Safekeeping (41 page)

Ulya gave the cashier a cursory smile, which the cashier did not return, then made her way down the center aisle. Unfortunately the feminine hygiene products were on the far wall, putting her back to the cashier. She wouldn't be able to watch her for the best time to make the swipe.

She scanned the boxes of tampons and panty liners until she came across Dr. Fischer's Pregnancy Test with the picture of a laughing baby. Twice as big as a box of tampons, it was good she had brought the bag. But how was she going to nab it? Maybe she would have to buy the damn thing. Without taking the box off the shelf, she searched for its sticker and found it on the side. A hundred and twenty-eight shekels! More than a month's stipend. She supposed she could get a test for free at the medical center. But then what if by some crazy miracle she were pregnant? The whole kibbutz would know.

She wandered away from the women's products, pretending to be interested in a barrette, a bottle of aspirin, until she reached the farthest aisle, where she had a clear view of the counter. She was feigning to read the back of a shampoo bottle, considering her next move, when the door chimed. A man approached the counter with a loud, friendly voice. “Shalom, shalom!”

The man struck up a conversation with the cashier, asking if her son were planning to play basketball this fall because his son was and wouldn't it make sense if they took turns driving them into town. Ulya drifted back toward the pregnancy test. The cashier kept glancing in her direction, so she paused to inspect the hats hanging on the wall. She pulled on a wide-brimmed straw hat and stood in front of the mirror. Oh! Why hadn't she thought of this before? She could see the cashier in the mirror. The man requested a pack of Marlboros, and Ulya, knowing the cigarettes were stored behind the counter, braced. As soon as the cashier bent down to get them, she glided to the pregnancy test and swatted it into her bag.

Ulya felt a swell of pride. Quick and graceful as an athlete. They had talked of basketball; well, she had just executed the perfect dunk. Only this sport had no audience, the pleasure and fear belonging only to her. She had never told anyone about a single stolen trinket. Most experiences lost their power with repetition, but not this. Every time was as scary and satisfying as the last. She loved the things she stole in a way she never loved anything she had bought or been given. When later she would pull
the objects from her sleeve, they had the magic of something smuggled, something she shouldn't have. Like that first magazine.

The man left with his cigarettes, door chiming behind him, while Ulya strode up to the counter and surveyed it for something small to buy. Feeling daring, feeling like it would be a nice little fuck you, she placed a box of Chiclets in front of the cashier.

The cashier looked down at the gum. “All that browsing, and you're buying another pack of gum.”

Please don't check the bag, please don't check the bag.

“I browse here because there is no Macy's on the kibbutz.”

The cashier spoke through clenched teeth: “One shekel.”

The elation dissipated as soon as Ulya was outside the store. A pregnancy test was hardly a fun nab. She walked toward the volunteers' section, trying again to pin down the last time she'd had her period. She could picture shaking her head at Farid and telling him he couldn't go down because of it. He loved burying his face there. With other men, she'd never been sure, but Farid left no doubt, by the unhurried way he did it, responding to her every twitch and moan, and because he would crawl on top of her afterward as hard as could be. But the last time she could remember shaking her head at him she'd been wearing a sweater and the mandarins were still green.

Coming down the steppingstones, she saw Adam slumped at the picnic table with that ridiculous dog seated beside him. She didn't have the patience for him right now. Ever since he barged in on her and Farid, he'd been trying to apologize, but she refused to acknowledge him, not even to say, “Go away.” She hadn't failed to notice, however, that he was falling apart. Every evening he carried a six-pack of beer into his room and didn't come out again. Any doubts she'd had about not pursuing him for a green card were gone. Even if she could have faked love or convinced him to marry her for money, it would have been too risky. How could she depend on him for two or three years? He would have gotten drunk and not shown up for the most important interview; or worse, he would have shown up tanked and said something stupid, and next thing she would have been in jail awaiting deportation to Mazyr. She had heard from a Russian who worked in the kitchen that the man in charge of dishwashing had lost his temper when Adam didn't show up for work again yesterday. It wouldn't be long before he was booted off the kibbutz.

“Ulie, please, please.” He blocked her from walking toward her room. His eyes were puffy, his hair greasy. “Just give me a chance to say a few words. What I did was totally asshole-ish, I get it . . .”

She couldn't bear to fight her way around him. She only wanted to get to her room. She didn't care anymore. Faced with pregnancy, Adam's lovesick prank wasn't a big deal. If anything, it seemed kind of sweet now, like it belonged to an easier time when she was young and boys fought over her.

“Fine, I forgive you.”

“Really?”

He blew through his lips, breath reeking of booze.

“Yes, yes, I forgive you, but only if you get out of my way now.”

“Okay, okay.” He stepped to the side. “It's a start.”

Ulya hurried to unlock her door. Thankfully, Claudette wasn't home. That weirdo used to always be home, and now who knew what creepiness she was up to. Finding the room too quiet, she switched on the transistor radio. A crackly dance hit came through the speaker, but the happy party song only made the small sweltering kibbutz dorm seem that much farther away from the discotheques in Manhattan, or even from the one she used to go to in Mazyr. She was both eager to do the test and hesitant, terrified that it would be positive. But it wouldn't be. Couldn't be. And the sooner she did it, the sooner she could relax.

She locked herself in the bathroom, tested the door, and ripped open the box with its picture of that dumb baby. Imagine if Farid could see her now. She rifled through the instructions, looking for the Russian.

It was simple enough: a blue plus sign or minus sign. She pushed down her pants and sat on the toilet, recalling how she used to sit on the toilet back home with the door locked flipping through the stolen magazine. Eight years, one magazine. Right now, if she wanted to, she could mentally flip through every glamorous page by heart. She dipped her hand between her thighs and held the strip of paper under the path of her urine. Warm piss splashed onto her hand. How was that for glamour?

She placed the tester on the edge of the sink and steeled herself for a long five minutes. Through the door came the beep that preceded the news. It was so annoying how often people listened to the news here. Every fifteen minutes, that ominous
beeeeeep
, and the music would die, and everyone in the dairy house or on the bus or wherever would fall silent,
listening, hoping for no real news. No news was good news. A blue minus sign would be no news.

After twelve years of running the PLO from Tunis, Arafat's first month back in Gaza as head of the new Palestinian self-rule authority has already left some Israelis doubtful that he will prepare the Palestinian people for peace. Yesterday he drew cheers from a crowd with a speech that boasted, “With our spirit and blood we shall redeem you, Palestine. The battle is on the land!” Prime Minister Rabin, however, remains hopeful . . .

Ulya cringed when Arabs spoke in that theatrical way of theirs, as if they were prophets in the Bible.
With our spirit and our blood.
When Farid complimented her, he often evoked the moon and honey and eternity, and it was cute in a way, but it also made her want to scream at him, oh please, wake up and join the modern world. And then a terrifying question came to her: Could a woman even get an abortion in this country?

If she couldn't get one in Israel, no country on this medieval continent would give her one. Syria? Egypt? What would she do? She didn't have the money to fly to Europe. And even if she did, what European country would give her a tourist visa? They were too afraid she would stay, which infuriated her, even though, of course, she would.

She reached for the tester.

It was a little exciting, the idea she could have a baby—someday with a rich, handsome man who could put an end to this nonstop struggling—but not now, not now, not now.

A plus sign.

She stared at the tester a moment before throwing it at the cement floor. She wrapped her arms around herself and doubled over.

In school they had been taught that at six weeks it had a heart. The fucking thing had a beating heart. Her mother had warned her there was no such thing as a better life somewhere else. Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking what amounted to hot water, the tea bag having been used so many times, she said,
Ulya, if you were meant to be happy, you'll be happy. If you were meant to be sad, you'll be sad. The place doesn't matter.
Ulya still believed that was bullshit, still believed if a person wanted a better life, they had to go out and get it, but that said, could she be any further from the better life she had imagined?

She was a fake Jew with an Arab growing inside her.

Holy Roman Empire, 1347

T
homas threw open the door, sending a rimy gust through the room. “Did you see the yellow butterflies? Scores of them, flying out of the Jewish quarter!”

Margaretha continued stuffing sausages, ignoring the brewer. She hated when he dropped by. He never knocked and always brought a bottle of ale, which meant the night would end with her husband, Peter, missing the chamber pot. Peter, seated at the dinner table, crumpled his brows as if he needed to think about whether he saw a swarm of yellow butterflies in the dead of January.

“Margaretha, did you see anything strange when you were with them today? Claudia, the Beckenbauer girl, saw the butterflies. And so did my sister-in-law, Nichola.”

The tall brewer filled their entryway, snow whipping around his legs and in the darkness behind him. At least he didn't have a bottle. Margaretha wiped her hands on her apron. “Please, Thomas, come inside before we all catch winter fever.”

Thomas stomped the snow off his boots and closed the door. Removing his felt hat, he took a seat near the fire. “A butterfly landed on Nichola's little boy, and his coughing stopped. Just like that. There are miracles happening all over town.”

“I noticed nothing unusual with the Jews today,” said Margaretha, laying out a casing. She didn't like the sound of yellow butterflies; it was an alarming flourish.

Peter poured Thomas a glass of cider. “Every day I ask her to stop working for those Christ killers. For over twenty years, she has swept and cooked and scrubbed for that Jew, one of the richest in the
Judengasse
, and look at us, we eat sausages stuffed with grain.”

Margaretha raised her eyebrows. Yes, it would be nice if the Jew paid her more, but it would also help if her husband spent fewer nights throwing dice at the White Swan. Once in a while, like now, she felt a touch of relief that God hadn't granted them children; but then, on the heels of that relief, as always, came the sad idea that if they'd had a brood, Peter might have been less interested in ale and dice.

Thomas downed the cider. “The prince has no honor. He'd rather collect taxes than let us get rid of them. He's gilded his carriage with their blood money.”

Pouring another glass, Peter said, “I think he'd be glad to see them go. He owes them so much money. Margaretha's Jew has one of the prince's belt buckles as collateral. Doesn't he, Margaretha?”

Thomas banged down his hand, sending a cork rolling off the table. “I'm sick of it! It's time we drove them out of Terfur! Out of the Rhineland! Margaretha, are you sure you didn't see anything suspicious today?”

Hunching over to retrieve the cork, Margaretha wished they would stick to the standard bellyache about the Jews and drop the worrisome butterfly business. She was too tired for this. Her neck was stiff in the mornings, her shoulders sore. She was getting old, her honey-brown hair fading fast. The days bore nothing sweet. “I told you, no.”