Jacob's Way Read Free

someone had said, “Reisa’s learned to manipulate her grandfather,” it would have bothered her. But nevertheless, she began to plan a way that would make him less ready to sacrifice the goose.
    This problem occupied her as she boiled water for tea. Then as she drank the scalding beverage, she suddenly said aloud, “I know! I’ll cook one of my chickens! If Grandfather is full of nice stewed chicken, he’ll be happy enough to let me nurse my goose!” Satisfied, she planned the meal, not pausing to give the doomed chicken one thought of pity. If she had been asked about that, she would have replied, “Chickens are made to lay eggs and to be eaten, but the great goose is made to fly high in the heavens.”
    Happy with her decision, she returned to the barn, killed the fattest of the chickens, plucked its feathers, then returned to the house satisfied that her grandfather would be happy.
    Looking down at her bloody hands, a thought came to her: I’ll take a bath! The thought stirred her, for she loved bathing, and in the summer nearly drove her grandfather to distraction by bathing every night. In the winter, however, with fuel scarce, it was more difficult. She laughed aloud suddenly, saying, “A bath I will have!” and quickly began the preparations.
    She moved to the stove, the family’s pride and joy. It was made of heavy iron, built by her father, Ivan, who had been Grandfather Jacob’s only son. She had heard the story many times of how Ivan had become a blacksmith and had built the stove for his parents’ twentieth anniversary. Now as Reisa quickly built up the fire which had been banked the night before, she ran her hand over the hard cold surface and thought of her parents. She remembered them with sorrow and grief, for they had been a cheerful, loving pair. They had both died of an epidemic before she was ten, but Reisa kept their memories alive by thinking of them often. And now, as always, a warmth came inside her that matched the fire that began to crackle inside the stove, and she whispered, “Got tsu danken.”
    She spoke the words in Yiddish, for that had been her mother’s native language. Gretchen Moltman had been of German descent, and had spoken Yiddish so much that the rest of the family had learned it along with their native Russian. Her grandfather Jacob had taught Reisa Hebrew. While not fluent in this language as he was, Reisa could read it and even speak it rather haltingly. Over all of this was a layer of English. One of the villagers, Yuri Pavlov, had emigrated to the United States and stayed for several years. He had come back to take care of his aged parents and had brought several books with him. Living next door to Reisa and her grandfather, he had been amused at her interest in America and had taught her the rudiments of English. He had also let her read in English two books that he had brought back— Great English Poetry and Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
    When the fire was built up, Reisa put the large kettle and the large iron pot on the stove, then filled them with water. Going back outside, she fetched an iron pot used to wash clothes. It was heavy, and she puffed as she brought it inside and set it down on the floor with a thump.
    While the water heated, she busied herself with the chores around the room which served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. The only other room was a bedroom and study where her grandfather kept his books and slept. She herself slept on a cot that folded up against the side of the wall in the larger room.
    Finally her work was interrupted by the bubbling of the water and the whistling of the kettle. Moving over, she poured the boiling hot water into the large pot and added some cold water. She loved baths as hot as she could bear.
    She bolted the door and drew the curtain over the window. The yellow light of the lamp illuminated the room as she stripped off all of her clothes and stuck her