mouth’s so cold. It’s frozen.”
I pulled up my legs. The bed suddenly seemed too narrow for me. I couldn’t figure out why. Sleeping with Father I never felt so cramped, and Father’s body never gave off such heat. Why? Was it because her lips never stopped warming mine?
I had no idea how I fell asleep. I didn’t hear Jusza leave the room, nor did I hear Mother and Father come home.
By the time I opened my eyes, Father was sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor, pulling on his boots. Mother, her head wrapped in a kerchief, sat hunched on a low stool, like a child, rocking from side to side. In the kitchen, Jusza was chopping wood. The blows were sharp and quick, as if she were letting her anger out at some unseen antagonist.
Now I remembered! Jusza! What had happened with Jusza? Why was she now chopping wood? How long since she’d been warming my lips? And there was Father sitting on the bed, his back to me, while Mother sat rocking on the low stool. The gray walls that hadn’t been whitewashed in ages were tinged with a greenish, sleepy, early-morning light.
A small glass, with fingerlike impressions on its sides, stood on the window sill. A tiny, blue flame flickered inside it.
By now, Father had pulled on his boots. His yellowed prayer shawl hung down his back, crumpled like a page torn from an old Bible. He turned his beard to me, still lying in bed.
“Get up,” he said, “it’s time for the morning prayers.”
He pulled on his kapote , his shabby gaberdine, and left the house. But not for long. He returned with two little men who looked around with great curiosity at the unfamiliar room. Father left them there and went out again, coming and going several times, until our room filled up with the unkempt beards of strangers in threadbare, weekday kapotes .
From the window to the wall and from the wall to the window, here and there, one could hear the hollow rumblings of an empty stomach. On the dresser and the wardrobe patches of shadow climbed up the ceiling, as though the room was too crowded to contain them.
Mother moved her stool over to the stove. From time to time, Jusza appeared in the doorway, holding a chunk of wood in her hand. I pressed in deeper among the cold kapotes of the strangers, scared to look at Jusza. The fringes of the men’s prayer shawls trailed along the floor like white worms. One of the worshipers, a man with a choked voice, was swaying back and forth over the table, swallowing every word.
Father, who was standing beside me, put his hand on my shoulder and pointed with his head to the prayer book, “Nu … nu …”
After the praying was done, the strangers began drifting out of the room. Their heavy, mud-caked boots shuffled across the floor, as they filed past Mother, crouched on her low stool, and mumbled some words to her.
A musty smell of old wadding and soiled clothing lingered in the room. Two rumpled prayer shawls with yellowed fringes lay on the table. Father slowly unwound the stiff, shriveled leather straps of the phylacteries from his blue frozen hand.
And this is the way it was throughout the whole week of shivah , the seven days of mourning. Mother rarely rose from her stool, and Jusza, after chopping some more wood and attending to the fire in the stove, would seat herself on another low stool and, like Mother, begin rocking from side to side.
In the evening the aunts and uncles would come by to offer their condolences, bringing with them the silence of the snow outside. They sat there, in their overcoats, glum-faced, never saying a word, neither on entering nor on leaving. They stayed for a short while, shrugged their shoulders, and returned to homes where no one had died and no one was in mourning.
Only two of the uncles saw fit to break the silence. Uncle Shmuel, he of the restless hands, couldn’t forgive Moyshe for having died, just like that! And Uncle Bentsien kept rubbing his chubby hands together, protesting to God about the
I pulled up my legs. The bed suddenly seemed too narrow for me. I couldn’t figure out why. Sleeping with Father I never felt so cramped, and Father’s body never gave off such heat. Why? Was it because her lips never stopped warming mine?
I had no idea how I fell asleep. I didn’t hear Jusza leave the room, nor did I hear Mother and Father come home.
By the time I opened my eyes, Father was sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor, pulling on his boots. Mother, her head wrapped in a kerchief, sat hunched on a low stool, like a child, rocking from side to side. In the kitchen, Jusza was chopping wood. The blows were sharp and quick, as if she were letting her anger out at some unseen antagonist.
Now I remembered! Jusza! What had happened with Jusza? Why was she now chopping wood? How long since she’d been warming my lips? And there was Father sitting on the bed, his back to me, while Mother sat rocking on the low stool. The gray walls that hadn’t been whitewashed in ages were tinged with a greenish, sleepy, early-morning light.
A small glass, with fingerlike impressions on its sides, stood on the window sill. A tiny, blue flame flickered inside it.
By now, Father had pulled on his boots. His yellowed prayer shawl hung down his back, crumpled like a page torn from an old Bible. He turned his beard to me, still lying in bed.
“Get up,” he said, “it’s time for the morning prayers.”
He pulled on his kapote , his shabby gaberdine, and left the house. But not for long. He returned with two little men who looked around with great curiosity at the unfamiliar room. Father left them there and went out again, coming and going several times, until our room filled up with the unkempt beards of strangers in threadbare, weekday kapotes .
From the window to the wall and from the wall to the window, here and there, one could hear the hollow rumblings of an empty stomach. On the dresser and the wardrobe patches of shadow climbed up the ceiling, as though the room was too crowded to contain them.
Mother moved her stool over to the stove. From time to time, Jusza appeared in the doorway, holding a chunk of wood in her hand. I pressed in deeper among the cold kapotes of the strangers, scared to look at Jusza. The fringes of the men’s prayer shawls trailed along the floor like white worms. One of the worshipers, a man with a choked voice, was swaying back and forth over the table, swallowing every word.
Father, who was standing beside me, put his hand on my shoulder and pointed with his head to the prayer book, “Nu … nu …”
After the praying was done, the strangers began drifting out of the room. Their heavy, mud-caked boots shuffled across the floor, as they filed past Mother, crouched on her low stool, and mumbled some words to her.
A musty smell of old wadding and soiled clothing lingered in the room. Two rumpled prayer shawls with yellowed fringes lay on the table. Father slowly unwound the stiff, shriveled leather straps of the phylacteries from his blue frozen hand.
And this is the way it was throughout the whole week of shivah , the seven days of mourning. Mother rarely rose from her stool, and Jusza, after chopping some more wood and attending to the fire in the stove, would seat herself on another low stool and, like Mother, begin rocking from side to side.
In the evening the aunts and uncles would come by to offer their condolences, bringing with them the silence of the snow outside. They sat there, in their overcoats, glum-faced, never saying a word, neither on entering nor on leaving. They stayed for a short while, shrugged their shoulders, and returned to homes where no one had died and no one was in mourning.
Only two of the uncles saw fit to break the silence. Uncle Shmuel, he of the restless hands, couldn’t forgive Moyshe for having died, just like that! And Uncle Bentsien kept rubbing his chubby hands together, protesting to God about the
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