Read Letters From Rifka Online

Authors: Karen Hesse

Tags: #Emigration and Immigration, #Jews, #Letters, #Juvenile Nonfiction, #Language Arts, #General

Letters From Rifka (9 page)

BOOK: Letters From Rifka
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… Oh, mournful season that delights the eyes,
Your farewell beauty captivates my spirit.
I love the pomp of Nature’s fading dyes,
The forests, garmented in gold and purple,
The rush of noisy wind, and the pale skies
Half-hidden by the clouds in darkling billows,
And the rare sun-ray and the early frost,
And threats of grizzled Winter, heard and lost … .
—
Pushkin
 
 
October 14, 1920
Ellis Island
 
 
Dear Tovah,
Ilya got me into such trouble today. We were walking through a part of the hospital we didn’t know very well. We heard the
d-d-d-d
of a machine. Ilya loves machines. He dragged me over to the place where some men were working on a balcony overlooking the harbor.
I stepped closer to the workmen. One of them used English words I hadn’t heard before. I don’t think they were words Mama would want me to learn, but still I was curious.
All of a sudden I realized Ilya was missing. He is never more than a step or two away from me. Now for the first time in weeks he had disappeared from my sight.
I rushed toward the balcony, calling for him. A little boy could easily fall over the edge into the water. I ran from the balcony to the hallway, then back again, fretting in Russian. The workmen stopped their hammers to stare at me.
It took a moment for the sound of their machines to stop inside my head, but then, in the silence, I heard Ilya’s high voice, crying out.
I turned toward the sound. There stood a row of metal toilet stalls. It was from the stalls that Ilya’s voice came. Inside one I found him. He had his back to me, and clouds of white paper flew over his head as if some great white bird were descending on him.
But it was no bird. Ilya was unrolling toilet paper, an endless ribbon of it. As he unwound it, he laughed wildly. He cried, “Paper! Paper!”
I scolded him in Russian. I yelled for him to stop.
“Look what you are doing, Ilya. You are going
to get us killed. Look how you are wasting the paper.”
I grabbed his arm, holding it away, while frantically I started rolling the paper back. I was trying to wind it up so no one would punish us and I was yelling at him in Russian.
One of the workers started toward us. He pushed his big arm into the stall past me and Ilya. The worker ripped out the roll of toilet paper, throwing it over the rail and into the harbor. The white tail of Ilya’s unravelings sailed over our heads and disappeared beyond the balcony.
The worker looked as though he would next pitch us into the harbor.
Well, I grabbed Ilya and I ran with him so fast he cracked his shoulder against a wall. I didn’t stop to comfort him.
“We’re going to get killed!” I cried, pulling him, checking over my shoulder every few seconds to see if the man was chasing us.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” I told Ilya, trying to catch my breath. We collapsed on my cot.
Nurse Bowen came over. Ilya held his shoulder and wept.
“What happened?” the nurse asked, examining Ilya’s shoulder.
“Promise you won’t tell Mr. Fargate?” I asked. “Promise you won’t let him send us back to Russia.”
“Tell me, Rifka,” the nurse said.
“Ilya unrolled toilet paper,” I said, believing Ilya had committed one of the worst offenses he could ever commit here.
“Toilet paper?” the nurse asked. “What are you talking about, Rifka?”
I told her about the stalls and the workmen.
Nurse Bowen started laughing.
“This is not funny,” I told her. “In Russia, to waste paper is a terrible crime.”
“Well, in America it’s not, Rifka,” Nurse Bowen said. “There is plenty of paper. Toilet paper, newspaper, every kind of paper. Don’t worry. We’re not going to send you back to Russia over a roll of toilet paper.”
She told me to tell Ilya that his shoulder would be fine. Already he had stopped crying.
Nurse Bowen went away, still laughing.
I felt a little insulted that she should laugh at me. But if paper was not so precious here, maybe it was a little funny. Maybe. And maybe I could get some of that plentiful paper Nurse Bowen talked about to write on.
Ilya slid the Pushkin out from under my pillow. He handed it to me to read to him.
I said, “No, no Pushkin. I’m going to write a poem of my own.”
Remember, Tovah, when I said I might try? Well, I’ve been writing a little at the back of our book. There is hardly any room left between my letters to you and my poetry, but still I keep writing. Sometimes even in English. It is not very good poetry. Mostly, it doesn’t rhyme, but I write anyway. I write poems about Russia and Bubbe Ruth and you and Hannah and coming to America and Ellis Island.
I asked Nurse Bowen for some of that paper she was talking about. She gave me a handful.
A handful of paper, Tovah. The paper alone is enough to draw the words from inside me. I took the paper and our Pushkin outside. Ilya, of course, followed behind me like a shadow.
It is pretty here on the island. Across the harbor, tall buildings stand like giant guards, blocking my way to Mama and Papa. I fear those guards will never let me pass. Yet even in my fear I cannot deny the beauty of this place.
The leaves change color just as they do in Berdichev. Geese fly overhead, honking, forming and reforming in the blue sky above Miss Liberty. The sun feels warm on my shoulders and the smell of autumn tickles my nose.
My writing maybe is not as beautiful as Pushkin’s, but it comforts me. Ilya likes it too. He makes
me read my poems over and over to him. It is nice to have an audience.
You didn’t know I would turn out to be a poet, did you, Tovah? Is that being clever?
Shalom, my cousin,
Rifka
… This heart its leave of you has taken;
Accept, my distant dear, love’s close,
As does the wife death leaves forsaken,
As does the exile’s comrade, shaken
And mute, who clasps him once, and
goes.
—
Pushkin
 
 
October 21, 1920
Ellis Island
 
 
Dear Tovah,
The baby with the typhus, the baby I have taken care of since I got here three weeks ago, I found her in her crib this morning, Tovah. I found her dead.
She died during the night, alone. I remember how her dark eyes would look straight inside me. She would hold on to my finger with her tiny fist and squeeze as if she could squeeze my strength into
her. I gave her my strength, gladly, all that I could give her. It wasn’t enough. I loved that little baby, Tovah.
Now Mr. Fargate comes in. He says he has let my family know that tomorrow he will decide about my case. So tomorrow I learn what will become of me. Mr. Fargate has called Ilya’s uncle too.
I’m so frightened, Tovah. More than an ocean separates me from Berdichev now. Inside me, something has changed. I can’t go back.
Worst of all, my head has begun itching again. It started a day or so ago. I am afraid to lift off my scarf and look at it. I couldn’t bear to see sores covering my scalp again.
So the ringworm isn’t gone after all. If they check, they will send me back for sure.
I should have just remained in Russia as you did, Tovah. That would have been the wisest thing of all. The thought of going back across the ocean, across Europe, through Poland, back to Berdichev … it is too much for me to bear.
To leave America without ever having a chance at it, to leave Mama and Papa and all my big brothers when I know how much they need me, I can’t let myself think of it.
Even if I could travel all those miles, even if I managed to find my way back, even if the Russians
did not kill me, I couldn’t live in Berdichev again. I have lived too much in this big world to go back to Berdichev.
Shalom, Tovah,
Rifka
… The heavy-hanging chains will
fall,
The walls will crumble at a word;
And Freedom greet you in the light,
And brothers give you hack the
sword.
—
Pushkin
 
 
October 22, 1920
Ellis Island
 
 
Dear Tovah,
This is the last letter I will ever write you from Ellis Island. It is almost impossible to believe what has happened today. I don’t know where to start.
I woke up feeling like a lump of wool had caught in my throat. I let Ilya sleep in bed beside me last night. I knew it was probably our last night together, whatever happened.
We whispered for a long time in the dark. I told him not to be afraid of America. That he would
make friends here. That his uncle would love him and take care of him.
I told him that in Russia, he would always be a peasant. That would never change. He would die young just as his father had and maybe leave a little boy just as his father had left him. I told him in America, he could grow up to be anything he wanted. He could have a wife and children and live to be an old man and see his grandchildren born.
He said he would stay, if he could marry me.
That made me smile. I’m glad it was dark so he couldn’t see. I didn’t want him to think I was making fun.
I have learned so much about America in these three weeks. It is hard to believe I got so upset over Ilya and the toilet paper just a few days ago. I laugh about it now. I understand so much more.
Yet as I woke this morning, with Ilya curled up beside me, I wondered what good would come from my understanding. What chance did I have of staying? Not only did I have no hair, but the ringworm had returned. Every second I had to remind myself not to scratch at the ringworm.
Ilya had America within his grasp, but me, I held nothing. I held only Russia.
Mr. Fargate, the man who makes these decisions, came into the little office beside the ward. He called Ilya in first.
Ilya gripped my hand and pulled me into the office with him. Mr. Fargate and Doctor Askin discussed Ilya, examined him. Mr. Fargate noticed that Ilya had gained weight.
Ilya’s uncle sat in a chair nearby. He was such a little man, with thin blond hair and stormy eyes, just like Ilya’s.
My family, my whole beautiful family, Papa and Mama and Saul, and Nathan and Asher and Reuben, and Isaac and Sadie and the little baby, Aaron, they were all there too. How I longed to be with them. I looked at each of them, memorizing their faces. My brothers Reuben and Asher and Isaac, I would have known them anywhere. Isaac and Asher look just like Papa, and Reuben, he looks like me. When they first arrived, I hugged and kissed them all.
I whispered to Saul, “Did you get the candlesticks?”
He said, “Yes, Rifka. But I have not given them to Mama yet.”
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
Saul shrugged.
Now I could only look at my family from a distance. Ilya needed me.
Ilya’s uncle cowered under the giant shadow of my family. When Nurse Bowen passed him, his hair lifted off his high forehead in the little breeze that
she made. He held his hat in his hand, his fingers inching around the brim over and over again, his shoulders hunched. It looked to me like he needed Ilya as much as Ilya needed him.
Mr. Fargate said, “This boy shows minimal intelligence. He doesn’t feed himself, he doesn’t speak. Has there been any change since his last review, Doctor Askin?”
The doctor said many things, but the more he talked the more clear it became he didn’t know Ilya at all.
He believed Ilya
was
a simpleton.
Ilya could read Pushkin. He was smart enough to figure out if he starved himself, he’d get shipped back home. That’s not a simpleton. They couldn’t send him back for being a simpleton.
Mr. Fargate pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned over his desk to peer at Ilya.
“Can you speak?” he asked in English.
Ilya stared straight into Mr. Fargate’s eyes, but he said nothing.
“He doesn’t understand English,” Nurse Bowen said.
Mr. Fargate nodded. “Find someone who can translate.”
“I can,” I offered.
Mr. Fargate looked over his glasses at me. “Ask the boy if he can talk,” said Mr. Fargate.
“Talk,” I told Ilya in Russian.
Ilya glared at me.
“Ilya, talk!”
Ilya slowly shook his head.
“Go get my Pushkin,” I told Ilya.
He looked up at me and brushed his blond hair out of his eyes. His uncle looked up at me too, startled.
“Go on, get the book,” I repeated.
Ilya was being as stubborn as ever. He stood in his place and refused to move.
“Ilya,” I commanded. “Go over there and get the book of Pushkin. Now!”
I pointed toward my cot.
Ilya stared at me with those stormy green eyes. Then he lowered his chin, brushed past his uncle, and got the book.
“Ilya is a smart boy,” I told Mr. Fargate in English.
I looked down at Ilya. “Read to them,” I ordered in Russian. “Show them that you are smart enough to live in America. I know how clever you are, Ilya. But Mr. Fargate needs to know. Your uncle needs to know too.”
I looked back to where the uncle sat with his hat in his lap. The man’s eyes never left Ilya. He drank in the sight of his nephew the way a thirsty man pulls at a dipper of water.
Still, Ilya remained silent.
Mr. Fargate lifted the stamp, the deportation stamp.
“Please,” I begged Ilya’s uncle in Russian. “You are losing him. He must prove to them that he is not a simpleton or they will send him away.”
I tried to get the uncle to understand.
“He is afraid of you. He thinks you don’t want him.”
“He is my sister’s son,” Ilya’s uncle said in Russian. “Of course I want him. He is my flesh and blood. I sent for him to give him a better life here in America. I work day and night so he can have a good life.”
“Do you hear, Ilya?” I said. “Do you hear?”
Ilya turned his eyes for the first time on his uncle.
“Doctor Askin,” I said in English. “Ilya is not a simpleton. I know he won’t talk to you. But he can talk. He can read, too. He is only seven years, but he can read.”
I gave Ilya the book. “Now read,” I commanded in Russian.
Ilya’s uncle got up out of his seat and came over. He put his hat down on the edge of Mr. Fargate’s desk and knelt before his nephew. “Please, Ilya,” he said. “Do what your friend says.”
Ilya brushed the blond hair up onto his forehead. Then he began to read.
“Storm-clouds dim the sky; the tempest
Weaves the snow in patterns wild …”
Ilya’s voice shook, but he was reading.
“Like a beast the gale is howling,
And now wailing like a child …”
Tears filled the eyes of Ilya’s uncle.
“Is he reading?” Mr. Fargate asked. “Is that Russian?”
Ilya’s uncle nodded. “Pushkin.”
“Let me see the book a moment,” Mr. Fargate said. He reached for the Pushkin. Ilya pulled it back, clasping the book to his chest.
“Show Mr. Fargate the book,” I said in Russian. “Go on, Ilya.”
Ilya’s hands trembled as he handed the book to Mr. Fargate. Mr. Fargate opened our Pushkin to another page. “Read this.”
“ … I like the grapes whose clusters ripen
Upon the hillside in the sun …”
Ilya’s finger dragged across the page as he read the words.
I smiled. Doctor Askin smiled. Nurse Bowen smiled too.
“He understands this?” Mr. Fargate said. “At the age of seven?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “He understands.”
Mr. Fargate lifted the stamp that permitted Ilya to enter the country and thumped it down on Ilya’s papers. Ilya was going to stay in America.
“Did I do it right, Rifka?” he asked in Russian.
“Yes, Ilya,” I said. “You did it just right.”
Ilya’s uncle still knelt on the floor beside us. His arms opened up to take Ilya in. Oh, Tovah. You should have seen the way Ilya and his uncle embraced. In all the times he clung to me, Ilya never held me in such a way. Never.
Ilya had attracted a lot of attention on the ward. No one but myself had ever heard his voice. Now there he was, reading Pushkin. Other nurses and doctors came over. They stood around in wonder at Ilya, now jabbering in Russian as he led his uncle back to his cot.
I could not listen to what they were saying. The time had come for my review. My family waited tensely, some sitting, some standing, waiting for a decision about me. If only I could melt into their tight strong circle, but now, as I had so often over the last year, I stood alone.
Mr. Fargate was talking with Doctor Askin about me. He wanted to know about the ringworm.
“She arrived fully cured,” Doctor Askin said. “They made sure she was clean in Belgium before they sent her.”
Please, I prayed. Don’t let them check for the ringworm now.
They hadn’t checked in over a week. I’d shown no sign of being infectious for so long, they believed the ringworm was gone.
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from scratching my itchy scalp. In my head, I repeated Sister Katrina’s prayer; I repeated a few Hebrew prayers too.
Mr. Fargate turned to Doctor Askin. “What about her hair? Is there any sign of growth?”
I slipped my hand up to my kerchief and gave a quick scratch. I tried not to, but I couldn’t keep my hand away from it. It itched so badly. It had been itching all morning.
“Here, Rifka,” Doctor Askin said kindly, starting to unknot my kerchief. “Let me look once more to see if there is any sign of hair.”
I pulled away.
Oh, Tovah, if ever I needed to be clever, it was now.
“You know,” I said. “What does it matter if my hair grows? A girl can not depend on her looks. It is better to be clever. I learned to speak English in three weeks, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Fargate replied.
“I help here too,” I said. “I am a good worker.”
Mr. Fargate’s eyeglasses slid down to the tip of his nose and he stared over them at me. “Not very modest, is she?”
They all laughed.
“It is true!” I cried. “I
am
a good worker!”
“You are, Rifka,” Doctor Askin agreed. He turned to Mr. Fargate. “With the right opportunity, the girl could study medicine. She has skill and talent.”
“In your opinion, then,” Mr. Fargate said, “she would not end up a ward of the state?”
“Who can tell?” said the doctor. “But the opposite is more likely. I have seen her care for the patients. Compassion is a part of medicine you can’t teach, Mr. Fargate. Compassion is a quality I have often seen in Rifka. Look what she did for the boy.”
“I still worry about her hair,” Mr. Fargate said.
I looked Mr. Fargate right in the eye. “I do not need hair to get a good life,” I said.
“Maybe right now you don’t,” Mr. Fargate answered. “But what about when you wish to marry?”
“If I wish to marry, Mr. Fargate,” I said—can you believe I spoke like this to an American official, Tovah?—“if I wish to marry, I will do so with hair or without hair.”
I heard Mama gasp. This much English she understood.
Mr. Fargate leaned forward to study me. He stared at me through the glasses balanced at the bottom of his nose.
“You have plenty to say, young lady,” Mr. Fargate said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “I do.”
“Oy, Rifka,” Mama whispered.
I turned toward Mama. What I saw, though, was my brother Saul kneeling beside Ilya. Ilya and Saul were looking at the book of Pushkin together. Then Saul stood and took Ilya’s hand and they approached Mr. Fargate.
“Yes?” Mr. Fargate asked.
Ilya looked up at me. “Read to them,” he commanded in Russian.
“Ilya, that will not work for me,” I told him in his own language. “They already know I can read. My case is not the same as yours.”
“Read to them your poetry,” Saul said. “The words you have written in the back of this book.”
I looked hard at Ilya. “You had no right to show that to anyone,” I said. “Those are my words.”
“They are good words, Rifka,” Saul said.
“They are nothing,” I answered. “Simple little poems. They don’t even rhyme. What good would it do to read such things aloud? Leave it be.”
BOOK: Letters From Rifka
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