The World in Pieces Read online

  The identity of the author remains unknown, of course, but the appearance of this fourth story does begin to shed some light here. From the first three stories we can infer that L.H. was not merely an acquaintance of Blima but an intimate confidant. In the fourth story though it becomes very nearly certain that L.H. had been the confidant not only of Blima but of Anchel and Surah as well, or at least of one of them, and probably was a frequent visitor to their home, and this would account rather neatly for why there is no L.H. among the correspondents.

  One more thing. Once I finished my translation of the fourth story, I went back and had a look at the place in the diary where the story had been found. Originally I hadn’t counted on this diary being of much interest. It had been written when Surah was quite young, between twelve and fifteen years old, and seemed at first quite ordinary and naive, but then, when I had a second look, I changed my mind, and then went on to spend a few hours nightly for nearly three weeks reading very carefully and making a series of excerpts, which when taken together make a picture that I think you’ll find interesting, particularly as it illuminates rather poignantly the life of your mother in the months just previous to your conception.

  I notice by the way that just this past week was your birthday. Happy coincidence.

  B.A. Midwood

  Prelude To Rebellion

  by L.H.

  translated from the German by B.A. Midwood

  Prelude to Rebellion

  Brooklyn, New York, 1925

  Anchel came home from school and lifted the blanket from Mama’s little feet and kissed them. Then he went and embraced her shoulders and kissed her face on both sides.

  “Bring me Shmuel,” she said.

  “You’re too tired.”

  “Bring Shmuel.”

  Anchel went to the kitchen where his little brother Shmuel sat at the table with pencil and notepad, drawing pictures of men that looked like potatoes.

  “Mama wants to rub your legs,” said Anchel and he carried Shmuel to Mama’s bed and she began to massage his legs, which were thin and bent from polio.

  A bell rang and Anchel went to the front door and found Anna Perewski on the doorstep. She waved a letter at him.

  He nodded at her and made a gesture that indicated she was welcome to come in, but he did not bother to speak, for she knew only Polish and he knew only English, Yiddish and Spanish.

  He took her to Mama’s bedside and offered her a chair.

  The two women talked in Polish until Shmuel was done with his massage. Then Anchel carried Shmuel back to the kitchen and Mama took Mrs. Perewski’s letter and read it aloud. It was in Polish, three pages with small writing on both sides of each page. Mrs. Perewski wept quietly through the reading. At the end she gave Mama a blank sheet of paper and a pencil and dictated a reply.

  After Mrs. Perewski left, three more women came with letters, one in Hungarian, one in German and one in Yiddish. Anchel listened to the letter in Yiddish. It came from Prague, a dull stupid letter, full of complaints.

  At five his sister Surah came home. She was fourteen, a year younger than Anchel, and had a figure like a movie star—a slim waist and full high breasts. She had jet black hair and dark eyes and a sensuous mouth. Since Mama had contracted cancer two years ago, Surah had become the cook in the family. Also she did the heavy housework. She washed the windows, mopped and dusted and took care of the laundry. Today as soon as she came home she went to the kitchen. She put her coat on a chair and kissed Shmuel on the head. Anchel came into the kitchen and she embraced him and kissed him on the mouth. Always the past two years she kissed him on the mouth when she came home.

  “I’m home, Mama,” she called as he held her around the waist and looked into her eyes.

  “You’re getting so strong, Anchel,” she added in a whisper.

  Anchel let go of her and went back to his mother and sat at the edge of the bed.

  In the morning Surah served oatmeal with brown sugar and hot milk to herself and her two brothers in the kitchen. Then she put on her coat and put her schoolbooks in a cloth bag and Anchel’s in a leather briefcase. Usually she and Anchel walked to school together, a short walk, only ten blocks, during which she liked to keep one hand in the crook of his arm and to go at a leisurely pace, so always she made sure that they left home early.

  “Hurry, Anchel,” she said as she buckled his briefcase. “We’ll be late.”

  Once Anchel had gotten into his coat, he carried his little brother to Mama, set him down beside her in her bed and said good-bye, lifting the blanket to kiss the arch of her foot. Her smooth pallid skin felt cold to his lips this morning, however, so cold as to be startling, and he lifted his head suspiciously; then he bent forward to peer at her face and saw that the life had gone out of it and that she was not breathing.

  It took Anchel almost an hour to walk from his home in Bensonhurst to the little tailor shop in Boro Park. He could have taken a trolley or the subway, but he wanted to save the nickel and also to walk in the cold air.

  He went into the shop but it was empty, so he went behind the counter and pushed open the curtain in front of the back room. Here he found his father sitting at a sewing machine and marking a piece of cloth with white chalk.

  As usual in the shop Eli was dressed to the nines. He wore a three-piece gray flannel suit tailored by himself, a white silk shirt, a blue and gray tie, a gold watch-chain, a white satin skullcap and superbly polished shoes that were white on the sides and black over the toes and around the heels.

  In a bed against the back wall was a woman asleep with her mouth open, a young rosy-cheeked woman with wonderful breasts and pretty teeth.

  Anchel drew the curtain closed and retreated to the front of the shop and stood by the counter.

  At once his father came through the curtain.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” he said in Yiddish.

  Surah’s Diary

  Excerpts: January—August, 1925

  Yesterday we buried Mama. Papa made the arrangements for the funeral and paid for the coffin and the plot and also he paid something to the shul and bought wine and cake for afterwards.

  Many people in the neighborhood loved Mama and so a lot of them came to the cemetery, all the people she helped with their letters, writing and translating. All those people came.

  Afterward at the house Mrs. Perewski came to me and began to weep and weep so badly I didn’t know what to do. I was a little frightened of her, the moaning, and also her breath was not pleasant. Thank God her husband came and took her away from me. His eyes said to me that he was sorry for me, that he wanted me to forgive his wife for crying so much but he could not speak even one word of English and so I don’t even know for sure that he really meant what his eyes said.

  After the people ate the cake and drank all the wine, they left.

  Then there were just Anchel and I and Shmuel and Mordecai and also Papa.

  I did not have much to clean up because the women from the neighborhood already did everything almost.

  Papa said he would stay the night with us, but Anchel said no, we did not need him. I thought myself that maybe we did need him but I said nothing because Anchel gave me a look before I could open my mouth.

  I have been only to one other funeral, the funeral of Papa’s cousin Marcus. That was a different kind of funeral, not so much weeping. For Marcus only the widow wept. But for Mama everybody wept. In all my life I never saw so many people weep in one place at the same time, not even in the movies. The only ones who did not weep were the Rabbi and Papa.

  It is two days since we buried Mama. I will miss her more than I can say, but I mustn’t be too sad or cry too much or I won’t be able to take care of Shmuel. And if I don’t, who will?

  I think it will be a good idea for me to write something in this diary every day. Mama used to write in her diary every day and once she told me that her diary was what kept her from losing her mind. I am sure that’s true. Just these few words on the page today a
re already calming me down. Ten minutes ago, before I began to write, I could feel my heart pounding in my throat so hard and fast that I could have screamed, but now I am all right.

  I hope we are doing the right thing. It is now almost a week since I have been to school and I miss it. I never thought I could ever say, “I miss school,” but then I never thought that I would have to leave school before I graduated.

  Maybe I can go next year. I would be a year behind but that is not so bad. I am one of the youngest in my class anyway.

  All day I have been with Shmuel. This is true everyday now since Mama died. But some days it does not feel that I am with him all the time. Some days I forget even that he is here, so good is he. But today he has not been well, so I have been doing what I can, what I remember that Mama used to do. Only now something is different with Shmuel and I don’t trust the doctors. Mama taught me this. She used to say, “The doctors they know only what they learn in books. They do not consult their own hearts. Therefore they make many mistakes.”

  Shmuel has polio and he is thin and twisted, mainly in the legs. The doctors they wanted to put him in braces. But Mama said no, the braces would hurt him and make him worse. She was very angry. I remember well how angry she was. And she said to the doctors that she would cure her little boy with her own hands and she would show them what was the truth. And so this is what she did. She made the legs of my little brother almost straight. And he can move them too. And every day he even takes a few steps. The doctors told Mama this is a miracle, but she told them that it was not a miracle, but that it was the result of a simple thing, the rubbing of the legs, which is just common sense.

  She also told them to stop putting the metal braces on the other polio children, but of course the doctors don’t listen. As Mama used to say: “They are happier if they think of the leg-rubbing as magic and the improvement of Shmuel as a miracle.” In any case I too rub Shmuel’s legs. I try to rub as Mama did but I don’t know if I do as well as she. Shmuel says I do just as well as Mama but I think he is only trying to flatter me and cheer me up. I am sure that if Mama were alive, he would prefer her to me, but now of course he has only me and so he makes do. And anyway he is only four years old, so what does he know of life!

  Today he gave me no peace. He has a very bad cough and a runny nose and a headache and he keeps complaining that his legs and his back begin to hurt as soon as I stop rubbing him, so naturally in his opinion I ought to keep rubbing him without a moment’s rest! But can I do this? Must I do this? If Mama were alive, I would ask her: Mama, must I rub Shmuel’s legs all day without rest? Is this what is right?

  She is the only one I would trust with such a question.

  Today Papa came by to visit. It was six o’clock. He said he just wants to make sure we are well. And also he offers money. But Anchel says no, he wants no money from Papa.

  Why Anchel hates Papa so much I don’t know. Papa is not a bad man. Even Mama told us we shouldn’t hate him, that he did right to leave, because she did not love him and he knew this and he was a man after all and wanted a woman to love him. She would have loved him if she could. But she couldn’t.

  For Anchel this is a terrible thing. Too much. He hates Papa for being what he is, for being a man that Mama could not love. But is this fair? To hate Papa maybe because he did this or he did that, I could understand. But to hate him because he is not a man that Mama could love, this is not human.

  Tonight Anchel came home with something that frightened me. A tattoo. A big red and blue tattoo on his forearm, a big heart that says MOTHER and has an arrow in it. And around the heart are leaves and snakes.

  “This is a sin against God,” I said.

  “There is no God!” said Anchel.

  “Don’t ever say such a thing in front of Shmuel.”

  “Why? Shmuel should know! There’s no God! No God!”

  He began to shout. It was horrible, the look on his face, the way he was shouting at Shmuel, and Shmuel began to cry.

  I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to put my arms around Anchel and hold him and stroke his hair and calm him down, because why was he so angry? Only because he was frightened, that’s all, frightened to be in the world without Mama. But after all Shmuel was even more frightened, because he is only four years old and he is the one who misses Mama the most. He is the one who needs her the most. So I picked him up and held him and told Anchel to stop shouting, but this only made him angrier, and he went and grabbed a milk bottle from the window sill and smashed it against the wall. Glass flew everywhere, everywhere! And a little piece even cut my face, not so bad, just on the cheek. All the same there was a little blood and of course when Anchel saw it he immediately began to apologize, and he began to cry too, just like a little boy, worse than Shmuel, and when Shmuel saw Anchel cry like that, it was even more frightening than when Anchel was angry! So what could I do with these two! I thought I was going to go out of my mind!

  But I didn’t. I was very calm. I thought of Mama. And I was very calm. And soon, somehow, it all passed. It calmed down. And I went to make hot cocoa for us. And Anchel went and shut himself in the bathroom and stayed there until I shouted at him that the cocoa was ready. Then he came to the kitchen and sat at the table with Shmuel and me.

  I did not look at Anchel when he first sat down. Something told me I was going to have to see that he had done another horrible thing to himself, and so I did not look at him immediately.

  How much do I have to endure this night? I asked myself.

  But then I looked up and of course I was right. He had again done something to himself, sinned against God. He had cut his earlocks!

  At first I didn’t know what to think. The tattoo was one thing, but the earlocks, they were another! Without the ear-locks he looked like a movie star. That was the first thing I thought. He looks like a movie star! But the second thing I thought was: This is a sin against God. And this second thing is what I said.

  And he said, “How can I sin against God if God doesn’t exist?”

  Then he picked up his cup and drank the cocoa.

  “This is some cocoa,” he said.

  And he smiled. An arrogant smile. And I thought: He knows! He knows he looks like a movie star!

  “Cut my earlocks too!” said Shmuel.

  “No!” said Anchel. “You must wear them.”

  I worry for Anchel. Ever since he was a little boy, even in Argentina, he used to say that when he grew up he would be a doctor.

  The day before Mama died she said to him, “Remember, Anchel. This is what you want. To be a doctor. This is a precious thing to know what you want to be. Most people they never know this. And so they do this and they do that and they are never satisfied, never happy. Always they feel that they are impostors.”

  But now he works ten hours a day six days a week in Nedicks packing the crates in the basement and mopping the floors. Even on Shabbes he works.

  How will he become a doctor if he works in Nedicks? He must finish two more years in high school. Then college four years. Then medical school. Altogether ten years of school he must finish.

  “I will do it!” he says.

  But when? When will he do it?

  And when will I finish school?

  “Life goes by like this!” Mama used to say and then she would snap her fingers. “Like this!”

  How she used to frighten me with that snap of the fingers!

  Mordecai too he hates.

  “Anchel,” I say, “why do you hate Mordecai?”

  “For what he did to Mama.”

  “What did he do to Mama? Mordecai loved Mama!”

  “Love! What kind of love is this, to abandon her when she is sick, to abandon all of us!”

  “But he didn’t abandon. Every week he came and gave money to Mama.”

  “The money he gave was nothing. Pennies. If he didn’t marry, he could have given Mama ten times what he gave!”

  “Of course! But then how would Mama have felt if Mordecai had s
tayed at home and had not married the woman he loved? Would this have made Mama happy? From this alone she would have died! Even without the cancer!”

  To this Anchel says nothing. I see tears in his eyes. I go to him, touch his face.

  I say, “Let’s not fight. I love you.” Then I say, “Listen, Anchel, be smart. Let Mordecai help us. Every week he comes. He wants to give money. We should take it.”

  At this Anchel shakes his head and glowers and pulls away from me.

  “We don’t need his money” he says.

  “Yes! We need it! If we took the money from Mordecai, and from Papa too, then you would have to work only part-time in the evening and you could go back to school.”

  “And what about you, Surah?”

  “Next year. Next year Shmuel will go in the kindergarten and I will go back to school.”

  “Good.”

  “Does good mean you’ll take the money from Mordecai?”

  “Good means good you’re going back to school!”

  “Why must you do this, Anchel? Take the money! He wants to give it. To help.”

  “I don’t need his help! And not Papa’s either! I need nobody’s help! I’ll take care of us, of you and Shmuel and myself very well! Without Mordecai! Without Papa!”

  And he starts to shout again and I fear that he’s going to break something again, another milk bottle, who knows what! So I grab his arm and I tell him, “Anchel, you’re talking like a crazy man!”

  “Don’t speak to me that way,” he says.

  “Then how should I speak to you?”

  “With respect!”

  “Anchel, listen, I love you. You’re so strong, such a good heart, so brave, everything, you’re everything to me! This is why I fight with you. Because you talk in a way that makes you less than what you are. Mama told me before she died, ‘Watch him, Surah. Sometimes he feels too much, says crazy things that hurt only himself, and you must stop him. Promise you’ll do that!’”