GOLDA
Golda saw his confusion and, with blunt words, answered his unspoken question. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’m so sorry. She died. She died on the ship in childbirth. This is your son.” Golda dropped her valise and the bundle of clothes and quilts and held out the baby to him with both hands, eager to unburden herself. Immediately, she saw that her words had been too harsh and wished she hadn’t said them. But they were the truth. How else could she have told him?
Ben stepped back, his hands in front of him, warding her off. He swayed, almost falling, catching himself just in time on the arm of a man standing beside him. The man pushed him away, and Ben stumbled again. This time Golda grabbed him to hold him upright. A sound came out of his throat, a cross between a groan and a scream, a gasp and a cry. It was, next to Esther’s screams in childbirth, the worst sound she ever heard. “Gott! Gott!” He clutched her arm but did not take the baby from her. He seemed not to have understood her words. He shook his head back and forth, denying her story. People swirled around them, pushed by them, knocked her suitcase over.
Golda needed to take charge. She took a deep breath. “Come,” she said, handing him her suitcase and bundle. Taking his arm, she led him down the street to a quieter place overlooking the piers, the water, and the ships. Ben followed her as if sleepwalking. His face was paper white; his bloodless lips moved soundlessly as if in prayer. She propelled him to the curb and pressed him so he sat, weeping, his hands holding his head, and mumbling, “What will I do, what will I do?”
She wanted to shake him. She couldn’t bear his blubbering. Didn’t she have reason to cry too, to scream? Hadn’t she lost her beloved sister just two days ago? But she had wept until she had no tears left; she felt dried, wizened. She looked at Ben and was ashamed of herself. He was dazed, in shock. She had been given two days to get used to the loss of Esther, but he’d had only minutes.
She lifted her face to the sky. It had begun to drizzle. Her skin drank in the rain, but it was March, and the rain felt cold. Taking pity on him, she waited until his sobs subsided. But she didn’t want to wait there forever. “Ben,” she said, “we can’t sit here any longer. The baby will get wet. We have to go. Where are you taking us?”
Ben looked blank. “Us?”
“Where were you taking Esther when she got off the boat?” She couldn’t keep the exasperation from her voice.
“To my room.”
“Where is your room? How do we get there?”
As if she were talking to a small child, she got him to speak, to direct them to the streetcar, to the subway. He had been expecting his bride. He must have forgotten Golda was accompanying Esther, that he had promised to find her a job and a place to live. He was in a fog, and Golda realized that right now he was useless at solving the problems they faced just to get through the next few days.
She needed milk for the baby, who was beginning to fuss again. She jounced him against her breast, the way she had seen her mother do with her brothers when they were babies, but she knew this wouldn’t work for long. He was hungry again. The last bottle the nurse had given her would have to hold him until she could get more. She needed to be able to boil the bottles as the nurse had instructed her. She needed some diapers. Where would she stay? It would be impossible for Ben to take care of his son. He seemed in such pain and confusion. Golda had no use for him in this state.
Golda wanted to trade places with every woman she saw on the street as she walked behind Ben, carrying the infant. He trudged with the suitcase and the bundle of quilts and clothing. So many of the women looked free, independent. Golda’s brain was squirreling with worries, and her throat was tight with tears.
She followed Ben’s tall back, his head slumped slightly forward, as if he were looking carefully at each step he took. They walked for two blocks, took a streetcar a short way, and then descended into the underground subway, where they waited in the thicker air for a train that rushed into the station with a great racket. Golda was overwhelmed with the sounds and dirt. The baby began to cry now, startled by the noise of the train coming into the station. “Shush,” she whispered, but it didn’t quiet him.
They found seats, and Golda fished around in the bundle to find the last bottle of milk. She slipped it into the baby’s mouth and prayed there would be help when they got to Ben’s room. He lived with a cousin. Maybe she could help.
As the train rocketed through the tunnels, stopping at the stations along the way, they sat silently. People got on and off through the sliding doors. Golda could not imagine how they knew where they were going. She wanted to ask Ben questions, but she could not. To interrupt him while he was so stunned seemed too cruel. He stared straight ahead, his hands between his legs, not looking at anything. The baby finished the bottle and fell asleep. She tucked the empty bottle into the bundle and watched the sleeping infant, wondering why she felt nothing at all when she looked at him, except perhaps anxiety.
She stared at Ben. He was a handsome man. Esther had said he reminded her of the stories of King David in the Bible. He was tall and stood straight, proud of his height. A shock of brown hair fell over his forehead, and he had long lashes—almost like a girl’s—shading his warm brown eyes. Golda had noticed he was very quick to smile, as if he enjoyed his life and everything that happened to him.
Not now, Golda thought. He certainly isn’t enjoying life now. She tore her eyes away from Ben’s grief-stricken face and stared at the window on the train. It was grimy and looked out at the black subway tunnel as the train hurtled through.
Eventually they reached their station and got out, although Golda didn’t know what the name of the station was because she couldn’t read the letters on the signs. They climbed the stairs and emerged on the street again.
It was spitting rain now. The street was awash with people and cars and carts and a few horses. Along the sidewalks in front of the shops, there were hawkers, each one screaming louder than the next. The swirl of bodies pushing against each other, the shopkeepers chanting about their goods assaulted her. Peddlers with pots and pans, clothing, apples, potatoes yelled to passersby. They passed a fishmonger, and the briny smell and the stale smell of fish mingled and assailed her; past the fish was a pushcart with hats and another with dishes. Behind the street vendors were storefronts. A bakery wafted sugary smells, reminding Golda that she was hungry. A butcher shop had cuts of meat hanging. Dress shops and furniture stores, a grocery, a dry goods store followed one after another. Everything was for sale on the street.
They dodged carts pulled by donkeys and horses. They ducked and wove through the crowds. Golda’s head was spinning from the color and the smells and the shouts of Look! Feel! Buy! She hurried after Ben, wondering what he was thinking. Did he remember he had promised Esther he would take care of Golda if she came as a companion? Was his heart aching? Was he weeping as he walked? She couldn’t see his face, only his back.
People pushed against her, shoving her. Once she almost tripped. She held the baby close against her body, shielding him from being touched. Oh God, when will we be there? She continued trotting after Ben, trying not to breathe in the stink of horse manure and rotting fish. She stepped around puddles that looked full of garbage, hoping her shoes would not leak.
Think of good things, only pleasant things, Golda thought. She focused on Ben, his broad back a little bent with the weight of his bundles. She had thought him very handsome when she’d met him in the village. That was, no doubt, what had attracted Esther, who’d had a photograph of Ben by her bed that she stared at every morning and every night before she went to sleep. Golda had looked at it too. He was a good-looking man. Tall, with dark eyes and a straight nose. In the picture he had a solemn stare, but when she saw him in person, he smiled a lot, especially at Esther.
Then her mind skipped. What will I write to my parents? Will they blame me? How could they blame me? The doctor said something went wrong inside Esther. He had drawn a picture so she could understand, and the nurse, with her broken Polish, had helped explain. The lining of the place where the baby lay inside Esther had peeled off, and that was why she was bleeding. Was that what she said? Now Golda couldn’t remember. She swallowed hard against tears and tried to bring her mind back to the questions of the moment. Focus on walking. Make sure she didn’t fall.
At last Ben stopped in front of one of the brick apartment buildings. “Here,” he said. “I live here.”
Golda took a deep breath and clutched the baby closer. They went up the stairs into the dark recesses of the house. Now Golda could barely breathe from the dense, airless staircase. She followed Ben slowly and at the second floor they stopped, and he entered the apartment in front of them.
A tall and buxom woman came to the door and greeted them with a smile. “I’m Cousin Surah,” she said to Golda. “You must be Esther.”
Golda shook her head and looked at Ben to talk.
“Not Esther,” he mumbled. “Her sister, Golda.” And he broke down in tears.
This cousin was a wise woman, Golda decided. She did not ask more questions but told Ben to put the rest of their goods into his room and then come out for a cup of tea. Golda followed Ben to his tiny room, saw the one bed, and sat heavily upon it. She wanted to place the baby on the bed and leave. What had she to do with this child? With this man? What would she do with them? But if she left, where would she go? She didn’t speak English. She had little money. She was a stranger in a strange land. For the moment, she thought, she was stuck here, in this windowless room, with a man and a baby who did not belong to her. She did not know what she would do.
She looked around the room, taking in its contents. The walls were painted yellow. The bed, covered with a clean threadbare quilt, was pushed against the wall, a rag rug by its side. His clothes were folded neatly in a box in the corner of the room. There were two pegs on the wall to hang a coat or jacket or hat. She saw how tidy the room was and thought that Ben had tried to make it nice for his bride. She was flooded with pity for him.
She shook herself. She could not get stuck thinking sad thoughts. Golda had lists of worries whirling in her head. The doctor on the ship had told her that they needed to claim Esther’s body within one day of arrival. That was tomorrow. If not, the body would be disposed of, he said. “Buried in a pauper’s grave.” That was unthinkable.
But where would they get the money to bury her? How did you get a grave in this big country? And what should she do with this baby, who was now beginning to writhe in hunger, to cry with piteous bleats? Golda had no milk. Where could she get the evaporated milk that the nurse had shown her how to use in a bottle? And the bris, the circumcision? Would that happen on the eighth day, as was required? She stared at Ben, who sat rocking on the floor, his head in his hands.
“Ben,” she said. He didn’t move. “Ben!” she said more loudly. He jumped. “We have to talk. To decide.” He looked up at her, but she wasn’t sure he understood what she was saying. “Esther’s body. We have to collect it from the ship. Or they will bury her in a pauper’s grave.” Still, he stared at her. “And your baby, this boy, needs a bris. He was born two days ago.” Ben stirred. He seemed to be listening. “He needs food. Or a wet nurse . . .” The words stumbled out of her mouth.
Golda could feel her face getting red. How was she talking of these things? Burial. Bris. A wet nurse. Unseemly. She, a maiden who was supposed to know very little about life, although in truth, as the eldest daughter in the family, she knew plenty, having helped the midwife when her mother had given birth to her youngest son. In the village, there were women and men to help with everything. When a man died, there were men who sat with the body. If a woman died, women sat. It was a holy task. They bathed the body and prepared it for burial in a shroud and watched over it until the next day, when it would be buried. At home, when her mother had a baby boy—and there had been three of them—her father had arranged for the bris. If a woman died in childbirth, there were other women who would act as wet nurse, at a price, yes, but not so much. Here, she was alone. And suddenly she was in charge. She knew there was no time for this useless shame.
The questions flew, one after the other, out of her mouth. “Do you have money? What will it cost to bury Esther? Where will I live? Who will take care of your baby?”
Ben stood, his shoulders slumped forward. He finally spoke. “I don’t know.” His shoulders heaved as he cried. He sat beside Golda on the bed, and for some moments she felt pity for him. He was so broken. But they could not wait.
She patted his hand and said, “Come, we will talk to your cousin. We will find a rabbi. We will get food for this little one.” She looked down at the infant. He was squirming and crying in discomfort, in hunger, she knew. She felt pity for him but no love. Just the weight of him in her arms was a burden. She stood and, carrying the baby, said again, “Come.”
Ben stood up, took two ragged breaths, and followed her out of the room.
Golda came into the kitchen holding the baby, with Ben trailing behind. “We need help, Cousin Surah,” she said. She swallowed hard, not wanting to cry, and sat on a chair at the table, jiggling the squalling baby in her arms. The story spilled out. “I am not his wife. That was my sister. She died on ship giving birth to this son. I can’t feed him. He’s hungry.” Golda’s voice broke and she began to weep.
Cousin Surah took charge immediately. “Oy vay iz mir, the poor child.” She bustled in the kitchen. The heat of the stove had made her round cheeks rosy, and she had half-moons of sweat under her armpits. She picked up the teakettle with its already boiled water, poured it into a little bowl and added sugar, then blew on the too-hot liquid. The ample flesh on her arms swung as she moved through her chores. “Give him here.” She took the baby in her arms, and he settled against her bosom. With a spoon, she took a tiny bit of sugar water, blew on it again, tasted it for temperature, and slipped the spoon into the infant’s mouth. He swallowed. She followed with another spoonful. A lock of her dark brown hair had slipped out of the bun and hung around her face. She pushed it behind her ears.
Cousin Surah called to her five-year-old daughter, who stood eyes wide with curiosity. “Rochel, go next door and get Mrs. Singer. Ask her to come.” She kept feeding the baby sugar water. “Some mothers use evaporated milk, but that costs a lot. Maybe we can find a mother who will feed him too. Mrs. Singer next door has a baby girl who is still at her breast.”
Golda began to breathe. Here was help. She looked at Ben, who stood with his head hanging. She nodded toward him. “He’s frozen. He can’t think straight. He’s no help. We need to get the body from the ship by tomorrow, or they’ll put Esther in a pauper’s grave. We need money for a Jewish burial. Should we sit shiva here? What will he do with this baby? Where will I go? How will I live?” The questions poured out of her mouth.
Cousin Surah, still feeding sugar water to the baby, said, “Shah. Only one thing at a time. He is in shock. His wife is dead.” She looked at him and said, “Ben, sit down. I will make tea for you. We will get help.”
Rochel came in with the neighbor woman, Mrs. Singer, a tiny woman holding a six-month-old baby girl. Golda could see that once she had been pretty, but her face was careworn now, and she was very thin. Cousin Surah explained the problems. First, and most important, was feeding this infant. Mrs. Singer stood and looked at Cousin Surah, who nodded. She handed her baby girl to Golda, took the infant boy in her arms, and went into the back room to nurse him.
Golda’s heart was bursting with gratitude. She had never seen such generosity. In the village people helped—of course they did. But usually it was a relative, not a stranger. Here, everyone was a stranger at first and became like a cousin very quickly. She could see it was the only way they could survive. “She’s very kind, Mrs. Singer,” Golda said.
Cousin Surah nodded. “I helped her when she came.” She took Mrs. Singer’s daughter from Golda and sat again with the baby on her lap. “Now, let’s see how else I can help.” One by one, she talked through the problems, offering choices, solutions, dead ends. Golda’s head whirled with it all.
The cost of getting Esther properly buried would be high, but there were benevolent societies that arranged for burials at little or no cost. A rabbi would know about that. There was a rabbi in the little shul nearby. They could sit shiva here. The baby needed a bris. Everything cost money. There was a Hebrew Free Loan Society Cousin Surah knew about. But how much they could loan was a question. They also needed money for a wet nurse for the baby, or evaporated milk and bottles and diapers. Ben’s job did not pay that much. Did Golda have a trade? Or maybe she would go back to her village. Or—and here Cousin Surah dropped her voice so perhaps Ben wouldn’t hear—maybe they could bring the baby to the orphanage.
Golda sat, heavyhearted. She had not mourned her beautiful sister. How could they not pay for the body to be buried properly? If the lady next door, Mrs. Singer, would just babysit and nurse the baby for a few days, that would be one problem solved. How could they put this baby in an orphanage? Give him away? She thought of Esther and could not imagine putting her child with strangers. And yet, what else could they do? Golda stared at Ben. He was still not speaking. She could not bear it any longer.
“Ben. Ben. He’s your baby. You have to decide.” She wanted to shake him hard. Make him act.
He stood. Spoke softly, slowly. “This Free Loan Society. Where is it? And the rabbi? Is it the one in the shul down the street? I will try to get the loan; I will make arrangements for the bris.”
Cousin Surah asked, “You know when the bris must be?”
“Eight days,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “When was he born?”
Golda shook her head in disbelief. If Cousin Surah hadn’t asked, he would have gone to the rabbi without knowing the day the bris must be. “He was born on Tuesday,” she said.
Ben nodded and went out the door.
Golda breathed in relief. At least he was alive, acting. All these choices, some hers, some his. They needed to act, but she could not force things. Let him look to get the loan for Esther’s burial. Let him talk to the rabbi about the bris. Let Cousin Surah help find food for the baby. Golda would surrender to their decisions for now.