weather.
“Can you believe what a winter it’s been? Coal cost the price of gold! So I said to my wife …”
Just then Aunt Naomi half closed her sleepy eyes and, in her nasal singsong said, “Shouldn’t we be going, Bentsien? Heh, Bentsien?”
Chapter Two
People no longer came by to pay their condolences. Now, a photograph of Moyshe which Mother had framed graced the top of the dresser. Here Moyshe’s face wasn’t round any more and his cheeks weren’t dimpled. The flat surface showed a young man with a pale, scared face, one hand white, the other black, as though covered with a dark glove. He looked stiffly to one side, not seeming to recognize anyone in the room.
At that time, another photograph arrived at our house, from faraway Ekaterinoslav, where Leybke, Father’s son from his first wife, was serving as a soldier in the Tsar’s army. It was nothing at all like Moyshe’s photograph. It pictured an altogether different type of person, with a completely different look. Tall, with a clipped mustache, wearing a round, visorless cap, a jacket with epaulets and buttons, Leybke sat sprawled alongside a little table, a grim expression on his face and a defiant look in his alert, wide-open eyes, as if he’d just caught sight of an enemy approaching with drawn swords and rifles.
Father moved the kerosene lamp closer and began studying Leybke’s picture. In the light, his thick, black beard and whiskers divided into two shades, lighter and darker, and between them the tip of his tongue, extended in fierce concentration, moved slowly from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Well, what do you think of my Leybke?” said Father to the photograph, holding it at arm’s length and bringing it closer again.“A real officer in the Tsar’s army!”
Father wanted Mother to hear what he was saying. He wanted her to agree with him that his Leybke had indeed become a somebody to be reckoned with. But Mother had already looked at the photograph earlier in the day, and then had turned to the sad picture of her own son and had burst into tears. She had blown her nose and sighed, “And my Moyshe, alas, lies in the ground.”
As to Father’s question, she dropped her head, blew her nose once more, and left his question unanswered.
Father was no great talker. A heavy silence clouded his half-closed eyes. When spoken to, he never looked you straight in the eye but always at your mouth, as though he put little trust in what he was hearing. Indeed, Mother considered him to be somewhat deaf and always raised her voice when speaking to him. Father liked puttering around the room in his warm, padded vest, fixing a broken chair, winding the clock, or cutting up squares of paper for use in the privy. Whenever Mother would speak to him in a louder than usual voice, he’d stop in his tracks, raise his large, black-bearded face, and look at her out of his sleepy eyes.
“Why are you shouting at me like that? Am I deaf?”
“What then are you? Sharp-eared?” Mother answered back, barely admitting to herself that Father might not be deaf after all.
Now, holding Leybke’s photograph in his hand, Father shifted his face from the table to the bed where Mother was sitting and looked at her dubiously, as if wondering whether he knew that person or not.
“You’re speaking rather softly today,” he said.
“Who’s speaking? Who says I’m speaking!”
“So what was it you were saying just now?”
“Nothing. Leave me alone!”
Father looked at Mother’s mouth. The heavy silence in his eyes grew shadowed. Mother suddenly seemed like a stranger, an outsider.
Father then turned to me and, furrowing one side of his brow, said, “We must write to Leybke, to Ekaterinoslav.”
What he really meant to say was that had he been able to do so himself, he would have written a few words that very day. But when it came to writing letters, he always depended on Mother, and now, with no other alternative, he simply had to wait for her
“Can you believe what a winter it’s been? Coal cost the price of gold! So I said to my wife …”
Just then Aunt Naomi half closed her sleepy eyes and, in her nasal singsong said, “Shouldn’t we be going, Bentsien? Heh, Bentsien?”
Chapter Two
People no longer came by to pay their condolences. Now, a photograph of Moyshe which Mother had framed graced the top of the dresser. Here Moyshe’s face wasn’t round any more and his cheeks weren’t dimpled. The flat surface showed a young man with a pale, scared face, one hand white, the other black, as though covered with a dark glove. He looked stiffly to one side, not seeming to recognize anyone in the room.
At that time, another photograph arrived at our house, from faraway Ekaterinoslav, where Leybke, Father’s son from his first wife, was serving as a soldier in the Tsar’s army. It was nothing at all like Moyshe’s photograph. It pictured an altogether different type of person, with a completely different look. Tall, with a clipped mustache, wearing a round, visorless cap, a jacket with epaulets and buttons, Leybke sat sprawled alongside a little table, a grim expression on his face and a defiant look in his alert, wide-open eyes, as if he’d just caught sight of an enemy approaching with drawn swords and rifles.
Father moved the kerosene lamp closer and began studying Leybke’s picture. In the light, his thick, black beard and whiskers divided into two shades, lighter and darker, and between them the tip of his tongue, extended in fierce concentration, moved slowly from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Well, what do you think of my Leybke?” said Father to the photograph, holding it at arm’s length and bringing it closer again.“A real officer in the Tsar’s army!”
Father wanted Mother to hear what he was saying. He wanted her to agree with him that his Leybke had indeed become a somebody to be reckoned with. But Mother had already looked at the photograph earlier in the day, and then had turned to the sad picture of her own son and had burst into tears. She had blown her nose and sighed, “And my Moyshe, alas, lies in the ground.”
As to Father’s question, she dropped her head, blew her nose once more, and left his question unanswered.
Father was no great talker. A heavy silence clouded his half-closed eyes. When spoken to, he never looked you straight in the eye but always at your mouth, as though he put little trust in what he was hearing. Indeed, Mother considered him to be somewhat deaf and always raised her voice when speaking to him. Father liked puttering around the room in his warm, padded vest, fixing a broken chair, winding the clock, or cutting up squares of paper for use in the privy. Whenever Mother would speak to him in a louder than usual voice, he’d stop in his tracks, raise his large, black-bearded face, and look at her out of his sleepy eyes.
“Why are you shouting at me like that? Am I deaf?”
“What then are you? Sharp-eared?” Mother answered back, barely admitting to herself that Father might not be deaf after all.
Now, holding Leybke’s photograph in his hand, Father shifted his face from the table to the bed where Mother was sitting and looked at her dubiously, as if wondering whether he knew that person or not.
“You’re speaking rather softly today,” he said.
“Who’s speaking? Who says I’m speaking!”
“So what was it you were saying just now?”
“Nothing. Leave me alone!”
Father looked at Mother’s mouth. The heavy silence in his eyes grew shadowed. Mother suddenly seemed like a stranger, an outsider.
Father then turned to me and, furrowing one side of his brow, said, “We must write to Leybke, to Ekaterinoslav.”
What he really meant to say was that had he been able to do so himself, he would have written a few words that very day. But when it came to writing letters, he always depended on Mother, and now, with no other alternative, he simply had to wait for her
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