People say: Rivkah Keismann, Natan-Berl Keismann’s mother, is a difficult woman. The truth is that Rivkah Keismann is a good-natured woman.
People say: Rivkah Keismann complains all day long. Actually, most of the time, Rivkah Keismann says nothing at all, because her woes are beyond words.
True, every now and again, her old body will let slip the odd groan. She cannot help that she has gnarled hands from washing clothes in the river, or a crooked back from carrying buckets of water for years, or that her skin is not as soft as it used to be. One must remember that Rivkah Keismann is not a spring chicken anymore; she is fast approaching sixty. Still, she has never complained in her entire life. They told her to marry Shevach Keismann and she did. They told her she should be the valiant wife everyone sings about on Sabbath eve, and she was. They told her to follow her husband wherever he went, and she did, even though he chose to live alongside the goyim in the country. They told her that Natan-Berl would be all that the God-Who-Sits-On-High would ever give her, and he became the apple of her eye, her only son whom she loves dearly. They told her: your son has become a man and he has found a bride, so now you must step back and stay on the sidelines. Well, did she not step back? But they did not tell her that the couple would have forgotten the commandment to “honour your father and mother”. And they did not tell her that “the sidelines” would mean a cabin in the yard rather than a room inside the house. Her son and daughter-in-law do not want to live under the same roof as her, so they send her to sleep in the outhouse, like a dog in a kennel. Instead of appreciating her help, they treat her as a burden. And what does she ask for in her old age? Money? God forbid. Love? In her dreams. Health? Not at her age. So what is it, in short, what does she ask for? A bit of attention and respect, that is all. Things that do not cost money and do not even take time: a word, a look, a mattress inside the house. If only God could see how she lives. She would be better off dead.
People say: Rivkah is making the life of her daughter-in-law, Fanny Keismann, a living hell. She criticises everything Fanny does. If Fanny has just cleaned the house, Rivkah will detect a speck of dust in a corner. If Fanny makes a lentil stew, Rivkah will recommend a different seasoning. When Fanny dresses the children, she will immediately hear a yell from the next room: “It’s too warm for a coat!” Or: “It’s too cold for just one layer!” No mistake goes unnoticed by Rivkah Keismann. And what is the source of each mistake? That the task was not placed in the hands of Rivkah Keismann from the start, of course.
The truth is that Rivkah Keismann is the only one to be subjected to such scrutiny. Why shouldn’t she think that Fanny, her daughter-in-law, known in the Grodno congregation as a vilde chaya, a beast who slaughters sheep with a quick cut, why shouldn’t she think that Fanny is not good enough for her son? Is it unacceptable to think that the rooms are not clean enough after Fanny has swept them? Is it outrageous to say that Fanny’s cooking is too salty? Did Rivkah Keismann not raise a child of her own to know the difference between playful and disobedient grandchildren? And what about her daughter-in-law’s reckless spending? New clothes – is patching up old clothes not good enough? Sumptuous food – weren’t they happy before they started eating trout? Hebrew and arithmetic lessons for her daughters – did Rivkah Keismann not marry and have a family without either?
Naturally, she keeps most of her opinions to herself; anything for a quiet life. She tries to stay on good terms with everyone, and perhaps this was her mistake. Because you cannot deny that this woman, Fanny Keismann by name, a righteous woman indeed, left her home in the middle of the night. She left a short, ludicrous message for her husband, Natan-Berl: “Take care of yourselves until I return.” How will bewildered children abandoned by their mother take care of themselves? And the mother-bird has still not returned to her fledglings’ nest.
At first, Rivkah Keismann told the children that their mother had gone away to care for their grandfather. But then she realised that these children were old enough to remember that Meir-Anschil Schechter died a while ago. So she told them that their mother had gone away, just for a week, to fill an important clerical position. Shmulke was surprised that his mother had been appointed a clerk, Mishka wanted to know why they needed to earn more money, and David counted seven days, one day at a time, and demanded an explanation when a week had elapsed. Not to mention little Elisheva, who every now and again sees her mother’s apron hanging on the kitchen chair and screams, “Mamme!”, and Gavriellah, the eldest, who picks up her baby sister and comforts her, an impenetrable expression on her face. Rivkah’s heart is in pieces. What can she, their grandmother, tell them? She stares at the floor and says nothing.
And what about Natan-Berl? Well, this is simply heart-breaking. People say that nothing can penetrate her son’s armour-like skin, because he accepts the world’s wonders and afflictions with equanimity. People say that Natan-Berl ascribes any dif-ference between what a man wants and the way the world is – a difference for which most people tend to blame the world – to his excessive wants and witless head. Would he not prefer people to care for their animals as well as he does? There’s no question. Of course he would. But who is he? What is he? One of many. There is so much of everything, and so little of him, so why should everything align itself with his will?
But the truth is, as Rivkah Keismann permits herself to say, no-one knows a man’s soul like his mother. Natan-Berl walks around the house as if lightning has struck him. He doesn’t say a single word at supper, goes to bed early and leaves the house before first light.
People say: but this is how Natan-Berl has always been. He wakes up before sunrise to milk the goats, then he churns the milk and herds the flock, and before evening returns home to his family. The truth is, one can perform the same actions either with joy, searching for the sublime in one’s daily life, or one can miserably go through the motions. No-one would detect a difference in Natan-Berl’s gestures, of course. His face confronts each day without giving away any sign of crisis. His thick, hairy hands continue to milk the animals with their magical tenderness. But deep down, oh dear, deep down, only Mother knows how his soul is rent and his heart is paralysed.
The name “Zizek”, which is yet to be uttered in Natan-Berl’s home, is on everyone else’s lips. In an uncanny coincidence that even the Devil couldn’t outdo, both Fanny and Zizek disappeared on the same night. Of all the men in the world, her daughter-in-law has gone off with a good-for-nothing goy, a man who turned his back on his Jewish faith for a bowl of pork soup, a man who sits alone in his rowing boat like the village idiot.
Rivkah Keismann has been forced to swallow her pride and start sleeping inside a house where she is not welcome. She had to take the initiative, moving her belongings herself and laying down a mattress next to her grandchildren. Without asking for anyone’s permission, she also sent an urgent missive to Hamagid. Let anyone say a word. Let anyone say that Rivkah is meddlesome, that Rivkah interferes. And what is the truth? That Rivkah is right! Rivkah knew all along. Rivkah suspected. Rivkah doubted. She is terribly sorry if you do not agree with her actions, but at times like these, she must choose between bad and worse for her family.
And if anyone still wants to bask in their scepticism, let them lie all night, wide awake, like her. Let them listen to her son wheezing in the next room and have their nights disturbed by the children’s nightmares. People tell Rivkah Keismann that children have bad dreams, that this is how it has always been. And that Natan-Berl is famous for his stentorian snoring. Rivkah replies that a stranger listening in would certainly believe that this is a mere snoring sound. But deep down, my God, deep down, her son’s battered heart is palpitating in agony.