He smiled at her. “That’s interesting. Can you name some others?”
Hanna shrugged. “I don’t know most of them.” She turned towards the Hasid. “Do you know them, Jakob?”
“There are thirty-nine categories and one hundred and seven derivative varieties which could lead to breaking the Sabbath laws. Do you want them all?”
Hershel chuckled with sheer joy. “Just the thirty-nine, Jakob. Stephen will understand what you mean before you start splitting hairs.”
“All right. Actually, there aren’t thirty-nine.” His eyes sparkled. “There are forty, less one. They are sowing, reaping, binding sheaves, threshing, winnowing, cleansing, grinding, sifting, kneading, baking, shearing wool and washing or beating or dying it, spinning, weaving, making two loops…”
Hershel began to chuckle again, and the rest of them smiled.
“…weaving two threads, separating two threads, tying a knot or loosening one, sewing two stitches, tearing in order to sew two stitches…”
Everyone was now laughing, even the children.
“…hunting a deer and slaughtering it or flaying it or salting it or curing its skin or scraping it or cutting it up, writing two letters, erasing in order to write two letters…” This remark broke up the audience, and tears came to their eyes. “…building, demolishing, extinguishing, kindling, striking with a hammer, and carrying from one domain into another.” Jakob took a long breath, then smiled at those assembled.
When Stephen was able to stop laughing, he shook his head in wonder. “How do you get them done?”
Motlie said, “We have a Shabbas goy do them for us. Or rather, we did.” She did not go on to explain that since Israel’s accident, there was barely enough money for the basic necessities, let alone paid help.
When all was again under control, Stephen said, “I can stay out with the cow if you want to finish your supper.”
“We’re finished,” said Israel. “But I will wait in the house.”
One by one they left until Hanna, Hershel, and Zelek remained. Hershel squatted by the side of Stephen. “How do you decide when to start pulling out the calf?”
“I hope I won’t have to, because it can be very seriously injured. You know it’s time when the calf shifts completely to the rear. It’s almost there now. I’m hoping that since the feet are in their proper position, the cow can do the rest herself. If she doesn’t manage after another try or two, I’ll go back in.”
“What if it doesn’t come out?”
Stephen shrugged. “It will have to come out, dead or alive. When you pull out a calf, it’s to save the cow.”
Zelek was watching Stephen intently from the corner of his eye, his face set hard. Hanna did not have to wonder what was going through his mind. She had felt the same way. That Stephen was Russian; Cossacks were Russian; ergo, Stephen was a Cossack–an enemy of his people. She shook her head sadly. Only five years old and already feeling the bile of hate. It must start in the womb, she concluded with rising anger, and all it could bring is misery. She knew she was somewhat to blame also, joking about assigning the rooster, Nicholas Aleksandrovich Romanov, to the pot one day, and Israel calling him the Cossack.
Inside, she heard Jakob break into song again, his feet pounding on the floor boards, and soon the rest were joining him. Zelek wavered a few seconds, torn between eyeing his enemy or joining his new found friend, then he left for the kitchen. It took Hershel only a few more seconds to realize that Hanna and Stephen might want to be alone, and with a, “I’ll be inside in the event you need me,” he also left.
The moment he was out of sight, Hanna leaned forward and kissed Stephen. “When did you get back?” she asked happily.
“About an hour ago.”
“Have you eaten?” she asked, her practical nature overcoming her desire to clasp him in her arms.
“Yes. My mother said she never saw me finish supper so quickly.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I missed you terribly.”
“And I missed you, my darling.” She settled herself cross-legged on some straw. “The funeral, it was sad, eh?”
“Not really. Mother carried on, of course, but it’s mostly because Russians always carry on, even if it’s for a stranger.” He reached into a shirt pocket and brought out a small box. “I bought this for you.”
Hanna’s eyes grew wide. “Can I open it now?” she asked excitedly.
Stephen grinned. “You’d better, or you’ll be flying like a bird in a minute.”
With nervous fingers she opened the box and took out a light brown cameo with a dove delicately carved above the figure. It was hooked to a fine, gold chain. “Oh, Stephen,” she whispered. “It is so beautiful. I cannot take it.”
“You’ll have to,” he said. “It’s for only one person in the world. You. If you don’t take it, I promise to throw it in the river.”
Hanna smiled. “You would not do that.”
“I swear I will,” he said seriously. She knew he would, so she pressed her lips against his.
Suddenly, his attention turned back to the cow. His hand washing her down had felt a movement that signaled she was trying once again. He moved to her rear, slid a hand into her uterus, then began exerting pressure inside.
“Wash her face,” said Stephen. “Work back to her shoulders.”
Hanna took up the cloth and began to do as she was instructed. She started talking to the cow, telling her how nice she was, how good her milk tasted, and what a brave mother she was.
“Keep talking to her,” said Stephen. “You’re doing great. She’s trying.”
The minutes went by, Stephen pulling only with minimal strength.
Suddenly the cow began squeezing and straining. Stephen drew back firmly on the legs of the calf. It barely moved.
“Slap her face!” he said to Hanna. She looked at him questioningly. “Slap her! Hard!” he said again, urgently.
Hanna slapped the muzzle with an open hand.
“Harder!” he cried. “Use your fist.”
She punched the cow in the face. Her fist began stinging. “Again,” said Stephen, pulling more strongly. She punched the cow twice. The cow shook her head, shocked by the attack. Stephen felt the calf move ever so slightly. “It’s coming,” he said. “Keep hitting her, hard.”
Finally understanding what was at stake, Hanna began pounding on the animal. As it twisted its head to escape the pummeling, its muscles convulsed and Stephen felt the calf finally move free. Placing a knee against the cow’s rump, he drew back forcefully.
The calf’s front feet emerged, then its head, and once the shoulders broke through, its entire body gushed out.
Hanna turned towards him, and her eyes fastened on the calf.
Stephen smiled. “It’s alive, Hanna, and well.” He leaned over the wet, sticky animal and his smile became broader. “Or rather, I should say, she’s alive.”
CHAPTER 9
The stab of pain struck Motlie just at dawn. She came awake with a gasp of fear, then horror flooded through her. It is the cancer, her mind shrieked! Cancer! Cancer! It is in the pit of my stomach and it is eating me, tearing me apart. Oh God, dear glorious God, please make it stop.
The pain struck again. From her clenched lips came a low, tortured groan. She turned to one side and tried to stifle the next