No Time for Tears Page 4

Moishe sat there perplexed, trying to understand the meaning of Dovid’s words, repeating to himself, Never again Masada … except how did this apply to him? To his family? The stories of brave warriors were great, but Odessa wasn’t Masada…

  Seeing the confusion on Moishe’s face, Dovid asked him what was the matter.

  “What do we do, Dovid? The same thing that Ele’azar asked the zealots of Masada to do? Lie down and die when the pogroms start?”

  “No. In fact, just the opposite. The story I’ve just told has a simple message for us … we must survive until we can redeem our land. The message of Masada is courage. It is burned into our souls, so that in spite of the pogroms no one will ever defeat our determination to become free. It is difficult to understand, I know, because we live as the oppressed, the downtrodden, but one day Eretz Yisroel will rise up, and on that day we will have our revenge for all the tyranny and injustice perpetrated against us.”

  Moishe still looked at Dovid in confusion. “How will we do that, Dovid?”

  “Through Zionism.”

  “Zionism? What is that?”

  “It’s getting late, but tomorrow night I’ll tell you about a man named Theodore Herzl. He dedicated his life to that one dream. There’s so much I want to tell you about. How soon there will come from Eretz Yisroel a teacher, a Bilu, who like Moses will help us find the promised land once again.”

  “When will he come?” Moishe asked.

  “Soon, very soon.”

  Chavala had been listening with some irritation. Believing that there was no hope that they would go anywhere, she felt it served no purpose to remind Dovid of those who had gone to Eretz Yisroel only to come back disillusioned. It wasn’t the land of milk and honey. She remembered well the stories of those who had died from malaria and hunger, and the swamps. If there was any chance to change their lives, it was, she was convinced, in America. That was a new land. There was real equality and freedom there. And people lived decently, not in squalor. She’d literally dreamed about America, about arriving there and seeing the famous golden land of opportunity. That was where hope had reality, she passionately believed. But she kept silent, for now. Let papa have his dreams, and Dovid his hopes…

  Moishe interrupted her thoughts with, “Will you take me to hear more about this?”

  “Yes,” Dovid said. “But no one must know about this, it would be very dangerous for all of us if we were found out. The Lovers of Zion is a secret society—”

  “I’ll never tell, Dovid. Never.”

  Nor would the others, they solemnly assured him. Chavala then scooted them off to bed, saying there had been enough stories for one night.

  Moishe fell asleep thinking about what Dovid had said, conjuring up images in the dark, imagining the heroic figure of Dovid standing in the footsteps of … what was his name?… Ele’azar…

  Sitting at the table drinking tea, Chavala said, “Dovid, please don’t take Moishe to your meeting.”

  “Why? He’s old enough.”

  “But he’s also impressionable and romanticizes everything—”

  “That may be, but it’s also important for Jews to know who they are, where they came from. And besides, what’s wrong with having dreams, hopes…?”

  “That’s fine, if dreams can become reality—”

  “And where is it written, dear Chavala, that they can’t? You had a dream, as I recall, that if I built a shed to house a goat, it would give milk and you would be able to bring your baby sister home. Am I right?”

  “You’re right.” She smiled at him.

  “Well, your dream is now a reality. Tomorrow we can go to Manya’s and bring back little Chia where she belongs.”

  In spite of all that was against it, Dovid had completed the shed. First there was the lumber, which he managed to acquire, then the snows … day after day he’d come into the house so frozen that not even a basin of hot water would thaw him.

  “Oh, Dovid, no wonder my mother loved vou.”

  “Your mother? About her, I knew. What about you?”

  “Me too, Dovid. Oh yes, me too.”

  Winter no longer seemed so terrible. Little Chia had brought a light and joy that leavened all their miseries. She was a ray of sun that no cloud could dull. The children took turns feeding her from a small wine bottle that Chavala had saved since Chanukah. Dovid had formed a nipple from the finger of a rubber glove and fastened it to the bottle with some of Chavala’s elastic….

  At four months Chia had changed from an emaciated, tiny bundle of bones to a chubby infant who cooed and kicked vigorously. At night she slept alongside them in the tiny crib Dovid had made and Chavala had padded with down. How Dovid managed as he did was a thing of wonder to Chavala … even coming home with a bundle of coal and a few eggs.

  Chavala sewed with the baby always at her side, and Dovid worked across the road with more enthusiasm than he’d ever felt before, turning out one pair of boots after another. This summer he and Chavala would take their wares into Odessa, and their combined efforts would secure their needs for the following winter. How good it was, he thought, to have a wife like his … as he worked away his thoughts drifted to the house across the road, to the woman inside it, to how she’d changed from the difficult girl he had once known to the understanding wife who gave herself so willingly. What more could he want?

  Out of his love and admiration for Dovid, Moishe decided that if bootmaking was the noble profession his mentor had chosen, then it was only fitting he should follow in his footsteps. He worked alongside Dovid, whom he thought of as the finest bootmaker in Odessa. Maybe, thought Moishe, in all of Russia. He sold to the rich people in the city, refusing to accept less than he asked. When a man was a master at his craft he could command his price. He knew what he was worth. Working with Dovid gave Moishe an even greater pleasure … he could put a thousand questions to Dovid … his desire to know the world was insatiable. In fact, he’d thought of little else since he’d attended his first meeting of the Lovers of Zion. He’d been so impressed, sitting with the men in Reb Kaufman’s darkened back room, and even though his voice was not heard, just to be a part of the great debates gave him stature. He hung onto every word as the huge red-bearded chalutz from Palestine spoke. The arguments flew, and Dovid always took up the one for the cause of Zionism. It seemed so clear to him that Herzl’s dreams were their salvation, and yet there were those among them that strongly disagreed and stood in the way of every new proposal. Dovid, though, continued to hammer away, and Moishe was especially proud when Dovid stood in front of the small assembly and boomed out, “You fools. You disparage and debate whether Zionism is our salvation, while our enemies plot to destroy us. If we don’t cling to our birthright of Eretz Yisroel, then where can we be free men that can direct our own destiny? For thousands of years we’ve suffered in the lands of the Diaspora. Our children die of starvation and we live out our lives without hope.” Even our Russian overlords have freed their serfs. But our Jews still live without hope, in spite of the fact that a Russian revolution is being made right now …in every hamlet, every village the rumblings of hatred for the Czarists is rising and spreading. But you who feel that your salvation lies with their revolution are wrong. No matter how you try, in the end even the revolutionists will turn on you. Mark me well, chevra, our only hope for redemption lies in the land that was taken from us. And it is not God, nor the teachings of the Torah, nor the Talmud that will save us from the sword, as many of you religious fanatics believe, but a land that is ours and that we must claim. No Jew, no matter where, will be safe until we have a country that belongs to us. Then and only then will the world stand up and respect us. Leave us in peace. We are pawns to be used in any way our oppressors wish. I ask how you can be so blind, all of you who have lived in such misery. You who are so religious should remember, ‘If I forget thee, oh Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning … let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.’

  “
Can you forget? The white stones of the Judean hills are mixed with the blood of five thousand years. Are the lives of those who fought for generations to become meaningless? Can you forget? I say go up, or surely we shall perish, as we deserve to, because we have not learned the lesson of Masada.”

  Dovid sat down and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Could a Maccabee have stood and spoken more forcefully than Dovid? He had stood tonight like the biblical David, the warrior. Yes, Moishe thought, his idol had been rightly named.

  Although the long winter seemed reluctant to give way to spring, the snows finally melted, and once more the village came alive.

  The grinding wheels of Yankel’s rickety milk cart could be heard as he made his morning rounds, the sound replaced by his curses as he tried to lift the rear wagon wheel out of the mud.

  Itzik, the butter and egg vendor, laughed as he cautiously walked past Yankel, thanking God that what he sold could be carried by the yoke on his back. His smugness soon turned to regret as he slipped in the slime. God was everywhere, Itzik thought, and this was his punishment as he lay facedown, covered from head to toe, and all his eggs broken.

  “That’ll teach you to laugh,” Yankel called out.

  Dovid looked from the window as he sat at his cobbler’s bench with Moishe beside him, and counted his blessings … at least he’d been able to make his living indoors all winter.

  Chavala felt a great joy this morning as she saw and smelled the first signs of spring. The cherry tree that stood alone in the small backyard was ready to burst out with blossoms. God, how she loved spring, the promised renewal of life! Feeling the awesomeness of nature’s wonder, the remembrance of another time came happily back to warm her as though it were yesterday, and she remembered how mama picked the fine plump fruit and took the gallon jug, filling it more than half with sugar, then with pure, white alcohol. It was Chavala’s honor to drop the cherries into the jug, one by one. Then the jug was stored away in the cellar and at Chanukah the jug was taken from its resting place. It was a time of gladness, as mama served the potato latkes and papa gave each one a very small glass of mama’s wine. But it was the brandied cherries that Chavala enjoyed the best. She laughed now, recalling how she’d gone to the cellar one day and quietly uncorked the jug … she must have eaten two dozen before she felt light-headed and giddy. Realizing mama would find the cherries gone she replenished the jug with alcohol. Her guilt made her confess her great sin on the eve of Chanukah, and to her surprise her mother only laughed. “If you don’t tell papa, I won’t. Besides, after a few drops of my slivovitz, no one will tell the difference.”

  Now the weeks turned to days, and that enchanted time of the year was once more on them … excitement permeated the air in the little village as the women began preparing for Passover.

  Chavala took down the Passover dishes to be washed. The children scrubbed the walls and floors as though exorcising the miseries of winter memories.

  Chavala polished the silver candlesticks until they shone. They were mama’s cherished possessions, dearest mama … her presence would be felt.

  Dovid, miracle man that he was, came home with a crate of eggs and a sack of onions, then accompanied his wife to the marketplace. The women of the village looked at one another as Dovid put the bundles of food into his handcart, stared at one another in disbelief. What husband did that?

  At Reb Levi’s stall they heard Manya arguing that the chickens were good for the goyim but not fit to be eaten by pigs.

  Reb Levi endured this abuse from Manya every Shabbes, so why should this be any different, but he was wise to her. It was her way of trying to intimidate him by demeaning his poultry so she could buy cheaper. Manya, he already knew. She was famous for bargaining. “I wouldn’t give you off a penny,” he called back.

  “Did I ask? I only want pound for pound for what I pay.”

  “Do me a favor, madam, go elsewhere. Aggravation from you I don’t need.”

  “Aggravation I’m giving you? If your chickens were as big as your mouth, I wouldn’t be complaining.”

  “Oy vay, a heart attack I’ll get from her … all right already, here, take a capon for the same price.”

  Manya felt beneath the thick white feathers. This one was pleasingly fat. “So, for this great favor, what do you want?”

  “Make it two kopeks and it’s yours.”

  “One.”

  Some chutzpah, but Manya would outtalk him. In desperation he finally said, “I’ll give your charity to the shul.”

  On the way out she saw Chavala and Dovid. No wonder Chavala couldn’t wait to marry him. He was so tall and handsome, and virile. Thick black hair, deep blue eyes, and those lips that must have tasted like sweet wine. But why was he here with her in the middle of the morning, he looked so out of place. There could be only one reason. Manya’s eyes wandered to Chavala’s middle. It had been after all, six whole months. Well, maybe being thin like Chavala was, she didn’t show. Not like her, she was only in her third month and already she looked like six.

  After their usual amenities they wished one another the happiest of Passovers and that they should all be blessed with good health above all… still, “A little prosperity wouldn’t hurt,” Manya added….

  At home Chavala’s eyes and nose ran as she grated the horseradish root, then mixed the beet pulp, sugar and wine vinegar. Screwing on the top of the jar she laughed, it was so strong that if anything could ward off the evil eye it would surely be the horseradish. Then she began to chop the fish mixture in a large wooden bowl, and as she did so her mother came to mind … among mama’s legacies was the recipe she’d left Chavala, but in mind only. Not written down. Yes, mama’s gefilte fish was the envy of the village.

  Sheine made the matzoh balls, while Chavala basted the chickens, and then together the two sisters put themselves to the task of making the sponge cakes. Sheine beat the egg whites and Chavala the yolks.

  When all the cooking was finally completed, and since Passover had fallen on Friday, at three in the afternoon Chavala went to the mikvah….

  At the precise moment of the setting sun the family was seated. At the head of the table papa sat in his armchair, surrounded by eiderdown pillows. To his right sat Dovid, Sheine next to him. The closeness to Dovid made Sheine’s pulse beat fast, this was a place she would rather not be. Sheine still lived with her dreadful secret … she was so much in love with Dovid that most of the time she could not even bear to be in his presence, and it was at those times, when he was near, that she was sullen and withdrawn. At nights she would lay awake and listen to the sounds of love beyond the hanging blanket, and out of fear that her sobs would be heard she buried her face in the pillow. To be so in love with her sister’s husband brought pain and shame to her heart. If only she could exchange her place at the table with Dvora, who sat next to her. But this was the way they had always been seated, with Moishe across the table near papa. Chavala stood at the other end of the table dressed in mama’s black silk with the white lace collar and the shawl over her head as she began the ritual of lighting the candles. But, despite herself, instead of listening to the inspired message of Shabbes, Sheine’s thoughts were displaced by envy. Mama had left Chavala the small diamond earrings because she had the good fortune of being the eldest. She also wore the pair of wide gold bracelets that had been Dovid’s mothers. Seeing how brightly they shone in the candlelight, Sheine thought Chavala looked like a queen tonight. She looked like the peasant she was. She bowed her head, not in reverence, but because the sight of Chavala with Dovid was too much for her.

  The seder went on for hours, not a passage was deleted, not a song left unsung.

  Avrum Rabinsky could have told the story of Passover without the aid of a Haggadah. It was a story burned into his mind, so that if he were blind it could still have come from his lips. Uncovering the matzohs and lifting up the plate for all to see, he recited, “This is the bread of affliction which our forefathers ate in the land of Egypt. All who are hungry
come and celebrate the Passover with us. Now we are here, next year may we be in the land of Israel. Now we are slaves, next year may we be free men.”

  Moishe looked across the table, where Dovid’s eyes met his and in both the message was clearly understood.

  The plate was then put down and covered with a special fringed napkin and a second cup of wine was filled. It was Raizel’s privilege, being the youngest at the table, to ask the ancient four questions beginning with: “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

  Although Avrum answered, Dovid added silently, Because of Chavala, the blessing and joy she has brought to my existence is why tonight is different…

  When the reaffirmation was proudly intoned by Avrum, “Next year in Jerusalem,” again Moishe and Dovid nodded.

  Chavala, though, prayed that next year they would be in the land of the free and the home of the brave … America. The Jews of that great land of opportunity had no need to return to Russia, broken in body and many in spirit from the malaria-infested swamps of Palestine. For the sake of her father and her husband, and apparently now her brother Moishe too, she was thankful her thoughts could not be read.

  She and Sheine removed the plates, then the cakes were brought to the table and Dvora served small bowls of fruit compote.

  Avrum looked around the table at his children, especially the little one, and spoke silently to his Rivka. My dearest, you left me with so much, I weep that you cannot share this with me. Yet you are not far away. I know your spirit abides and is over us, and all the days of my life it will be so…

  On Sunday Chavala prepared a platter of matzoh brei and when the sumptuous breakfast was over she left the kitchen chores to be done by the girls and returned to sewing while Dovid went back to his workbench.

  The small village hummed with the excitement of market day. Sundays were always special. The women not only replenished their larders, but the square became a meeting place to exchange bits of gossip while their husbands attended to the affairs of earning a living.