On the morning of Purim, Father didn’t leave for his usual rounds. After breakfast he put on his Sabbath kapote and cloth cap, took up his cane, and stepped out jauntily into the street, just like a regular merchant. Mother plucked a feather off his shoulder and told him not to forget—for Heaven’s sake!—to come home on time, and returned to her holiday baking.
The house was redolent of cinnamon and oil. The homentashen, large and three-cornered, emerged from the oven the color of oranges. Father returned, bearing real oranges, oozing with blood-red juice, as well as half a dozen decorated confections, twisted into shapes of Polish letters, made out of cornstarch and sugar. He placed a sparkling bottle of wine from the Holy Land on the table, along with a small bag of raisins and some hard nuts, which nobody in the whole, wide world could crack.
That night, in honor of the Purim feast, the house looked especially tidy and bright. The red floor, which Mother had polished several times that day, shone like the Holy Land wine. The glistening lamp and the flickering lights from the two silver candlesticks lent an affluent air to the room. Father’s beard, clean and combed, took up the entire head of the table. Were it not for his tired-looking eyes, which had become even more dreamy since Toybe’s misfortune, one might have thought that Father had suddenly struck it rich.
Who knows? Maybe he had.
Mother had invited old Gitele, Yosl the glazier’s widow, for the holiday feast. This tiny woman, poor soul, always wore, summer and winter, a long black coat, like a man’s, and never let go of her little tattered parasol. This parasol, said Mother, served her better than her own legs. Mother also considered Gitele a scholar, for she knew how to study the weekly portion of the Torah, including the Rashi commentary, and even a page of Talmud. Poor though old Gitele was, Mother felt honored that she had deigned to accept the invitation.
Gitele now sat at the table in her long black coat, with a red band on her head that shook like an angry rooster’s comb. Her wrinkled, emaciated face trembled along. Her thin, shrunken lips had all but receded into her mouth. So tiny was she that she filled only half her chair. But her little black eyes looked alert and shone with lively fire.
Mother’s face was flushed. She looked like a real lady in her black taffeta blouse, with the soft jabot at the neck. She warmly greeted all the masked revelers who stopped by briefly, in accordance with Purim custom, to serenade us with holiday song.
Next, Mother cut some pieces of strudel, took down from the cupboard one of her best homentashen, added one of the sugary Polish letters that Father had picked up in town, and brought them over to our Gentile neighbor, the Polish chief prison guard, who, poor man, knew nothing of Purim and its custom of shalakhmones, the exchange of foodstuffs among friends and neighbors.
Father made up a plate containing an orange, a small cluster of raisins, two hard nuts, and a piece of strudel. He covered everything with a white cloth, handed me the single bottle of wine in the house, the Holy Land wine, and told me to take it all over to Uncle Bentsien as a shalakhmones offering.
Mother took offense.
“How many bottles of wine do you have that you can give one away?” she admonished Father.
“What should I do? Not send it along?”
“Bentsien will manage without your wine.”
“Don’t worry,” Father said pleasantly. “Bentsien will send back another bottle, an even better one.”
This latest development bothered me. I had been waiting all this while for the bottle to be uncorked, so I could have a taste of the contents. Now Father decided to give it away to Bentsien, the community secretary! As if he didn’t already have plenty of wine. But if Father ordered it, I could hardly refuse. So, with a heavy heart, I proceeded to take the offering over to Father’s brother-in-law.
The street was filled with boys. All were carrying covered plates, with cloths concealing little humps. There were also older Jews walking about. Coming toward me was a group wearing masks with false faces and red, bulbous noses.
At our house the door was wide open to the revelers. Not so at Uncle Bentsien’s. There the door was locked, and though I wasn’t in Purim disguise, I had to shout out that I was Leyzer the hay merchant’s son, and that I’d come with shalakhmones.
The maidservant peeked out through a crack in the door and asked me again who I was, what was I bringing, and who was it I wanted. Didn’t that fool of a maid know who I was?
“I want Uncle Bentsien!”
Only then did she let me in and lead me to the living room.
This time, unlike on the Sukkoth and Passover visits, Aunt Naomi’s house wasn’t dark. Now the table stood in the center of the room, a large table it was, covered with a white cloth. There were two bright lamps, one hanging from the ceiling, the other standing on the table, next to two heavier, silver candlesticks, real silver, ornately embossed. The candles were taller than ours and much thicker. On the table sat a dazzling, colorful array of baskets, filled with oranges, dates, and all sorts of candies. There were also numerous bottles of wine on the table, so many it was impossible to count them.
Bentsien was sitting at the head of the table, sprawled in an armchair. He wore a new, eight-cornered silk skullcap, and his beard seemed whiter than it did the rest of the year. He looked languid and sated. His son Mendl was dressed in a stiff white collar and a black necktie. He was sitting spread out like his Father. His face was serene, though a bit flushed, his hands white and clean. Only his lips were squeezed tightly together as if he were in pain.
Mendl didn’t give me a single glance. After all, he had paid no attention to any of the other boys who had been dropping off the shalakhmones offerings.
Aunt Naomi sat upright, her black silk dress, with its many folds and puffed sleeves, making soft, rustling noises. Like a coiled snake, the braided chain of a gold brooch gleamed at her throat. Her dark, pious face with its prominent eyebrows smiled at me.
“Ah, shalakhmones,” she said. “Praised be the Almighty. And how is your father … ? Ah, good … Praised be His name … And how is your mother … ? Really … ? Is that so?”
I remained standing in the middle of the room, maybe out of shame, or maybe because of fear of all the strangers who were sitting around the table and staring at me. I felt as if my entire body was burning. I wanted to flee from there. It just didn’t seem right to be there.
Aunt Naomi took the offerings from our plate and replaced them with two small oranges, a few figs, and two or three fair-sized almonds. Then, as I was about to leave, she handed me a large dust-covered bottle of wine from the table and shoved a coin into my hand.
I could feel that it was a twenty-kopek piece. This made me happy. But I was even happier to be rid of this particular shalakhmones obligation and of all those strange eyes staring at me. I hurried home for I still had to take shalakhmones over to Grandpa and to Aunt Miriam. I was especially looking forward to going to Aunt Miriam’s, for I knew that I wouldn’t be going home from there. Aunt Miriam would take off my coat with her own little warm hands, seat me down at the table, and make sure that I spent the night.
At Aunt Miriam’s Purim was always more jolly than anywhere else. Khaiml, Aunt Miriam’s only son, danced around the room like a bear, imitated a monkey carrying water, a crowing rooster, and a cat waiting in ambush to catch a mouse. Leye, Aunt Miriam’s youngest daughter, recited poetry in Polish and sang a song about the beautiful Wanda who, rather than marry a German, threw herself into the Vistula. In addition to all this, Aunt Miriam’s strudel was more delicious than any other in town, all the more reason for me to hurry over there.
When I returned from Uncle Bentsien’s, everybody was waiting for me. By then the candles had burnt down halfway. Gitele, Yosl the glazier’s widow, had dropped off to sleep. I put down Aunt Naomi’s shalakhmones and quietly told mother about the twenty kopeks Aunt Naomi had given me. Mother crinkled her nose.
“You had to take it, didn’t you!” she said, looking at Father out of the corner of her eye, as he carefully removed the cover from his sister’s shalakhmones.
“At least take a look,” he said proudly, “at what a beautiful shalakhmones Naomi sent us.”
He raised the bottle of wine to the light, examined it from top to bottom, then set it down carefully, as he would a sick child.
“Expensive wine,” he pressed his lips together. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“Naturally,” Mother snickered. “The rich certainly know how to spend their money.”
“And I’m telling you,” Father again raised the bottle to the light, “that it’s a very expensive kind.”
“Go pickle with it …”
Father was preparing a new plate of shalakhmones. He chose two small figs, a slightly bruised orange, and a strip of strudel. I guessed that this is what I’d be taking over to Motl Straw, Father’s partner.
Mother tied a scarf around my neck.
“Was it nice at Aunt Naomi’s?” she asked.
“Very nice.”
“Lots of guests?”
“Lots.”
“What did Aunt Naomi say to you?”
“To send regards to everybody.”
“And that brat of theirs, Mendl, did you see him?”
“Yes. He was wearing a stiff white collar and necktie.”
“She dolls him up in white collars, does she! What is he? A girl?”
The shalakhmones for Motl Straw was ready. Mother accompanied me into the kitchen and told me that, for God’s sake, I should come right home, that I still had to go over to Aunt Miriam’s.
“Of course. You think I don’t know?”
I was about to leave. At that very moment the kitchen door opened and a shrouded head appeared in the doorway. It was dark in the kitchen and hard to tell to whom the head belonged. From all indications it was probably some poor beggar woman. Indeed, the figure remained standing in the doorway, as if she’d come to ask for alms.
I couldn’t leave, for the woman was blocking my way. Mother didn’t ask what she wanted but moved back several steps toward the window, from where she let out a moan and, in a quiet, choked voice, said, “Toybe … ?”
I grew hot all over, and almost dropped the plate with all the shalakhmones. Only now did I recognize Toybe’s face from under the wrapping. Once, that face was brown and pretty. Now it was black and gaunt. Toybe seemed to have grown taller. Her eyes were no longer bluish-green. In fact, one could scarcely see her eyes. Two deep, black circles looked out from under the head covering. Even her posture had changed. She was now bent over, unsteady.
Was Toybe sick, perhaps?
Mother seemed unwell herself, as if her hands and feet weren’t her own. She made a start toward the other room, then remained where she was. Her eyes darted across the kitchen as if searching for something, and finally came to rest on the kitchen chair. With her foot she shoved it over to where Toybe was standing and then leaned against the table, supporting herself with both hands. Thus she remained, facing the window.
Toybe stared at the chair, but didn’t sit down. I wanted to tell her to come inside, to rest. Toybe, however, pushed open the door and made as if to leave.
Mother realized what was happening. She turned around quickly, and ran to the door.
“Where are you going?” she called out warmly. “Come inside.”
Mother didn’t know what to do with her hands. She wanted to embrace Toybe but her arms missed their mark and fell upon the doorposts instead.
Old Gitele shuffled in from the other room. She looked around the dark kitchen nearsightedly and, in her drawling voice, asked, “Frimet?”
“What is it, Gitelshi?” Mother turned away from the door in confusion. “Do you want something?”
“No, my dear child. Whatever could I want from you? But it’s time for me to be going. Who is that standing at the door? Who?”
Mother didn’t reply. She planted herself in the doorway as if she wanted to conceal Toybe from Gitele’s tiny, lively eyes.
Father must have heard something going on, or maybe he wanted to get something from the kitchen. He walked in quickly, looking distracted and angry. I was the first one he saw.
“You haven’t gone yet?” he said, pointing his beard at me.
I was about to tell him what had happened when his head suddenly straightened. His eyes turned to the door, where Toybe was still standing. At first he said nothing, but then he began to shout.
“Out of my house, you Big Yuzhke, you!” he cried out in a voice not his own and, with raised fists, rushed to the door. “You have the nerve to come back to my house? Get out this minute!”
At that moment, Mother threw herself between Father’s raised fists and the broken-down Toybe.
“Leyzer!” she raised her hands high. “Don’t you dare! You hear?”
“Let her get out of my house! I don’t want to see a single bone of her body here!”
“Leyzer! I won’t allow it! She’s your very own child!”
“A dog, that’s what she is, not my child! She’s just like Big Yuzhke! As if she hasn’t blackened my name enough!”
Toybe bent over lower and lower, as if she were being cut down by a saw. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord, and Gitele, Yosl the glazier’s widow, shuffled out with tiny, old steps. Toybe followed, her body bent double. Father was about to lock the door, but Mother stood in his way and grabbed the key from the lock.
“Give me the key!” he said, showing his white teeth.
“No, I won’t!”
“Give it to me, you hear?”
“Stop it, Ley zer!” Mother said firmly. “Stop it, I say. If not, I’m leaving, and you’ll never know where I’ve gone.”
Father’s white teeth disappeared from view. He went back to the other room, his hands hanging limply by his sides. On the way out, he hurled an obscene word at Toybe—a stone, not a word. My temples started throbbing. Mother drew in her shoulders, as if hit by a stabbing pain.
“Mendl,” she said, “run outside and tell her to wait.”
It was cold outside. Toybe was sitting on the threshold, her body crumpled. I sat down beside her.
“Toybe,” I said, “Mother wants you to wait.”
I felt Toybe’s hand on my face.
“Are you, maybe, hungry, Toybe?”
“No, I’m not hungry,” she answered in a dry, hollow voice.
“I’ve got shalakhmones here. Would you like some?”
“No, Mendl, but thank you very much.”
“I’ve got an orange. Here, take it.”
“I don’t need it, Mendl. But go on, go where you’re supposed to.”
A strong wind was blowing from the garden. The sky was black. A dog began barking in the prison guard’s place.
I didn’t take the shalakhmones over to Motl Straw, nor did I visit Aunt Miriam that Purim. I sat outside with Toybe for a long while, until the door opened quietly and I heard Mother’s voice.
“Mendl?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Where are you?”
“Here, with Toybe.”
Mother came over to us.
She leaned down to Toybe and said, “Come inside. He’s already asleep.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” Toybe sighed. “I’ll just wait here.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, you silly cow. Come inside. I’ll make up a bed for you in the kitchen.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You can thank me later. Nu, come inside. You must be hungry.”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“Nu, get up! It’s cold out here.”
Toybe remained seated. The guard’s dog began barking again.
“Get up, Toybe.” I stroked my sister’s upraised knees. “Eat something. It’s Purim today. Come inside, please.”
Toybe was weeping. I felt her tears on my hand. Then, after she finally came into the kitchen and Mother helped her off with her things, she fell on Mother’s hands to kiss them.
“Stop it!” Mother waved her hands in confusion. “You can kiss me later. Eat something …”
The door to the other room, where Father was sleeping, was closed. Mother turned up the lamp. Now I could see that Toybe’s pretty face had a greenish tinge. She looked haggard, with sharp cheekbones. Nothing remained of the former Toybe, except for her garnet hair, high on her head with a white part in the middle, like that of pious, well-to-do matrons.
Toybe stayed on at our house. Father’s head sank down to the ground. His shoulders grew pointier. I think that even his deafness became more pronounced. Mother had someone bring Toybe’s trunk from the wealthy home where she had been a maidservant. Toybe didn’t open it, she didn’t care to know what was in it. She walked around in total silence, thin and gaunt. At dawn, even before the peasant knocked on the window for Father, Toybe was already up to light the fire. One never heard her chopping wood, or striking a match. The fire seemed to light by itself. Likewise, Father’s breakfast, which Toybe cooked, seemed to prepare itself.
One morning, however, Father discovered how all this came about. That same morning he happened to get up before Toybe and, after saying his prayers, came into the kitchen with his folded prayer shawl hanging from one of his shoulders.
Toybe was blowing on the fire. A pot of water already stood on the burners. There was a bowl of peeled potatoes nearby.
“You unclean girl!” he growled. “I’m not going to eat your swinish food!”
The breakfast remained untouched, its gray steam settling on the windowpane. A fly crawled along the edge of the plate. That morning, Father left on an empty stomach and Toybe sat down on her bed and wept.
Ever since Toybe returned from the hospital, she wept a great deal. Mother was out of the house most of the time, either at Aunt Miriam’s or at Grandma Rokhl’s. All by herself, Toybe did all the cleaning and polishing, all the cooking, all the Sabbath preparations, weeping as she worked.
While Father was eating, Toybe always left the house and sat on the threshold. Only after Father had finished reciting the after-meal blessings and gone to sleep, did Toybe come back in, clear the dishes from the table, and sit down to eat, by herself.
Ever since Toybe had come back, the Sabbath days were sad and tearful. Father sang the Sabbath hymns in a tearful voice. Mother, even more tearfully, read aloud from her women ’s Bible. Toybe never sat at the table with us. She passed her Sabbath days in the kitchen on her iron bed.
Not even at Passover did Toybe sit with us at the seder table, though it was she who had readied the house for Passover, cleaning and cooking, toiling like the Hebrew slaves who built the store cities of Pithom and Rameses in ancient Egypt.
However, it was Mother who served the food and brought the four prescribed cups of wine into the kitchen for Toybe to partake, to fulfill the ritual. During the course of the seder, when the prayer “Pour out Thy wrath” was recited—which this year Father spat out with a fury—and it was time to open the door for Elijah the Prophet, it was not Toybe who did the honors, as in previous years, but Mother.
Toybe stared wide-eyed at the dark, open door. Only now did her eyes seem to have recovered their double colors, green and blue. She stood at the open door, as if hoping that the portal would bring her salvation. But when the door closed again, and salvation failed to come, Toybe wept. Mother wept, too. Only Father continued to read the Haggadah, continuing with the story of the Exodus from Egypt.
If one didn’t know that the reason for Father’s low voice was his deafness, one would have thought that he, too, was choking with tears.