The Way Back Page 3
“Where did you hear that name?”
Yehuda Leib swallowed hard. “From Yankl the schlepper. He said Avimelekh was in Zubinsk and then everyone—”
“In Zubinsk?”
“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “And then Moshe Dovid Frumkin said—”
“Moshe Dovid?” said Shulamis. “Does he know?”
“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “I overheard him saying that Avimelekh was coming here to Tupik because—”
“This isn’t funny, Yehuda Leib,” said Shulamis. “Who put you up to this?” She had begun to crack her knuckles, which was never a good sign.
“What?” said Yehuda Leib. “No one. Moshe Dovid said that this Avimelekh was going to be here today or tomorrow, because—”
“Today or tomorrow?”
“Mama,” said Yehuda Leib with a lurch in his chest. “You’re scaring me.”
Shulamis stepped forward as if to take hold of her son, but whether to comfort or to warn never became clear.
At just this moment, there was a knocking at the door.
Shulamis froze.
After a long, still moment, the knocking came again.
“Yehuda Leib,” whispered Shulamis. “Get under your bed, and no matter what happens, you don’t make a sound, understand?”
Yehuda Leib’s keen eyes were wide. “Yes, Mama,” he said, and in a flash he was hidden.
Slowly, Shulamis smoothed herself. She took a deep breath, and, just as the knocking began again, she opened the door.
“Oh,” said Shulamis, letting her breath go. “Oh, Rabbi.”
“I apologize,” said the rabbi’s round voice, “for disturbing you.”
“No, no,” said Shulamis. “Not at all. Would you like to come in?”
“No,” said the rabbi. “No, thank you. I just thought you ought to be told: Avimelekh is in Zubinsk, and he could be here as soon as this evening.”
“Yes,” said Shulamis. “I heard.”
“He’s in debt again, Shulamis. And he thinks he can get himself clear by selling boys into the Tsar’s army.”
Shulamis sighed deeply. “Ah.”
“Yes.”
Now there was a silence—long, empty, immovable.
“Shulamis, I’m so sorry,” said the rabbi softly.
“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib’s mother, and then, again, softly, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” said the rabbi. “Keep safe.”
“I’ll try,” said Shulamis. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Gently, the door closed.
* * *
—
Yehuda Leib crawled out from under the bed.
His mother’s face was as still as a death mask.
“Yehuda Leib,” she said.
“Mama?” said Yehuda Leib.
“You have to go away.”
“What?” Yehuda Leib felt his throat catch. His jaw was impossibly tight; his chin began to quiver. “Why?”
Shulamis shook her head so softly it was almost impossible to see. “Because he’s coming.”
“I can fight?”
Shulamis laughed like nothing was funny. “Not against him, you can’t.”
“Yes I can!” All of a sudden, Yehuda Leib found himself yelling. His eyes were filled with tears. He felt helpless and frightened, as if he were little again. “Won’t you even try to stop him?”
Shulamis turned away and wiped at her eyes. “If I thought it would change anything, I’d let him tear me limb from limb. But it won’t.” Slowly, she began to walk about the room, taking things from shelves and cupboards: a threadbare knapsack, a spare cap, a bowl, a cup, an extra shirt, a few potatoes. “If you can make it to Zubinsk, you should be able to lose him. Just get yourself as far away as you can.”
Yehuda Leib swallowed. “Okay.”
Carefully, Shulamis hung the knapsack on her son’s shoulders and set to fastening his coat.
“Mama?” said Yehuda Leib.
Shulamis did not look up from her work. “Yes?”
“Who is he? Avimelekh?”
Shulamis sighed. “He’s a very bad man. He hurts people, even when he doesn’t mean to—and he means to more often than not.”
Her voice was trembling; Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.
“If you want to stay the good young man you are—if you want to stay my son, Yehuda Leib—you keep yourself away from him.”
He nodded. “I will.”
Shulamis’s right cheek bunched up as she struggled to keep the tension from her voice. “Don’t you make any trouble.”
Yehuda Leib shook his head. “I won’t.”
Shulamis pulled the front door open and stood back.
“Will you be all right?” said Yehuda Leib to his mother, and she sighed long and low before saying, “I will.”
They both knew she was lying.
Outside, for the first time that year, fat white flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
Yehuda Leib took a deep breath, stepped out through the open door, and pulled it shut behind him.
Shulamis stood at the window, watching him walk away until she could see him no longer.
Only then did her eyes fall on the chair beside the door.
Tonight—of all nights—she had let him forget his warm red scarf.
* * *
—
It was not until he reached the cemetery on the hillside that Yehuda Leib began to consider what it would mean to flee into the forest at night. He was not wholly confident of the truth of the stories people told: of evil things among those trees, of accidents and mishaps, of long, snatching fingers and sharp, shearing teeth. He was, however, rapidly becoming sure that if he was going to find out, he would prefer to do so in the light of day.
Through the veil of falling snow, the low-hanging trees and leaning headstones met to create the impression of a mouthful of jagged teeth.
No. He would be far safer on this side of the cemetery tonight. He would hide himself somewhere in town, and when the morning came, he would make his way to Zubinsk.
Slowly, the town lay down to sleep; slowly, the eyes of Tupik began to shut.
Presently, things became still, only Yehuda Leib and the snow creeping on through the darkness.
And then, into the hush on the far side of midnight, a door swung open; Yehuda Leib saw light cutting through the snow and the dim.
Bluma. She had always been kind to him.
“You look cold.”
Yehuda Leib nodded. “I am.”
Bluma shook her head softly, as if this were a very stupid response. “Then why don’t you go home?”
“Believe me,” said Yehuda Leib, tramping across the snowy road to the door. “I’d love to.”
Bluma sighed.
“What are you doing up so late?” said Yehuda Leib.
“Waiting,” said Bluma.
Bluma’s bubbe had not come home. Her father had gone walking the streets to look for her two separate times, but no one had seen her, and eventually, with no other good option, he’d gone to sleep—or at least to toss and turn in bed.
So Bluma did the only thing she could think to do:
She sat and waited.
“For?”
Bluma didn’t seem to like this question, and she tossed her head and changed the subject. “I heard you started a fight with Issur Frumkin today.”
Yehuda Leib sighed. “I didn’t start it. I never start it.”
Bluma rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
Now there was a short, empty silence.
“But did he at least deserve it?”
“Certainly.”
Bluma chuckled.
“You didn’t say what you were waiting for.”
“Well, you didn’t ask.”
“Where are you going, Yehuda Leib?”
“I don’t know,” said Yehuda Leib. “Away.”
Bluma was standing just inside the door, the candle behind her throwing a warm flicker into the street; Yehuda Leib was standing just outside, the snowflakes on his coat melting away like dewy ghosts.
“Anyway, I can’t stay here anymore.”
Bluma’s eyebrows fell. “Does your mother know about this?”
Yehuda Leib nodded. “It was my mother who sent me away.”
Bluma’s chin began to twitch, and for an agonizing moment, Yehuda Leib thought she might start to cry.
But instead, an idea seemed to march into her mind, her lips locking into a light, tight frown.
“What?” said Yehuda Leib.
“One second,” said Bluma, and she ducked inside, returning quickly to thrust a large braided challah at him. “Here,” she said. “Take this.”
“What?” said Yehuda Leib.
“Take it,” said Bluma. “And eat it sooner rather than later. It’s already a few days old, and they go stale quickly.”
It broke Bluma’s heart to see Yehuda Leib’s beautiful blue eyes widen; it was as if no one but his mother had ever given him food before, which was an unutterably sad thought.
“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib, and then, four or five more times, “Thank you,” as he stuffed the challah into his little knapsack.
When he finally looked up again, he caught Bluma peering out into the darkness, searching.
“Well,” said Yehuda Leib, “good night.”
“Good night,” said Bluma. “Stay safe.”
Yehuda Leib shrugged as if to say, What can I do?
“I hope you get what you’re waiting for,” he said.
Bluma sighed. “Me too.”
And, unfortunately, she would.
* * *
—
She came trudging out of the woods haltingly, snowdrifts on her stooped shoulders. She jostled the door as she crossed over the threshold, and in the front room where she’d fallen asleep, Bluma’s mother moaned and rolled over.
Bluma’s bubbe saw this, and, disappointed she hadn’t managed to wake her daughter-in-law, she made a loud, rude noise with her tongue and tramped over to the staircase.
Up, as always.
Up, past her granddaughter, dozing, still dressed atop the bedclothes.
Endlessly, endlessly up.
She was tired—exhausted, really. As tired as she would ever get.
All she wanted to do was lie down and rest.
Arriving heavily at the top of the stairs, she found that someone had been in her room, and she made the rude noise again, this time to the universe at large.
With a weary shimmy, she shook what snow remained about her onto the floor, stumped over to the window, wheezed, coughed, and blew out the two dwindling candles that had been left burning on the sill.
Slowly, she turned back to prepare for bed in the gloom she felt entitled to.
And at this very moment, on the far side of the river crossing, a small bell began to ring.
* * *
—
If you arrived in Tupik at the end of a long day’s journey and wished to continue on the next day, the only place for you to go would be back the way you came. Just beyond the far shore of the muddy river, the ground became first unpleasantly moist, and then impassably swampy, and to make matters worse, a series of precipitous drops and rocky rapids in the river downstream made it impractical to pilot a boat, a barge, or any other vessel out on the water.
Tupik was a dead end.
It might, then, be a surprise to learn that an old stonework ferry shack still crouched low on Tupik’s riverbank. According to the town’s founding charter, as long as the Jews of Tupik provided, at their own expense, a ferryman to work the crossing, they would be allowed to continue to live and trade in the little town by the river. Of course, the nobleman who had granted the charter had been dead for hundreds of years, and his descendants had long since lost track of the bargain, but to the denizens of Tupik—like the rest of their people—it was no small thing to abandon an ancient agreement.
In those days, the ferryman was a fellow named Mottke, a devoted souse who was rumored never once to have bathed.
The entirety of Mottke’s responsibility consisted of sitting close to the ferry, waiting to hear the ringing of a small bell that could be pulled from the landing platform across the river. Of course, the bell never rang. But in the event that it did, Mottke’s job was simple: he was to climb aboard the little ferry barge that sat tethered on the Tupik side of the river, take hold of the chain attached to the far platform, pull himself across the current, and return with whoever had rung the bell.
But, of course, the bell never rang. There was no road passing anywhere near Tupik on the far side of the river, and it was almost impossible to conceive of someone slogging through the miles and miles of nearby swampland in order to end up there accidentally.
This is why it was so very strange that, just as Yehuda Leib began to think about finding a place to steal a few hours’ sleep, his ear was drawn down to the banks of the river by the unmistakable sound of a tinkling bell.
* * *
—
“Mottke.”
The ferryman was snoring softly, his breath curling away in little ringlets of mist.
“Mottke!” This time Yehuda Leib jostled the man, and he started awake.
“Hrrrrghm?”
This was not a word. Yehuda Leib had never before heard Mottke make a sound that could be unconditionally classified as a word.
Stillness had descended over Tupik, as if it had stopped breathing in the night. The snow had broken off, the cloud had cleared, and the air was dense beneath the star-riddled sky.
And it was into this heavy hush that the soft tinkling of the bell fell.
Dingadingading. Dingadingading. Dingadingading.
Mottke’s eyes were wide. “Beh,” he said. “Beh.”
Yehuda Leib nodded.
Mottke leapt to his feet, dashing and sliding across the slick icy rocks on his way to the ferry. Down on the water, Yehuda Leib could hear him shatter a thin layer of ice; he could hear the clanking of the heavy chain, and the river beginning to buffet the edge of the ferry as it edged out into the current. The stars were bright overhead, and in the cold light the ferryman could be seen lunging forward and pulling back, lunging forward and pulling back, as he drew himself across the water.
Only when Mottke had finally reached the far shore did Yehuda Leib’s eyes fall on the dark stranger waiting on the opposite platform.
Without hurry, the stranger stepped onto Mottke’s ferry. There was a murmur of exchanged words, their sense lost in the susurrus of the flowing water. Before long, Mottke was pulling again.
Now the figure on the ferry was moving toward him.
Gradually, it occurred to Yehuda Leib to be afraid.
Yehuda Leib heard the ferry barge bump against the Tupik landing platform. The chain rattled as Mottke returned it to its place. Some further indistinct murmuring of voices.
And then footsteps in the snow.
Slowly, the dark stranger climbed up the riverbank. His coat was black—blacker than the night, blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes. On his head he wore a hat, tipped forward, also black, with a brim so wide that it hid nearly all of his face.
The gait of the dark stranger was heavy, weary, and slow, and when he reached the top of the riverbank, he stopped not six feet from where Yehuda Leib stood.
The low fire in Mottke’s shack flickered and flared, sending spasms of warm light out into the cold bl
ue dim. Yehuda Leib stared, trying to make out the face of the stranger beneath the brim of his hat.
“Yehuda Leib,” said the dark stranger, his lips curling into a grin. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
“A-Avimelekh?”
Yehuda Leib’s heart was beating very quickly.
“No,” said the stranger.
“How do you know my name?”
“I am a Messenger. I have been to many places and spoken with many people.”
“And who told you my name?”
The Dark Messenger shook his head. “I do not repeat what is spoken to me.”
Yehuda Leib’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re not Avimelekh?”
The Messenger nodded. “Yes. And it would be better to save your breath than to ask me a question twice. I have never told a lie.”
Yehuda Leib tried to swallow, but he couldn’t quite manage it.
“I wonder, Yehuda Leib,” said the stranger, “if you wouldn’t accompany me into town. My list of errands is long—so very, very long—and it is rare that I have any company on my way.”
Yehuda Leib’s gut squirmed as if it were trying to escape. The stranger did not look like a man accustomed to refusal.
“All right,” said Yehuda Leib, and the dark stranger smiled.
Yehuda Leib began to walk up the sloping market road, and the stranger fell in beside him.
“Where do you go?” said Yehuda Leib.
“I have an errand in Tupik,” said the stranger. “But thereafter I go to Zubinsk. A wedding is to be given in that place to which all have been invited, without exception.”
“The Rebbe’s granddaughter,” said Yehuda Leib.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “I have been at my errands long now—perhaps longer than may be borne. I feel I deserve a reprieve, and the joy and celebration of a wedding seems just the thing. But the far better question, Yehuda Leib, is this: Where will you go once you have left Tupik?”
Yehuda Leib sighed. “If it were up to me, I would stay in Tupik forever.”
The stranger shook his head. “No man lives forever.”