by Sam Ross
Still, she tried to postpone the marriage. When he came back to Narodich a few months later, she thought she had been given a weapon for delaying it, for he was all set, immediately after marrying her, to go to America. He was disappointed, he explained, that there wasn’t another steamship ticket for her; but his brother Yussel had written that he could only afford one ticket; however, in a short time, both of them would have enough money to send not only for her but also for little Rachel.
She wouldn’t hear of it. He had no right to marry her before he left, she argued. What if something should happen to him on the way? What if, after he got to America, he forgot her? No, he had no right to laugh. That had happened before to countless girls. She had to think of herself. What was he thinking of, to marry her and then leave her, perhaps with child? Wouldn’t it be better if he went to America and then, if he sent for her, get married there? (Her plan was to get him to bring her to America; but once there, free of her parents, she would go to work and marry a man of her own choosing.) That seemed just and right to her. So wouldn’t he please tell her parents of the new plan, since only he could postpone the wedding? But he wouldn’t listen. He only knew that without her he could go nowhere, he could do nothing, and that knowing she was his he could go and then place the world at her feet. And, not being able to dissuade him, with her parents insisting, she gave in finally. Then, in the month she became pregnant, he left for America, to face with great hope a fearsome new world and to lay at her feet the world he had promised her.
And she was left alone to face the maddening sights and sounds of young people in love, the anxious men who still wanted her, and the bleakness of an empty bed. There she was left, growing bigger every day with the child that was in her, with a nameless fear flooding her whole being. When a dog howled at night or when an owl hooted in the trees, she almost died of fright over their omens of death. When her loins ached, she was happy, for she was told that she was carrying a boy. When her belly pained, she cried; it was the sign of a girl. But finally, through joy and fears, signs and omens, a boy one day and a girl the next, the child wouldn’t stand for any nonsense; he came out yelling as if the whole world belonged to him. And his yells, it seemed, brought passage for them and Rachel to America.
The crossing was a nightmare. But when she arrived and saw the spacious three-room flat, with windows, and three soft chairs, and a carpet, and two separate beds with soft mattresses, and the magic of gaslight, she forgave him (David) all the suffering he had caused her. He was a rich man, she thought, at least a baron. She wept with joy, and through her tears she fell in love with him.
But, as her values changed, she found that she was really married to an ordinary workingman, a nobody in a world of struggle to become a somebody. Still, life was better, even when jobs were scarce or poorly paid. And in their common problems, her first burst of love settling into a sense of loyalty and duty, they grew closer and closer together.
4.
Then came the war. Hershy was seven years old. His father, upon learning of Russia’s conflict with Germany, clasped his hands tightly and said: “Thank God.” His mother gasped and wrung her hands; she had two brothers in the Russian army. And Hershy said: “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing,” his father answered. But he lifted him to his chest and held him close. Hershy knew that something was wrong, but he also felt that nothing could harm him. “Thank God we’re safe in America,” his father said.
War, for his father, was nothing more than a battle for dirt. The soldiers will fight, he said, and the czars, the kaisers, the kings, and the generals will be called heroes. The poor people will gain nothing but suffering and sorrow; the only earth they could possibly win was the plot of earth all people are destined for after they die. The rich had worlds to win. And the Jews, for certain, had nothing to gain. Thank God, he said, America was a country that was free of the iron fist. Thank God, the children could play at war without meaning it.
But gradually the war came closer and closer, and then, in 1917, three things happened which Hershy could never forget.
5.
His father came home early one day, dressed in his best clothes and carrying a brick of ice cream.
“Look at me,” he said. “Just look at me.”
“All right, I’m looking at you,” said Hershy’s mother. “What is there to see?”
“Do I look the same?”
“Why should you look different?”
“Because I feel big. So big, I can’t express it. You’re now looking at a new man, a real American, a genuine Yankee. You’re not looking at just plain David Melov now. You’re looking at Citizen David Melov.”
His mother, in trying to hide her deep emotion, said: “So what am I to see, stars on your hat, red-white-and-blue stripes on your suit, a goat’s beard on your chin?”
“Ay, Sonya, you should have seen me sign my name. Others sprawled their names all over the paper. Me, I fitted my name right on the line, so delicate, so refined; it was a pleasure to look at it; even the judge was delighted. And you should have seen how I got on with the judge. You’d have been proud of me. The judge said: Who was the first president of the United States? I said: George Washington. The judge said: Who is the president of the United States today? I said: Woodrow Wilson. The judge said: What does the United States mean to you? I said: The United States is a free country. The judge said: Would you fight for the United States to keep it free, even lay down your life for it? I couldn’t answer for a minute. But the judge helped me out when he said: If you lived in Russia now would you fight for her? And I said: No. Then he asked: Why? So I said: Because it is not my country, I couldn’t fight for a pogrom-maker. Then, when the judge asked me again if I’d fight for the United States, I said: Yes. And he said: All right, you’ll make a good citizen. And he said further: Sign here.”
“So, to be a citizen, you have to fight then?”
“No, it’s just talk. We’re not even at war yet. But here, at least, I’ll have something to fight for, if I have to, even if it’s for a piece of paper that makes me a citizen. In Russia, though, a Jew is not even a citizen and he is forced to fight.”
“Who would take you to fight anyhow?”
“Don’t belittle me. I’m an important man now.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe now you’ll be a somebody.”
“Why, am I not a somebody already?”
“No, I mean a real somebody.”
His father swore in Russian. “Are you never satisfied?” he said.
“Yes, I’m very satisfied now. I’m proud of you. I only want to be prouder.” She kissed him.
But Hershy was truly satisfied. “Then you’re a real American, huh, Pa?” he said.
“Yes, Hershel. You have a father now that you should never be ashamed of. You have a father now that you can be proud of.”
That evening, Hershy swelled with greater pride; his mother had planned for this day, knowing that her David would not fail her when it came to something that required learning, and had invited their relatives over to celebrate.
Uncle Yussel was away in California, and Rachel was out dancing. But Uncle Hymie, the rich one, without whom no gathering was official, drove over in his new Studebaker touring car. Uncle Hymie was his father’s best friend from Kiev. He was also married to Sonya’s younger sister: he had fallen in love with’ her when he went to Narodich to attend David’s wedding; and later, after being presented a ticket to America by David as a dowry, married her.
As usual, he honked his horn a good minute before coming up. And, as usual, Hershy ran down the stairs to greet him and Aunt Reva, and had to go through a boring ritual before he could get into the car.
First, he had to ask where his cousins, Manny and Shirley, were. They were at home with the maid. Then he had to say, Aleichem Sholom, peace be with you, after Uncle Hymie said, Sholom Aleichem. Then his Aunt Reva would stop fixing her furs, which his mother always touched with trembling, envious hands, and
would place her diamond-fingered hand on his head as though crowning him for having done something admirable. And his uncle, wreathed in smiles, would look down at him from his height of black, wiry hair and crunched, blinking eyes.
“Noo, Hershel, where are you running?”
“To the car, to the car.”
“And where are you going?”
“Around the world, all around the world.”
“And what will you be around the world?”
“An explorer, a discoverer.”
“No more moving-and-express man?”
“Sure.”
“No more Samson?”
“I’ll be Samson, too.”
“And a racer, too?”
“Sure. Can I go drive now, can I, can I?”
“But where did you get this new craze, an explorer?”
“Columbus was an explorer.”
“Oh, then that’s a good thing. So go ahead, Hershel, and be a Columbus, but find gold, too. When you get older you’ll learn that gold can never hurt you.”
Then Hershy ran off and leaped into the leather front seat of the touring car, without opening the door, just like Douglas Fairbanks, and began going rrrrrrrrrrr all over the world a million miles an hour. His trip was interrupted twice. Uncle Ben, the fruit peddler, who was married to his mother’s oldest sister, came by with his wife, but Hershy was too busy killing off a pack of whooping Indians to pay them much attention. Then Uncle Irving, the card player, woman-chaser, and former tailor, who now worked for Uncle Hymie as a laundry driver and who was married to his mother’s next oldest sister, caught his eye; but Hershy was too busy machine-gunning an army of Huns from his roaring airplane to say hello. Then, just as he was about to win by a mile the daredevil speed championship, his mother called and made him come into the house. And there, around the kitchen table, watching them hold lumps of sugar between their teeth as they sipped tea out of glasses, and as they smacked their lips with praise while they ate the strudel and taigloch his mother had prepared, he flowed into the hero his father had become.
Now, his father could become a man of property.
Maybe, Hershy thought, his father could get a car, now that he was a citizen.
Now, his father could be anything he wanted, could do everything he desired; he was a man with rights.
Maybe, Hershy thought, his father would buy him everything he wanted. Maybe he would buy his mother a fur coat and diamonds, then she’d never be jealous of her younger sister, and she’d never scare him with the stories of all the wealthy suitors she could have married. Maybe everybody’d be satisfied.
His mother, glowing with pride, visioning a new world, laid a tombstone on the past. And the others began to erect a monument to the future.
Now, with citizen’s papers, David Melov had the right to become an American goniff, a thief with honor. Now, initiated in the uses of the toilet, the faucet, the brick house with more than one room, he could delve into the greater magic of America. With the courage he had shown in leaving behind pogroms and a piece of dried-up black bread, in being able to tear up his roots to replant himself in richer earth, he could now go on to bigger and better things. Nobody could rightfully call him a greenhorn any longer. He could be like the children and shout: It’s a free country. Yes, now, as with the children, it was his America.
His father admitted it was a wonderful life.
Uncle Hymie wanted everybody to observe who was talking. The citizen. The silent one, the man of few words, from whom you could seldom get a peep. Suddenly, because he is now a citizen, he thinks he has a right to talk. All right, Uncle Hymie shushed everybody, it is free-speech time. Talk.
But his father didn’t talk. Instead, everyone laughed. And Hershy, bursting with pride, jumped on his father’s lap, and yelled: “Hot dog, Pa!”
6.
Hershy felt even more secure as an American when, soon after the United States entered the war, his Uncle Yussel became a soldier. Hershy hadn’t seen him in a long time, not since he had gone to California, where they made moving pictures. In fact, Hershy hardly knew him, for he was always traveling. It seemed to him that Uncle Yussel traveled purposely so that he could bring back to him a million stories of the splendor and excitement of new worlds, then just as he was about finished telling his stories he would be off again. But actually, Uncle Yussel was never able to get used to the freedom of movement he had in America. Here, he said, a man could move constantly, there was always a job for him, he could go anywhere, and he had to keep testing the truth of this. Besides, he was a restless man; it was easier to move than to try to calm himself.
“You ought to get married and settle down,” Hershy’s mother once said.
“How can I?” he answered. “The only woman I could be happy with is already married.”
“And who is that?”
“You.”
His mother poked him with her elbow. A pleased smile lighted up her face. And she said playfully: “Go flirt with someone else, Yussel. Why, there are so many beautiful women in America.”
“But none as beautiful as you.”
“Liar. But you’re a sweet liar, Yussel.”
“Besides, American women are too greedy.”
“Get a greenhorn, then, right off the ship.”
“They spoil too quickly.”
“Then what will you do? A man can’t stay single all his life. He needs children to bear his name.”
“Someday I’ll go back to Russia and find a nice, respectful, obedient, beautiful Jewish girl, and bring her back as my wife.”
“You’ve been saying that for years.”
“Or I’ll wait for Rachel to get older and marry her.”
“Don’t ever say that, Yussel, not even in jest.”
For that was the secret of his restlessness; he was in love with Rachel. It was first discovered when Uncle Yussel came back from one of his trips and found Rachel suddenly grown into a woman. He flung her away when she rushed up to him and wanted to be fondled, he refused to be too close to her, but he could hardly stop staring at her.
“What’s the matter?” Rachel asked one day.
“Nothing,” Uncle Yussel said, his face agitated. “Nothing.”
“Don’t you love me any more?”
“Sure. Sure.”
“Then why don’t you hold me and kiss me and tell me some stories?”
“No. I’m too busy, too busy.”
Hershy heard him say to his mother: “She was just a baby when I left. Now look at her. Look at her.”
And Hershy once caught his mother discussing it with his father.
“It’s horrible,” his mother said, “a man should feel like that about his niece, his own flesh and blood.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” his father said. “Yussel has a natural love for Rachel, the love of an uncle who has worried about her since infancy.”
“You’re blind, David.”
“You’re the one who’s blind. In every tender look you see a love affair. Can’t people love without desire?”
“Oh, are you blind, David! And oh, how Yussel must suffer.”
It was hard for Hershy to relate Uncle Yussel’s suffering to anything specific, especially to this vague thing called love, for Uncle Yussel seemed to be a happy, joyous, exciting man, always ready with a tender pinch of one’s cheek, always ready with a smile or joke that brought laughter, always going away and coming back with strange, fantastic stories of faraway places that kept everybody awake night after night long after bedtime. He liked the stronger attachment Uncle Yussel had for him since Rachel grew up, but the notion that it was horrible for people of the same family to be in love confused him.
“So,” he said to his mother one day, “what if Uncle Yussel is in love with Rachel?”
“Who told you?”
“I know.”
She stared at him in amazement. “How could you know?” she asked.
“I know. So what if he is?”
“It’s
a sin, it’s against the law.”
“Why?”
“Their children can be born crazy, deformed, God knows what.”
“What if there are no children?”
“Without children, there is no love.”
She couldn’t explain it further. She walked away from him, leaving him more confused, and she muttered: “Go talk to a child. But how could he know? There must be a devil in him.” Then he heard her sigh: “Oh, how Yussel’s soul must ache.”
For what? Hershy wondered. He knew what his soul ached for: a football, a baseball uniform, a cowboy suit, an electric train, to be a great pitcher or halfback. What could older men ache for? They seemed to have everything: strength, big muscles, fearlessness, money, freedom of movement, powers of speech. Even Rachel had big aches. It seemed that one day she was a part of his world, and the next day she had moved into another. Everybody began to look differently at her. It seemed as if one day she had been playing with dolls, and the next day she had filled out and thrown them away; and, as her flesh began to hide her bones, as she became curvier and bigger, she suddenly got a big ache and drifted far away from his world. Why, he wondered, did all older people groan with aches? When did you suddenly start hurting, without falling down or being hit or getting sick?
When Uncle Yussel left for California, Hershy’s mother said: “Come back with an actress, Yussel.”
“Maybe I will,” said Uncle Yussel.
“And bring me back a horse, like Tom Mix’s Tony,” said Hershy.
“All right,” said Uncle Yussel.
“Do me a favor,” said Hershy’s mother. “Look around and find an actress and bring her home.”
But Uncle Yussel brought back only himself. The day he came back, Hershy was playing on the street with some kids when they saw a man in uniform walking toward them. He was the first soldier they had seen and they stopped playing to admire him. Then one of the kids yelled: “Hey, that’s your uncle, Hershy.”
