by the strength of her will and shrewdness of her mind. She clearly expected him to be the same. Hodel was proud and vain, often contrary; but despite her limited knowledge of the world, there burned a flame within her, a kind of universal wisdom. He was captivated. In her presence he felt free to not simply recant and debate the academics of his ideals, but to open up his heart and release his overwhelming passion for them. He had been a teacher to her little sisters, but truly he learned from her. Perchik had known women, oh yes, but here was another kind of creature altogether. She would ask illuminating questions, challenge him with a fire that would ignite him. It was intoxicating. It was real.
Once he felt what it meant to love as he loved Hodel, he was incapable of anything else. Oh, the milkman’s stubborn daughter had caught this radical student so. Hodel made him feel, even at the height of their arguments, almost indescribably understood. When Hodel threw her eyes upon the world, she saw what he saw, and he, in turn, shared her visions too. It was not political. It was human.
Their intimacy felt familiar from the very first moment. They would wake in each other’s arms and, despite their bleak surroundings, they were happy and warm. They spoke of a future filled with fairness, prosperity, and fruit trees. They touched each other’s hands, enfolded in each other’s company. They would pore over the newspapers and wonder what their friends were doing now. We shall change the world, they vowed, and we shall do it together. There were no games, no proud veneers, no wonderings or hesitations. They were clear.
His love for her was a reverence, not a worship. It was a joy received from her very existence.
“You taste sweet,” he whispered that night as he came up for air after making love to her. They were buried beneath a collection of woolen blankets in the dead of the night, silver moonlight reflecting off the thawing river and falling through the threadbare curtains.
He didn’t cling to, clutch, or embrace her; he held her. Her long, radiant hair—returned now from its shorn days—surrounded them in a perfumed blanket. He caught its fragrance and was breathless.
“You smell sweet, too,” he said.
“I don’t believe we have eaten anything sweet in years,” she said.
“I have.” He grinned, burying himself in her again.
They were in this, together, for a long time to come.
twenty-four
IN THE COURSE OF HIS DAILY INSPECTION, THE GENTLEMAN WOULD occasionally make an appearance at the mouth of each mine. With a silent satisfaction he would watch Perchik and his fellow miners hard at work, then clasp his hands behind his back, nod, and smile. Today, he adjusted a dilapidated sign that read work or die in several languages before nodding to the overseer as he departed, indicating that the men may now rest.
Perchik seated himself upon a heap of barren rubble outside the mine alongside Anatoly. Anatoly spoke the least of all their company but was good-humored on the whole. As they caught their breath and cleaned their faces, Perchik observed that Anatoly was well made, a jolly giant quite splendid to see. He would hold the suggestion of what had once been a soft belly contemplatively as he drank from his flask after supper. Or indeed, after breakfast. Or as he listened to Perchik read aloud in the evenings, or as he chuckled at the continued antics of Yevgeny and Dmitri Petrov.
He and Perchik sat, wrapped thickly in regulation overcoats, their faces ruddy from exertion and cold, ushanka hats secured atop their heads in a way that made Anatoly’s hair wisp out at the sides and shake indiscernibly in the breeze.
“You drink, friend?” Anatoly asked, sipping his flask.
“I don’t.” Perchik replied.
“Not even for inspiration? For your great speeches and that?”
“No.”
“For making merry?”
“No.” Perchik smiled broadly. “Not for a long while. Not anymore.”
It was the light that made the People’s Tavern unique. It was 1902 and Perchik was lecturing at the tavern. It was not the sticky wooden floors or the faded pillars supporting the sunken structure. Not the sounds of carousing academic arguments and soft murmurs of local women, nor the music of a makeshift Jewish band (complete with accordion). It was not the hot moisture of clean tankards, nor even the specific musk of collegiate desire. It was the light. The flickering haunt of the oil lamps along the sturdy walls illuminated the faces of the bar’s inhabitants with a buttery glow. One was never certain whether it was the atmosphere or the liquor that intoxicated the guests.
“Hark, fellow drunkards of Kievan depravity!” Perchik shouted. He was drunk. “You students of perpetual indolence! Listen to my words from the fog of your oblivion!” he bellowed from atop a table in the center of the bar.
This was the scene every Saturday evening at the People’s Tavern, after the rush of academia had been dispelled for the week.
Perchik’s disillusionment had taken hold and begun to rot. Here, where he had expected other great minds to reside and thrive, cheats hovered like a murder of crows. Here was snobbery and counterfeit— boredom, just abouts and good enoughs. Perhaps the university is too small, he thought. Perhaps the world itself will be the answer.
But no. When he roamed into the city, things were worse. He was in the constant company of those who lacked culture both morally and intellectually. He was more disgusted than ever before, for the reality of the world was yet another in a long line of disappointments. He turned away to take another swig from a tall glass.
He was twenty-one years old. The young boy had blossomed into manhood. Education had given him new weapons. This was their release—a weekly speech at the People’s Tavern. He paused. Dozens of eyes were fixed upon him, expectant. He licked his lips and spoke again, his voice swollen with combativeness.
“Now that we are all so educated,” he said, addressing the crowd, “we should probably acquire some kind of knowledge of ideals.” He sang the words through a glittering smile, and the room shone brighter. He lifted his arms high and the people cheered, lifting their drink-adorned hands along with him as if on cue. The crowds at the People’s Tavern knew Perchik to be a charismatic speaker; they expected nothing less than entertainment and always hoped for inspiration. It had become a weekly custom. But something was off tonight, and the crowd could sense it. Perchik’s well-established radiance had been tarnished by something foul from deep within.
“Let’s speak of social responsibilities.” He leaned toward the crowd and they responded in kind. “I think all those fortunes we have been promised are in fact for the benefit of the poor, the underprivileged, or indeed, the unloved.”
After Anatevka Page 13
