Ma lit the candles and sang the Shabbos blessings. Other nights, she simply lit a thin spindle of wood and held it up so we could see while we ate. But tonight, on Shabbos, with soup, bread, and candles glowing, our house felt rich. I ate slowly, making it last.
Even after the last drop, we sat at the table soaking in the candlelight. "Ma," I said quietly, trying again to get her talking about better things. "Are there Cossacks in America?" This was one of my favorite questions.
"No." She shook her head with certainty. "Not even one." She swept her hand across the table as if clearing them away like crumbs. "No Cossacks in America." She brushed her hands together—finishing them off. That was the part I liked best. It always cleared away any leftover scary thoughts. But not tonight.
Tonight, a picture of Cossacks flashed in my head—those tall soldiers on big horses with gleaming swords and bullet belts strapped across their chests in thick Xs. Ma always said, If there's talk of Cossacks, come straight home—they kill little Jewish boys just for sport. And we always did go straight home. But how safe was our house with only a wooden latch on the door? Mark my words, things will get worse for you Jews.
"With no Cossacks, we'll be safe in America," I urged her on.
"Yes," she said but without much spirit. "That's what we've heard."
Safe. It was hard to imagine.
"Now get to bed," she said shortly. And I knew better than to try for more.
I stood on the chair and climbed onto the wide shelf above our clay oven. Benyomin scrambled up after me. Ma handed us a blanket. We snuggled under it. Lucky for us, Hannah and Kvola were too big to fit here anymore. Now they slept in bed with Ma. And Benyomin and I had this—the warmest place in the house—all to ourselves. Tonight, Benyomin didn't even try to shove me against the cold wall. He let me have the best spot—right above the oven. Maybe that man had made him nervous, too.
I gazed into the flames of the Sabbath candles. Like always, I waited until a certain kind of quiet settled over me. Then I closed my eyes and let Pa float into my head. I could never see his face clearly. But I knew it was Pa. And I knew it was America—even though I couldn't see much of it. As always I thought to myself, Maybe right now, Pa is thinking of me. Then I wrapped my arms around him. "Git Shabbos, Pa." Good Sabbath.
I guess it was my own Sabbath prayer—not like the ones my heder teacher taught us. He only knew the Hebrew prayers in the book. This one was just mine. And I kept it to myself.
But tonight, my very last thought before drifting off to sleep was not about Pa or America. And it wasn't a prayer either. It was that awful question again. What would we do without Beryl? It gnawed a hole in my quiet feeling.
Here in Poland, things were getting worse for Jews—just like that rich man had said. There were more pogroms—Cossacks ransacking shtetls, burning houses, killing Jews. Maybe Beryl would decide to go to America like Pa. We'd heard that in America, anyone could make a better life—even a Jew. No fear of Cossacks or pogroms. And plenty of food. It was hard to believe there was such a place. But it must be real because many Jewish men in our shtetl had already gone. They'd all promised to send for their families as soon as they earned enough money. And once in a while, money did come for some lucky family. But many of us were still waiting with barely enough food to keep us alive.
How many times had I pictured us finally walking to America? I imagined us crossing a big long bridge—even longer than the big green metal one beyond our shtetl—one stretching all the way to America. I figured that's why Pa needed to send us money—so we could pay to cross it.
Then one day I asked Kvola, "How long does it take to walk to America?"
"You must be joking!" she'd exclaimed. "You can't walk to America. There's a big ocean."
"Yes. But can't we walk across the bridge?"
"There is no bridge," she explained. "The ocean is too big for that. You need to take a boat."
I couldn't imagine so much water that there wasn't a bridge to go over it. Even after she told me, whenever I thought of going to America, I always saw a long metal bridge. Somehow, I couldn't get it out of my head. But even Ma said there was no bridge. She said Pa didn't walk to America. He took a boat.
Ma had told me many times about how Pa left soon after I was born, once he saw that I was strong and healthy. That was probably nine years ago by now—maybe more. But still no money. What if Beryl left us, too? He was rich enough to pay for boat passage. And he had no wife or children so he wouldn't have to send any money back. He'd do well in America. But with him gone, we'd starve. Or, even worse, Ma would give me away. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
Of course I knew what Ma would say to that. "Bite your tongue. Beryl is right here with us in Vilkomerski. You'll see him tomorrow just as always." And that was true. I would. And tomorrow, as always, we'd have our best meal of the week. I could hardly wait! So now, from thoughts of starving, already my mouth was watering.