The Jews know, and Mende Speismann is no exception, that the body can be chiselled with very little effort: all one has to do is pass up an extra portion here and avoid sweets there, and before long, one’s clothes will loosen at the waist and ruffle in the wind. It is the never-ending work on one’s soul, God help her, that is so daunting. How can one’s faith in the King of Kings not wane in hard times? How can one resist the temptation of gossip and slander, lashon hara, or suppress heretical thoughts? It follows that, since we must choose our battles of the will with care, it is better to indulge the body with a sugar lump when it wants one, and to rigorously prod a soul that is too lazy to pray into action instead. For this reason, the Chosen People do not take it upon themselves to regularly scale mountains, they rarely stride through fields and pastures, and they stretch their limbs only once a day, in the evening. In their eyes, scholars can uproot mountains with the power of their minds, and the greatest warrior of all is he who conquers his own urges. They neglect corporeal concerns for the benefit of lifting up the soul, because it is clear to them that a healthy soul in a sick body is preferable to a sick soul in a healthy body. That is all there is to it.
And yet, from the moment that Mende Speismann learns of the disappearance of her younger sister Fanny, she can no longer bear to lie in bed. After reading the shocking advertisement in Hamagid, she looked down at her doughy thighs, her swollen ankles, her fleshy feet and bulbous toes. Mende Speismann has always urged herself to remember that the body comes second. If, God forbid, she should lose an arm, she would still be Mende Speismann. But if she stopped honouring the Sabbath, what would become of her? She would be as miserable as the goyim, a soulless animal without meaning or purpose.
Still, something about her body is disturbing her, to the point where she cannot escape her concerns in spiritual reflection. Her legs feel as if they have crossed a strange threshold, beyond which they are no longer her legs. Her swollen feet, and the thighs that ache beneath her flabby stomach – to whom do they belong? The rotting lump of flesh she is looking at right now cannot possibly be hers. The weakness of her limbs somehow doesn’t seem to fit who she is. She must be looking at the body of a helpless child, certainly not her body. Who are you, Mende Speismann? With all due respect for the humiliation she felt after Zvi-Meir’s disappearance, it should never have overridden other, more important concerns, like her children, for example, or helping her sister. The Keismann family clearly needs her right now. Natan-Berl and the children must be overwhelmed and stricken with grief, while she continues to lie in indolence. What a disgrace.
For the first time in months, Mende gets to her feet. A mechaye. Her head spins and her body is shaky, but she does not retreat to the safe haven of the bed and instead leans against the wall until the storm subsides. Feeling stable again, she examines her room with disgust. Like a king returning from a campaign to find his realm in shambles, she calls, in a ringing tone, “Yankele! Mirl!”
Squirrel-like feet patter in the next room. Yankele and Mirl were playing on the kitchen floor, and a sudden terror makes them hide beneath the table, as they have been instructed to do if they hear galloping horses. Rochaleh and Eliyahu place themselves in front of the children, she petrified and he uncertain. Authoritative as a field marshal, Mende sweeps into the kitchen, wearing a turquoise tasselled dress that she does not remember owning. The elderly couple exchange puzzled looks.
“Don’t you ever read the newspapers?” Mende demands. “Can’t you read? Don’t you ever talk to the neighbours? Have you been hiding in your own home?”
“What dome?” Eliyahu shouts, tilting his ear towards her.
“Home!” Rochaleh shouts back.
“Why aren’t you at Natan-Berl’s in Upiravah right now?” Mende says. “Why didn’t you tell me about my sister?”
“Why didn’t we tell you what?” Rochaleh says, defensively. “You said yourself that she’s in Kiev.”
“I am aware that you have no interest in the House of Israel, that you couldn’t care less about what happens in your own town. That’s your decision. But now you want to alienate yourselves from your own family? My poor sister is gone, Heaven help us. Vanished. God knows where she is. She left behind five miserable children and a husband in shock.”
“In stock?” Eliyahu is puzzled.
“In shock!” growls Rochaleh, and turns to stave off Mende’s accusations. “A tragedy indeed, but we knew nothing of it, I promise you.”
“But how can we stay here when we’re needed elsewhere?” Mende says with consternation. “Come, let’s gather provisions for the journey; we must take them good food and prepare to stay there as long as necessary. We’ll help them run the household. Children!” She summons Yankele and Mirl who are still scrutinising her from their hiding place under the table. “Are you going to get dressed today or not?”
Rochaleh and Eliyahu look at one another. Their first instinct is to oblige. But then they recall their own poverty, and realise that they were about to indulge a preposterous madwoman, who is still yelling at them. What does she mean by “good food”? When they have nothing but potatoes and carrots? What provisions will they take to the Keismanns – mouldy bread? As early as their negotiations over the terms of their son’s marriage to Mende Schechter, the daughter of Meir-Anschil Schechter, the parents knew that they should expect trouble. They had heard the stories from Grodno. They knew about Mende’s mother, sick with melancholy, and her sister – die vilde chaya – terrified them, but they succumbed all the same to the entreaties of the slippery matchmaker, Yehiel-Mikhl Gemeiner. He spoke highly of Mende and her singular qualities, and praised the education she had received from Sondel Gordon, the tailor. The only thing she shared with her sister, he said, was the generous dowry that came with her.
Well, that had come to nothing. Their son had squandered the dowry in his failed pedlar’s business, the sister was and remained mad, and now it seems that their daughter-in-law is going the same way.
“Cook for them?” Rochaleh scoffs. “You cook for them. And you had better take care of your children yourself, instead of venting your anger at your elders and betters.” Rochaleh points at the vegetable bowl with only a shrivelled potato on display. “There are your provisions, unless you can go back to the river and return with three roubles in your pocket again. What were you doing with such a sum, anyway? I’ve restrained myself from asking this question for an entire month. Where did you get it?”
According to their usual rules of engagement, Mende is now supposed to take a tongue-lashing from her mother-in-law. But Mende ignores Rochaleh. The old woman’s fury chatters in the background like an orchestra of crickets. Mende focuses her attention on the wrinkly potato lying in splendid isolation. Two small leaves are emerging from its centre. Against all logic, this lifeless rock is sprouting new life, and Mende delicately runs her fingers along the tiny leaves. She senses life throbbing everywhere. A great miracle has happened here, and she crawls under the table to embrace her children.
“My darlings,” she says, now in tears. “Mamme is here.”
The two children weep with their mother, and then laugh with her. Rochaleh and Eliyahu watch the trio’s sobs and laughter, dumbstruck: they have not witnessed a scene like this in a very long time, especially not one prompted by a wrinkled old spud. They look at each other and wonder how best to distance their grandchildren from the corrupting influence of their deranged mother.
“To the market,” Mende cries to her children, “quickly, before everything closes!” And she shoves the potato into her dress pocket.
“What will you buy without a rouble to your name?” her mother-in-law says. “Leave the children here, spare them the disgrace!” But Mende is already skipping to the door with her two children, and they make their way to the market like a trio of sprightly gazelles.