Seven

 

THE DAY AFTER the Zionist meeting, Perl invited me to have a glass of tea with her in the living room. It was early afternoon. As an extra treat, she brought two plates, each with a rugelach. I just adored that little crescent-shaped pastry. This version was stuffed with apricot preserves, raisins, and almonds. She had been practicing for Chanukah, when she would present a basket, covered with a red-and-white checkered dish towel. Underneath, there would be the “cookies” with different experimental fillings.

“Esfele, sit,” Perl said, patting the couch pillow next to her. “Nu, es!” She ordered me to eat, not that I needed a push. I felt so grown-up sitting with her as if we were about to discuss world affairs. After I had a bite of the rugelach, careful not to gulp down the whole thing, she asked me if I was happy with her.

I couldn’t tell her that I was terrified of going to the park and those rock-throwing boys. I didn’t confess my fear about my father’s health and the well-being of my family. So I said, “Yes.”

“Childhood should be happy,” Perl said, her eyelids fluttering as if she were drifting to sleep, “and I loved growing up in Brest.”

“How was it?” I asked.

I didn’t know much about those years; my mother didn’t speak about Brest. She had tried to make Kobrin, my father’s birthplace, her home and pointed out its virtues to us children, especially to me, at every opportunity. Seeing how I was drawn to Brest, she tried to brainwash me against it, which is funny because she’s the one who sent me to stay with Perl in the first place.

Perl began her story. “When I was your age—yes even I was once young—at the beginning of the century, a million years ago, rich Jewish merchants would sit on the balconies of their newly built homes on warm summer days, drinking tea from samovars. Before the Great War, there were silent movies at the beautiful theatre, elegant shops displaying fruits and cakes, teahouses with cool cellars and gypsy violinists playing Russian songs.”

With this memory, Perl closed her eyes and hummed a melody. I didn’t question her; it seemed private.

“The old marketplace used to be busy during the week with Jewish shops on all four sides, overflowing with the best. I loved this tiny, old woman’s potato cakes—hot, hefty, and steamy.”

“It sounds delicious,” I said.

“I never could replicate them with my latkes.”

I suddenly longed for a latke. We were a few weeks from Chanukah; I couldn’t wait.

“As a family,” Perl said, “we had bopkes, nothing, compared to these rich people. We didn’t know we were any different.”

“And now?”

“Nowadays, everyone has bopkes. As you know, the Jews close their stores on Saturdays. With the new laws, they are not allowed to operate on Sundays, too. So they have less business, and their shops may as well be branded with the Jewish star. And the markets today, you’re lucky to find a ripe tomato and everyone is suspicious of everyone.”

“Not everything is different,” I said, feeling the need to justify our current life like Fanny often did.

“Before the Russian Revolution of 1917, during the tsarist regime, there were political rallies and speakers and singing of revolutionary songs. Jews, from the wealthy to the poor, gathered in plazas and parks. Girls even recited the poetry of Pushkin and Lermontov. It was a world, then,” Perl said in a sad voice. “Like always, there was Jewish suffering. But we were gay and full of life. Now, you know this already, is not a good time for Jews.”

I knew we were poor, too, I mean this is why I went to live with Perl. Unlike how Perl was in her youth, my family felt it. Perl’s memories were making me even more worried about them. I wished I had been born when Perl was a girl.

“Enough with the stories,” Perl said with a sigh. “Esfir, you do this to me all the time, with your questions. I have things to do.”

I didn’t contradict Perl. I had only asked her two questions. She was like the samovar—all you had to do was turn the spigot and she poured out her heart.

 

PERL DID ERRANDS and when she returned, I helped her change the sheets and towels. Before we knew it, the girls arrived. Rachel zoomed past us, announcing that she had to pee badly; Freyde sifted through the mail, piled on the parlor table, always anxious to hear from her parents; Fanny grabbed Perl’s untouched rugelach on the table; and Ida ran upstairs, motioning Liba to follow. I was as invisible as a bat in the evening.

I went upstairs, planning to open my Journal of Important Words and write down some of the ones that Perl mentioned like Lermontov and tsar. Ida would surely admire my new vocabulary. I didn’t get the chance then because the door to my room was closed and I heard Liba and Ida talking. I didn’t catch everything but I understood enough. It seemed that Yossel met Liba outdoors during lunch break and invited her for a short walk. Behind an oak tree, he kissed her.

The girls’ voices got softer. I could hear Ida ask, “How was it?” followed by murmurs. Finally, Ida screamed, “Esfir, if you’re out there, I am counting to three, and you’d better be gone.”

I probably made some noise, but then I tiptoed down the hall, slipped inside Fanny and Rachel’s room, and closed the door. Thank God Fanny was alone. “What is it?” she asked, sitting on her bed reading a geography schoolbook.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you need me to do anything.”

“That’s nice of you, Esfir,” Fanny said. “I don’t need anything now.” Then seeing my scrunched face, she said, “But I could use a little company. Come sit with me and I’ll show you the map I’m studying.”

I didn’t report that right now her twin was scheming with my “big sister” about boys.

 

After dinner that night, Perl asked me to help her with the dishes. She dismissed the other girls, making it clear she wanted to have a special word with me.

“Esfir, I spoke to your mother on the phone at the post office.”

“When?”

“After our tea.”

“What did she say? How is my father?”

“He is getting back to normal. Everyone is fine. But we discussed something about you.”

“What? What did I do?”

“Nothing, Esfir. Why must you always think the worst? When you came to stay with me, we thought it would be for a short while. Now, since your father is still a little weak and your mother helps him more, we thought you cannot stay with me this long and do nothing.”

“But I don’t do nothing. I help you. And Ida teaches me. I’m learning more than I would in school.”

“Yes, Ida has been wonderful. She has gone way beyond my wishes.”

“Your wishes?”

“When Ida became your roommate, I asked her to take an interest in you.”

“An interest?”

“Why are you repeating what I’m saying? An interest isn’t a bad thing. You are very young and here without your family, children your age. It’s good to have an older person watch out for you.”

“Did you pay her to be nice to me? Did you pay her to be my tutor?” The insides of my heart and head battered around like raw eggs whipped in a ceramic bowl.

“Of course not! Ida was only too happy to befriend you. She, too, missed her sisters, especially the younger one. They are very close. You may think she is above human emotions, but she needs warmth and acceptance also.”

“But, still, you didn’t have to ask her.”

“Trust me, Esfele, she was very glad to be with you. You don’t give yourself credit for being the lovable person you are. All I had to do was give her a little prod. The rest—all the affection she has for you—came naturally. It had nothing to do with me.”

When I didn’t answer, Perl said, “And Ida has a gift for teaching. Surely, you can see that, Esfir.”

My internal movements stopped, returning me to my former self, maybe a little older. “So why can’t we find more books for her to teach me from?” I asked.

“It isn’t enough, Esfir. You need an education, a real one. This is why you will be going to school after the weekend, this Monday.”

“No!” I yelled. “I don’t want to go to school.”

“I know you had a bad experience with school in Kobrin. Unfortunately we can’t afford to send you to a Jewish school, but last week I went to the Polish elementary school a few blocks away and spoke to the headmaster. He was very encouraging and called in a teacher, too. I was impressed with them and I think you will find this a better atmosphere.”

“I’m not going!” With that, I stormed out of the kitchen.

“Yes you are, Esfir Manevich, yes you are!”

At that moment, I didn’t just feel invisible like that nighttime bat. I felt like the bat’s baby left alone in a dark, treeless field of spiky leaves.