Shabbath

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Chapter One

1

Feivel rushed across the threshhold of Moishe's barn. He almost fell through the battered door, right into the market. Finally standing still, he looked about him.

    The fair in Wolbrom had ended. All that remained were a few empty carts in the market square; the unfettered horses stood with their heads deep inside feed bags hung from their necks; all over the square lay trodden snow.

    Mordoch, a tall, broad-shouldered non-Jew, was busy cleaning the square; his long, thick moustache hanging from both sides of his mouth like pigtails. Using a broad wooden shovel, he collected the horse manure from the square into a box. Mordoch wore a long, threadbare, army uniform, the trousers of which were held up by a piece of string tied round his waist. His full cheeks showed evidence of one drink too many. A lazy man, he took his time shoveling, all the while talking to himself: "Scum, and I have to sweep up the square after them."

    The snow on the inclined roofs had begun to freeze. Jews with long beards, fur hats, long coats, and high boots gathered the wares that had been hanging on the walls and over the doors of their stores with red, half-frozen hands--a remnant of cloth, shoe soles, an iron file, a wooden dish. The bakers at their stalls collected up the left-over bread.

    The cross on the church at the corner of the market square, between two alleys, seemed to dominate the square. The temperature kept dropping, frost forming on every exposed area; night finally fell.

    The sky over the village was a deep blue shade, like a thick, heavy cloth. Feivel walked through the alleys, the snow crunching under his feet. The narrow paths seemed to lead him.

    Stepping over the wooden threshhold, he felt hard, packed earth under his feet. He stretched out his hands, as if groping in the dark, took a few steps, and grasped the door handle. The door, swollen with moisture, seemed to spring away from him. Dense, clammy heat struck his face and he hurriedly closed the door behind him. "Father!" the voices of three children shouted together. Zlotele, Rivkele, and Yossele ran to him. They had been sitting on the floor near the bed in the corner, and had been playing. Feivel's black eyes sparkled. The red hair of his eyebrows was stiff with frost.

    "Hush!" Yachet his wife, a tall, strong woman, said to the children. She folded her hands over her stomach. "Good evening Feivel!" she greeted her husband. Immediately she added, "Sit down." Feivel returned her greeting, moving a bench from the table and sitting down.

    Yachet stood staring at Feivel; her large, black eyes seemed to be examining him closely. Feivel, exhausted, remained sitting.

    The children went back to their game, buying and selling things in their "store." "Come and eat!" Yachet exclaimed. Feivel did not answer. He merely looked up and shook his head.

    Yachet went back to her to work at the stove and stirred the contents of the pot that stood on the small fire. She added a few pieces of tinder to the fire; these caught and the fire flared up.

    Yachet placed a whole black bread on the table, along with a tin spoon and a kitchen knife. She put down the salt shaker, took out a soup bowl from the cupboard, and filled the bowl with potato soup. The steam from the pot condensed on her face. "Wash!" said Yachet, as she placed the soup plate on the table. Feivel stood, went over to the water basin, and filled a mug with water. Stretching out each hand in turn, he used the other to pour water over it. "Stretch forth your hands in holiness ...," he said loudly in Hebrew; the rest of the words he mumbled, as if swallowing them. He dried his hands on the kitchen towel tied to the adjacent table. He pushed the bench away and slowly sat down, as if unloading a heavy bag of grain. Picking up the bread with one hand and the knife with the other, he pushed the knife into the bread and turned the bread around along the knife edge. He then cut himself a slice. "Blessed are You ... who brings forth bread from the earth." "Amen," said Yachet loudly.

    Yachet went over and sat down on the edge of the bed, opposite him. She pulled her gray flannel dress, which was a little tight on her, over her knees. Her body was outlined by the dress. Feivel bent over the bowl, pouring each spoonful of soup into his mouth, enjoying the taste of the boiled potatoes.

    Yachet sat looking as Feivel ate with pleasure. At one point, she shook her head and said, "A whole week among the goyim without a bite of hot food." A little later, she added, "But you're not the only one." It was quiet in the house, the only sound being the spoon striking the bowl, like a rooster pecking at its food. Feivel scooped up the last spoonful of soup in the bowl and swallowed it noisily. He placed the spoon on the table. He felt full. Swaying to and fro over the table, he recited the grace after meals. For a while, Feivel sat at the table, his eyes sparkling. Suddenly, he blurted out, "Enough!" and raised himself from the bench as if to stand up. But he remained seated, looking up at Yachet.

    Feivel placed his broad hand under his leg, raised his head, and gazed stealthily around his home, as if he wanted to be sure that no one could see him. Afterwards, he stretched out the fingers of his right hand and began counting: "One, two, three." The banknotes totalled only a few gulden, and he counted them as if turning the pages of a book. When he reached fifty, he lowered his eyes, sighed, and exclaimed, "This is for new merchandise." He placed the few remaining banknotes on the table, returning the fifty gulden to his wallet, then picked up the remaining bills from the table and started counting again. He counted aloud till eight. Feivel remained seated with his mouth open, amazed that he did not have any more bills to count. Shocked, he said, "Yachet, there are two gulden missing for Shabbes!" "Feivel, don't worry. God will help next week," and she jumped up hurriedly from the bed.

    Yachet took the few gulden from the table and placed them inside her bosom. She threw her brown and green decorated shawl over her shoulders, took out a folded bag from behind the cupboard, placed it in a basket, and moved to the door. A cold gust of wind forced its way into the house, and the air in the house was no longer as damp. The children hunched down, all three of them shivering from the cold. It became even quieter in the room. In the corners of the long, low house, shadows began to fall. Feivel pushed away the bench and slowly stood up. He was tired--for a full week he had been traveling through the villages of the area. He walked to the window and rubbed the frost away with the tips of his fingers. Afterwards, he went over to the corner where the cupboard stood. He remained standing there, his hands covering his eyes, and swayed back and forth in prayer. Finishing, he stepped backward and swayed to the right and then to the left. The children went on playing. Feivel's shoulders shook once. The heat in the house seemed to smother him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots and socks. His feet were red, as if scalded in boiling water. "What do you want to buy?" Zlotele asked her sister, her voice echoing through the room. "Sugar," Rivkele answered in her thin voice.

    Feivel stood up and glanced at his children. A while later his head fell forward, his eyes closed, his weary shoulders relaxed, and he dozed off. Rivkele remained with her hand stretched out, not taking the paper bag from her sister. She heard her father snoring and was frightened.

    "I also want to sleep," she said to her sister. "So get into Daddy's bed," Zlotele said as she stood up. She lifted up Yossele, her two-year-old brother, who had been sitting watching his sisters play, settling him down in the corner of the bed, while the four-year-old Rivkele climbed into the bed by herself. Zlotele sat down beside Yossele. "Sleep, children," she said, imitating her mother.

    The two children cuddled up next to one another and were soon asleep. Zlotele, the eight-year old, felt lonely in the big house. She cuddled up next to the other children and also fell asleep. The home became darker and darker. The father and children all slept.

2

Yachet remained standing on the street in front of the door. She pulled the shawl over her head, and for a short time looked around; then she suddenly darted down an alley, the fresh snow crunching under her feet. She walked diagonally across the market square, as if cutting off the left, snow-covered corner. She went from one street to the next, finally reaching the butchers' alley; there she breathed in and smelled the raw meat. All about there were dogs, their tails between their legs, waiting for scraps or a bone from the butchers.

    For a while, Yachet hesitated, but between the open shutters of one of the booths she saw the head of Dobeh the butcher, covered with a shawl, her hands inside the sleeves of her thick fur coat. Yachet dared not go any further, and entered the store. "How are things?" asked Dobeh, not removing her hands from her sleeves. Her only movement was to nod her head to Yachet. "Let there be no Evil Eye," Yachet answered, and moved closer to the chopping board. The little booth was quite dark; it had no windows, and all the light inside came from the open door. One could smell the congealed fat.

    Yachet removed her hands from underneath her shawl and looked around at the meat hanging on the hooks. The sharp edges of a long cutting knife and an axe glinted in the little light of the booth. She turned away, feeling a twinge of anguish in her heart. Dobeh, a broad-shouldered woman, waited patiently.

    Shmuel, a tall man, was busy boning a piece of meat on the cutting block. He interrupted his work to look up at Yachet and asked, "Nu, Yachet, what can I give you?" Yachet did not answer him; she had not yet decided. Shmuel pulled out the whetting stone and began to sharpen the knife. "Yachet, take the neck. It was a fat animal," Dobeh suggested. "Can it be cut up into portions?" Yachet asked. "This meat is very cheap," Dobeh answered.

    Shmuel put away the whetting stone. With one hand he picked up a slab of meat that had been hanging on a hook and threw it onto the chopping block. "How much?" he asked. Yachet's eyes watered. Quietly and briskly she answered, "Two pounds." She put her hands into her bosom and took out the money.

    Shmuel spread his feet apart and turned the blade of the knife away from him to cut the meat. "You will have a fat soup out of this," Dobeh said to Yachet. Shmuel threw the cut of meat onto one side of the scale; in the other he placed the weights. "More than two pounds!" he said. "Enjoy it," said Dobeh.

    Yachet placed a gulden in Shmuel's hand. He crushed the banknote in his fist. With his other hand he took out a few coins from his pocket and placed them on the table, Yachet's change. Yachet placed the package of meat in her basket and with frozen fingers picked up her change.

    "Be well!" she said as she walked out the door, the change clenched in her hand.

    "You too!" Dobeh called, not moving from her place.

    The intense cold assaulted Yachet's face and stabbed underneath her fingernails. She again pulled her shawl over her head, only her forehead and eyes remaining visible. She walked through a long alleyway that was the communal property of those living around it. The frost-covered windows of the huts looked like lamps. She took a shortcut, pushing through the fresh snow and shivering in the cold. As she walked, she placed the change, which she had been holding, in the pocket of her dress.

    Yachet came through an open space between two huts, emerging on the mountain road. It was a narrow road with a steep incline. She slipped into Yaakov's store, a low, large building that looked more like a barn. The air inside the store was oppressive, like frozen mist. A smell of frozen mud assailed the nostrils. Yachet caught her breath as the vapor from her breath froze in the frigid air. She looked around. "Hello!" she finally exclaimed, her voice echoing in the store. The women in the store turned their heads and looked up. Yaakov, the short storekeeper, nodded his head. A wet, semifrozen sack was tied around his waist; his short fingers were red from the cold and the damp.

    A few women stood by the table examining fish. Yaakov stood on the other side of the table and barely spoke: "How much?" "Which?" He took the fish, weighed them, packed them in old, crumpled newspapers, and checked the money.

    A woman stuck her head, bound in a black kerchief, through the door. "Do you have any live carp?" she asked. "Only dead hake. The rivers are all frozen," Yaakov answered, going back to his work.

    The woman who had asked about the carp left. The other women bought fish, checked the weight, and paid. Yachet remained silent throughout, gradually moving closer to the table. When she reached the table, Yaakov raised his eyebrows. "Take these," he told her, pointing to a basket of fish at the side. Yachet turned her head and looked at the broad, silver-gray fish. Yaakov did not wait for Yachet's agreement and never asked her how much she wanted. He took a thick piece of paper and weighed her a pound of fish, just as he did every other week. "A quarter," he said, wrapping the fish. Only later did he add, "of a gulden." Yachet took out the coins and laid them on the table.

    The cold penetrated her body as she went back into the street, this time one of the town's main streets, which led to the only paved road. Yachet hurried to Zerach the baker. She went down to a cellar, and with her hand through the shawl, pushed the door. The warmth of the oven used to bake the bread surrounded her.

    Zerach had dozed off, his head propped on the counter, but as Yachet came in he woke with a start. "I've brought you what we owe this week," Yachet said. Zerach shook his head from side to side to wake up properly and pushed up his cap. Yachet's hands reached below the shawl. From her bosom she pulled out two banknotes. "Two gulden, like every week," she said, laying the money on the counter.

    Yachet went over to the shelf on the left. On the shelf lay a few loaves of bread. She bent over, took a loaf of bread, and placed it in her basket. She looked to make sure that Zerach had noticed; he nodded his head.

    Yachet closed the door after her and climbed the four steps to the street. Again the cold attacked her. Two houses down the street, at a low hut, she stopped again. The doors were open; Yachet crossed over the wooden threshold. In the corner by the window, on an upturned crate near the counter, sat the storekeeper, his long white beard tucked into his belt. He stopped studying the holy work that lay before him, glanced at Yachet, and again resumed his studies. Yachet removed two guldens from her bosom and called out, "Reb Asher, my debt!" She laid down the two bills. Asher's thick, gray eyebrows arched. He glanced at the money, picked up the bills, and placed them in his wallet. "Nu, nu!" he muttered, and returned to his studies. "Reb Asher, I'll serve myself."

    In the corner stood a barrel filled with potatoes and covered with straw. Opposite it, by the wall, was a barrel with pickled cucumbers and another with sauerkraut. Yachet took out a small bag she had in her basket and sat down. She did not bend over, lest Asher see her knees. She filled the bag with potatoes and placed it on the scales. "See, Reb Asher," she said, "twenty pounds." She selected and weighed two pounds of onions and added three carrots to the potatoes. She tied the bag of onions and carrots with string that was attached to it and picked up the potato bag in her other hand.

    Yachet left the vegetable store, and as she stepped out she pushed her way through the half-open door right next to it into Sarah Leah's store. "Yachet, how are you? How are the children?" "Thank God," Yachet answered. She sat down on a crate. Her shawl slid off her shoulders. "Sarah Leah, how are things?" she asked. Sarah Leah nodded. "God will provide," she suddenly said. Sarah Leah was a widow. Her son, who had married early, was now serving in the army. Her daughter-in-law had just given birth. "A beautiful baby?" Yachet asked. "Would that all Jewish children were like this one," Sarah Leah answered.

    For a while both sat silently. Suddenly, the wind blew into the open door; a smell of kerosene wafted into the store.

    "Could you please prepare my order for me?" asked Yachet.

    "Yes, dear child," Sarah Leah answered, and turned to her again.

    Sarah Leah was considerably older than Yachet. She wore a kerchief over her head and a brown, sleeveless, fur jacket. With the edge of the kerchief she dabbed at the corners of her mouth. She placed a package of sugar on the table, tore off a thick, gray piece of paper and spooned red beet jam into it, weighed it, and announced: "A quarter of a pound." She broke off a piece of chicory and laid it on the table; then, taking a piece of newspaper, she poured some unground coffee beans into it and weighed the whole package. She wrapped some yeast in another piece of newspaper. Her thick, small fingers worked expertly at all these tasks.

    Yachet, watching Sarah Leah, suddenly burst out, "Sarah Leah, don't forget the children. Give them a Shabbes treat."

    Sarah Leah filled a small bag with various hard candies, along with some peanuts. "How much do I owe you?" "One and a half gulden plus another five groszy," said Sarah Leah. Yachet wrapped herself in her shawl, tying its two ends around her throat to make sure that it would not come loose as she walked. Then, clutching the bag of potatoes to her stomach with one hand and carrying the basket in the other, she went over to the door.

    The bag and basket were heavy. She did not have to walk far--only the distance of three houses to Michoel the miller. For the last few steps, she hurried through the open door into the mill, as if breathless. She bent down, put down on the floor all she had been carrying, sat down on the potato bag to catch her breath, and checked to see that nothing had fallen out of the basket. Her shaitel shifted slightly, and her black, short hair could be seen underneath it.

    At the right side of the store lay sacks filled with corn meal, ready for the bakers. On the wall opposite was a great weighing machine. The window of the mill had an iron bar across it. In the corner, under the window, stood a table with a pair of scales, and next to it sat Michoel. Behind him were a few sacks of flour, one of which was open. Yoske the porter, a short, broad-shouldered man, went over to the sacks. He moved his feet apart and bent down, with one hand grabbing the corner of a sack as he swung it over his back. Yachet looked about, then eventually took a bag out of her basket. She walked over to Michoel. "Reb Michoel, a gulden worth of flour," she said, laying the bag on the table along with the money. Michoel stood up, took the little bag from her, and went to the open sack of flour. Using a scoop, he half filled the bag with four. "Blessings on you!" She took the bag with flour from his hand, folded down the top, and laid it down in her basket. Yachet went into the street. Far away, on the horizon, a pale moon began to shine intermittently through the clouds, which covered a good part of the night sky.

    The night was frosty and windy, and the roof tiles groaned as they scraped against one another. Yachet walked fast, her cheeks red with cold. When she finally came to the small street where she lived, she walked even faster. The steeply sloping roof of the hut seemed to rest on the ground; the path trodden in the snow lead to the porch.

    The porch was dark. The air inside its wooden frame was freezing cold and damp. She walked carefully, so as not to bump into anything. When her shoes accidentally hit the door, she stood still for a while, put her hand to the door handle, and pushed the door open.

    It was dark in the house as she tiptoed over to the stove, putting the potato bag down next to it. She pulled the shawl off her head and threw it onto the bed.

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