Two Scholars Who Were in Our Town and Other Novellas (26 page)

Around that time my father stopped reciting the
Kaddish, and approaching me he said, “Come, let us go and choose a headstone for our mother.” I put on my hat and gloves. “Here I am, Father,” I answered. My father drew back in surprise, as though noticing for the first time that I was wearing mourning. He opened the door and we left the house.

Once on our way, my father stopped in his tracks and said, “Spring has arrived early.” And he passed his hand over his brow as he spoke. “If spring had not been late a year ago she would still be alive.” My father sighed. We walked on and skirted the town, and my father placed his hand in my own and said, “This way.”

As we approached the outer limits of the town we suddenly came upon an old woman digging in her yard. My father greeted her and said, “Please tell us, good lady, is Mr. Mazal home?” The woman set aside the spade she had been digging with and answered, “Yes, Mr. Mazal is at home.” My father grasped my hand firmly. “Come, my daughter, let us go in.”

A man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The room was small and pleasant-looking and sheaves of paper were piled on the table. The man’s face was veiled in sorrow. “I have come to ask you to write the epitaph for the headstone,” my father said. And it suddenly dawned on him who we were, and he covered the sheaves of paper and welcomed us, and he stroked my cheek and said, “You have grown a great deal.” Looking at him I was reminded of my mother, for the way he moved his hands resembled my mother’s gestures. And my father stood before the man; each facing his brother. “Who knew then,” my father said, “that Leah would leave us.” The man’s face brightened for a moment as my father appeared to encompass him in his grief, but little did he know that my father had directed his words at me. The man extracted a sheaf from under the heap of papers and handed it to my father. My father took the sheaf and as he read his tears blotted the tearstains on the page. I stared at the sheaf and the script and was astonished. I had seen such a page and such writing before. Even so, upon seeing something, I often feel that I have already seen that very same thing before. Nor were the tearstains foreign to me.

My father read the poem to its end without saying a thing, for his words were held back in his mouth. And he put on his hat and we departed. We walked into town and arrived home just as Kaila was lighting the lamp. I prepared my lessons and my father read the epitaph for the headstone.

The stonecutter arrived and carved the headstone according to my father’s wishes. And he copied down Akaviah Mazal’s epitaph on large sheets of paper. And my father and I stood on either side of the stonecutter in order to choose the lettering for the headstone. But none of the letters seemed right to my father. And there was a bookshelf in our home, and one day, after sifting in vain through the sheaves of paper, my father went to fetch a book from the shelf and his eyes lit up as he leafed through his books. In those days our home was shrouded in a merciful melancholy. And at that time, as my father searched for the right lettering for the headstone, he all but forgot my mother. And he never grew weary, as a bird collecting twigs for its nest never tires in flight.

And the stone engraver arrived and thumbing through the books and letters, he found a script for the headstone. That was during the first days of spring. The stone engraver set about his work outside. As he struck the stone the letters clustered into rhymes, like bees drawn to the sound of their companions swarming among fieldstones. The headstone was made of marble. And the stone engraver filled in the letters in black. In this way he shaped the letters on the headstone. And he coated the heading in gold. And once the work was completed the headstone stood over her grave on the appointed day. My father then rose and went to the cemetery along with the townsfolk to recite the Kaddish. He rested his head against the stone and grasped Mazal’s hand. And since the time we went to the cemetery to raise the headstone, my father and I have visited her grave daily—apart from the Passover holidays, for one must not enter a graveyard on the holy days.

“Shall we go for a walk,” my father said one day during the intermediate days of Passover. I put on my festive dress and approached him. “You have a new dress,” he said. “It is for special occasions,” I answered as we set out.

Once on our way, I thought to myself, What have I done, for I have made myself a new dress. Suddenly I felt God stirring my conscience and I stood still. “Why have you stopped?” my father asked. “I couldn’t help thinking, why have I put on my holiday dress,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come.” I removed my gloves and rejoiced as a gust of cold air enveloped my hands. We continued on our way.

As we reached the outskirts of town, my father turned off the road in the direction of Mazal’s home. Mazal hurried towards us as we entered. Removing his hat, my father said, “I have searched through all her belongings.” After falling silent for a moment he sighed and conceded, “I have labored in vain, I sought, but did not find.”

My father saw that Mazal did not grasp the meaning of his words. “I thought to publish your poems and I looked through all her drawers, but I could not find a thing.” Mazal shuddered. His shoulders shook, and he didn’t say a word. Shifting from one foot to the other, my father stretched out his hand and asked, “Do you have a copy?” “There is no copy,” Mazal answered. My father drew back, frightened. “I wrote the poems for her, that is why I did not make any copies for myself,” Mazal added. My father sighed and raised his palm to his head. Mazal then grasped the corners of the table and said, “She is dead.” “Dead,” my father answered, and fell silent. The day waned. The servant entered and lit the lamp. My father bade Mazal good day. And as we left, Mazal extinguished the lamp.

In those days classes resumed at school and I applied myself to my lessons all day long. In the evening my father returned from his work at the store and we supped together. We sat hushed over our food and neither spoke a word.

“Tirtza, what are you doing?” my father asked one spring evening as we sat by the table. “I am preparing my lessons,” I replied. “And have you forgotten your Hebrew?” he asked. “I haven’t forgotten.” And he said, “I will find you a teacher and you will learn Hebrew.” My father then found me a teacher to his liking and brought him home. The teacher, at my father’s urging, taught me grammar, for as with most of our people, my father believed grammar was the soul of the Hebrew language. The teacher taught me the Hebrew tongue, the rules of logic, and the meaning of “What profit hath man.” I was left breathless. And in addition to grammar, a
melamed—
a teacher for beginners—instructed me in the Bible and prayerbook. For my father had me study under the teacher’s guidance subjects that other young girls did not know, while the
melamed
came and taught me all that they did know. He appeared daily and Kaila would bring him a glass of tea and cream cake. If the evil eye had taken hold of her she would approach the
melamed
and he would whisper into her ear. And when he spoke, a smile in the depth of his beard glimmered as in a mirror.

How tired I grew of grammar and its endless rules. I could not make head or tails of the meaning of such words as
Bedingungs-Buchstaben
and
Sprach-Werkzeuge
. Like a parrot I chattered a string of meaningless names. Once the teacher exclaimed, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity.” On another occasion he was approving as I parroted whatever he said word for word. I commanded my brain: Onwards! I cried out to my memory: Help me!

One day the teacher arrived while the
melamed
was still in the house. The teacher waited and waited for the
melamed
to leave. He, however, did not go. Kaila came from the kitchen as they sat and said to the
melamed
, “I dreamt a dream and my spirit has been shaken.” “What did you see, Kaila?” he asked. “I saw a small Ashkenazi with a red wool cap on his head.” “What did the Ashkenazi do?” he asked. “He hiccupped and yawned,” she answered, “and since I woke up that morning I can’t stop sneezing.” The
melamed
stood up, closed his eyes, and spat three times in front of the teacher. Then, all in a whisper, he cast his spell. But before he could finish the teacher leapt to his feet in anger and exclaimed, “Wickedness and fraud! Are you throwing sand in the eyes of an innocent woman?” And the
melamed
called after him, “Heretic! Are you belittling the customs of Israel?” And in his rage the teacher spun on his heel and stomped out. From that day on, the
melamed
stayed vigilant for the sound of the teacher’s footsteps. But the teacher stopped coming and the
melamed
taught me the weekly portions, which we hadn’t studied yet and which we set out to learn now that the teacher came no more. And I remembered his pleasant voice, for a spirit of grace and supplication swept over me.

Summer arrived and the golden grasshopper took to the air. Its strains swelled about us as it spread its thin wings and its coppery belly gleamed in the daylight. Sometimes we heard from within the muffled sound of the house-grasshopper striking its jaws against the woodwork. My heart would then beat feebly, fearing death; for such a sound heralds death.

And in those days I read from the Book of Joshua and Judges, and at that time I found a book among my mother’s books, may she rest in peace. I read two chapters, for I told myself, I will repeat the words my mother read, may she rest in peace. I was dumbfounded, seeing as I understood what was before me. I read on and the stories were familiar to me. Reading my mother’s books, I felt like a little child who in hearing his mother chuckle and chirp suddenly recognizes his own name.

School recessed for the summer holidays. And I sat at home and altered my dresses, for they had last been worn before my year of mourning and no longer fitted me. One day, while my father was at home, the doctor called on us. My father was delighted by his visit, for he had lived in the company of doctors during my mother’s lifetime, may she rest in peace. The doctor told my father, “Look at you both sitting indoors while summer beckons.” He grasped my hand and felt my pulse as he spoke, and when he leaned over me I recognized the odor of his clothes. It was just like my mother’s odor when she was ill. “How you’ve grown,” the doctor said. “In a few months I won’t be able to call you child any more.” And he asked me my age and I answered, “I am fourteen.” Then, noticing my dress, he asked, “You also know how to sew?” “Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth,” I replied. The doctor smoothed his mustache with two fingers as he laughed, “A bold girl, and looking for compliments.” Turning to my father, he added, “Her face is the very likeness of her mother’s, may she rest in peace.” My father turned and gazed at me. Kaila then came from the kitchen with marmalade and a pitcher of water. “My, it’s hot today,” the doctor exclaimed, and he opened a window. The streets were silent for want of passersby. We lowered our voices as people do when all about them it is very quiet. The doctor drained his glass of water, covered the marmalade with a bowl, and said, “You have been sitting here in town long enough, now you must find yourselves a place for the summer.” My father nodded, a sign that he would follow the doctor’s advice, even though it seemed his heart was not in the matter.

At that time Mrs. Gottlieb invited me to spend the remaining days of my vacation at her home. My father agreed, saying, “Go now.” But I answered, “How can I go alone?” And he said, “I will come and visit.” Kaila stood dusting by the mirror and winked at me as she overheard my father’s words. I saw her move her lips and grimace in the mirror, and I laughed to myself. Noticing how my face lit up my father said, “I knew you would listen to me.” Then he left.

Once my father had gone I told Kaila, “How strangely you behaved, making faces in the mirror.” Kaila appeared angry. “What’s wrong, Kaila?” I asked. “Have you lost the use of your eyes?” she retorted. “Kaila,” I cried out, “May God be with you, but do speak up, please—and stop tormenting me with all sorts of riddles.” Kaila wiped her mouth angrily and said, “If you do not know, my dove, then just take a good look at your father. Why, he’s nothing but skin and bones and creeps around like a shadow on the face of the earth. When I was polishing his shoes I thought to myself, Where did he collect such mud, and it suddenly dawned on me that his shoes were caked with earth from the cemetery. I also recognized his footprints by her grave, which he visits seven times a day.”