Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life Read Free

nostrils of his snout. A woman, a stranger, leaned down to me and, in a kindly voice, said that young boys whose parents were still alive—and may they live to be a hundred and twenty—were not allowed in the cemetery. So I went only as far as the inn, the Three Trees, about halfway to the cemetery. The cart and its company merged into a single black mass, as all wended their way to the final resting place.
    Nobody accompanied me as I returned home, except for the stray dog trotting beside me, panting to the beat of his own steps.
    The dog stopped at our door a step ahead of me. Did he know that this was where I lived? Why did his ears poke up like that?
    I stopped too and shouted into his ears, “What’s your name? Burek?”
    The dog shook his head from side to side, as if objecting to being called by such a common name.
    I called out other dogs’ names, Lapke, Buket, but no, he went on shaking his head.
    I felt cold. My heavy overcoat kept dragging at my shoulders. Finally I shouted into the dog’s ear, “Good night dog!”
    He snorted and trotted off, then lay down on the snow, his paws stretched out toward the door of our house.
    When I came into the house, Jusza was sitting alone in the kitchen, her elbows propped up on the small table, beside the kerosene lamp, her chin cupped in both hands, staring blankly into the reddish-blue flame. At my entrance, her hands dropped from her chin and she rose abruptly.
    “The funeral’s over already?”
    “No, not yet.”
    “You didn’t go?”
    “Only as far as the Three Trees.”
    “Hungry?”
    “No.”
    “You look frozen to the bone. Come here and sit down.”
    She hugged me as if I were a sack of cotton wool or feathers and sat me down close beside her. Then, folding me into her large warm arms, she spoke right into my face.
    “That’ll warm you up fine.”
    She blew onto my stiff fingers, took them into her mouth, and rubbed them between her hands.
    “Maybe you should lie down for a while, hah?”
    I don’t know if I answered her or not. She left me sitting in the kitchen and went into the other room to make up Father’s bed. Then she undressed me, led me into the other room, tucked me in up to my chin beneath the featherbed, and seated herself at my feet like Mother used to do when I was sick with scarlet fever.
    “Will they be back soon?” Jusza asked.
    “As soon as the funeral’s over.”
    “When will that be?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Jusza went into the kitchen for a moment, where I heard her fussing with the lock on the door. It was very dark in the room by now. Only a narrow streak of light filtered in from the kitchen but stopped halfway across the floor.
    Jusza returned from the kitchen and sat down once again on the bed, but not at my feet. Her body gave off a sweaty warmth, exuding a sweetness that clung to the roof of my mouth and filled my nose—an odor unlike any other person’s I had know.
    “You feel warmer now, don’t you?” she said, bending her large face over mine.
    “A little,” I said, feeling Jusza’s odor seep into my throat and from there deep into my veins.
    “You’ll soon feel warm all over,” she said.
    I heard two dull thuds on the floor. Jusza must have kicked off first one shoe, then the other.
    “Soon, soon,” she said hoarsely.
    Drowsy, frozen, exhausted, I saw Jusza take off her red bodice and undo her blouse. Its laces must have gotten knotted, for Jusza’s breath turned into heavy panting as she sent forth a curse into the darkness: “Damn it! What the hell!” Then the featherbed heaved and I felt Jusza’s large, warm body beside me. My throat constricted, whether from fright or surprise I couldn’t say, and I snuggled up against the wall.
    “Come here, come closer,” Jusza whispered and pulled me back to herself. “Now you’ll get really warm. Give me your hands. Well, how does that feel?”
    “Warm.”
    “Put your head over here. Isn’t that warm?”
    “Warm.”
    “Poor thing. Your