No Time for Tears Page 2

  “My mother was a saint. I’m not. I think I hate the world, Manya. When I go into Odessa and see the way the rich Jews and the goyim live, I spit out. Why has God been so good to them? Why are they so privileged to have so much and we not a crust of bread? And my dear sainted mother died from neglect… where was God?”

  “God was here, Chavala. It’s not God’s revenge.”

  “Then whose? What does it all mean when those rich pious Jews run to shul and pray so loud that God should hear them? It’s very easy for them to pray on a full stomach, then go home to a warm house where their Russian servants serve them tea and upon us they look down. They don’t have to wait for a Leah to bring their children to life. The rich doctors of Odessa provide their survival. Their warehouses bulge with grain, and we starve. Where is justice, Manya? Where? We live out our few years in misery and who comes to help? Our good, rich brethren in Odessa ignore us. Wouldn’t you think, Manya, that God would look down from heaven and cry a little when the pogroms come? Isn’t it strange how God passes over the houses of those privileged ones in Odessa? No, Manya, for us there seems no help.”

  “Please, Chavala, don’t say such things. It’s sinful to speak this way.”

  “The truth is never a sin. At least it shouldn’t be. My mother is dead because of the sins of others … because we are forced to live like vermin. Where was God this morning when I asked Him for help? Was my voice so weak it couldn’t be heard? No, Manya, my mother died because God’s ears were elsewhere.”

  Manya got up and looked at Chavala. Her enormous bulk actually trembled. She would listen to no more. It was enough. “Get the baby ready so I can take her home … I’ll be back,” she said, and left, her feelings a mixture of outrage and pity.

  Chavala stared down now at the child in her arms. “I swear to you, my little Chia, your life will be different than mine. I swear, I promise.” Chavala was so deep in her own thoughts she’d not heard Dovid come into the house, nor noticed as he stood framed in the doorway. When she looked up and saw him, she knew the death wagon had arrived to take her mother away. She did not move from her chair as she heard the muted voices and footsteps go in and out of the bedroom. She also heard the sound of her heart beating like a drum. Handing the little Chia to Dovid, she rushed to the pail and was sick. For a moment she stood weakly against the drainboard, breathing hard. Then, grabbing up her heavy shawl and wrapping it around her, she ran from the house to follow the wagon as it made its mournful way to the Chevra Kadisha. When it stopped she stood rooted in the mud as she watched the body of her mother being taken inside. Soon the women would be preparing the body, putting it into the white burial shroud. The sight of it in her mind was almost more than even she could stand. How long Chavala remained outside she did not know, but something deep inside her was brought up sharply as she remembered the other children.

  She turned slowly and walked away. When she arrived at Mrs. Greenblatt’s, the door was opened and the woman’s eyes looked into Chavala’s grief-stricken face. There was no need for words.

  It had taken little time for the small village to learn of Rivka Rabinsky’s passing. Mrs. Greenblatt held out her arms and brought the girl close to her. Stroking the girl’s lovely hair, she finally said, “It’s life, Chavala. We must learn to accept that we are all only mortal. The years of our lives are arranged and we must understand that…”

  Chavala found little comfort in such well-intentioned words. Jews for centuries had accepted their fates with passive resignation. Not Chavala. Who devised such a plan, she cried out inside herself. God? What had the pious soul of her mother done to offend anyone, much less God? Why should she have been taken away so quickly? She should have been allowed to live, to have seen her children grow up to maturity. No, there was no justice. How could Chavala be comforted in a deity so cruel, or so indifferent? She separated herself from the embrace. “Thank you for your kindness, and now I want to take the children home.” She followed Mrs. Greenblatt into the kitchen, where her brother and sisters sat in absolute silence at the table. Looking at their stunned expressions, she was furious at what had deprived them of so much. And so damned unfairly.

  They got up all at once and embraced Chavala as the tears fell from their eyes. They spoke together, the words tumbling from their frightened lips … “Mama’s dead, Chavala,” said Moishe…. “What will happen to us?” asked twelve-year-old Sheine. Ten-year-old Dvora looked at Chavala as though she could find the answers to chase her fears, and the youngest, eight-year-old Raizel, who could not fathom what dying was… “Why did mama go away from us, Chavala?”

  In spite of her effort to console them there was still a bitterness showing. “Because God decided He needed mama more than we do … now dry your tears. I’ve come to take you home. You must be strong. Papa needs us.” As she adjusted Raizel’s babushka she added, “You have a sister. Yes, children, rejoice. Little Chia is the gift mama gave us … now, come.”

  How quickly God wanted back what belonged to him, Chavala thought. What had come from the earth was returned to the earth … According to Jewish law the burial took place as soon as possible. It denied any display of ostentation, insisted on the starkness of burial rights. It was a tradition of thousands of years that a Jew was to be buried in an unadorned pine box, and the body laid to rest in a white linen shroud. It was not only a mitzvah but the duty of the entire village to attend the funeral as one family. It was almost a commandment. For Rivka Rabinsky the landsmen not only paid their respects but mourned her passing. They stood in the rain and watched the coffin being lowered into the cold ground and in that moment sobs reverberated through the morning air. In the minds of many was the thought that what they were now witnessing one day would be theirs, that their days too were numbered and that eventually all roads led to the grave. How important it was for mortal men to walk humbly with God … Don’t forget it…

  Avrum bent down and placed a tiny bag of ancient holy dirt on top of the coffin as the tears fell from his wrinkled face. “Sleep in peace, my beautiful Rivka … my days will be lived in grief until I lay side by side with you.”

  The children clustered close to Chavala as they watched. The eeriness in the small cemetery, the solemnity of the rabbi intoning the eulogy would trouble their dreams through the long, long nights to come.

  All was silent now as each mourner threw a handful of soggy earth over the grave.

  Dovid caught Chavala’s arm as she faltered for a moment, then with Avrum and the children they walked slowly away from the cemetery.

  The next seven days were spent in mourning as the men sat on the floor and prayed the ancient psalms for the dead while the women of the village paid homage to the bereaved Rabinskys by sharing the little food they had….

  A month had passed and now Avrum spent his every waking moment in the room he had shared with his beloved wife. Behind the closed door he stood in silent prayer. His grief was so consuming that Chavala could barely watch as he sat, mute, with the children at supper. He had eaten so little that his clothes clung to his emaciated body and the furrows of his face had deepened so that he was almost unrecognizable. It seemed that almost overnight his hair had turned completely white. His shoulders were bent. His eyes were vague, and the little he said was mostly beyond comprehension.

  It was difficult for Chavala to work at her sewing this particular morning. Her mind was a confusion. She stopped pedaling and stared out of the window. The first snow had fallen during the night, and the sight depressed her, as did her thoughts. Papa, it seemed, would never recover from his loss, never again would be a father the children could look to for protection and to provide even the meager living he had made for them before. His only comfort seemed to be the time he spent praying in his lonely room. His days were passed in the synagogue—praying to atone for all his sins—and when he returned at night he seemed oblivious to everything. Nothing Chavala could say helped. But they needed a father, not a shadowy figure who lived in grief.

  Ch
avala knew what had to be done. Without further thought she got up and went to the kitchen.

  The children were studying. Moishe looked up from his book as he saw Chavala putting on her shawl. “Where are you going?”

  “I have to attend to something,” she answered quietly and left without another word. Slowly she made her way across the road to Dovid’s house. Shivering in the cold, she stood until he opened the door. For a moment he could not speak, then recovered enough to say, “Come in, sit down, I’ll get you a hot cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you,” she answered between chattering teeth. “I didn’t come to visit.”

  “What then?”

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “This Saturday after Shabbes we’re getting married.” That having been said, she turned and started toward the door. With her hand poised on the knob she turned again and faced Dovid, who stood, not surprisingly, in a state of shock.

  “Be ready. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  He merely shook his head as he watched the door close behind her.

  As she made her way through the snow she cursed the Russian winter. It wasn’t enough, the way they suffered. God even subjected them to this kind of white hell. Out of breath, she knocked at Manya’s door. She needed so badly to see the baby.

  “Come in, come in. You’ll freeze to death out there,” Manya said.

  Chavala blew her warm breath on her freezing-cold hands, then rubbed them together.

  “Sit down, Chavala, I’ll get some tea.”

  As she did so Chavala’s stomach turned over. The house was so silent. Since her mother had died everything seemed to take on a sense of foreboding. “Where are your children, Manya?”

  “I sent them to my sister’s. Mendel is sick with a very bad cold and the children get on his nerves with all the shouting and fighting.”

  “If the Russians don’t kill us, the winter will.”

  Manya sighed. “What can we do? They say we were born to suffer.”

  Again, the acceptance, the stoicism, the capitulation. We were born to suffer. Why? Chavala asked herself. By what divine rule? “Could I see the baby?”

  “Yes, I’ll go.” Manya walked into the disheveled bedroom. In one corner were two makeshift cribs made from wooden crates, in the other corner Manya’s husband lay on a mattress of straw. Going to her husband’s side she bent down and felt his forehead. It was like fire to the touch. She wiped his forehead with a damp cloth and then lay another coat over him. “Rest,” she told him, “rest. I’ll bring you some chicken soup in a while. You’ll see, the nourishment will make you strong in no time at all.”

  The man’s eyes were glassy, he scarcely heard. Shaking her head, she got up from her knees and walked to where the cribs stood. First she looked down at her own sleeping child, then picked up little Chia. Soon she was back handing the infant to Chavala, and as Chavala looked down at the tiny creature, she again questioned—why, in God’s name, did they bring children into the world? In God’s name, indeed. Poor Manya could barely make the food go around, yet she could still speak about her eight blessings, her jewels, her life.

  Chavala admired her, but she also felt a renewed determination … she would never allow herself to have more children than she could provide for … How this would be accomplished she had no idea, but she was going to direct, she was going to plan her life. Somehow she would do the impossible…

  Manya looked across the table, knowing she had read the longings for motherhood in Chavala’s eyes. “I know how you feel holding a baby in your arms. How good it is. If we never have anything else, He has provided us with the joys of a family. How barren our lives would be without it. It is what a woman was put on this earth for…”

  But Manya had misread the look in Chavala’s eyes. To explain would be futile … “Manya, I’m going to marry Dovid,” she said flatly as she took the hard sugar cube and placed it between her teeth, then sipped from the glass of tea.

  Excitedly Manya said, “Mazel tov, when did your father speak to him?”

  “He didn’t. I asked him.”

  For a moment Manya thought she’d heard wrongly. “You asked him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you be so brazen? I’m almost afraid to ask, but does your father know?”

  “No.”

  Manya shook her head. “You mean to say you actually went to Dovid without your father’s consent?”

  “I don’t need anyone’s consent… after all, I don’t have a dowry.”

  “What has that got to do with it? You’ve offended your father. It’s his place to arrange the marriage, his right as the head of the family. You know that, Chavala.”

  “Yes, I know. But I also know my father’s no longer the head of the family. He doesn’t, I’m sorry to tell you, even understand when I speak to him. He stopped caring about anything when he lost my mother, seemed to give up on life. Tell me, how long has it been since he saw the baby? You know, I doubt if he even remembers her.”

  Manya lowered her eyes and toyed with the crumbs on the table. “You shouldn’t say that. He’s a brokenhearted man, seeing the child hurts him—”

  “I know, but I need a strong man, someone to be a real father to them.”

  “Well… I can’t say you’re wrong. I know this is a terrible time for all of you. And besides, it’s wonderful to be able to marry someone for love. But Chavala, at least allow your father to have the honor of letting Dovid ask for your hand.”

  “I don’t think he’d understand me if I asked. And besides, I’m not marrying Dovid because I love him. I wish I did but … well, I chose Dovid because it’s right, he’s like a member of the family. I know he’ll be good to the children and protect them. And that’s what I need, and what they need.”

  “You make it sound like you’re buying a horse.”

  “Perhaps. And is that so different from most marriages? How well, Manya, did you know Mendel before you two were married?”

  “What? Oh, one month.”

  “How many times had you seen him before?”

  “Once. What else did I have to see him for?”

  “I’m not criticizing, Manya. Mendel is a very nice man. But what if he had turned out not to be so nice, so kind, what then? At least I know Dovid. Better a man of my choice than to be traded off to some old man with nine children to take care of.”

  “All right. Fine. What’s the use of talking? Nobody can reason with you, Chavala. But it’s against our tradition—”

  “Tradition won’t protect us from the pogroms. It never has…”

  Nothing she said seemed right, Manya decided. “I don’t know, maybe your father won’t be offended … Dovid is like a son, true enough. Anyway, we’ll all make you a nice wedding.” She smiled at her and hugged her.

  Chavala was genuinely touched. “I would love that, Manya. And thank you, dear, but we’re getting married this Saturday, after Shabbes.”

  Manya’s mouth was open but no words came out. When they did they were in anger. “You can’t do that. Your mother is only gone a month. You’re still in mourning for eleven months. Everyone will criticize. No one will even come.”

  “I know. But I can’t afford to worry about what people think. I have to do what I have to do.”

  “You know what you’re doing is a sin, a sin against your mother’s memory—”

  “I think my mother will forgive me, she will know I’m doing what I must. I wouldn’t be getting married if things had been different. I wouldn’t have had to be disrespectful. Well, for once God will have to understand. They say He knows everything. I am going to count on that…”

  Chavala’s hasty trip to the altar led her to the shul of Rabbi Gottlieb. His arguments were much the same as Manya’s, only with long, long passages read from the Bible to prove that Chavala’s breaking with the old ways was against everything that was holy in the Jewish tradition. After he had finished all of his arguments Chavala stood quietly, looking him directly in the eye, and with ar
ms folded against her chest she told him that he should ask himself if tradition was not also opposed to her living in sin with Dovid, which he would be responsible for if he refused to marry them. At last the bearded rabbi threw up his hands and told her the marriage documents would be drawn up for all to sign. He turned and left her standing alone in the cold little shul.

  Avrum was deep in prayer when Chavala returned home. She stood at his closed door for a moment, then finally summoned up the courage to knock. The response was so soft it was almost inaudible. As she entered the room he looked at her vaguely, then as though a veil had lifted he said, “Chavala?”

  “Yes, papa. Come sit down. I want to talk with you.”

  He closed the holy book and sat next to her as docile as a child. Taking his hand in hers she said softly, “Papa, Dovid and I are getting married after Shabbes.”

  He frowned, as though he had difficulty trying to understand. “You and Dovid?”

  “Yes, papa.”

  The old man spoke now as though testing his own memory. “I spoke to him?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Papa, dear, you must listen to me. If things had been different I would have done all the things that are expected of me as a good daughter. You must know that I love you and respect you. But we need Dovid. He’s very important to us all, papa.”

  The old man shook his head, knowing more of his inadequacies than she suspected. At this moment he did not think of tradition as the past came rushing back to him … how often he and Rivka had dreamed of the day they would stand under the chuppah, the bridal canopy, with Chavala dressed as a bride should be. They had prayed that Chavala would take Dovid as a husband. The whole village would have rejoiced and sung, but now all the sounds of joy were gone from their lives, and in their place were the sounds of mourning. His sounds. The world of Avrum Rabinsky lay buried in the snows that covered the earth where his beloved Rivka lay. Poor Chavala would be deprived of her supreme moment. There would be no merriment and no memories to look back on, no mother to fuss over her as she prepared to join her betrothed in glorious union. Tears filled his eyes. “I give you my blessings, dear child. I hope you will have as your greatest gift the joys I knew with your mama.”