After Anatevka

by Alexandra Silber

  “I enjoy your company, Hodel.”

  She tried to speak, but today she was inarticulate with grief, her tongue limp and wordless.

  “Ah, but I see you are quiet this evening. Perhaps another time.”

  The Gentleman turned on his heel and closed the door gently behind him. Hodel’s mouth was salty, bleeding from the incomprehensible, infected with Nerchinsk’s virus of disquiet.

  How she would dazzle God with her patience.

  Perchik attempted patience in his imprisonment. Within minutes of his capture he had been placed in the solitary torture device he had, until this point, only heard rumor of. How long he had remained within it he could not tell.

  The call for torture always made itself apparent at some point, though the box was particularly severe—and mostly unheard of for political prisoners. Blindfolded and dragged in chains, Perchik was left in the guardhouse; he was chained to a chair before the overseers arrived. Before putting him in the box, they removed his chains, instructed him to strip, and verified a description of him drawn up at Kiev, then Moscow, then Omsk.

  At the bottom of Perchik’s certified sentence, the Chief Commander had instructed, A special watch must be kept upon the unruly. This extraordinary recommendation (penned in the Chief Commander’s own hand) had made a deep impression on the main officer at Nerchinsk—a bulbous man they all knew to be The Gentleman. They had been watching Perchik forever.

  The standing box was an upright coffin. The box was kept within an almost completely silent, windowless room; there was no light, save a single hanging bulb, and no sound at all from the camp beyond.

  Had it been several hours? Half a day? A week? Time was passing; how swiftly or slowly, he could not determine.

  He was alone; everything inside him was ablaze as he endeavored to grasp at his sanity. At one point, Perchik awoke to the warmth of his own urine spreading across his leg, and as he jolted at the sudden wetness, he knocked against the sharpened fragments along the inner walls. His back ached viciously, and his legs were quaking from fatigue. He was ravenous with hunger, mad with thirst. The box stank from the waste of his predecessors (the stench was torture enough). Every atom of the air within was filled with ammoniacal exhalations—the leftover smell of long-unwashed bodies reeking and rancid with neglect. Directly before him was a little window (no larger than for his eyes alone) carved into the door. Just as Perchik felt the chill of the air start to grip the sticky wet of his trouser legs, The Gentleman appeared directly before him. He was holding a small glass of milk.

  The sight of the milk was its own torture. It made the juices of Perchik’s stomach churn with desire. He ripped his eyes away from the glass and steadied himself, focusing instead on The Gentleman.

  His orderly appearance filled Perchik with disgust. The Gentleman’s sharpness and cleanliness, his upturned lips, the angle of his hands behind his back, the crispness of his uniform—all evidence of vanity and myopic self-interest.

  “Well, here we are,” The Gentleman said. “Since I have been made superintendent, nothing of this sort has ever occurred. Remarkable. You must be a very extreme case. This contraption is usually reserved for the irate prisoner. At times, the despondent one. Today, the political.” The Gentleman made a little bow with his head. “Welcome.”

  At that he placed the glass of milk on the small table between them. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Milk. So pure. So filling.” Perchik’s heart was racing; his mouth swarmed with saliva. The Gentleman stepped around the table and moved in close. “Would you like it?”

  Perchik knew this had to be a trick, or some other form of cruelty set there to test his resolve, and thus he grunted, thrashing against both the walls of his captivity and his animal instinct.

  “Come now—there is no need to fight natural urges,” The Gentleman said, removing a key from the ring on his perfectly polished belt. “It will feel good to get out and stretch a bit.”

  Perchik felt his insides cry out for the milk with a starving infant’s desperation.

  The Gentleman inserted the key to the great padlock upon the door to the apparatus, and at the sound of it Perchik felt his guts churn with need. Could he restrain his need? He did not know.

  At last the door flew open, and Perchik flung himself toward the table like a madman, grabbed the glass, and on his knees, in heaving gulps, partook of the rich cold milk within it.

  “That’s excellent,” The Gentleman said. “Good for the belly. Just as I hear confession is quite good for the soul.”

  Perchik wailed. He slammed his hand against the edge of the table in a blinding anger, then all at once began to weep.

  “There, now, this will all be over soon. Though how soon is entirely up to you.” The Gentleman approached and helped Perchik to his feet. “Now back into the box with you, my boy. We can’t have you running about.” Perchik was too weak and too demoralized to fight him, so he allowed The Gentleman to return him to the contraption.

  Through the window, The Gentleman smiled at Perchik, locked and quiet once more.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” The Gentleman continued softly. “You and I have had a slight deficit of trust. . . .”

  Later that night, convulsions woke him. The pain in his cramping muscles and stomach was so great, he felt almost relieved by the cuts that raged along his skin, for they distracted him. Yet it was not the pain, nor the box’s sharp walls, that made him yield to humility. It was what he knew of the human capacity to endure. Its ruthlessness. For endurance meant greater tortures to come.

  The corporeal punishments of Nerchinsk were more or less death sentences: starvation, the slitting of nostrils, lashes with a birch rod administered with both hands. In addition, hundreds of convicts died from disease. There was a hospital of course, but convicts benefited little from it; smallpox wrought havoc three summers ago, and there had been a typhus epidemic or two. Scurvy was common, as was syphilis (thought to be spread by the homosexuals), and dehydration, of course. On some level of his conscious mind, Perchik already knew he was suffering from disease—such a thing was impossible to ignore— but he would not yield to it. Not for any reason.

  That night, as he stood encased in the box and quite alone, he noted that his vision was patchy—his eyes were not sufficiently adapting to the dark room. He blinked hard, shook his head. He tried again, for he knew the dark held something new within it. Someone new, who stood just before his eyes but could not be seen.

  “Hello?” a voice asked softly.

  “Who’s there?” Perchik uttered, desperate to see.

  “Can you not see me, then?” whispered the visitor.

  Perchik made no reply, his stomach boiling.

  “Can you not recognize yer ol’ friend, come to reprieve you?”

  It could not be!

  “Anatoly!” Perchik cried. “Anatoly, how the devil did you get in here? My dear friend, I am overjoyed!”

  In a place where officers embezzled funds and prisoners filched supplies, such a visitation should never have come as such a shock, but Anatoly was the last man Perchik expected to be visited by, and in such a state as this.

  “Master yerself, man. Ye must be still. I have much to tell, but first open wide.” Anatoly placed torn bits of bread through the face hole and directly into Perchik’s mouth, then gave him water and a long drink of tea, the sublime warmth of which nearly caused his legs to buckle in ecstasy.

  Anatoly continued in low voice. “You have supporters here, Reb Perchik—both here an’ in sister camps an’ cities. Followers who’d lay down their lives. But you must ’ave patience. Show full submission when’t comes th’ officers o’ this prison. Please. Fer us and fer the cause, ye must.”

  Perchik could scarcely believe it. Anatoly Gromov of Vladivostok, a fellow comrade? Things are never what they seem, he thought as his friend related to Perchik the events that had transpired since his incarceration.

  “All’s prepared, friend. Our friends in Petersburg await ye. But fer now, m
aster all displays o’ temper. Soon you’ll deafen them, comrade.”

  Anatoly quickly slipped him another drink of tea, then tapped the box’s side and disappeared into the clouded darkness.

  Many hours later Perchik awoke. He was no longer in the box but laid out on the floor of a prison cell. The cell was damp and fleshy and saturated with a peculiar odor unlike any other bad smell in the world—one so strong even Perchik, with his decaying senses, could detect it. If Nerchinsk is indeed a dump for Russia’s detritus, thought Perchik, it certainly reeks of it.

  “Is that you, Reb Perchik?” a voice in the darkness asked. Perchik immediately recognized it as the voice of Andrey Tenderov; it was sure but tired, the body of it broken but not the spirit. Perchik could almost feel Tenderov’s heat through the stone.

  “Tenderov!” Perchik said. “My, you have certainly been in here a long while.”

  “I have,” Tenderov said. “You’re out at last, then?”

  “I am.”

  They both sighed as they sat along the cell walls—together but apart—having wisdom enough to share what was certainly only momentary relief.

  “They despise you, you know,” Tenderov continued. “You are so infuriatingly above reproach. However are they supposed to keep a watch upon you when you give them so little to watch?”

  Perchik considered the silence for a long moment before replying. “I suppose, Tenderov, you would know a great deal about keeping watch.”

  “I would,” Tenderov said with his familiar, glowing laugh. “How long have you suspected?”

  “Always,” Perchik said, his voice just a whisper. “But it was the wine. The wine you stole and passed around that night Dmitri played Bach for us. The only alcohol in the storehouses is hard liquor. The wine is kept locked away in the officers’ quarters. You would not have had it unless they had given it to you.”

  At that, Andrey smiled and laughed, a little sad.

  “Though you are terribly good at what you do, Andrey—especially for one so young,” added Perchik.

  “I am not so very young. I only look it—part of the appeal, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  It seemed to Perchik that many things went into the making of a spy; but oh, poor Andrey—imprisoned beside the very man he was charged to keep a watch upon. Facing God knew what. Which made him wonder: “Have they locked you up in earnest, Tenderov?”

  Andrey was silent for a long while. Perchik scarcely dared to breathe.

  “They have never done so until now,” Andrey replied at last. “I think they are going to kill me. Tell me it isn’t true, my friend; tell me it is a lie.”

  But Perchik could promise no such thing. Thus, he remained silent and still.

  “Well, never mind,” Andrey continued. “There is no sense in living. Not without her. One would think that with all the loving I’d done, there was nothing left to be discovered. But oh, there was. She has a kiss as deep as Baikal.” He choked on the thought of it. “I learned that kind of love from you, my friend,” he added. “I learned that kind of love from you.”

  Perchik sat with Andrey Tenderov throughout the night. Still. Silent—both knowing what the morning would bring.

  forty

  IN THE ABSENCE OF HER HUSBAND, HODEL HAD LITTLE ELSE TO DO besides rip open the letters given to her by Irina and pore over their words, every one of them from, of all people, Tzeitel. Each page was a kind of portal to a distant life—a home far away but not forgotten. Hodel held the pages between her fingers reverently, knowing that the thoughts had originated in Tzeitel’s mind and flowed through her arm onto the very pages now in Hodel’s hands. For a moment she thought she could almost smell Tzeitel, for her soul was ever present in the words upon the paper.

  Hodel,

  Where has the time gone? I cannot believe eight months has passed since our precious Jacob was placed into our arms (though I suppose I shall still be saying that in twenty years). Eight months of utter joy, of nurturing my child at my breast, of endless adventures.

  A few weeks ago Jacob focused his eyes on me and smiled, his mouth just like Mama's and your own. Now he rolls over, sits up, and is just beginning to try to crawl. Soon, I suspect, he shall be all over the place! Motel and I are observing as he develops into the man he shall, God willing, become. How fascinating to be here to witness him grow every day. Nothing compares.

  Nothing compares? Hodel thought. What a classic remark from Tzeitel. Hodel put the letter down and shook her head in indignation. In two little words, all of Hodel’s life choices were suddenly obliterated by Tzeitel’s sense of domestic superiority. Suddenly, Hodel was a child again, in all her petulant glory. The Tzeitel in this letter does not know me—does not know all we have endured!

  All at once, Hodel felt a cold knife stab her with a terrible recognition: It was not that the Tzeitel in this letter did not know her; it was that Hodel did not truly know, or fully appreciate, the Tzeitel in this letter. The Tzeitel of the past. Time had doubtless altered Tzeitel as it had so altered them all. The Tzeitel that had, over time, also grown and changed, and enjoyed happiness, and doubtless suffered. The Tzeitel she might never see or ever know again.

  motel sends his love. You would scarcely believe, Hodelleh, what a man Motel has grown to become. His business is thriving (we finally received the sewing machine! It is almost as precious to Motel as Jacob!). The stitches are perfectly even and close, and it moves me to see him so enthralled with the progress of the world. But above all, I love watching Motel as a father. Jacob just adores him! Whenever Motel picks him up, Jacob cheers with delight. How wonderful that God chose to give us this baby boy.

  Swiftly flying months of learning and growing toward becoming the mother I hope will honor our ancestors. Eight full, busy months. I’m so tired and so happy. But of course, eight months ago, you were still here, and Chava too, and things were not so very different and strained. So much has changed, dear Hodelleh, in your absence.

  In moments of bliss, I always thank God. But it is in the moments of trial that I turn to Him the most—for in those hours we learn humility, we see how much we truly need His guidance. Daily, I ask for help to become the wife and mother my family needs. Daily, I ask Him for support.

  Hodel clutched at her breast, for if she did not hold it in, her heart would surely lurch out in response to so much wrenching misery—and at the fondness for her now evermore remote youth in Anatevka. She read another:

  Hodel,

  It is important to tell you many things.

  Weeks ago, Chava ran away in the middle of the night. We looked everywhere for her, and when we finally discovered her whereabouts we were shattered. She had married Fyedka in the Orthodox Church. Do you recall him? The young Russian we so often saw her speaking to in the bookshop?

  Hodel remembered him very well indeed.

  I knew, Hodel. I knew what they were doing, and I did not do enough. I have never seen our parents more heartbroken. I do not think they shall ever be the same. Our beloved Chaveleh. Our Bird. The betrayal. The loss too great for any of us to bear. I suspect this news does not come as an utter shock to you; you and Chava were always so very close.

  Hodel pressed her hand against her mouth, keeping both sound and further feeling at bay.

  But there is more. A few days ago, there came an order. The tsar has issued a decree that our entire village must be cleared in a few days’ time. I do not know where any of us shall disperse to, but we must all manage as best we can. Surely the heart of the world is vast enough for us all. Motel and I are traveling to Warsaw (there are textiles there, and a vibrant community of our people), and Papa spoke this morning of leading the rest of our family to America.

  I have, as of yet, had no word from Chava and Fyedka.

  For now, I look to God, for I know He will respond to my questions. For I believe, in the deepest part of my heart, that He shall truly bring us into a frame of mind where we may hear His greatest responses . . . Perhaps not the final answe
rs, but at the very least, the next response we need.

  The world is changing, Hodelleh. As Moses spoke in the book of Exodus, “I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them.” I know how much you and Perchik wish to be a part of it—save the world, Hodelleh. But preserve it too: from the tyrants and the heartless.

  God be with you, Hodelleh.

  Tzeitel

  Hodel was very still. Her hands limp, face slack.

  The sisters were all strangers now. There was no home to return to. Everyone she knew, treasured, and loved on this earth was scattered, kept from her, kept from one another. And nothing—nothing she could ever do—would bring any of it back again.

  She put down the letters.

  There was a limit—a moment when knowledge, falling drop by painful drop, caused the spongelike heart to overflow. A moment when it could hold no more, too saturated was it, with suffering.

  forty-one

  HERE IT WAS: THE COOL OF THE MORNING. ANDREY TENDEROV waited. Three hundred blows with the rods had come at last.

  “Siberian men are strong!” he cried, counting upon what he believed to be the toughness of his hide, as fearless as a man with nothing to lose. He cursed the tsar, his officers, and his fate, and in his soaring voice, he sang songs of love and war. “Russia is seventeen million kilometers long! I crossed the earth to find such love!” he cried, his spirit urging itself to madness, releasing him from fear.

  “Now then, Tenderov, I hope you’re ready to meet the devil—today’s the day he’ll finally snatch your soul!” one of the guards said.

  “I shall live through the blows, I assure you, and we will share a glass of vodka together yet!” Tenderov slapped this emphasis upon them, and his voice at once resumed in song.

  The Gentleman approached the scene, his body rigid and uniformed. He stopped. He looked at Tenderov and almost smiled.