“We will.” The vodka, and the thought of helping his native land, was making him giddy. “When do you want the money?”
“Within four days.”
“I will have it.”
“Very well.” Hershel stood up and held out his hand. “Good luck. And be careful.”
Thomas turned down the wick of the lamp again and let Hershel slip out of the house. Hershel stood motionless for half a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then walked attentively back to the Barlaks.
Chapter 2
It was a pleasurable Sabbath eve, one the family had not had for so very long. Hershel made the difference. While waiting for Israel to come home from services at the synagogue, he had penciled caricatures of the children on small sheets of paper. Zelek could barely restrain his joy, running down the street to show his drawing to his father. Israel burst out laughing at the picture of the boy, dressed in a Cossack uniform, waving a saber over the head of their arrogant rooster, Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov, cowering behind one of his hens.
Gitel was directly behind Zelek with her sketch, showing her seated on the roof of the house reaching for a star, and next was Reba, displaying a picture of herself looking angelically up at the ceiling of the kitchen while sneaking a cookie from a dish.
How aptly he has captured the spirit of the children, reflected Hanna. Zelek was the kind of boy whom nothing deterred, and the family had learned that he was as adept at dealing with trouble as he was getting into it. Slender Gitel had always been a bit of a mystery, seeming to dwell in a land far beyond their ken. And Reba could eat mouthful for mouthful with any of the family, but preferred to sneak tidbits even if they were available for the taking.
It had turned dark by the time the family sat down to eat, and once Israel recited the broche, the benediction, they fell to. Two of the fish given to Hanna by Stephen had been carp, and Motlie had prepared her fluffy gefilte fish, the meat finely chopped, mixed with small pieces of onions and eggs, then boiled with carrots. She had also ground a portion of fresh horseradish, which brought tears to the eyes when eaten with the appetizer.
Hershel sighed with contentment. “I have never eaten gefilte fish like this before,” he said to Motlie. “It melts in my mouth.”
“It looks like it melted in your eyes, too,” chuckled Israel.
Hershel took a taste of the horseradish by itself and pretended to gasp for air. The children laughed. He took another taste and acted as if he was strangling. The children roared with delight. Hanna’s heart overflowed at hearing the laughter at the table.
“Don’t you have horseradish in Germany?” asked Motlie, laughing as hard as the others.
“Not like this. This is magnificent. It clears out your entire palate, and makes the next bite as tasty as the one before.”
They had broken bread, so questions were in order. “Your parents, God bless them,” said Israel. “They are alive?”
“My mother, aleha ha-shalom, died ten years ago. My father, alav ha-sholom, went two years after her.”
“I’m very sorry. May they rest in peace. Any brothers, sisters?”
“A brother. He lives in Berlin.”
“And this sketching you do. You do it all over?”
“Yes. I was in Poland last year. Then Russia the year before. After Lithuania, I’d like to visit the Jews in North Africa.”
They slowed their conversation to eat chicken soup spiced with carrots, parsnip, and a dash of salt. Again Hershel complimented Motlie, and all at the table could see he was sincere.
“They say Jews can own land in Germany, like in America,” said Israel.
“Yes. Jews have been enfranchised for over a hundred years.”
“What does this enfranchised mean?” asked Hanna.
“It means to free. Either from slavery or legal bondage. Also to become a citizen and to vote.”
Israel had been pulling at his beard and reflecting hard. “How is it,” he asked, taking a spoonful of soup to rethink his question one more time, “that you have permission to travel around Russia?”
“I’m an artist. Artists are free from politics, rulers, regulations.” He chuckled. “Especially after bribing half a dozen officials for the pass.”
Israel shook his finger knowingly and nodded his head, a gleam of understanding in his eyes. “That’s what talks in every country.” He approved of this German. He was not like most of the German Jews he had met who informed you at once that God had endowed them with a special superiority, as if they were the elite and the Poles and Russians were the crude types. That is what comes of being free.
He mulled over what Hanna had told him this morning–that the German seemed secretive. Israel trusted Hanna’s judgment. He thought of how she had taken over the direction of the family from him. Not obtrusively, nor deliberately, but from backstage. She did not pretend that he was the boss, she actually regarded him as such. The decisions she made came naturally, knowing intuitively that they were ones Israel would have made. There were times when Israel was ready to say, Whoa! I’ll say when we should do this, or how we will do that. Then he would realize that he was about to exert a display of leadership that was not really being questioned. Most important, Hanna had not asked to be placed in the decision-making role. She had accepted it because it had been suddenly dropped in her lap.
He looked across to her hanging onto every word Hershel was saying. My God, he thought, what a jewel some man will have one day. Like her mother. But he had to admit that Hanna was stronger and smarter than Motlie. We did well there, Motlie and I, he said to himself, a warm, proud smile on his lips.
He brought himself back to the present. He had let the remark from Hershel go by, that he had bribed his pass from some official. Israel had bribed far too many people to accept that story. One could water down the inspection of a boat, or speed up a permit, but a carte blanche of moving around a country like Russia, well, that took big money, or knowing a very important official, or having a very false pass. For a moment he felt fear. He had known fear intimately since his disability. Not a fear of death, for that is something that happens to neighbors or to people in Timbuktu. But one that reeked of poverty, like a lance thrust into his heart. Such as, what is going to happen to the family after Motlie goes? She was laughing again at something Hershel had said. Color was back in her cheeks. Thank the German for that. But what could happen to them all if the pass is not legal, he thought, focusing again on the subject, a chill lying heavily on his chest. The police might throw me into jail just for harboring the man, and neither my crippled leg nor my innocence in this matter would make a bit of difference to them.
Hanna brought to the table the two chickens, with peeled potatoes baked in their juice until they were brown and crisp, and a large platter of carrots. To one side were slices of golden challah, and next to Israel were slabs of pumpernickel, dark from unsifted rye.
For the children, all that chicken was a feast, one that was placed upon the table only on festive occasions. Hanna served Israel the chicken feet, which he loved to gnaw on, chewing away at the rough skin with the slender slivers of flesh inside. The girls clamored for the white breasts, while Hershel and Zelek preferred the thighs. Motlie liked the necks best of all, and would work on them for most of the meal.
There was only a sip of wine for each, for their budget could not stand more, even though the Sabbath was the most holy day. During the Sabbath, no man, servant, or beast was to work, all must bathe thoroughly, dress in their best clothes, use their finest linens, dishes.
Stephen