“Oi!” the guards bellowed from within. “Oi! Here’s the scum, sir. Here’s the foul defiler!”
The guards emerged, grappling against the thrashing offender, who heaved in fury. Andrey Tenderov—incandescent in his nakedness—was thrown upon the ground.
This time, he did not sing.
“Father, no!” Irina screeched.
The Gentleman howled, “He has murdered my daughter to me—do you not see?” He shook Irina by the hair and slapped her face. “I will throw you in the box for this, Tenderov! The box, do you hear me? Though you deserve far worse!”
“Good God, Perchik, what is the box?” Hodel asked, her voice quiet with fear.
“The box,” Perchik said, “is a type of living coffin. A packing case adorned on all sides with broken glass, rusty nails, and any other sharp blade, spike, or spare fragment. The box is almost entirely dark; some report a little facial window where officers and guards can look in on a prisoner, feed him bits of food perhaps. It is constructed in such a way that one can only stand, and even then is pressed tightly against the sharp walls. It is a torture.”
“How can they do that?” Hodel asked, aghast.
“They can do anything, Hodel,” Perchik said, taking her hand. Their group watched as The Gentleman rained blows upon Irina in his fury. “They can, and will, do anything at all. Surely you have realized that by now.”
“No!” Tenderov charged forward demonically, the guards barely containing him. “Do not lay a hand on her! Not a finger!”
“Stop this clamor of heroism, Tenderov,” The Gentleman said, releasing his grip on his daughter. He locked eyes with Tenderov and smoldered. “It is too late.”
Not once before this moment had Hodel witnessed fear in Tenderov’s eyes. But as the lovers clawed for each other, ripped apart by the guards in the mud-soaked squalor of the night, there it lay.
“Father, please.” Irina’s voice was dark and low, then she wept as the guards dragged her lover away.
Hodel stood at the door. She was unable to tear her eyes from the prints upon the mud. They were like lacerations of memory, motionless and weeping in the moonlight.
thirty-seven
HODEL USED TO FIND THE GENTLEMAN’S OFFICE QUITE PEACEFUL in its near silence—the imposing regulation clock with its harsh utilitarian angles, audibly ticking as if it echoed the sonorous heartbeats of the hutch’s inhabitants. But tonight, as she and Irina worked side by side, the quiet unnerved her. Everything was stillness but for the etching of the fountain pens, the gentle thud of books as they were stacked. A flutter of papers, a drawer closed, a breath. Tonight, the din felt constant. The air was taut with it. Only the drained color in Irina’s face indicated the fretting of her mind; every other gesture maintained her customary efficiency.
“Irina,” The Gentleman said at long last. “The Irkutsk export files, please.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, as if she were speaking to a stranger, and left the room.
Hodel watched the scene as if she were watching it from very far away. She observed The Gentleman in all his flawless machinations: the compulsive starch of his shirts, the shining shirt buttons, the blinding polish of his boots. Nothing on his person betrayed the violence from the night before.
“Hodel,” The Gentleman said. “My ink is low. Do please fetch a replacement and be quick about it.”
“Of course, sir.”
Hodel left the room and entered the large cupboard of office supplies in the back of the office hut. As she reached for an inkwell, Irina stepped into the cupboard with her, shoving a stack of bound-up letters into Hodel’s hands.
“I do not work for or with my husband,” Hodel whispered. “I know nothing of his work nor of his—”
“Those letters are not for him,” Irina interrupted. “Those are letters that have been kept from you. I thought it was time you had them.”
Hodel gazed down at what looked to be dozens of letters. She searched them for hints of the language, handwriting, or original location, but rough journeys over great distances and the ravages of time had worn much of the envelopes away.
“They are from your family, Hodel. Your oldest sister, I believe.” Hodel looked from the bundle in her hands to Irina. “A few of them are open.”
“How did you come upon these?” Hodel asked.
“You wrote and sent letters to your family from the jail in Omsk, yes?”
“I did.”
“To whom did you give those letters to post?”
“Well . . .” Hodel hesitated. “A certain jailer, if I recall. He was a criminal himself. A Pole who had lost his family in the war of independence.”
“Well,” replied Irina, “how extraordinary. He posted your letters, and after discovering your assignment, he forwarded all their correspondence here
“But why have I not received them until now, and in such secrecy?”
“Officers often intercept personal post—sometimes for protection, other times for punishment, but more often than not, because they simply forget.” Irina shrugged. “On occasion I rummage through the lost and found, as well as the storeroom in the post office. I found these a while back. I saw they were addressed to you, and so I set them aside. I didn’t know quite what to do with them—one never knows how another feels about their family, especially when they are interned.”
Hodel looked down at the stack of letters and noted that the last one was in Tzeitel’s hand, dated well over two years ago, postmarked from Warsaw. “Thank you,” Hodel whispered, and tucked them deep within her coat.
They heard the door click, and as it locked The Gentleman subsequently knocked upon it twice.
“What is going on?” Hodel asked.
“Father’s superior is here,” Irina replied. “That is the signal to remain within until he has left the main office.”
“Who is he?” Hodel asked. Such a thing had never occurred before.
“I have never seen his face,” Irina replied. “He is just a voice—that is how most people know him.”
So that was who Hodel had encountered that night she first discovered Irina and Andrey’s tryst in the forest. The voices were muddled, the visit clearly tense; before long, there was another double knock upon the door, and Irina made a movement to leave the storeroom.
“Wait!” Hodel cried. “Please wait.”
Irina turned and stared intently, her turbid eyes clearing to reveal their iciness for a blinking moment, and it occurred to Hodel that she had never really heard her speak—not really. The two women stood there in silence, recognizing each other. Hodel gazed into the luminous blue of Irina’s eyes and suddenly felt clean in her presence. How odd that Russia was tearing itself to shreds with murder and torture, work camps, political unrest, and God knew what else, and here they stood: two women who loved their men with a ferocity no picturesque words could give shape to. But I know her, Hodel thought. I know her through and through. Yet something plagued Hodel’s mind—like sand within the soft folds of her brain.
Here, in this scene of swamped humanity, they understood each other perfectly. Hodel shuddered. Irina’s fate might be her own.
Irina’s eyes clouded over; she nodded to Hodel and left without another word.
“Thank you, Hodel, that will be all for tonight,” The Gentleman said as he put his pen away and tapped his paperwork into a pile.
It was odd to look upon The Gentleman now that they had all witnessed what lay so silently within. His mind, in its unnaturally quiet contemplation, seemed to reject the possibility of an independent daughter. He had exposed his weakness: his wild love for his child and his unexamined suffering was so surprisingly human, it humbled him in Hodel’s eyes. If wanting is the overarching quality of existence, then there is no existence more terrible than that of the unloved. Suffering: it cannot be shared. And for this she pitied him.
“Would you care for a spot of drink?” he asked, quite out of nowhere. “I do think it is bad luck to drink alone.” She noted that t
onight, his corpulence did not look like an attribute of status, but more like a shield. “Did you care for your father, Hodel?”
Hodel almost could not answer; her throat was thick. “Very much,” she said at last.
There was a certain expression that would reveal itself on her father’s face whenever he felt a surge of deep paternal feeling. It was an expression of utter adoration. For all Tevye’s bluster and grumbling on about how worn-down he felt by the women in his life, oh, how he loved his girls. There was a certain crinkling at the corners of his eyes, an unforgettable spark that would ignite whenever any one of them filled his heart. She remembered his laugh—big, bellowing, true. His smell— of milk and horses and work. Above all, she remembered the broad expanse of his arms tight around her the very last time they embraced on the frigid train platform in Anatevka, both knowing (though they did not utter it) that they might never see each other again. Until that morning, Hodel had not yet discovered who she truly was. Tevye learned who his daughter was that day on the train platform. He met her as she met herself, then just as quickly, they lost each other forever. A part of her would be on that platform with him for eternity.
“That is the most important thing, you know: family.” He spoke with his back turned, filling two glasses before swiveling to face her. “Shall we drink to that, then?”
She felt the liquid scald her as it went down—so white a heat, no wonder the men adored it. This is unbelievably strong liquor, she thought as her head swarmed with sparkling lights. She blinked hard against it. Too strong, she thought, before trying to apologize but losing her balance for a moment, accidentally leaning against him with her hip.
As he caught her from falling over, his eyes locked on hers. They both stood very still, and she felt a chill run down her skin, for she knew he could feel Irina’s packet of letters concealed within her jacket.
Had her mind been clearer, had her faculties been less roily with drink, she would have spoken, explained, rallied some excuse or story. But, as quickly as it had occurred, The Gentleman’s expression thawed; he helped Hodel to her steadiness and muttered, “Perhaps too strong a drink for a lady.” He smiled softly. “It is a very strong liquor, indeed. Best get yourself home. Here,” he said, handing her a parcel, “take another package of that tea your husband so enjoys, with my apologies.”
She gathered herself and nodded obligingly.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, her mind murky. “Good night, then.”
“Sleep well, Hodel.”
Hodel stumbled homeward, barely able to see clearly through the murk of liquor.
She awoke hours later in a stupor; her head swam and her eyes throbbed, as if stung by bees. Her limbs were heavy, tingling. Thoughts rose within her slowly. She recalled her halting balance; she remembered falling into bed with her clothes on. She felt about herself. Still dressed, she thought, and sweltering. She clutched at her ears. Her head throbbed. What has happened?
She reached across the bed for Perchik’s imprint and stretched out in hopes of touching his meager heat against her own. Then, piercing her consciousness like lightning was the coldness of his absence: Where is he?
It was in this moment that she knew the full force of Nerchinsk’s distinctive iniquity. Before now she had glimpsed only at the surface—the unspeaking mouths of the mines, which, though silent, screamed. Small and potent was the devastation at first: a spark in a slowly billowing flame.
The room spun wildly. She clutched at the wall.
Perchik was gone.
thirty-eight
NIGHTS, OF COURSE, HAD ALWAYS BEEN DARK, BUT DARKNESS WAS different for Hodel now. In Perchik’s absence she traveled all of its corners and infinities, and knew darkness to be a kingdom with no bottom and no end. Her nights were still but never silent—she could feel Perchik’s heart beating in time with her own from across the world, and that was how she knew with certainty he was alive. When she slept, it was to dream of Perchik, but as slumber wrapped her in its billows, a distant but familiar scene opened before her. A wave of warmth, the hum of activity, and a waft of odors that simply meant home.
Before Hodel was the marketplace, the synagogue, and the little schoolhouse. And there, Motel’s tailor shop, the livery stable, Lazar Wolf’s butcher shop, the fishmongers, and the messy roads that nestled up against endless fields like foals against a mare. The northern light that poured like honey upon the thatched roofs. The sound of Mordcha’s clarinet singing from the flat above the Forbidden Piglet, his tumbledown inn. The hum and hush of home.
Yidishkeyt and menshlikhkeyt—Jewishness and humanness. These were the crucial values of the shtetl community, around which all their lives centered. These values were manifested in the synagogue as well as in the home, and all these actions led one toward the goal of living the life of a “good Jew.” One’s faith was present in the holiness of Sabbath, in the humdrum buzz of the market, in every corner of community and organization of the family.
“But why must there be such a rush about everything?” Hodel asked as Golde, dressed in black, darted back and forth across the house.
Motel’s father was dead. Their family was doing all they could to help the Kamzoils in their hour of need. It was just that Golde’s girls clearly did not understand what such a need entailed.
“We must bury the dead as quickly as possible,” said Mama as she stirred a colossal pot of soup.
There were so many rules and customs, laws and traditions that Hodel did not truly understand; they were simply the reality of everything she had ever known.
“But Papa Kamzoil is no longer alive, Mama,” Hodel said. “What difference does it make to him at all?”
She used to be afraid to ask questions, afraid God would be angry if she asked them. But through the act of living, her questions had become part of an intimate conversation with God, and traditions grew to be the manifestation of a faith she felt growing in earnest, deep within her heart.
“The body must reach its eternal rest as expeditiously as possible,” Mama replied.
“But how, Mama? And why?” Hodel persisted.
Golde stopped. She placed her hands down in agitated fists upon the kitchen table and looked at Hodel with as kindly an expression as her nerves would allow. “In Jewish law, the human body belongs to its creator—it is on loan to us, and we become its guardian. So, when it is time for the body to be returned to the earth from which it was created, and the soul to the creator himself, we must make certain due respect is given. Respect for our deceased is the ultimate mitzvah—for the dead can neither help themselves nor help us.”
“Because they are dead.” Hodel nodded.
“Right.” That much was clear.
“And so,” Golde continued, “we recite baruch dayan ha’emet, cover the face, light candles, and place them next to the head. We ask forgiveness as we lower the body to the floor, then recite the proper psalms and arrange for the taharah. Then we must watch over the body so that the soul—which is transitioning from the world of the living to the World of Truth—can be at ease. Above all else, we show greatest dignity to the body and do not mar or harm it in any way. It must be returned in its entirety to the earth and to the creator, just as it was given, without any violence or interference. That is both the custom as well as Jewish law, and now I shall not say another word about it.” With that, Golde took up her great black pot of soup and headed toward the door to go to Shaindel Kamzoil’s house. “I will be back in a moment, and do not let me catch you picking at the chicken!”
Buried in the earth, thought Hodel. How dreadful. But tradition was tradition, law was law, and custom, custom. The fertile earth would claim the flesh, which would fuel the tender grasses, the soil for the trees, and thus the fruits that grew upon them. The body was the temple of the soul, the soul a vehicle to perform the good deeds called mitzvoth, and was thus imbued with sanctity. But that body would someday rot. For bodies must. The thought of it festered within her, made her hot and sick.
/> Still, she would continue the walk of faith. For now.
thirty-nine
HE IS FINE,” THE GENTLEMAN SAID, SOOTHING HER.
Hodel sat inert atop their bed. Without Perchik, the world beyond the taiga was incomprehensible; if only she could light a fire to illuminate the future.
“We merely have to ask him a few nagging, almost silly questions. . . .”
Hodel sat stiffly on her bed, like a fragile stack of cups about to topple.
“But fear not, my dear, for he will be out soon. It is all very standard procedure.”
The Gentleman made a move to exit, but then stopped on his way across the floor of the Volosnikov house and hovered over her. As Hodel caught his eye, she saw him look at her strangely, as though he saw within her a kind of mirage.
His manner felt so incongruous with his ferocious vehemence the other evening in the moonlight. This was the tenderness of the other man she knew him to be: the man who had escorted her to Nerchinsk, had saved her from the nightmare of that prison. This was the man whose eyes she had seen look upon Irina with such devoted tenderness. The eyes that also flared with such tormented heartbreak.
But Hodel reminded herself that these eyes lay inside the sockets of a man who beat his daughter in his rage, who commanded the infliction of abuse upon his daughter’s lover, and, of course, who was responsible for the disappearance of her own husband. . . .
But, still, she had never forgotten—and would never forget—his kindness. She admired his sedulousness. She was still grateful to him. . . .
“We must have a real talk sometime, mustn’t we?” he said. “A nice conversation. Just get to know each other, I suppose.”
He hovered over her still.
After Anatevka Page 21
