Chapter 21

“Well, well. It seems I have the privilege of once again addressing Mr. Mendel.” The man whom Gershon had known in Lemberg as Sergeant Stepanic leaned back and crossed his arms. In the nearly twenty years since he’d tormented Gershon, the sergeant had also emigrated and gained a degree of clout. He sat just to the left of the chairman of the Community Board.

Gershon’s stomach sank, remembering the power the sadistic Stepanic once held over him. Two weeks after he and Yetta were married, Gershon, Avram, and Lemberg’s other young men had been conscripted by the Austro-Hungarian army to suppress a growing tide of national unrest. Government wagons came to the market square to collect the draftees. Jews huddled on one side, Catholic peasants on the other, noses running with fear and bone-breaking cold. Gershon stood alone, grateful for the fur overcoat and warm boots Yetta had bought him on their honeymoon.

“You, Jew! Over there with the others!” From an angular face, Staff Sergeant Stepanic’s lips popped out as pink and swollen as two rain-bloated worms. He ripped Gershon’s sleeve with his bayonet and used his rifle butt to shove Gershon toward the group. The others pulled away and turned their backs on him, making it clear they resented him for having moved up in the world. Yet a fortnight ago, they’d been happy to drink the wine and eat the food at his lavish wedding.

After bouncing over rutted roads all night, they reached camp in a misty dawn. The men were fed hunks of stale bread, mouldy carrots, and weak tea, and sent to unheated barracks to sleep on cots without blankets. Three hours later, as a light snow fell, Sergeant Stepanic marched them onto the field for their first drill. “Jews up front. Catholics in the rear.”

“Since when are Jews put ahead of Catholics?” someone whispered.

Avram snickered. “When they want us to be killed first.”

“By rights, I shouldn’t even be here,” Gershon muttered.

Stepanic overheard. Gusts of steam spewed from his fat lips as his gloved hands yanked Gershon out of line. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

“No, sir, but married men are not eligible for conscription.”

The sergeant’s hot spittle sprayed Gershon’s face, but Gershon refused to wipe it off. He asked if Gershon was a God-fearing man, and when he replied that he was, Stepanic threatened, “You’ll fear me more than God by the end of training,” before butting him back in line.

The next morning, as the men were marched around the frozen field, the sergeant again pulled Gershon out of formation and dragged him to camp headquarters. Expecting the worst, Gershon instead heard the commanding officer telling his father-in-law, “The marriage wasn’t registered when the conscription order was issued. I can’t do anything about it.”

Yetta’s father held out five hundred kronen. “There’s always something one can do.”

The officer rubbed the bills between his fingers. Stepanic rubbed his own fingers, awaiting his share. The officer frowned, but Stepanic stood his ground until Gershon was ordered to pay the sergeant with his new boots. Stepanic strode around the room, admiring the smooth leather, before thrusting his old cracked boots at Gershon. He stood over him as he bent to slip them on. Not until Gershon stood up did Stepanic’s face register disappointment that his scapegoat was leaving.

“I’m not done with you, Jew boy. Soon married men without children will be called up.” Stepanic’s fleshy lips smiled once again. “And next time you won’t be able to buy your way out.”

Gershon was relieved to be free, but he didn’t like being dependent on someone else for favours. “I appreciate your help,” he told Mr. Rubin, “but I don’t want special treatment.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Yetta’s father had replied. “I’m doing it for my daughter.”

***

A few months later, faced with the threat of being drafted again, Gershon and Yetta left for America. The night before, they attended Avram and Rivka’s wedding. It was arranged so quickly that Gershon had no time to protest. He hadn’t even been aware of the betrothal before the date was set. He’d heard Avram had been shot in the knee, a minor wound, but bad enough for the army to release him. Beyond that, their lives had diverged so much that Gershon had erased Avram from his mind. Now their paths would cross not merely as schoolmates, but as family.

The wedding party was simple, limited to close friends and relatives, including Yetta’s parents. Yetta went to the city to buy a gift, and after all but a few guests had left, insisted Rivka open it right then. Rivka, already alarmed by the weight of the package, opened her eyes wider when she saw the silver candlesticks nestled in a wooden box lined with dark blue velvet..

Yetta hugged her. “I wish Gershon and I were staying in Lemberg so you and I could be like sisters. Think of us in America when you light the Shabbas candles.”

Rivka drew back. “My mother gave me her candlesticks. Perhaps you can return these to the jeweller? They’re beautiful, but I’m afraid someone will steal them.”

Yetta’s face fell, but she recovered quickly and smiled. “God willing, you’ll be blessed with two daughters, real sisters. To one you’ll give your mother’s candlesticks, to the other, these.”

“Come Yetta.” Gershon, protective, led his wife toward the door. She was oblivious to the resentment her wealth caused, but he couldn’t be angry at his sister either. He’d once felt alienated from the town’s rich families too. On the way out, he extended a cool hand to his new brother-in-law. “I trust you’ll provide well for my sister without me here to goad you.”

Avram’s hands stayed in his pockets. “I’ll take good care of Rivka because I want to. And because I can.”

“As soon as I’m settled in America, I’ll sponsor you to come over too.”

“I don’t need your help. I’ll make it there on my own, if and when I choose to go.”

Rivka put a hand on each of their arms. “Enough. Childhood is over. Let’s make peace.” Wiping her eyes, she hugged Gershon hard. She and their parents might never see him again.