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Authors: Lilian Nattel
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The customs agent stoked his pipe. “Perhaps you want a doctor.”
She flinched. How did he know that she still had bad dreams about the examination in the hospital? “I’m very well, thank you,” she said.
“I ought to bring you to the infirmary. You might have a disease.” The Squire drummed his fingers on the table. Nehama couldn’t keep her eyes off his hands. Whenever he slapped her, he moved so fast she couldn’t steel herself for it. He lifted his hand, and when she winced, he stroked her cheek.
“I’ve ordered warm weather from Him upstairs,” she said. “Sunny as Spain it’s going to be, and the customers will queue up for miles. You think I should warn the girls to get ready?”
The Squire laughed. “Right. I’ll want more than this tomorrow.” He scooped up the coins. “Or I’ll have the rest in trade.” He hardly ever took his own whores to bed. People said he was so rough, he couldn’t make any money from them afterward. His hand was warm, the skin smooth, his eyes fixed on hers, his face like wood pitted by water, and Nehama wished that she could part from her body.
It must have been near her eighteenth birthday. She wasn’t sure because she was born on the full moon, and the nights were too foggy to see the sky. But she’d be eighteen soon, and she was pregnant. The sponge doused in vinegar had failed, and the Squire would get her an abortion as soon as he found out. If she died, he’d be furious. But if she lived she’d owe him the money for the abortion plus interest. And she wanted the baby. She’d never wanted anything more.
Her sisters had told her about the time that a neighbor’s boy was khapped . Snatched away to serve in the draft and make up the kidnappers’ quota of new recruits. Khapping was a common tragedy when Mama was a young wife with a couple of babies and the czar passed a law that Jewish children must serve for ten years before they began the regular army draft. Mama was sewing the trimming on a gown when the neighbor came running in from the courtyard and Grandma Nehama listened to the story, a baby in each arm. It was a tragedy, but what could anyone do? A bribe they didn’t have. Grandma Nehama found out where the kidnappers were staying, and out she went, takingwith her a hatchet. Her daughter and son-in-law pleaded with her. Murder wasn’t going to solve a thing. She would die too, there would be more khappers , and the boy would be lost anyway. Mama cried till she didn’t have any breath left. You think I’m going to let a Jewish child be taken away? Grandma Nehama asked. You think there aren’t enough graves already? It was spring, and her skirts were muddy when she arrived at the place where the kidnappers were staying, and for some reason, the mud smelled of wine. Maybe because it was just after Purim, and when people got tipsy to celebrate the holiday, they weren’t too steady with a bottle. Grandma Nehama gave the innkeeper a few groschen to keep the khappers drunk. Then she went upstairs with her hatchet and she chopped off the boy’s smallest two toes from his right foot. He was seven years old. Back to his mother he went, and he grew up to be nothing special, just a man who limped and made custom shoes for people with unusual feet. His wife visited Grandma Nehama’s grave at every festival. She was the best friend of Nehama’s oldest sister and told her what was said to the boy that night. Put up your foot. Remember that as long as you can preserve life, there’s hope.
Whitechapel Road
It was a Saturday night, and the street was lit by a few flickering lamps, the courts and alleys off it by none. But those that knew this place could see that the clump of shadows on the stairs was women talking, hands folded under their aprons. That small patch of darkness in the passage was a baby sleeping, and the grayness over there by the archway was only boys tossing stones. The faint rustling was rats. The shadows that lay too still in pools of
She flinched. How did he know that she still had bad dreams about the examination in the hospital? “I’m very well, thank you,” she said.
“I ought to bring you to the infirmary. You might have a disease.” The Squire drummed his fingers on the table. Nehama couldn’t keep her eyes off his hands. Whenever he slapped her, he moved so fast she couldn’t steel herself for it. He lifted his hand, and when she winced, he stroked her cheek.
“I’ve ordered warm weather from Him upstairs,” she said. “Sunny as Spain it’s going to be, and the customers will queue up for miles. You think I should warn the girls to get ready?”
The Squire laughed. “Right. I’ll want more than this tomorrow.” He scooped up the coins. “Or I’ll have the rest in trade.” He hardly ever took his own whores to bed. People said he was so rough, he couldn’t make any money from them afterward. His hand was warm, the skin smooth, his eyes fixed on hers, his face like wood pitted by water, and Nehama wished that she could part from her body.
It must have been near her eighteenth birthday. She wasn’t sure because she was born on the full moon, and the nights were too foggy to see the sky. But she’d be eighteen soon, and she was pregnant. The sponge doused in vinegar had failed, and the Squire would get her an abortion as soon as he found out. If she died, he’d be furious. But if she lived she’d owe him the money for the abortion plus interest. And she wanted the baby. She’d never wanted anything more.
Her sisters had told her about the time that a neighbor’s boy was khapped . Snatched away to serve in the draft and make up the kidnappers’ quota of new recruits. Khapping was a common tragedy when Mama was a young wife with a couple of babies and the czar passed a law that Jewish children must serve for ten years before they began the regular army draft. Mama was sewing the trimming on a gown when the neighbor came running in from the courtyard and Grandma Nehama listened to the story, a baby in each arm. It was a tragedy, but what could anyone do? A bribe they didn’t have. Grandma Nehama found out where the kidnappers were staying, and out she went, takingwith her a hatchet. Her daughter and son-in-law pleaded with her. Murder wasn’t going to solve a thing. She would die too, there would be more khappers , and the boy would be lost anyway. Mama cried till she didn’t have any breath left. You think I’m going to let a Jewish child be taken away? Grandma Nehama asked. You think there aren’t enough graves already? It was spring, and her skirts were muddy when she arrived at the place where the kidnappers were staying, and for some reason, the mud smelled of wine. Maybe because it was just after Purim, and when people got tipsy to celebrate the holiday, they weren’t too steady with a bottle. Grandma Nehama gave the innkeeper a few groschen to keep the khappers drunk. Then she went upstairs with her hatchet and she chopped off the boy’s smallest two toes from his right foot. He was seven years old. Back to his mother he went, and he grew up to be nothing special, just a man who limped and made custom shoes for people with unusual feet. His wife visited Grandma Nehama’s grave at every festival. She was the best friend of Nehama’s oldest sister and told her what was said to the boy that night. Put up your foot. Remember that as long as you can preserve life, there’s hope.
Whitechapel Road
It was a Saturday night, and the street was lit by a few flickering lamps, the courts and alleys off it by none. But those that knew this place could see that the clump of shadows on the stairs was women talking, hands folded under their aprons. That small patch of darkness in the passage was a baby sleeping, and the grayness over there by the archway was only boys tossing stones. The faint rustling was rats. The shadows that lay too still in pools of
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