Broken Song (8 page)

“Phew! Rachel! You stink.”

Rachel giggled. The giggle startled Reuven. It was a relief. Had she momentarily forgotten this sudden rearrangement of her world? Had the gaping hole somehow closed? This gave Reuven an idea. Perhaps he could make her believe that they were on some wonderful, funny adventure. Yes, a funny game where he dressed up like a little old lady and she rode in a grain basket. The
problem was that this little old lady didn’t know the first thing about changing a diaper, even if “she” had had a fresh one. He supposed he could spare one of the scarves from his babushka if it were absolutely necessary.

Two seconds later he decided it was absolutely necessary.

“Come here, Rachel. We’ve got to change your diaper.”

Somehow, Reuven managed to do this. He tried to tie the nappy knots the way they had been. He took the dirty nappy and rinsed it in the stream. He cleaned Rachel’s dirty bottom with snow, which made her squeal but not really cry.

Darkness on this short December day had begun to fall by midafternoon. In another hour it would be safe for them to travel, but where would they be going? All the way to Vilna, he supposed. But that would take days. It was maybe one hundred miles from their little village in the Pale. Hadn’t Reuven heard somewhere that there was a priest in Posva who befriended Jews? Posva was not that far. Maybe two or three days’ travel from where they were. And once in Posva, maybe another two days to Vilna.

What choice did they have?

The stubble of the fields turned to gold in the last rays of the setting sun. Crouched in the shadows of the woods, Reuven and Rachel looked across the field to Berischeva. Some of the houses were still smoldering, and curls of smoke and ash rose in the air hanging over the village like a dark calligraphy. He could actually pick
out the chimney of their house, the house where his mother and father and older sister lay dead. The setting sun seemed to break on the horizon like a bloodied egg. The sky flared, and it began to snow lightly. The flakes came down slowly, each spinning in a dance of its own making against the blood-streaked orange of the sky.

The snowflakes seemed to grow larger, move more slowly, and it was almost as if he could see their intricate crystal pattern, white and beautiful against the fiery red sky. He had seen their bloodied bodies, but it was only now that Reuven finally realized that he would never see his parents and older sister again. Minyans, gatherings of at least ten men, were required for prayers of mourning. There was only himself and Rachel, but Reuven’s lips began to move around the barely whispered words of a Jewish prayer.

“In the flight of a bird, we shall remember them. In the stirring of a leaf, we shall remember them. In the first blades of grass after a long winter, we shall remember them. In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we shall remember them… . As long as we live they too shall live for now they are a part of us, as we remember them.”

His eyes streamed with tears, and even though the Cossack had walked off with his violin, it seemed as though some ineffable part of the instrument had been left behind. With it came the ghosts of the Cerutis, the violin makers from Cremona. They were his minyan. The soul of the violin rested now somewhere deep within him. It had joined with his own soul to help him
chant these prayers of loss and grief for his mother and father and Shriprinka and yes, for Herschel and Reb Itchel, for they undoubtedly lay dead as well. But then the darkness seeped over the land and it was time to leave. The crooked old lady with her huge bundle dissolved into the snowy night.

TEN

THE COALS in the brazier glowed as bright as oranges. The priest urged them to move closer.

“But not too close, for the baby. Babies’ skin is so much more delicate than ours,” he said.

The priest stroked Rachel’s cheek and then patted his own, which was plump and smooth. Reuven thought his skin looked very delicate, for a grown-up.

They had arrived at the priest’s house a few hours before, in the late afternoon. It had taken them a day longer to get to Posva than he had anticipated, and by the time they got there they were cold and very hungry. But at least Rachel’s earache had gone away. In the three days they had been on the road, they had seen half a dozen villages like Berischeva that had been destroyed by the tsar’s troops. Their bread and cheese had given out a day and a half earlier. They had passed an orchard, and by digging in the deep snowdrifts, they had collected
some old withered apples from beneath the trees. Even the worms had deserted these apples, and not much fruit was left, but Reuven and Rachel ate them anyway.

Now they had already been fed a bowl of cabbage soup and bread with pickled herring, in front of the fire. Reuven knew that they must be careful. After eating so little over the past few days, they could make themselves sick. But the food kept coming. The priest sipped a cherry liquor that he said aided his digestion, and from the looks of what the servant was setting on the table, he would need it. A roast chicken and rolled veal breast stuffed with vegetables, steaming pots of potatoes, and a fish fillet baked in a clear jelly.

“Are we almost ready, Bozieka?” the priest asked.

The servant, a corpulent lady with a face the color of raw meat and glistening with perspiration, nodded and made a grunting sound as she set down the last bowl.

“Come, children,” he said.

Reuven took Rachel’s hand and followed the priest to the table. It was spread with a delicately embroidered cloth, gleaming silver bowls, and platters laden with food. Rachel’s eyes were wide with wonder. Reuven could not help but think it was a lot better business being a priest than a rabbi. He had never seen a rabbi’s table so laden.

The priest poured them a bit of wine in their cups. Reuven did not really want wine, but he felt it would be impolite to refuse. The priest was already raising his glass.

“A toast to our guests, Bozieka,” he said.

Bozieka had no glass, but her lips moved in a tight
little smile. Her mouth was very small for her large face and it gave the appearance of having been stitched on like that of a rag doll.
If she smiles too much, the stitches might rip
, Reuven thought. Her eyes were pale, and Reuven could not tell if they were brown or gray or perhaps green. They seemed diluted like weak tea. She had no eyebrows but had drawn two highly arched curves above her eyes with a black pencil.

The priest bowed his head to give a blessing. Reuven did as well.

When he was finished, the priest looked up. “So you say Berischeva is ruined?”

“Yes, sir, and so is Ru’ov and Pecorchova and …” Reuven’s voice dwindled off.

“You speak good Russian. Where did you learn?”

“There is an academy”—Reuven paused—“or there
was
an academy in my village. Small, but one teacher came from St. Petersburg and another came from Moscow. So we learned Russian.”

“Now tell me once more … where are you heading?”

Reuven had not told him the first time. For some reason he did not want to say exactly where he was going. If the soldiers came to question the priest, it could be dangerous for him. For the priest’s own sake it might be better if he did not know.

“We are to join relatives.”

“And where might these relatives be?”

“Grodno.”

Reuven didn’t know why he had said Grodno so quickly. It was as if his tongue was not his own for a brief instant.

“Ah, Grodno. Yes, there are many Jews in Grodno. They have it a bit easier, I think. Here, have some more beets. Bozieka is the master beet pickler, or should I say the mistress of beet pickling.” He looked at the servant, who stood by at attention.

“The baby doesn’t eat much,” Bozieka said.

“Oh, you must realize that it is hard for us to eat a lot after eating so little. It is better for us to go a bit easy,” Reuven replied. Rachel was playing with a bean on her plate. Bozieka sniffed. Reuven was not sure if it was a sniff of disapproval or agreement.

“Ah, but you must save a little room for Bozieka’s pastries. They are superb,” said the priest.

A few minutes later, Bozieka brought in a tray of pastries. There were tiny frosted cakes and sugared nuts and little cream-filled tarts. Reuven noticed a small tail of cream in the corner of Bozieka’s mouth. She must have eaten one in the kitchen. The priest was piling their plates with samples of each. There was no way he could eat this, and he prayed that Rachel, who was pointing excitedly at the fancifully glazed cakes, would take one bite and be satisfied.

“Aah, my little pumpkin, you like those pretty cakes,” said the priest. “Here, have two.”

Reuven suddenly wanted to get away from the table. He yawned, which he knew was rude, but perhaps this would be a hint.

“You are both tired. Do you want to take a pot of tea up to bed along with some of these cakes?” asked the priest.

“Oh that is very kind of you, sir,” said Reuven.

“And when you leave tomorrow, we shall have a packet of food for that big basket of yours. It will fit with you, won’t it?” He reached over and gave Rachel’s cheek a playful pinch. Rachel tucked her chin down into her collar.

“Bozieka, show the children to their bedchamber. And oh, don’t forget the plate of cookies and cakes.”

They followed Bozieka up a narrow creaky staircase to a small room in a gable just under the eaves of the house. There was a window in the gable that framed the town clock, which chimed very loudly for a full minute every hour on the hour. The bed was plump with a fresh puffy white cover filled with goose down and big square pillows.

“Fresh diapers,” Bozieka said, pointing to a stack of neatly folded cloths.

“Oh, that is so nice of you. Thank you so much,” Reuven said, nodding and even giving a little bit of a bow. The small mouth ripped a few stitches in a slightly bigger smile. “And where, may I ask, is our basket?”

“In the kitchen. I have filled it with food already for tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank you. You are too kind.”

Again, the small little smile. This time the painted eyebrows seemed to slide toward her hairline. Bozieka wore her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Everything about Bozieka was very tight—her hair, her smile, even her skin. Her fingers swelled like sausages in casings, and she had no wrists, just a deep crease where her plump hands met the ends of her arms. As she had led them up the stairs, Reuven had noticed that her
ankles puffed up and seemed about to burst over her tightly laced shoes.
Stick her with a pin and she just might pop
, Reuven had thought. It was as if she were too large for her own skin. After she left, he changed Rachel’s nappy, poured fresh water in the bowl, and wiped her face and then his own face. Finally they both crawled into bed.

But Rachel did not want to settle down. She squirmed and wriggled. Reuven marveled how with her few little words, she managed to be so demanding. She wanted a drink of water. She wanted a cake.

“No, Rachel, you’ve had too much already, you’ll get a tummy ache,” Reuven said.

She scrambled toward the window, which was right by their bed, and began drawing pictures in the frosted glass with her finger.

“It’s time for sleep, Rachel, not play.”

She began humming, which was her sign that Reuven was supposed to play her a song on his violin.

“No, Rachel, I don’t have my violin right now.”

“Night night,” Rachel said and flopped on the mattress. Two seconds later she popped up again.

“Good morning,” her voice rang out cheerfully

Reuven groaned. It was the Night Night game. Saying “Night night!” a dozen times, she would close her eyes tight and even make a snoring noise for a few seconds, then pop up again and say, “Good morning!” But now when she sat up instead of singing out “Good morning!” she said, “Mama?” The word dropped into the dimness of the attic room. Reuven was silent. “Dada?”
Panic welled in the back of his throat. What was he to do? Oh God, he prayed, what was he to do?

“Time for sleep, Rachel,” he said. But Rachel was scrambling out of bed.

Reuven was dead tired.
I might have to spank her
, he thought. Why couldn’t this child just get sleepy? Why did she have to be playing games with him after he had schlepped her on his back over thirty miles? How did you deal with a thing like this? How had his mother stood it?