by Judith Gould
'You mustn't speak such things! You must get Schmarya completely out of your mind. Do you understand?'
'How can I?' Senda cried. 'It's him I love. And he loves me.'
'You must!' Grandmother Goldie insisted sharply. 'This is evil! To think of your betrothed's brother in such a way!'
Senda was silent.
'Promise me!' Grandmother Goldie's voice was sharper than Senda had ever heard it. 'You must never speak of this again! You must banish it from your mind forever!'
Senda's eyes were as lacklustre as the dark.
Grandmother Goldie shook her. 'Promise me!' she hissed, her fingers digging into Senda's arms.
Senda shrugged. 'If you insist,' she mumbled without conviction.
'Promise me!'
'I promise.'
Goldie let out a deep breath of relief. Then she held her only grandchild in her arms, rocking her back and forth as though she were a baby. She too was crying, not for lost love but because she knew that by insisting Senda marry Solomon, she had betrayed her grandchild, the person on earth she loved above all others. 'You'll see,' she murmured soothingly, 'everything will be for the best.'
Gently Senda pulled herself out of her grandmother's arms. 'Marriage entails ... so many things.'
'It is only your duty you have to do.'
'But I'll have to . . . you know, nights . . .'
'That will come naturally,' Grandmother Goldie told her sternly. 'You should think of your physical duties now? In time, you'll get used to it.'
But Senda never did.
The night of her marriage, when Solomon stiffly stepped out of his best clothes, folding each piece neatly on the chair before taking off the next, a nauseating revulsion held Senda in its grip. She turned away from him, able to bear him in his nakedness even less than she could when he was clothed. She was sickened by his thick facial beard and even thicker pelt of dark body hair. His pale scrawny body and thin, erect penis disgusted her even more. When he slid naked under the covers beside her, she lay there unmoving, unyielding as a rock. 'Good night, Solomon,' she said with abrupt finality, pulling the quilt higher around her neck.
His hands moved under the covers. 'I love you, Senda,' he said softly.
'I'm tired,' came her reply. She wanted to jump out of bed, run outside in her flannel nightgown, and dash home to her own comforting little bed in the room she had shared with Grandmother Goldie. Yet she knew she didn't dare. She was honour and duty-bound to share Solomon's life and bed. Anything else was unthinkable.
She cringed as she felt him plant a clumsy wet kiss on the nape of her neck. 'I ... I don't feel well,' she pleaded, fighting down the nausea rising in her throat. 'Maybe it was all the wine, or the dancing . . .'
'Don't you love me?' Solomon sounded hurt. He nudged closer to her, and Senda could feel his moist penis rigid against her buttocks.
'Of course I love you, Solomon,' she said with resignation. She could feel his piercing gaze, and was grateful that she had turned away from him, her rich, gleaming copper hair covering her face like a veil. It made her feel safer, more withdrawn, and he couldn't see the look of revulsion on her face.
'Is something wrong?' he insisted.
'Nothing's wrong that a little sleep won't cure,' she lied. 'Now, please,' she begged, 'turn out the lamp and let me go to sleep. Maybe tomorrow . . .'
But when tomorrow came, she found another excuse, and the following night, yet another. Tomorrows without lovemaking blended into tomorrows, until Solomon gave up completely. Senda was his wife in every way but one.
'Many women don't like it,' his father told him. 'In time, they come around.'
But Senda never fulfilled Solomon's physical passion. She satisfied her own in the forest clearing with Schmarya, exposing for him what she could never allow herself to expose to his brother, her husband.
To Schmarya she offered the jutting, proud strawberry nipples of her well-formed breasts and her softly muscled belly.
To Schmarya she offered up her lean hips and the curly copper pubis arrowhead which nestled softly and secretively at that part of her which was all woman.
It was Schmarya's not Solomon's, engorged phallus that entered her, bringing her to bursting climax again and again, making her feel loved and complete.
Which was why now, once again, she waited with bated breath and surging blood for him to come to their secret clearing in the birch forest. She could imagine his strong body on top of hers, his mouth devouring hers, his tongue running over her breasts, down between her legs, until finally she begged him to enter her. Oh, God, how she loved it with him, could never get enough as they untiringly coupled again and again in their stolen hours spent together.
The snap of a breaking twig brought her out of her reverie. She sat bolt upright, her sparkling emerald eyes searching the trees to catch sight of him. 'Schmarya,' she called out softly, her heart hammering with anticipation. 'Schmarya, I'm over here.'
Chapter 2
'Schmarya! In the name of God, Schmarya! What happened to you?'
Her hand flew to her breast, her fine thin nostrils flared, and her eyes grew large as saucers. For one long, terrifying instant, her heart stopped dead. After a moment, her heart began pounding.
Schmarya did not speak. Arms outstretched, he weakly wove his way toward her, as though drunk, but she knew, knew for certain deep within her heart, that it was not drink which made him stagger. Whatever he had been up to, he had gotten hurt. Oh, dear God! His forehead was cut open and was bleeding.
Uttering a cry, she summoned her legs to move and darted swiftly through the trees toward him. When she reached him, she clasped him under the armpits, and he let himself be helped down into a sitting position, his head leaning back against the peeling bark of a birch. 'Don't worry,' he panted. 'Got thrown. Off a horse. I'm all right.'
'Don't talk now, just rest,' she ordered briefly, hurrying back to the spring. When she reached it, she whipped her precious scarlet scarf from around her waist, knelt at the edge of the tiny pool, and plunged the scarf into the icy water, making certain the wool absorbed as much water as it could. Then loosely rolling the soaked scarf into a ball, she hurried back to him, the wet bundle dripping water all over the front of her voluminous skirt.
She dropped to a squatting position beside him, gently cleaning his head wound. Water trickled down his face, dripped into his collar.
He sat expressionless, his eyes closed as she dabbed at the blood, his long legs, thick with powerful thigh muscles, stretched out straight in front of him. Sixteen years old, like her, over six feet tall without his boots, and she couldn't help admiring his manliness even now that he was her patient, his face with its proud bone structure caked with blood and his golden hair dishevelled. He was large-boned and hard of muscle, but didn't carry a spare ounce of fat on his body. He had the healthy complexion of one who spent life out-of-doors. And handsome ... so incredibly handsome he made her heart ache, with his lusty naturally red lips, bold blue-sapphire eyes always glinting with amused contempt, and his clean-shaven face with its strong cleft chin jutting almost insolently out at the world.
After a few minutes his face was clean. She sat back on her heels. 'There.' She was relieved, but her face was set in anger, as if she wanted to attack him for causing her such fright. Instead, her voice was soft and soothing. 'It's only a surface wound, thank God.' She paused briefly, furrowing her slanting brows. 'Schmarya, what in God's name have you been up to?'
He tilted his head forward and bridged her sharp gaze, his face filled with unspeakable anguish. Then he heaved a massive sigh, as if the weight of the world was upon him alone, let his head fall back upon the yielding trunk of the young birch, and shut his eyes and began to weep. Soundlessly, without even heaving his chest. But the tears rolled steadily down his cheeks.
'Schmarya!' she whispered. She was more frightened by his tears than she had been when she'd first glimpsed his wound. Schmarya wasn't one to cry. She had seen him clamp his teeth togeth
er and scoff at the pain when he'd once gotten badly hurt while chopping firewood.
'Schmarya.'
He did not speak, and in the heavy silence which hung over them, the sound of far-distant hoofbeats came whispering on the wind. Soft and muted, far away, but quickly growing louder, as if many horses were galloping furiously toward them.
Schmarya tensed and his eyes flew open with a start. He wiped away his tears with the back of a hand, stumbled unsteadily to his feet, and swiftly lurched toward the far end of the clearing, with its fine vista of the village below. He kept staring down. Then suddenly he turned to her. 'We've got to warn them,' he said grimly.
'Warn whom? About what?' She stared at him, her eyes wide and scared.
'There's no time to explain. Quickly! We've got to get to the village!' Without another word, he ran off through the trees, stumbling and sliding downhill.
For a moment she stared after him, hands on her hips in perplexed indecision. What could there possibly be to fear? What danger had he sensed? Her eyes darted about, searching the forest. Overhead, the birch branches shivered and rustled softly in the cool breeze. Birds swooped and sang in the sky. She could smell the fresh earthiness of spring all around her, could feel the comforting moistness of the cushiony moss beneath her feet. Everything seemed crystal clear somehow, as though all five of her senses were heightened. Something, she knew—something, whatever nameless, faceless danger it was—threatened from nearby.
Finally she caught up with Schmarya, but there was no sweet victory in winning this race. When they'd begun running, she had been well-rested, while he had already been half-dead on his feet. And although he'd started running with a burst of speed, she could feel his pace was already flagging. It was obvious that he had summoned his last reserves of strength for this run.
She raced beside him now, bosom heaving, heart hammering. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire from the exertion. She was so winded she could barely breathe, and her legs felt heavier and heavier, as if weighed down with lead. Still, she forced herself to keep pace with him.
If he can run in his condition, then I can keep up, she told herself resolutely.
She stole a sideways glance at him. Schmarya's face was set in fierce lines of determination.
'Schmarya,' she finally gasped, 'I can't. Can't run anymore. Got to rest. You too.'
'No.' He was short of breath, but breathing evenly, steadily, conserving what little strength he had left. 'Got to make it.' His words were clipped, disjointed, in rhythm with his breathing.
'But why? Tell me! Why?'
'Horses.'
'So? Not the first time. Horses here. Horses ride past. All the time.'
'Not like that. Not so many.' He clenched his fists as he spurred himself on faster, head tilted skyward, eyes half-shut. 'Pogrom.'
'What!'
Despite the sweat which bathed her, her blood suddenly ran cold at this dreaded word. What Jewish child in Russia didn't know the meaning of 'pogrom'? Sanctioned death. Slaughter of the innocent. All because of a circumstance of birth over which they had no control.
'No. Can't be.' Tears pushed out of the corners of her eyes. She didn't want to believe this. Couldn't begin to believe it. Pogroms were a thing of the past. 'Hasn't been one.' She panted for breath. 'For years. Why now?'
'Pogrom,' Schmarya repeated doggedly.
'But why? What reason—' She clamped her lips shut. How stupid of her! From the stories she'd heard, there didn't have to be a reason for a pogrom. Being Jewish was excuse enough.
'Wolzak's house. Someone burned it. I tried to stop them, but I was too late.'
So there was a reason. She stared sideways at him, her attention on him instead of the ground up ahead. Suddenly she let out a scream as she tripped on a fallen log. She somersaulted forward headfirst, her skirt and petticoat flying. She landed facedown and felt the air being knocked out of her lungs.
Dazed, she raised her head. Then she shook it angrily, as though to clear it. She scowled. Schmarya hadn't stopped to help her. He hadn't so much as shot a backward glance at her. He kept on running.
Because of the pogrom.
Oh, God. She stifled a sob, pushed herself to her feet, and took a few careful, tentative steps. Tears seeped from her eyes. She'd twisted her angle when she fell, and the pain shot upward, halfway to her knee.
With a grimace she fought to keep from crying out, and forced herself to limp after him. Her lips tightened in self-loathing. Schmarya would soon approach the edge of the forest. She was so far behind now. All because of a stupid sprained ankle. If she didn't hurry, she would be too late.
She took a deep breath. Well, she wouldn't let it slow her down. Not if what Schmarya feared was true. What was her pain compared with the lives of so many?
She forced herself to race ahead, closing her mind to the splinters of fire shooting through her leg. Mustn't think of the pain, she told herself over and over. It's nothing compared with—
—the pogrom.
She picked up speed now, her hair flying in the wind. She was just about to catch up with Schmarya, and could see that he had nearly reached the edge of the forest. The hoofbeats rang out much louder now, a steady, resounding bass pounding off the earth. She forced herself to speed up, as Schmarya was doing, for the final homestretch, and just as she reached the extreme edge of the forest, Schmarya instinctively stopped in his tracks. Senda was about to shoot past him, but his right arm shot out, slammed into her breasts, and sent her flying backward through the air. She let out a cry, half in anger, half in pain, as she landed heavily on the ground. 'What the—'
But Schmarya dived to the ground and clapped a hand over her mouth.
The Cossacks burst past, sabres and rifles glinting evilly, their sweating steeds throwing off glistening drops of hot sweat, their powerful hooves tossing up clumps of dirt. They were very near, but the heavy forest underbrush completely concealed Senda and Schmarya from the Cossacks while offering them a bird's-eye view of the village.
The life seemed to drain out of Schmarya. His face was contorted in agony. 'We're too late,' he wept softly, covering his face with his hands.
As they watched in horror, wholesale slaughter began; it was as if the gates of hell had suddenly flung open, and bizarre demons and devils were unleashed upon the earth.
The Cossacks wielded whips, guns, and sabres in their black-leather-gloved hands, their huge fur hats pressing down over their brows. They split into two groups, taking opposite ends of the village and working bloody paths toward the centre.
What came was no battle. It was a massacre, pure and simple—the systematic butchering of peaceful, unarmed villagers by a horde of ruthless, bloodthirsty savages.
The first victims were Gilda Meyerov and her children. With the Cossacks' arrival, Senda had seen Gilda rush out of the nearest cottage, protectively gather up her three children who had been playing outside, and herd them into the deceptive safety of the cottage, slamming and bolting the door behind them. When the cottage was set on fire, it was a matter of minutes before Gilda and the children stumbled back out, gasping and coughing. The children were shot, and Gilda Meyerov, frozen in horror, never saw the powerful arc of the sabre that decapitated her. Her severed head flew through the air and landed on the ground, bouncing twice before rolling away like an obscene ball.
The tranquil village became a sea of blood. No one and nothing was spared, whether human or otherwise. Senda had heard accounts of pogroms in the past, but they had always seemed distant, only stories—something that happened to other people. Nothing had prepared her for the horrors of the reality. She witnessed her father being shot in the chest and crumpling to the ground, then saw her screaming mother throw herself atop his lifeless body, wailing and sobbing as she held his head in her hands, only to have her back hacked open lengthwise by a Cossack leaning over his mount.
The slaughter took only a few minutes, but to Senda the massacre seemed to last a lifetime. No matter in which direction
she looked, horror after unspeakable horror piled up before her eyes.
She saw a gangly woman take flight from one of the burning cottages, fleeing toward a shed which stood halfway between her cottage and the forest. Her escape was cut off by two Cossacks who galloped around her in ever-narrowing concentric circles until she fell and was trampled to death under the iron-shod hooves of their horses. Senda shut her eyes. She had recognized Hannah Jaffe, who lived in the cottage next door and was so proud of her cooking. She always brought her neighbours a piece of cake when she baked one, or brought over steaming pots of chicken soup if someone was ill. She would never cook and bake again. The Cossacks had seen to that.
Senda watched, heartbroken, as Solomon, the husband she did not love, made a valiant attempt to rescue the sacred Torah from the synagogue. When he ran out of the temple with the scrolls tucked under his arm, a Cossack's whip expertly lashed out, coiling itself around him and the scrolls. Totally immobilized, Solomon stood stock-still, eyes lifted skyward, as a band of Cossacks hacked his body and the scrolls into bloody bits. Senda grieved terribly for that one instant. So he had not been a coward. He had died bravely, and she now felt shame for the way she had treated him.
But soon that fragmented emotion was replaced by another, for the most terrible sight of all now greeted her eyes. Her beloved Grandmother Goldie, white-blond hair tied back, still shod in the mules she wore indoors, socks too big for her sagging around her ankles, came marching through ragged clouds of smoke down the one road which bisected the village, her eyes narrowed in grim determination. All around Goldie, the slaughter took place with furious speed and brutal efficiency, but her pace never flagged. She was not one to suffer death without a fight. Twice, once with her heart, and another time with her liver, she had cheated the grim reaper, and she wasn't about to stand still and wait for the Cossacks to finish the job. Not if she could help it. She held her boning knife poised high in the air and headed straight for the nearest mounted Cossack, her stride never breaking. Before she could reach him, he threw back his head and laughed, then reined in his horse, forcing its front legs high, and when they swiftly descended, the hooves crushed Grandmother Goldie to the ground as easily as other horses had crushed Hannah Jaffe.
