Mende’s flaws are few. At her best, she is a comely, respectful and modest woman. Staunchly opposed to the frivolities of Hasidism, Mende does not ask questions about lofty matters and never doubts what she was taught to believe. Her faith rests on the fulfilment of the commandments. Even if someone presented her with irrefutable proof that the Creator does not require her to fast, she would still persist with this self-inflicted torture. Mende puts her trust in the millennia-old practices of Jews without ever concerning herself with why such practices should remain necessary. And being so accepting in matters of faith, she is not particular when it comes to family matters either. When her mother died during her childhood, she distanced herself from her father and her peculiar sister, harbouring a single wish: to have a family of her own. She did not dream of a husband who would be a brilliant scholar or a seasoned businessman. She could barely visualise a face. In fact, she had no notion of what he would be like at all. But whenever she thought about her five imaginary children sitting around the table as she served beef and potatoes, she knew that he would also be there. His figure was beyond her grasp, but his presence was beyond question.
Some would say that Mende Speismann had low expectations when it came to her future husband. Presence, being in a certain place at a certain time, is after all a clear necessity in a spouse. Yet, in all honesty, Mende never asked Zvi-Meir for anything more than that. Just as his sharp mind and studies at Volozhin’s prestigious yeshiva were an unexpected gift from the God On High, so her husband’s rudeness and tongue lashings were defects she had to endure. The good is always bound up with the bad, and life is never black-and-white. As long as they sat together for the Sabbath dinner then that was enough, and praise be to God.
And so the breakfast that Mende prepares on the seventh morning of the week for Fanny’s family strikes her as the fulfilment of her vision. Five children are sitting around the table. Her Yankele and Mirl are helping her serve the krupnik she had prepared before Queen Sabbath stepped in. The bubbe is watching over everyone and Natan-Berl is eating to his heart’s content. The household is bustling – clattering dishes and spoons, cries and laughter – and Mende does not have a second to spare. A humming heart free of cumbersome thoughts is exactly what she needed. The cooking and cleaning make lying idly in bed all the sweeter. One cannot rest if one does not work. An idle woman without a home to run or a family to care for sinks to the bottomless depths of the soul and drowns in an ocean of discontent.
But Mende is no fool. She knows that this commotion is not hers to have and that this place is not her home. With the sun’s yawn and the first blinks of the stars as Sabbath the Queen departs, Mende wonders whether she can sacrifice so much for the sake of something that is not her own.
She quickly discovers that this choice is not hers to make, as the Blessed Holy One is leading her to her calling by giving out one sign at a time.
The previous night Mende and her children had slept on the dining room floor. But now the bubbe appears with clean sheets and blankets, and leads her and the children to the cabin in the yard. The grandmother explains that she herself used to sleep in this nice, cosy room. It offered her more peace and rest than she could ask for. But now she must sleep next to the poor children who need their grandmother. During most hours of the day, Mende and her children will stay at the house, there will be no difference between Keismann and Speismann. It is in their common interest to gradually merge the two afflicted families together. Two tragedies have occurred and their blood ties require them to take care of each other now.
“But is this really a tragedy?” Mende says, thinking of Zvi-Meir.
“Your sister’s death is not a tragedy?” Rivkah asks, surprised.
“My sister’s death? God forbid!”
Rivkah Keismann cannot understand why Mende should be so horrified. What did she think? Can a wife abandon her husband and not be considered dead by her mother-in-law? Then she sees that Mende has taken her words literally and is deeply shaken by the idea that Fanny might really be dead, and an idea flashes in Rivkah’s mind.
“Haven’t you worked it out by now, you poor creature?” she says, patting Mende on the back. “How could a woman fend for herself all alone in a world of violence and depravity, with a buffoon by her side who can’t even talk? What did you think? That they were in Minsk, or in Pinsk, maybe? Living happily ever after? He in his rowing boat and she in a cabin? They must have left Motal only to be attacked by brigands or devoured by wild beasts.”
“How do you know that?” Mende is in tears now. “You’re provoking the Evil Eye.”
“One cannot be more confident of the truth than when rumour and common sense are aligned.”
“Rumour?”
“This is what people say in Motal.”
“In Motal? Since when?”
“Since the first day of her disappearance. I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but would you rather I’d hid this from you?”
“No, of course not,” Mende whispers.
“Well, go and get some rest, my dear, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Mende tosses and turns throughout the night. She wishes that the world would be still, that the Blessed Holy One would open up the gates of Heaven for the angels to cry with her, or that the skies would show a sign that her sister is still alive. Could it be that at this very moment the angels of destruction are torment-ing her poor little sister, just as Grandpa Yankel Kriegsmann of blessed memory used to describe? By midnight, she has yielded to her exhaustion. When she wakes up at the rooster’s call, her eyes meet the sun, resplendent through the window. The world has continued to spin as if nothing has happened: the golden furrows, the harvested fields, and the black bogs guarding the horizon like drowsy monsters. Once again, Mende struggles to get out of bed, but, looking at her sweet children, she vows to never let them come to any more harm. Peeking through the window again, she sees courgettes nestled in the soil, boughs glistening with apples, daisies everywhere in between, and the tree in her sister’s garden heavy with cherries. Fanny’s favourite fruit. Is it a sign? Mende cannot tell. But for now she must concentrate on the things she knows with certainty. She is here. Her children are here. And what about her sister? Surely, Rivkah must care about her daughter-in-law’s well-being; she wouldn’t lie on that score. All the same, until Mende is given clear-cut proof that supports the claims made about Fanny, she will not believe them. In the meantime, she will wait for the day when her sister’s family can finally come out of this living nightmare. Only then will Mende’s work at the Keismann household have reached its end.