Read Online Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life by Yehoshue Perle - Free Book Online
Authors: Yehoshue Perle
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him,” said Grandma, “so long as the sun is shining.” They wrapped me and bundled me and I went out into the street, feeling like someone who had just surfaced from a submersion in deep waters.
“Be careful of the sleighs!” Grandma called after me. “Don’t stay out too long, you hear, Mendl?”
Outside, the street was so white and still that, for a moment, I had to close my eyes. It seemed as if I’d blundered into some strange town. Everyone looked as if they were deaf, walking with muffled treads.
Snow lay between the iron spikes of the fence around the church and upon the eaves above the windows. On the road itself, the snow was piled high and soft. A small sleigh glided by merrily with a soft tinkling of bells. Students, let out from the gymnasium, were pelting one another with snowballs, yelling as they raced by.
How the town had changed during the time I lay sick in bed! On Lublin Street there were tall, snow-covered, carved wooden posts, supported by smaller posts, looking like legs set wide apart. The street led uphill. It seemed longer and wider. The blue-nosed Polish guard was gone from the sentry box. On Warsaw Street, where Motl Straw’s wife ran a store, there were no displays of bales of cloth or wicker baskets. Everything was white and silent.
On the promenade I glanced up at the snow-covered cross of the German church. I remembered that it was around here that I had wandered on my way to Aunt Miriam’s in search of Mother. Now all was quiet, not a soul in sight. Suddenly, a figure loomed before me, a Jew wearing a tall, plush hat.
“Mendl! Where are you going?” I heard a familiar voice call out.
“Father!” I cried out, momentarily frightened and feeling a constriction in my throat.
“Where are you going? Are you well again?”
“Yes, Father, I am.”
The man in the tall, plush hat was my father alright. He’d turned grayer, his eyes had a more dreamy, quieter look.
“I was at your teacher’s today to find out about you.”
“I was supposed to go back to the kheyder today.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Mother’s come back.”
“Hah?” Father lifted his face halfway, and his dreamy eyes narrowed. “Your mother, you say? When did she come back?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? So why don’t we see her?”
“She’s at Grandma’s.”
“Is that so? At Grandma’s?”
Both of us fell silent. Father’s eyes opened wide. His mustache seemed to have grown larger and appeared greenish-yellow.
“I didn’t come to see you while you were sick,” he said, speaking not to me but to the German church, “because I don’t like your grandmother. But don’t think … I knew … I knew everything that was going on with you. Who do you think sent for the special doctor?”
Father’s voice became quieter, more halting.
“So she’s back …” he said, as if reminding himself anew. “And she went straight to them …” He sighed heavily. “How does she look?”
“Fine, just fine.”
More silence. We walked together. The soldier who guarded the prison came toward us, carrying a rifle.
“Have you eaten anything yet?” Father broke the silence.
“Yes, I’ve eaten.”
“Are you cold? Come with me to Mordkhe’s soup kitchen. You’ll warm up a bit.”
“No, Father, I’m alright.”
“What are you doing out here in the street?”
“I just went out for some fresh air.”
“That’s good. Come, I’ll bring you back.”
He took me by the hand. I don’t remember ever walking with Father like that, and I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or happy. I only knew that it felt good.
“I was at your teacher’s today,” Father repeated, “and he told me … your teacher …”
He stopped right in the middle of his sentence, turned thoughtful, and gazed into space. His large, fleshy nose looked as if it had separated from his face. Very slowly he unbuttoned his shabby winter coat, reached into one of the deep pockets of his trousers, pulled
“Be careful of the sleighs!” Grandma called after me. “Don’t stay out too long, you hear, Mendl?”
Outside, the street was so white and still that, for a moment, I had to close my eyes. It seemed as if I’d blundered into some strange town. Everyone looked as if they were deaf, walking with muffled treads.
Snow lay between the iron spikes of the fence around the church and upon the eaves above the windows. On the road itself, the snow was piled high and soft. A small sleigh glided by merrily with a soft tinkling of bells. Students, let out from the gymnasium, were pelting one another with snowballs, yelling as they raced by.
How the town had changed during the time I lay sick in bed! On Lublin Street there were tall, snow-covered, carved wooden posts, supported by smaller posts, looking like legs set wide apart. The street led uphill. It seemed longer and wider. The blue-nosed Polish guard was gone from the sentry box. On Warsaw Street, where Motl Straw’s wife ran a store, there were no displays of bales of cloth or wicker baskets. Everything was white and silent.
On the promenade I glanced up at the snow-covered cross of the German church. I remembered that it was around here that I had wandered on my way to Aunt Miriam’s in search of Mother. Now all was quiet, not a soul in sight. Suddenly, a figure loomed before me, a Jew wearing a tall, plush hat.
“Mendl! Where are you going?” I heard a familiar voice call out.
“Father!” I cried out, momentarily frightened and feeling a constriction in my throat.
“Where are you going? Are you well again?”
“Yes, Father, I am.”
The man in the tall, plush hat was my father alright. He’d turned grayer, his eyes had a more dreamy, quieter look.
“I was at your teacher’s today to find out about you.”
“I was supposed to go back to the kheyder today.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Mother’s come back.”
“Hah?” Father lifted his face halfway, and his dreamy eyes narrowed. “Your mother, you say? When did she come back?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? So why don’t we see her?”
“She’s at Grandma’s.”
“Is that so? At Grandma’s?”
Both of us fell silent. Father’s eyes opened wide. His mustache seemed to have grown larger and appeared greenish-yellow.
“I didn’t come to see you while you were sick,” he said, speaking not to me but to the German church, “because I don’t like your grandmother. But don’t think … I knew … I knew everything that was going on with you. Who do you think sent for the special doctor?”
Father’s voice became quieter, more halting.
“So she’s back …” he said, as if reminding himself anew. “And she went straight to them …” He sighed heavily. “How does she look?”
“Fine, just fine.”
More silence. We walked together. The soldier who guarded the prison came toward us, carrying a rifle.
“Have you eaten anything yet?” Father broke the silence.
“Yes, I’ve eaten.”
“Are you cold? Come with me to Mordkhe’s soup kitchen. You’ll warm up a bit.”
“No, Father, I’m alright.”
“What are you doing out here in the street?”
“I just went out for some fresh air.”
“That’s good. Come, I’ll bring you back.”
He took me by the hand. I don’t remember ever walking with Father like that, and I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or happy. I only knew that it felt good.
“I was at your teacher’s today,” Father repeated, “and he told me … your teacher …”
He stopped right in the middle of his sentence, turned thoughtful, and gazed into space. His large, fleshy nose looked as if it had separated from his face. Very slowly he unbuttoned his shabby winter coat, reached into one of the deep pockets of his trousers, pulled
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