Touched by Fire (4 page)

Papa says, “Believe it. We live here like rats in a trap, so many of us crowded together. When it pleases a kaiser or
a tsar to get rid of us, then it will happen. Not today or tomorrow, but one day the burning will reach here too. In America, my son, no one will burn us.”

“It is late – enough of this kind of talk. I will make tea,” Mama says, rubbing her back. She looks tired.

“Sit, Mama, it is my job to bring in the tea,” I tell her.

The baby will be here in a few months. I can hardly wait. How I long for a sister – one brother is enough! But, as Bubbe says, “Boy, girl – as long as the baby is healthy and your mama stays well, that is all that matters.”

Before I go to sleep, Papa’s words stay with me.
Will the kaiser’s troops come to chase us out of the Scheunenviertel?
All the houses have cellars. Perhaps they would not find us. I don’t believe that it will happen. This time, I think Yuri is right. All the same, whenever I go somewhere new, I look for a place to hide or a door to run through, to get away from anyone who might harm us. I don’t speak of it, but I think Mama knows.

Tonight, for the first time in months, the old dreaded nightmare returns. First I hear the sound of boots and horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, then shouts and cries in a jumble of German and Russian. Windows smash, shutters splinter close by. In my nightmare, I stumble to the kitchen, where the curtains Mama made are charred. Sparks flare on the neatly folded smocks, ready for delivery.
They burst into flame, engulfing the room. We are trapped. I try to call for help, but the word sticks in my throat.
Can the others not smell the smoke?

I force myself awake. No longer dreaming, I sit, stand, and walk into the kitchen. All is as it was before I went to bed. The samovar has cooled; the stove still glows, its embers slumbering. Barefooted, I lift Mama’s shawl from the peg on the kitchen wall, hug it around me, and open the front door. Everything is quiet.

The air feels sharply cold on my bare legs. Nothing moves. How sad the Barn Quarter looks at night, with no one there. This is how it would be if no one lived here anymore. One solitary cart trundles into our narrow street. The old man does not notice me – he is bent low over his pushcart.

I wish my father would not talk to us about pogroms at bedtime. I would like to tell him so. No, better not.

Papa would say, “Since when does a daughter tell her father what he can talk about?” But in twenty-five years, when I am as old as Mama and have children of my own, I will tell my husband not to frighten them. I smile at the thought.
How will we look? Where will we be in 1933?
Pogroms will be a forgotten history lesson, and we will all be safe in America!

T
here is frost on the windowpanes. Fresh snow covers the cobblestones. It is bitterly cold, but not quite as cold as in Russia. Only the big stove keeps our kitchen warm. Mama puts a shawl over her head to go out to the bakery.

Bubbe says, “Where do you think you are going, Sara? Do you want to slip? Here is someone all ready to run your errands.” Bubbe shoos me out to pick up a crusty loaf from the bakery around the corner.

Tonight, Papa comes home late again. I bring him the bowl of soup that has been kept warm for him on the stove. He says, “We cannot keep up with the orders. The cold brings in new customers daily. They ask for a heavier lining, or better yet, a cape with fur trim or a new overcoat. I’ll be working sixteen-hour days for the rest of the month. I have to return to the shop as soon as I finish this delicious soup.”

“I never see you these days, Sam,” Mama says.

“I miss you too, Sara. But I must work while the winter cold lasts. Hold out your apron.” Papa pulls a small cloth pouch from the lining in his jacket. Coins tumble down into Mama’s lap. “At the end of the month, there will be enough money to buy my ticket to America, with some left over for you, while I am away,” Papa says, smiling at us.

“So much, Sam! How hard you have had to work,” Mama says.

“It is for a good cause, Sara,” Papa says. “It’s for you and the children, for Bubbe and Zayde. A ship sails to America on March 7, and I mean to sail with her. In America, I will work even harder, so that you can all join me as soon as possible. Nothing is more important. Now I must get back to my waiting orders and my sewing machine.”

Mama gives Papa a bottle of hot tea to take with him to the shop.

Yuri has slipped out, mumbling something about making a snowman with Mikhail. But I notice that he always finds an excuse not to be here when Papa speaks of the Golden Land.

January 25, 1908. Today is my birthday, and I am twelve years old. Zayde has made me a beautiful present, more beautiful than I could ever have hoped for: boots of the softest leather. Just to look at them makes me feel like a tsarina.

I throw my arms around his neck. “A thousand thanks, Zayde. I will keep them forever!”

“Try them on, Miriam,” Zayde says. “Let me see how they fit. I made them a little big, to grow into, so that they will last you until you reach America. Wear them in good health, my child.”

Bubbe baked a raisin and almond cake, which is my favorite. But the long-awaited gift, the best of all, arrives one week later, on February 2, 1908. Devora, my baby sister, has joined the family.

She is perfect. Her skin is smooth and unwrinkled, and black wisps of hair cover her head. Bubbe is sure they will turn into curls. We think her eyes are brown, but they are usually squeezed shut. Yuri is not very enthusiastic about another sister. He and Mikhail were planning to recruit the new arrival into their games, but even he admits that Devora is a good baby.

Papa finished her cradle just in time. You would never know that it is made from odd pieces of wood that he found in alleys, barns, and even outside our quarter. This winter is so cold that there is very little wood left lying around. People are desperate to find something to burn. I see them forage for kindling to put in their stoves. Papa and Zayde have hammered, planed, and varnished to make a perfect small cradle on sturdy rockers that fits Devora snugly.

Mama and I lined the cradle with soft muslin, and Bubbe has embroidered three small nightgowns. Mikhail’s mother knitted a little blanket. It is so cold in the house that Devora has to wear a cap and mittens day and night!

Papa leaves for the Golden Land soon. The ship on which he will sail was built in Bremen and departs from there. Papa will have a long train journey to the city before going on to America. Mama’s face grows sad as the time draws near.

A few days before Papa is due to leave, he comes into the kitchen, where Mama is stirring a stew for Shabbat. Devora is awake for once, and he strokes her cheek. She stares at him. Papa will miss her first smile, her first word, her first tooth, and her first step!

Papa departs, laden with food for the long journey. His bags are filled with everything Mama and Bubbe think he cannot do without. How empty our small rooms feel without him. We avoid looking at Papa’s chair. I move into Mama’s room with her and the baby.

Mama says, “We should look for a boarder. It will help us to save for America and make up for Sam’s lost wages.”

Zayde says, “I will ask around. A lodger is a good idea, but it must be the right one. Not someone who comes and goes at all hours, nor one who is full of complaints.”

Two days later, when Kolya comes to teach us English conversation, Mama asks him if he knows of a reliable person who is looking for a place to stay. Preferably someone from the Old Country, needing room and board.

Kolya says, “I am glad you mentioned this. By a strange coincidence, I just happen to know of a perfect person – one who is exactly as you describe.” I see him wink at Yuri. “Can you guess who it is?” he asks.

Without thinking, I blurt out, “You?” Everyone turns to stare at me, and my cheeks grow warm.

“Seriously, Mrs. Markowitz,” Kolya says, “I really
am
in need of a place to stay. Mother has just been offered a position as housekeeper to a doctor’s family in Dahlem. It is in a fine part of the city, some distance away. The doctor’s wife has no objection to my brother, Lev, coming too. He is ten years old now and can make himself useful by working in the garden, cutting firewood, and doing other chores. He has started to speak again. It makes no sense for me to keep our two rooms. I don’t need much, and my apprenticeship will not be over for a long while. Would you consider me, please?”

Bubbe claps her hands. She has always had a soft spot for Kolya.

Mama hesitates, but only for a moment. “You can sleep on the couch in the living room, Kolya. We can put a chair or two at the end, if your legs are too long.”

This is the first time we have laughed since Papa went away. Gradually, we’ve become used to being without him. There are many families like us in the quarter, but I know Papa won’t rest until we are under the same roof again.

I
t seems as if we have waited months to hear from Papa, instead of only weeks.

“Maybe the ship was delayed. It happens,” Zayde says.

Mama worries. “I am afraid to think of him all alone, without family, in such a big city – a stranger in New York,” she says. “Perhaps someone has stolen his money. One hears such stories, thieves waiting to swindle newcomers.” Mama looks as if she might cry.

Bubbe comforts her. “Sara, this is not like you. Your Sam is a man who has lived through pogroms, who has never allowed his family to starve, even in the worst of times. He is a smart man who understands people. Such a wonderful tailor, and he even speaks some English, thanks to Kolya! He will be fine. He has been there only a few days – he must find a place to sleep, to eat, to work. Then he will
write; you will see. And it takes time for a letter to cross the ocean, then to reach us. No more of such talk. You are tired, Sara, go rest a little. Miriam and I will put everything away.” Bubbe pats her shoulder.

At last a letter arrives. Mama calls Yuri to fetch Zayde from his workshop. Bubbe dries her hands and takes off her apron in readiness for the great occasion, and Devora gurgles in her cradle. We sit and watch Mama slit open the envelope. Mama sniffs the paper.

“Does it smell of Papa, of America, Mama?” Yuri asks.

Mama smiles at him. “A little of both,” she says. Mama reads the letter aloud.

192 Ludlow Street
Lower East Side
New York
America
March 28, 1908

“Why would I marvel at that?” Yuri interrupts and is shushed.