No Time for Tears Read Free

thoughts.
    Not so much out of curiosity but from a feeling that Chavala needed to talk, Manya asked, “What’s happened?”
    The words seemed to stick in Chavala’s throat, then almost inaudibly she said, “Leah was sick … by now, who knows, she could be dead too. Why are we so cursed? Why, Manya? What have we done to offend God so much that He allows us to suffer this way?”
    Manya swallowed hard. “I don’t know answers to life’s riddles. I only know God’s not to blame. Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have told you that—”
    “My mother was a saint. I’m not. I think I hate the world, Manya. When I go into Odessa and see the way the rich Jews and the goyim live, I spit out. Why has God been so good to them? Why are they so privileged to have so much and we not a crust of bread? And my dear sainted mother died from neglect… where was God?”
    “God was here, Chavala. It’s not God’s revenge.”
    “Then whose? What does it all mean when those rich pious Jews run to shul and pray so loud that God should hear them? It’s very easy for them to pray on a full stomach, then go home to a warm house where their Russian servants serve them tea and upon us they look down. They don’t have to wait for a Leah to bring their children to life. The rich doctors of Odessa provide their survival. Their warehouses bulge with grain, and we starve. Where is justice, Manya? Where? We live out our few years in misery and who comes to help? Our good, rich brethren in Odessa ignore us. Wouldn’t you think, Manya, that God would look down from heaven and cry a little when the pogroms come? Isn’t it strange how God passes over the houses of those privileged ones in Odessa? No, Manya, for us there seems no help.”
    “Please, Chavala, don’t say such things. It’s sinful to speak this way.”
    “The truth is never a sin. At least it shouldn’t be. My mother is dead because of the sins of others … because we are forced to live like vermin. Where was God this morning when I asked Him for help? Was my voice so weak it couldn’t be heard? No, Manya, my mother died because God’s ears were elsewhere.”
    Manya got up and looked at Chavala. Her enormous bulk actually trembled. She would listen to no more. It was enough. “Get the baby ready so I can take her home … I’ll be back,” she said, and left, her feelings a mixture of outrage and pity.
    Chavala stared down now at the child in her arms. “I swear to you, my little Chia, your life will be different than mine. I swear, I promise .” Chavala was so deep in her own thoughts she’d not heard Dovid come into the house, nor noticed as he stood framed in the doorway. When she looked up and saw him, she knew the death wagon had arrived to take her mother away. She did not move from her chair as she heard the muted voices and footsteps go in and out of the bedroom. She also heard the sound of her heart beating like a drum. Handing the little Chia to Dovid, she rushed to the pail and was sick. For a moment she stood weakly against the drainboard, breathing hard. Then, grabbing up her heavy shawl and wrapping it around her, she ran from the house to follow the wagon as it made its mournful way to the Chevra Kadisha. When it stopped she stood rooted in the mud as she watched the body of her mother being taken inside. Soon the women would be preparing the body, putting it into the white burial shroud. The sight of it in her mind was almost more than even she could stand. How long Chavala remained outside she did not know, but something deep inside her was brought up sharply as she remembered the other children.
    She turned slowly and walked away. When she arrived at Mrs. Greenblatt’s, the door was opened and the woman’s eyes looked into Chavala’s grief-stricken face. There was no need for words.
    It had taken little time for the small village to learn of Rivka Rabinsky’s passing. Mrs. Greenblatt held out her arms and brought the girl close to her.