It was the custom in our town, a sort of unwritten law, that moving could take place only on the feast day of Saint John, coinciding with the week of Shabes Nakhamu, the Sabbath of Consolation, that falls in midsummer. During those days, the streets were littered with straw from ripped mattresses and other bed stuffings. Doors and windows stood wide open, young boys raced in and out, dogs scrounged in fresh garbage, and Jews, respectable householders all, could be seen, on an ordinary weekday, walking alongside carts packed tightly with their belongings.
Mother, however, didn’t want to wait that long. She couldn’t bear looking at our old place any more. Every corner seemed to haunt her. So, soon after we left the grandparents’ house, she began her search for a new dwelling, made inquiries, and finally rented a place in the center of town, a palace compared to our old place.
We waited till after the Sabbath and, on the following Tuesday—considered a lucky day—we moved out.
The Gentile who came every morning to wake up Father knew nothing of this, and that morning, too, he knocked on the windowpane, calling, “Pan kupiec! Mr. merchant!” But Pan kupiec, that is, Father, was already up and dressed. He let the Gentile in and told him that they wouldn’t be making the rounds of the villages that day, that today we were moving to a new place, and could he stay and help out.
That day I didn’t go to the kheyder. First Father said his morning prayers, then we snatched a quick bite, and, no sooner than Father finished reciting the Grace after Meals, we set to work.
Groaning and straining, Father and the peasant together shifted the wardrobe from the wall, leaving a large, dark patch covered with spiderwebs and dust. The cold, disordered room was strewn with cigarette butts, bent spoons, a wooden, moldy frame for making Hanukkah dreydls, and a pair of the late Moyshe’s stiff, dirty shirt cuffs. When the mirror over the dresser was taken down, a huge spider began to scurry away. It ran up the wall and from there to the ceiling, from which vantage point it could look down on the havoc below.
Father himself took apart the beds. When the peasant offered to help, Father puckered his lips, revealed two rows of white, healthy teeth, and said in Yiddish, “No need, I’ll manage alone.” Father had always been rather finicky about beds. A bed, he maintained, was like a wife, the touch of a strange man could defile it.
Mother, her head wrapped in a kerchief, covered in feathers, looking nothing like her Warsaw self, was pouring pots of boiling water over the dismantled bedsteads. We stepped on damp, half-rotted wisps of straw, which stubbornly clung to our shoes. The place reeked of unaired bedding, of the moldering rags scattered under Jusza’s cot. From where the dresser had stood, several squashed sardine boxes—no one knew how they got there—looked up at us.
All of that stayed behind. Also left behind was the echo that reverberates from corner to corner across the dark emptiness that lingers on in a room after its inhabitants have departed.
Everything lay on the sleigh in a jumble, ready for the move. The four carved legs of the large table stretched up toward the sky, like a bound calf. The stripped red bedding was jammed into the upturned table. The large mixing bowl and the chipped black pots were shoved into drawers of the dresser. All of this accumulation creaked and glided over the soft, deep snow.
Father walked on one side of the sleigh, carrying the wall clock in his arms as though—forgive the profane comparison—he was holding a Torah scroll in the Simhath Torah holiday procession. On the other side, Mother was carrying the standing lamp, which was lit only on festivals.
I sat in the sleigh, facing the street, gripping the tarnished brass candlesticks in my fingers. At my feet stood the mortar and an old flatiron, a gift from Grandpa in honor of my recovery.
And that is how we arrived at our new home.
One house stood out on the street from among a row of identical wooden cottages. It was made of yellow brick, with a sloping tin roof. A white cat, whiter than snow, looked down at us from the roof, with quivering whiskers. It stretched its head, no doubt in astonishment, opened its whiskered mouth wide, and gave a great, gaping yawn.
The sleigh with our belongings had to remain in the street, for the entryway was too narrow and the little courtyard even narrower. There was no pump to be seen. The air was filled with the stench of pigs and the musty smell coming from the row of cubicles on the overhead wooden porch.
Under that same porch lay our new home. It was smaller than our previous place. The kitchen was painted blue, with a crooked ceiling and thin, crumbling walls. The main room itself was square, with two windows looking out onto the narrow yard, but dark for all that. On the other hand, it had a red-painted floor, which could have been the only reason why Mother decided on this particular place.
“In Warsaw,” she said, “all the floors are painted red.”
Father wrinkled his nose.
“It’s a little dark in here,” his eyes swept across the walls.
“It’s winter,” Mother apologized. “In summer, God willing, it’ll be brighter.”
Personally, I liked the new place. It was bare and clean, no stains on the walls, no damp straw all over the floor, and no mice. A red floor, it would seem, keeps them away. No Moyshe was going to die here, and no Jusza was going to disturb my dreams.
A gray, misty evening filtered into the room. A pair of footsteps could be heard running along the porch. It sounded as if someone was banging on our ceiling with sticks.
The house was now warm and bright. Mother, in honor of the occasion, lit the large lamp, usually reserved for holidays. Father, still in his work clothes, put the wardrobe together again. He twisted the right corner of his mouth, exposing his white, healthy teeth, and gave a little sigh. I held the small kerosene lamp up to him, and every time he sighed, I did too.
It was altogether different here than in our old place. In the kitchen there was already a fire going, and the black, chipped pots with their open, hungry mouths, having settled in on the burners, seethed and simmered, just like at Grandma’s. One side of Mother’s face was red, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to the elbows, like bagels.
Every few minutes, Mother appeared in the doorway, reminding Father, in a soft, solicitous voice, “Leyzer, maybe you should wash up. The food’s getting cold.”
But Father was still busy with the wardrobe, trying to put the cornice back into place. Supporting the cornice on one shoulder, he bent his head a little, making his tall, broad-shouldered figure appear squat and stolid. Suddenly, he removed his shoulder, bent over, and the cornice slid softly into place.
In the kitchen Mother was setting the table. Hot, white steam rose from the bowls of grits. A large loaf of bread, sprinkled with seeds, lay on the table. Mother cut off big slices, which Father broke into tiny morsels and ate only after dipping them in salt.
A few flies escaped from the bread and settled on the rims of the bowls.
From time to time Father put down his spoon and stared intently at the flies, wondering where they would land next. Mother kept chasing them away with her spoon, with her hand, all the while urging Father to eat.
I knew why she was rushing him. There was no greater sorrow in our house than Father finding—God forbid!—a fly in his food. No matter, it might be the tastiest capon, he might be ravenously hungry, but should a fly alight, he would no longer so much as touch the food.
But this time the flies flew off. Mother squashed one with a towel, the rest flew up to the ceiling where they remained, watching from on high as the grits disappeared from the bowls and the bread from the table.
In our new place, Mother decided, except for the Sabbath and festivals, during the week we would eat all our meals in the kitchen. She had already put things in order. She placed the table in the middle of the room, not near the window like in the old place. The table was covered with a splendid colored cloth, decorated with headless birds and large, embroidered flowers. Over the dresser, surrounding the greenish mirror, Mother hung photographs of her sons and only daughter, Tsipele, the one who just got engaged in Warsaw. She also spread on the dresser a crocheted cloth of thick, gray cotton with braided loops and fringes, to which she added a cut-glass bowl resembling a small boat. In it lay mother-of-pearl buttons, thimbles, pins, and above all, Mother’s white brooch, which, ever since her return from Warsaw, she wore every Sabbath under her soft double chin.
But nothing on the dresser took greater pride of place than the two greeting cards, standing upright, that Mother had received from her two sons living elsewhere. Both cards glittered with gold and silver. Both had little arched gates that opened to read, in gold German lettering: “Hertzliche Glückwünsche zum Neuen Jahr—Heartiest good wishes for the New Year.” Next to the gates, like watchmen standing guard outside the Garden of Eden, hovered two white doves, holding sealed letters in their beaks.
This was something new for Father. He had never laid eyes on these cards before. Now, after their sudden appearance on the dresser, Father first looked at them from a distance, wrinkling his forehead. Then, like someone holding a delicate glass object, he grasped the greeting cards in his two frozen hands.
“What’s this?” Father asked.
“Greeting cards,” Mother replied.
“Greeting cards? Who from?”
“From Yoyne and from Avromke.”
Father’s beard pressed down on his chest. He removed the spectacles from behind his ears with one hand and, with the other, put the greeting cards back on the dresser. He no longer looked at them. His mute, dreamy eyes went to the mirror and its collection of photographs of Mother’s children, searching for something. Apparently, Father was looking for the picture of his own son, Leybke, a soldier in Ekaterinoslav. He found it, hanging to the side, next to a photograph of a long, reclining figure, possibly a woman, unknown to anyone in the house.
Father didn’t mind that his son’s picture hung where it did, but later, during supper in the kitchen, he looked at me with his large, blue eyes and said, “Leybke never writes.”
Nobody responded. Father carefully cut up his bread into small pieces, slurped his soup, and remarked once again, “Ekaterinoslav … among Gentiles … you can’t find such greeting cards there.”
The daily routine in our new place was the same as in the old. Every morning, at the crack of dawn, the peasant would come and knock on the windowpane, “Pan kupiec! Pan kupiec!”
Before leaving the house, Father would leave money for the day’s household needs on the dresser, under the crocheted cover. Mother kept haggling over the amount, threatening not to prepare supper, but meals were always on time, and the house was warm and tidy.
Nevertheless, despite all these blessings, a sadness pervaded our new home. Could it be because of the excessive tidiness? Or because of the wooden porch hanging outside the windows, keeping out the sunlight? Or could it just be that our new dwelling was intrinsically sad?
The first to sense this melancholy was Mother herself. She was like the swallow that has a premonition, at the first rainfall, that the summer is over. She grew restive. From day to day she became less punctilious about cleaning the house. Sometimes she forgot to get the soup on the table on time.
But no one took Mother to task for this. Indeed, what could she have done? There were hardly any neighbors around. I was away the entire day at Sime-Yoysef’s kheyder. Father was roaming around the villages, buying hay. So she simply left things in God’s hands. She would while away her days at Aunt Miriam’s or at Grandma Rokhl’s. Once again, the saucepans on the stove stared out into the room with dark, empty mouths.
Only after Father came home in the evening did Mother start preparing supper. Father would get angry at her, sometimes hurling a curse, sometimes even going to bed without supper. Yes, things were sad, very sad.
Until, one winter evening, there was an angry knocking on the door and in burst a pocked-face boy wearing a short, padded coat. An iron folding bed was slung over one shoulder, and in one hand he clutched a bundle of bedding.
“Where shall I put it?” he growled.
“Over there, if you please,” Mother pointed to a spot between the kitchen cabinet and the water barrel.
The young man dropped his burden, panting heavily. A few moments later, he burst in again, this time pushing a large blue trunk on little wheels, secured by iron bands and two padlocks on either side.
“Where’s Hodl?” Mother looked at the boy.
“She was walking right behind me.”
But the boy was mistaken. Hodl didn’t walk, she skipped. She danced into the room, round and plump, and trilled, “Good evening, Frimet!”
“Good evening, Hodlshi. How come you’re so late?”
“Why? What did I miss?”
Hodl, wearing a long brown coat with a worn fur collar, looked curiously around our kitchen, set down a man’s umbrella next to the door, and took a deep breath.
“N-n-a … It was quite a distance!”
“It wasn’t that far.”
“Far enough,” said Hodl, unwrapping her shawl from around her head and extending a moist, shiny double chin to the tall boy.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Two gilden, Auntie,” said the boy, wiping his sleeve across his forehead.
“I’m not your Auntie!” Hodl crinkled her little snub nose, which looked like a tiny shoe. “Why suddenly two gilden when we agreed on forty groshen?”
“Forty groshen for such a long way?”
“If you don’t like it, you can go jump in the lake.”
“Auntie, stop acting so high and mighty and pay up!”
“Once more! I’m not your Auntie, you peasant, you!”
“What’s the matter? I’m not good enough for you?”
“You most certainly are not.”
“In that case, you can do me the honor and kiss …”
“I’ll give you such a bash in the face that you’ll be seeing your great-grandmother!” said Hodl, making a move toward the boy.
“Go ahead! Let’s see what kind of lady you are!”
Hodl was a loudmouth, and strong-minded to boot. Had Mother, whose hands trembled at any hint of a fight, not intervened by offering to add another ten groshen, Hodl and the boy would surely have come to blows.
The boy let loose a final curse and left. Hodl, not to be outdone, shot another back. Then, still in a huff, she started unbuttoning the long, tight-fitting coat that reached down to her ankles.
“Help me off with my coat, Frimet,” she appealed with a little sigh.
Mother obliged and laid the coat across a chair. Hodl twisted her mouth.
“Why on a chair? Why don’t you hang it in your wardrobe?”
“There isn’t much room there,” Mother excused herself.
“If there’s no room in your wardrobe, then perhaps you shouldn’t be taking in boarders. What’s wrong with my coat? It doesn’t belong there?”
“Who said so? God forbid … Let me take a look. Maybe I’ll find some room, after all.”
“No maybe. It’s only my coat that I want to hang in the wardrobe.”
And that’s what happened. Hodl’s brown coat went into the wardrobe.
Hodl then pulled off a knitted jacket, as well as a quilted waistcoat, and once she was down to nothing but a thin cotton blouse, she again took a look around the kitchen.
“Is this where I’ll be?”
“Yes, Hodlshi.”
“Is it going to be as warm here as you said?”
“As warm as in a stove.”
“And where’s the toilet?”
“Outside, just two steps from the door.”
Mother spoke meekly to Hodl, with a pinched smile, as if she owed her something.
“And where’s your husband?” Hodl demanded.
“He’ll be back soon.”
“Who’ll set up my bed?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll get done.”
“Do you have a chamber pot?”
“Of course, how could we not have a chamber pot?”
“And is that your kid?” Hodl suddenly set her big cat’s-eyes on me and shaped her lips into a moist smile.
“Yes, that’s my Mendl, my youngest, he should stay in good health.”
“You had other children with your husband?”
“We had a little girl too, my husband and I, may he have long life …” Mother said sorrowfully and bowed her head.
“That’s a fine boy, bright like a light, may the evil eye not befall him.” Hodl beckoned me over with a nod of her head.
I stayed where I was. I didn’t like that strange woman one bit.
“Where do you go to kheyder?”
“By Sime-Yoysef,” Mother answered for me.
“And do you already piss like a grown man?”
I saw Mother’s face turn deep red.
Hodl’s mouth widened in a grin from ear to ear. I didn’t know what to do or where to look. That woman had stormed into our house, like a chill wind. She cared nothing about my bewilderment or about Mother’s flaming face. She smiled right into my eyes, snorted, took some candies from her purse, and, sucking loudly, asked Mother, “When does that husband of yours get up?”
“At dawn.”
“If that’s the case, I won’t be able to close an eye.”
“God forbid! He never wakes me up, and I’m a light sleeper, like a hen.”
From all that talk I surmised that Hodl was to move in with us into the kitchen. Mother wouldn’t be so sad anymore. There would be another person living with us, just like Jusza in the old place.
That night I had a hard time falling asleep. Through half-closed eyes I could see the strange woman walking about the room, plump, soft as a featherbed. I heard the steady creaking of her iron cot, her snorting, the smacking of her lips, and several times I even heard the sound of someone pissing into a tin pot.