The Singing Fire

by Lilian Nattel

  After Passover, Nehama continued to wake in the night from dreams of a baby in a white cap trimmed with lace. The baby had Sally’s face. Worse, sometimes it was the Squire’s. Nehama awoke sweating, and occasionally she cried out. Her grandmother cried out, too. They were in exile together.

  MINSK, 1882

  Moskovskaya Street

  The flowers in the garden were brown and mummified, and in the countryside the peasants were cutting golden rye with scythes as sharp as the angel of death’s, though not quite as sharp as their new czar’s. The “little father” had been ruling for a year, and the streets of Minsk were crowded with refugees. They came from towns where Jewish professionals and students had been allowed to live among the proud Russians as long as they were not too visible, but now that the court’s eyesight had become keener, it revoked all permits to live outside the Pale of Settlement, where Jews were grudgingly tolerated as they must live somewhere, one supposed. As many of the refugees were housed as the Jewish community could accommodate, but still there were many that slept in the street. Their faces had no expression; they didn’t look anyone in the eye as they begged.

  Emilia Rosenberg wasn’t allowed out into the streets. A girl of sixteen had to be carefully watched. The brick walls of her garden were high, and the only door was the one that led into the kitchen, where the maid was disguising Mother’s dry brisket with carrots and potatoes. In the garden, the branches of the tree bent low, as if the ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg was reading the newspaper Emilia left on the bench when she went inside. There was to be a dinner with guests, and admiration was better than any lady’s tonic made with opium. If everyone else found her charming, then why should her father’s opinion be of any consequence?

  The dining room table was covered with an embroidered cloth and set with wine goblets, brandy snifters, shot glasses for vodka, and silverware of many sizes. At the head of the table, Father said the blessings over wine and bread. Next to him were Emilia’s brothers and their wives. She sat with her mother at the other end of the table, in exile with the Sabbath guests. They were refugees, a brother and sister who’d been evicted from their village in the vilda riechus—the wild odors of the countryside—and a young man expelled from the university under the new laws that restricted Jews. His name was Mr. Levy, and the president of the Jewish Council had asked Father, as a favor, to hire him as a tutor for Emilia.

  The sideboard was crowded with the silver samovar, soup tureens, and platters of fish, chicken, and brisket. Above it was one of Mama’s paper-cuts, a scene of the first garden, with its Tree of Knowledge and the snake. Steam from the chicken soup curled in front of it, and the snake smiled as it smelled the scent of meat. Emilia nibbled on a piece of chalhh sprinkled with salt, eyeing Mr. Levy. She was wearing her new autumn gown, which brought out the gray of her eyes and the gold of her hair. It was just too bad that her swanlike neck was concealed by a high collar. But Mama had insisted.

  “I used to envy you young people,” Father said. “We never had your chances. But now it’s all come to nothing—the professions are closed to Jews just like they used to be. And even a trade to put something in your mouth, you don’t have. So tell me what you learned at the university, Mr. Levy.”

  Her brothers were eating silently as usual, their wives discussing winter cloaks. With fur collars or without this year?

  “What I studied is of no consequence, sir, since I had to leave.” Mr. Levy didn’t seem to care that he was using the wrong fork. He had no beard, only a mustache as black and independent as a cat’s tail.

  “Character is everything, my young man,” Father said. “I own a factory, and I hire the workers because their nature is to be a hammer and mine the hand that holds it. As the song says, ‘A pretty girl is plucked, an ugly one left on the branch.’”

  Mother was talking to the brother and sister from the countryside, telling them about the time she’d charmed the Russian officers and saved her first family from death. She waved her hand in an elegant gesture. Only Emilia would know that, under the lacy cuff, her wrist had white scars. One day when Emilia had come in from the garden, she’d seen Mother’s wrist running like meat set to drain. There’s been an accident, Mama had said. Emilia had bound her wrist in a strip of her apron and run next door to fetch the doctor. Since then, Mama said she didn’t like to go out much. When your charm fails, you feel the cold terribly, and so she wore her heaviest cloak to the opera. What would she do when winter came?

  The maid dug a serving fork into the overcooked chicken, putting a wing on Mr. Levy’s plate. “Pardon the dryness,” Father said. “Mrs. Rosenberg considers herself too good for the wifely arts.”

  Mother kept on talking to the guests as if she didn’t hear a word Father said. She’d lent her ruby earrings to Emilia because they matched the silk roses on her new gown.

  “I’m afraid that Miss Rosenberg takes after her mother.”

  “But someone’s true nature isn’t easily revealed.” It was foolish of Mr. Levy to disagree with Father. A guest should just enjoy the good wine and keep his opinions to himself.

  “On the contrary,” Father said. The gaslit chandelier cast blue shadows over his plate. “A man of experience can see a person’s nature in a glance. And no amount of good influence can change it.”

  Emilia thought about her sleeves. She really ought to have sleeves off the shoulder. She had nice shoulders—maybe for spring.

  “You see my wife,” Father said. “And daughter—”

  “I beg to disagree, sir,” Mr. Levy interrupted. “Unless you know a person’s thoughts, you don’t know him.”

  He was looking at Emilia as if he had some business with her. But he had no right to gaze at her so boldly, as if he could picture her dreaming about an Italian villa where she walked in a loose white gown, barefoot, the grass soft, a paintbrush in her hand, a canvas on the easel. As if he saw the table for making paper-cuts and her mother walking toward it from the villa, holding a tray of fruit for their lunch. There was no brick wall. You could see for miles.

  “Am I right, Miss Rosenberg?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” She could have any number of admirers sitting in her father’s parlor. She didn’t need Mr. Levy and his eyes digging into hers. Mother would at least agree to a winter cloak with a fur collar.

  “What you need to know,” Father said, refilling his wineglass, “is what a person does behind your back. Let’s say you have a wife. A beautiful wife. Other people might also like to admire her beauty. Can you be sure of her when you’re not there? Beauty, my friend, conceals slyness.”

  Emilia’s brothers were not too beautiful, nor were their wives. They motioned to the maid to bring more food while Emilia wished herself young enough to hide behind the damask curtains.

  “My daughter is clever as well as beautiful,” Father said. A stranger might think it was a compliment.

  Mother fell silent. She put her hand on Emilia’s. “I expect to be a wife and mother like any other girl,” Emilia said. “Mother taught me what I need to know.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Father said dryly.

  The guests looked from Father to Mother. The brothers drank more wine, eyes glazing. Their wives suddenly asked to be excused from the table. Father waved them away.

  “May I be excused, too?” Emilia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Father said slowly. “Tell me what you’ve done and then I might be the judge.”

  “I mean from the table, please.”

  “Ah. I see.” Father sat back quietly for a moment. Then he leaned forward. “Why did you call in the doctor?”

  “It was nothing, Father. I—”

  “Does your mother enjoy his company very often?” He tapped the table with his spoon.

  “It was only once, Father. For myself. I wasn’t well.”

  “And yet you look the picture of health to me. I must have my eyes checked.” He threw down the spoon. It was just a spoon. No reason to be afraid. B
ut Emilia’s hand was wet and her mother’s hand was cold.

  “I was having female troubles,” Emilia said. She’d asked the doctor that lived next door to come in and have another look at Mother’s arthritic hands. Sometimes they hurt so much she couldn’t play the piano or draw the pictures for her paper-cuts, and then she had no reason to get out of bed. Emilia was afraid of another accident with a knife. “I wasn’t well, Father.”

  “Your mother’s child. My daughter would not be a liar.” He rubbed his thumb on the rim of his wineglass.

  “May I be excused, Father?” She could feel the guests looking at her. But she didn’t blush. She’d stopped blushing long ago.

  “You think I don’t know what’s going on under my nose?” Father snapped. He was often irritable on Sabbath eve, contemplating a whole day without a cigar or cigarette. But this time he didn’t throw the wineglass at the wall. He didn’t sweep the platter of potatoes onto the floor. He only said, “Stupid girl. Yes, please leave the table.” And he called to the maid. “Freida. I believe we’re ready for dessert, now. Enough philosophy, gentlemen. What do you think of the news—is it good for the Jews?”

  Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Emilia took a plate of bread and jam from the kitchen pantry and carried it out to the garden. Mama didn’t swallow a mouthful when she was upset, and as a consequence she was altogether too thin. She didn’t realize that you have to push every bad thought away or it will eat you up. And Emilia had no intention of wasting away. The consumptive look wasn’t well regarded by matchmakers. She didn’t care what Father said. Everyone else agreed that she was as lovely as the loveliest gentile girl. Someone was bound to want her.

  It was the smell of a cigar that made her quickly brush the crumbs from her skirt, tucking the plate under her bench. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Mr. Levy,” a low voice said.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the parlor with my father and brothers?”

  “I can’t smoke there.” Mr. Levy leaned against the apple tree. The darkness was mild in the shelter of the brick wall and the low clouds above.

  “It’s still Shobbos out here,” Emilia said.

  “I won’t consult the calendar if you won’t. I thought you might like to know that your father hired me.”

  “But I don’t need a tutor.” Certainly not one that was going to stare at her at every meal.

  “Well, it’s no great pleasure for me either, you know.”

  “Then go somewhere else.”

  “If I could,” he said. On the other side of the garden, cats were yowling, tangled in a heated exchange.

  “Well, I’m sure the world is large enough.” She shrugged.

  “Certainly. For those with means. But for me … Apparently it’s my fate to be stuck nowhere doing nothing. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  The ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg rustled the branches. “Anyone that lives here knows what you mean,” Emilia said.

  “Well, don’t worry. Somehow we’ll pass the time together until you marry. I could study while you embroider or whatever it is your mother taught you.” He sighed. It wasn’t fair that a man so full of himself should make her catch her breath with his sigh. It was the mustache. So cheeky.

  Emilia clasped her hands around her knees. The ghost was laughing in the tree. “My mother isn’t fond of embroidery.”

  “Then I could read you the Romantic poets. Girls like that sort of thing.” The ghost laughed so hard that apples fell and bounced on the ground. It wasn’t at all ladylike. But the dead have no manners.

  “If you’re going to be my tutor, you’ll have to learn a thing or two. I won’t be bored by anyone less than a husband. Do you read German?” she asked.

  “No, I’m afraid. Only English and French.”

  “I prefer German philosophy. Perhaps I should read it to you.” A branch was creaking. The wind was blowing dead leaves.

  Mr. Levy stood up straight. “You speak German?”

  “Fluently. My mother taught me history, geography, philosophy, and literature in three languages. I speak four.”

  “I’m a donkey’s ass,” Mr. Levy said, looking at her again as if he saw deeply and liked what he saw very much. The creaking branch snapped. “If you’ll pardon the vulgarity.” As the branch fell, it slapped his face. “What the …”

  “Are you hurt?” Emilia asked.

  “It’s nothing. A few scratches.”

  “Stay here. I’ll go inside and get something from the maid to dress it.” As she opened the kitchen door, Emilia wondered whether his cheek would be smooth or rough with stubble. Over her shoulder she could see the red point of his cigar under the tree, and the ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg dancing on top of the brick wall.

  LONDON, 1882

  Frying Pan Alley

  The grandmothers came. The west wind swept them into the channel, the mist of the river took them up. The newcomers jumped over Commercial Street, the old divide between Jew and gentile, moving up and down and to the right along roads that turned blue on reformers’ maps as Yiddish signs were hung outside shops. Rents went up. In the backyards were workshops, chicken coops, foundries. There were Yiddish newsstands and Yiddish plays. Coffee houses opened where you could gamble in Yiddish. There were all kinds of chances and they wanted all of them. They had great hopes for their children, who were stringy as roosters, the boys almost as tough as the girls minding babies while waiting a turn to jump rope.

  If you could hear a grandmother’s voice, she’d tell you why they came: To argue about stuffed fish. You think that’s crazy? Then listen to me. Some cook it sweet, and the ones that cook with pepper think they’re better than the others. But in the heim, believe me, you would be grateful for anything. People that have plenty don’t leave home for the pleasure of living eight to a room in a house of prostitutes and criminals. A house? A ruin. Rats tear the paper off windows that have no glass. But in the street at least there’s a heimisheh geshmeck, a taste of pickles and smoked fish. Beer! Gin! Feh—what’s that! Someone should have a little schnapps. You write to them, Nehameleh. Just like I’m saying. Tell them how fine it is here. You think for this they’ll leave their home and their business?

  But Nehama was sure that her family belonged here. She was saving part of every wage packet, and all that she’d done would be forgiven because it would have been for this: to bring her family to the free land. First Mother and Father, then sisters with their husbands and children. Enough of them to fill a house, a row of houses. She’d teach them all English and save them from lies. She wrote letters home, and her family wrote back with holiday wishes several times a year. If you held the thin paper to the light, words flew into the yellow candle flame. Whenever she wanted to jump away from the sewing machine, whenever the night called her, she thought of them and the roll of savings under a loose board.

  In the sixth year of her freedom, Nehama wrote: “Dear Tatteh and Mama, may you live to be a hundred and twenty, kein ein ahora. I heard there are pogroms. The new czar hates the Jews. How is it in Plotsk? Will you come? I can send for you now….”

  While she waited for their answer, the west wind was blowing fog toward the Tower. It was unlike anything in the heim. One day the fog was brown, another green as a bottle. It was black, it was yellow, it was white as candles. At last the letter arrived.

  “My dearest daughter, may no evil befall you. Don’t worry. We’re all right. Three of your sisters are pregnant, kein ein ahora. Your mother sees well only from one eye, all the less to see the troubles of these days. But thank God in heaven, there were no pogroms here. Of course home is home. The family, the house, the shop. Everything is here….” And in a large scrawl at the end in her mother’s hand, “Just stay well.”

  Not coming? She couldn’t believe it. Nehama read the letter again. And no one was asking her to go home anymore. She held the letter until the sweat from her hands smeared the ink. She fell asleep holding it, and for the first time she heard her grandmother�
�s voice as a whisper in her dreams: Nehameleh, just use your head. God gave men 613 commandments. To women the Holy One gave only 3. And why? Because a woman knows what to do. Her mother tells her what’s what and that’s how she knows. If she has no mother, then she should listen to her grandmother. Am I right? The sound of it surprised her, but when she woke up, it was forgotten.

  She was lodging with Minnie and Lazar and working as a plain sewer in a tailor’s workshop. The only reason she wasn’t a “best” by now was that women never were. The workshop was like a thousand others where all the cheap clothes of London were made by newcomers. It was in a small back room with a low ceiling, sewing machines on the table where four workers and the boss squeezed side by side, with just enough room between the table and the fireplace for a pressing table. The walls were peeling, the window looked out on a yard where chickens were slaughtered, the glass plastered with dirty feathers.

  “You should be glad that you can’t smell it,” Minnie said to Nehama as she soaped seams. The window shook in the autumn wind. Lazar was pressing jackets with a coal iron, his cheeks red from the rising steam. At his feet one of the boss’s children played with broken buttons.

  “Forget it,” Nehama shouted above the click-clack of her machine. Minnie’s face was drawn. They were all tired, working fourteen hours a day, and her eyes were tearing at the pain in her back. But fall and spring you worked until you fell. These were the busy seasons. Come the cold of winter or the sweat of summer, you’d have no wages. Only time and hunger. “Let’s sing,” Nehama said. “Something from that play we saw. You know the one I mean, The Tailor’s Fate. It goes like this. ‘Grab a little drink,’” she sang, “‘as long as you’re among the living. Once you’re in the next world, no one’s going to give you any. There’s no yesterday and no tomorrow …’” The best machinist whistled along with her, though his eyes stayed on the cheap wool he was ballooning together under the hiss of gas jets.