Jacob's Way Read online

  She spoke the words in Yiddish, for that had been her mother’s native language. Gretchen Moltman had been of German descent, and had spoken Yiddish so much that the rest of the family had learned it along with their native Russian. Her grandfather Jacob had taught Reisa Hebrew. While not fluent in this language as he was, Reisa could read it and even speak it rather haltingly. Over all of this was a layer of English. One of the villagers, Yuri Pavlov, had emigrated to the United States and stayed for several years. He had come back to take care of his aged parents and had brought several books with him. Living next door to Reisa and her grandfather, he had been amused at her interest in America and had taught her the rudiments of English. He had also let her read in English two books that he had brought back—Great English Poetry and Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  When the fire was built up, Reisa put the large kettle and the large iron pot on the stove, then filled them with water. Going back outside, she fetched an iron pot used to wash clothes. It was heavy, and she puffed as she brought it inside and set it down on the floor with a thump.

  While the water heated, she busied herself with the chores around the room which served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. The only other room was a bedroom and study where her grandfather kept his books and slept. She herself slept on a cot that folded up against the side of the wall in the larger room.

  Finally her work was interrupted by the bubbling of the water and the whistling of the kettle. Moving over, she poured the boiling hot water into the large pot and added some cold water. She loved baths as hot as she could bear.

  She bolted the door and drew the curtain over the window. The yellow light of the lamp illuminated the room as she stripped off all of her clothes and stuck her toe into the water. “Ooh, that’s good!” she whispered, then slowly immersed herself. The water came up to the edge of the pot so that only her head and knees were out. She lay there soaking up the delicious heat for a time, then finally straightened up and pulled the pins from her hair so that it cascaded down her back. She had beautiful black hair that came down to her waist, but no one ever saw it. She kept it done up and covered by a scarf, as all respectable Jewish women did.

  The soap was rough and almost gritty, but she managed to work up a lather as she washed her hair, then soaped herself all over. Filling the smaller pot with warm water, she rinsed herself and her hair. Finally she stepped out.

  Being completely undressed embarrassed her, even though she was all alone. As the daughter of an Orthodox Jew, she had arrived at the notion that the body was something to be covered and not exploited. She toweled herself dry and for one moment stared down at her body, thinking, I must have grown. I’m taller. Indeed, she was a tall young woman, with the prominent curves of young womanhood. She had long legs and a rather short upper body, and her muscles were firm, although lean rations had kept her very slender.

  She put on the underwear, the gatkes, then quickly donned a long gray woolen dress. Finally she sat with her back to the fire combing her hair and letting it dry. This was a time of peace for her, and she hummed under her breath. Finally, her hair dry, she moved over to the small mirror and began plaiting it so that she could put it under her scarf. Without meaning to do so, she studied her face. She was not a vain young woman, and would have been astonished if anyone had called her beautiful. Her hair was black as the blackest thing in nature, and her eyes were enormous—a strange gray-green color, with a beautiful, faintly oriental shape. She had an oval face with high cheekbones and a wide mouth. But one feature she always noticed was the widow’s peak, the tiny “V” of the hairline that dipped down on her forehead. She touched it and said playfully, “I ought to cut you off!”

  Finally she emptied the large pot a basin at a time, throwing the water out the door, then carried the pot outside. She felt strange about taking baths, for none of her neighbors seemed to enjoy the ritual—but she was determined to have this one pleasure.

  Hunger gnawed at her, and she moved quickly to prepare herself a small meal. She made tea in the samovar, heated a little of the beet soup that they had had for supper, and after she had eaten that she found a bit of taiglech, a small cake dipped in honey. She ate one of them, then Boris, her cat, came purring roughly and shoving his blunt head against her leg.

  “Oh, Boris! Are you hungry? Here, I saved you some fish.” Quickly she took the fish out of the cupboard, laid it out, and watched as he ate, stroking his coal-black fur. He looked up from time to time licking his chops, his enormous green eyes studying her. When he finished, she broke off a piece of the taiglech and offered it to him. “Do you like sweet cakes, Boris?” She laughed when he ate it. “Of course you do. You like everything.”

  Reisa rose and moved to the cage that her grandfather had made out of small branches, opened the door, and fed the small bird that was regaining his health. He had been mangled by a cat, and Boris was under suspicion. Reisa was always torn between her love for birds and her love for Boris. She often said to him, “Boris, you’re a mamzer!” This was the Yiddish word for trickster that she had heard her mother use many times.

  Reisa put on her coat, then picked up a package wrapped in brown paper. As she started for the door, Boris came at once with his nose stuck in the crack. “No! You can’t go,” Reisa said.

  Boris looked up at her—and grinned.

  Reisa laughed aloud at this ludicrous sight—as she always did. “You’re the only cat I ever saw that could grin.” Indeed it was true. Boris, for whatever reason, had learned to bare his teeth when he wanted something—or when he was in trouble. It was not a snarl, for the corners of his lips were turned up. It was a feat that never ceased to amaze and amuse Reisa, but now she picked him up firmly and moved him away from the door. Putting him down, she said, “Smile all you want to, but you’re not charming me. I’ll be back soon.”

  She left the house, pulling the door closed behind her. The biting cold struck her like a fist as she made her way against it. The small village was only a hundred yards from the little house she shared with her grandfather. As she came to the first house, it never occurred to her to think what a pitiful sort of village it was, for it was all she had ever known of the world. Basically the main street of the shtetel was composed of two rows of ramshackle houses. All of them were weathered and made of makeshift material, and now thin tendrils of smoke curled upward from the chimneys into the cloudy sky. She passed by two starved-looking dogs that slumped away when she spoke to them, and once a hammer-headed yellow cat emerged from a small space between two of the houses. She knelt down and stroked his fur for a moment, toying with the idea of taking him home. But this would not do, so she quickly moved on.

  The streets were frozen mud, and she stumbled a bit over the ruts as she passed through the village and headed toward the mayor’s house. She paused two hundred yards from the main part of the shtetel, and glanced fearfully at a stiff body hanging from a roughly built gibbet. A rusty chain encircled the middle of the body, and the face of the man was blue. The eyes of the corpse, staring and wide open, looked like frozen marbles. The body turned slowly, the chain creaking as the wind caught it. The criminal’s body had frozen over during the night, and now a few drops of congealed moisture fell on the ground beneath.

  Reisa shivered and turned her eyes away, a feeling of disgust welling up within her. What good do they think that does? Putting a corpse on a gibbet won’t keep men from stealing and killing. Other thieves laugh at it, thinking it won’t be them.

  Disturbed by this gruesome symbol of rough justice left by the military who roamed the countryside in large bands, Reisa hurried along. She heard her name called and turned to see Yelena Petrov emerging from her house, which was set a hundred feet back off the road. Yelena was a short, heavyset girl with a ruddy face and a pair of shiny dark brown eyes. She had a bad reputation in the neighborhood for going out with wild young men, and was what Orthodox Jews called a vildeh moid—a wild Jewish girl. She even went out with the czarist soldiers, but her parents let her do as she pleased, apparently not caring.

  “Reisa! Come in and get warm.”

  “I can’t, Yelena. I’ve got to go take this blouse to the mayor’s wife.”

  “Always working! Always working!” Yelena grinned. She was missing one tooth, and there was a vitality in her that seemed to leap out. “You know who came to see me last night?”

  “Who?”

  “One of the sergeants. His name is Retzov. We went over to the next village and danced until nearly two o’clock. I think I drank a little bit too much.”

  “You shouldn’t do that, Yelena. You’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Life’s too short to worry about that.” Yelena turned her head to one side and reached over and tugged at Reisa’s sleeve. “Come and go with me. The soldiers would go crazy over those green eyes of yours.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Reisa. I saw your grandfather talking to the shadchen last Monday.”

  “The matchmaker? Oh, that’s nothing. They’re good friends.”

  “Good friend, my eye! Your grandfather’s looking for a good deal. I think he wants to marry you off to Ivan Tankoff.”

  Reisa laughed shortly and shook her head firmly. “I’d just as soon marry a goy, a Gentile, as him.”

  “Well, he’s got lots of money.”

  “He’s got three children, and he needs a new wife. He’s worn out two women already, now he’s ready to start on a third. No matchmaker for me! I’ve got to go.”

  Yelena called out after Reisa. “You’d better come tonight. We’re going out sleigh riding. I can have my fellow bring you a friend.”

  Reisa shook her head and moved steadily down the road. She came to the mayor’s house and knocked on the door. The mayor himself, Vassily Trecovitch, opened the door. He was a large man of fifty with a round, pale face and muttonchop whiskers. “Ah, it’s you, Reisa. Come in out of the cold.”

  “I brought the blouse for your wife, Mayor.”

  “Fine. She only has twenty more, but she won’t be satisfied until she has a hundred.” He took the package and stood looking at her for a moment. He was not a Jew, but had been a good friend to her grandfather and to many of the other Jews. His wife had given Reisa a great deal of work, and the mayor himself had always been pleasant enough to her. His wife was a thin, dark woman who was sharp and rather harsh. Reisa much preferred dealing with the mayor himself.

  “Reisa, do you still study English with Yuri?”

  Surprised by the question, Reisa blinked, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mayor. I just like it. It’s fun, and it’s such a strange language. The sounds they make are so funny.”

  Trecovitch nodded and pulled at his muttonchops. They were fine and long, and he was rather vain about them. “I’m glad to hear you’re trying to better yourself. It may be a good thing.”

  “A good thing to study English?” Reisa asked, puzzled. “Why is that?”

  But Trecovitch merely shook his head. “Here,” he said, fumbling in his pocket and coming out with some change. “I put a little bonus in there.”

  “But your wife hasn’t even looked at it. She may not like it.”

  “You always do good work.” He smiled.

  “Thank you, Mayor.”

  As Reisa turned to go, the mayor said, “Reisa, where’s your grandfather?”

  “He’s teaching Hebrew at the synagogue.”

  “Have him come by and see me before he goes home.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I tell him what you want to see him for?”

  “No,” Vassily said, and his eyes refused to meet hers. “Just have him come by.”

  “Of course, Mayor. Thank you very much.”

  Reisa left the house somewhat puzzled by the behavior of Mayor Trecovitch. He was a jolly sort of man—yet there had been something almost furtive in his behavior. She could not understand it, and as she made her way down the street and headed toward the synagogue, she was puzzled. More than once she looked up at the gray skies and thought of the goose that she had found. The thought of how he had eaten and was now sleeping pleased her. “My fine fellow—soon you’ll be well—then I’ll set you free and you can fly to the warm south. You’ll be honking and pulling at the green grass with your fellows.”

  The thought of the goose’s long journey south intrigued Reisa. She loved geography, but knew little of the great world. The mayor had a book filled with beautiful maps, and several times he had gone over them with her. As she moved along, she tried to think what it would be like to travel. She had never been so much as ten miles from her village, but since childhood she had dreamed of strange lands far away. Perhaps she was so determined to see the great goose make his way to a distant place because she herself would never do so. Once it had pained her to think that she would live and die in her small village, never seeing anything of the great world the mayor’s book had revealed to her; now she had moved past that thought, putting it away with other girlhood fancies.

  If I can’t see the great world, my goose can! The thought cheered her, and she smiled as she made her way through the village.

  Two

  Reisa sat in the outer room which had been added to the synagogue, waiting for her grandfather Jacob to finish his Hebrew lessons with five bored and unruly boys. Across from her sat Reb Chaim Gurion, the spiritual leader of the small congregation. He was a thin, worn man with kindly brown eyes and sunken cheeks. His voice was soft, and there was a gentleness in his spirit that Reisa had always liked.

  “And how goes your Hebrew lessons, Reisa?”

  “Oh, I’m keeping up as well as I can, Reb Gurion. I’m afraid I’m not as good a student as I should be.”

  “Nonsense.” Gurion waved his thin hand in a gesture disclaiming her answer. “You were always smarter than any of your grandfather’s students.”

  “I’m pleased you should think so, but I’m afraid I didn’t get my grandfather’s brain.”

  The rabbi smiled suddenly, which made him look younger than his forty-five years. Time and troubles had lined his face and bent his thin frame, but his eyes were clear and sharp. “Tell me, Reisa, I know your grandfather’s giving you different subjects in the Torah and the Talmud. What are you studying now?”

  “For the last month he’s had me looking up passages on the Messiah.”

  “Indeed! Fascinating subject. Let me test you then. You’re familiar with Moses Mamonides?”

  “Yes, indeed. He was the famous Jewish scholar of long ago.”

  “And how many articles are in the creed of this famous scholar?”

  “Thirteen, Rabbi.”

  “I would have you recite them for me.”

  Reisa began reciting:

  “I believe that God alone is the Creator.

  That he is absolutely one.

  That he has no body or bodily shape.

  That he is the first and the last.

  That only to him may we pray and to no other.

  That the words of the prophets are true.

  That the prophecy of Moses is true, and that he is the father of all prophets.

  That the Torah now found in our hands, was given to Moses.

  That this Torah is not subject to change, and that there never will be another Torah from the Creator.

  That the Creator knows all the thoughts and deeds of man.

  That he rewards and punishes according to the deed.

  That the Messiah will come; though he tarry I will expect him daily.

  That the dead will be resurrected.”

  “Very good indeed, daughter! You have a fine memory. And so the twelfth item is that the Messiah will come. Your grandfather has you studying that.”

  “Yes. It has been very fascinating.”

  “Yes. One day he will come. He who will deliver Israel and the nations from all the troubles of the world.”

  “Yes. I believe that, Rabbi.”

  “It has been a part of Jewish faith since biblical time. Has your grandfather told you of the origin of the word Messiah?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The word Messiah is derived from the Hebrew Mashiah.”

  “And what is the meaning of Mashiah, sir?”

  “It means ‘the anointed one.’ Originally it meant a designation for a ruler king.”

  Reisa leaned forward, very interested in all of this. “And what will the Messiah bring, Rabbi? In what form will he come?”

  “Ah, that is a matter of some disagreement—that and other questions such as what phenomena will accompany the Messiah’s coming. How does the Messianic age relate to the end of history? I’m sure your grandfather will take you through all these questions step-by-step.”

  Reisa showered Rabbi Gurion with questions, and he, with a smile, answered them as best he could.

  Finally she said, “I think my grandfather’s view of the Messiah is different from those I have heard from others.”

  Rabbi Gurion was interested. Leaning forward, he folded his hands. “How so, Reisa?”

  Reisa could not answer this exactly. She thought for a moment, then said, “So many that I have heard about believe that the Messiah will be a victorious political leader who will lead Israel into battle and win.”

  “Many do believe that. Your grandfather does not?”