Between Sky and Sea Read online

  She only asked after Mrs Fabyash’s health, afraid to remind her of the sick children. Mrs Fabyash saw through her embarrassment and evasions, and said, ‘I can see that you’re not feeling well.’ She spoke solemnly so that this would sound more like an important occasion. ‘I can see that you are hiding the children from me. Do you think I don’t notice? But listen to what I have to say to you. Sweet Father in Heaven, may it happen to my children what I wish for yours! Let them at least be well. Is it their fault that such a misfortune has happened to me? I am not one of those mothers who live for revenge on others. God be with you.’

  Tears welled in Mrs Fabyash’s eyes and she wiped them away with her sleeve. Then she patted Mrs Hudess’s little girls on their heads and murmured, ‘Now go on with good health. Don’t be worried. Have a walk with the children in the fresh air.’

  But Mrs Hudess didn’t go; she stood as if nailed to the spot. Mrs Fabyash was the first to leave, shuffling heavily away on her ailing legs which were covered with chilblains and other swellings. Although she was young she was very sick. She no longer wore a scarf to cover her close-cropped hair, shorn like a boy’s during the disinfecting process. She was no longer concerned about her appearance. Her young, child-like head sat strangely on her bowed shoulders above her swollen flabby figure. It looked badly matched, as though it had just been fitted on. It was obvious that walking was difficult for her, that it cost her great effort.

  Mrs Hudess watched her for a long time and turned her back to her children so that they wouldn’t see the tears that ran down her face. Then she slowly went away. The children didn’t allow her to stand still and think for long. They were drawn to the other children playing on the deck, but their mother would not let them go there for fear of them catching the infection. Mrs Hudess deliberately walked with her children to keep them from running about too freely. But still the little girls longed to be with those on deck or at least to watch them play, even from a distance. So Mrs Hudess had no choice but to give in and let them stand and watch from a distance the other children at play.

  Mrs Hudess stood absorbed in her sorrows and watched the children run about shouting and screaming. They were so immersed in their play that they didn’t notice what was going on around them. Nor did they remember that they had had nothing in their mouths since morning. Their dirty hands and bare feet, emaciated and as thin as sticks that might easily break, moved quickly and nimbly. It is amazing where these urchins, with their match-like arms and legs, get the strength and energy to run around so much. Mrs Hudess stared at the playing children and kept an eye on her own little girls but her mind was somewhere else. Since her meeting with Mrs Fabyash she hadn’t felt well, not nearly as well as she had before. She saw herself humbled. Instead of her asking for forgiveness, Mrs Fabyash had made overtures to her and really humiliated her. Mrs Fabyash had appeared so noble and refined and she, Mrs Hudess, looked so small and disclosed all her foolishness. She had come out of the encounter like a pricked balloon.

  Mrs Hudess tortured herself with her reproaches that became stronger as she watched the youngsters turning everything upside down. She noticed a small girl approach the group of children. In her hand she held a white bread roll which some sailor, who had taken pity on her, must have given her. To the children who hadn’t seen such a thing for weeks the piece of baked dough gleamed so white that it must have come from fairyland. They were drawn to it and they stopped their play and circled around the child with the roll like moths round a lamp at night. They drew nearer and nearer, stretching out their hands and begging for a little piece. The child broke off crumbs with a mean little hand and distributed them amongst the outstretched hands. Her eyes shone with pleasure and she was full of self-importance. She played the role of a patron, pinching off tiny pieces with two fingers. But the children demanded more and more. Then she noticed that there was hardly anything left in her hand, and she didn’t want to give anyone any more. Helplessly she sat down on the floor and clutched to herself, with both hands, the remains of the roll. Then the others fell upon her, tore the piece of roll out of her hands and quickly disappeared.

  Mrs Hudess watched all this and her self-accusations became more insistent. Why had she attacked Fabyash? How had it profited her? Fabyash had troubles enough.

  Then on Friday, at midday when the sun was ripe and full like a great golden pear that hung heavily from the centre of the sky, the captain called Nathan to him and announced that Fabyash’s little daughter and the wife of Reb Lazar, the grocer, had died and the funeral would take place very shortly. Nobody would be allowed to go near the bodies but they could watch from a distance as they were lowered into the water to their eternal rest.

  Nathan knew how the news would affect everybody and he stood pale and speechless, afraid to say anything. But they could read in his face that it was not good news he brought. And before he could open his mouth everybody knew what had happened. Death had flown in through the golden atmosphere, darkly hovering over every head. It came with the hot wind that whipped up the waves, driving them into one knot like sheep before a storm. Although everyone had known that the days of the sick were numbered and that at any moment some body might draw its last breath, no one had permitted himself to entertain that thought and each one hoped that the sick, with God’s aid, would be restored to health.

  When the bad news, that everybody had been waiting for with throbbing hearts, actually came, they were terrified, as if something unexpected had happened. They felt that death had touched each one and threatened every family. Who knows how long one can carry the disease around inside oneself without knowing anything about it? Who knows whose turn will be next?

  Everybody came to the funeral. They pressed close together in one corner as if each wanted to feel the presence of his living neighbour—to inhale his living breath and odour. The Warsaw doctor came with his small, thin wife who nestled close to him and held him firmly by his arm. Accustomed back home to follow the gentile-style funerals of his relatives without his hat, here he also respectfully removed his broad-brimmed black hat. The wind ruffled his long, neglected hair that was the colour of old darkened silver. Ever since the sailors had so deeply humiliated him he rarely talked, keeping the insult buried within him, certain that no one knew anything about it. And the Greek, whose wife had been taken to the hospital, stood bareheaded also. Noah stood uncertainly not knowing what to do, holding his old, greasy, crumpled cap in his hands but in the end putting it on. He always went hatless, even for most of the winter, and he wore an open-necked shirt so that the cap looked strange on him and sat on the top of his head as if it didn’t belong to him.

  Mrs Hudess and Bronya supported Mrs Fabyash who could hardly stand. She was limp and lifeless. Her head drooped on her shoulders and her puffed-up body in her tattered dress seemed bereft of strength, as if no blood flowed in it. She didn’t cry; her tears were already dried up, so Bronya made up for her by sobbing loudly so that it appeared that she was the mourner and not Mrs Fabyash. No matter how hard Bronya tried to control herself and hold back her tears, she could not. In the end Ida bade her let go of Mrs Fabyash and took her arm herself. Nathan tried to comfort Bronya but did not succeed.

  Although she came to the funeral dressed up in her bits and pieces, with even a ribbon round her hair, and in a black dress suitable for the occasion, Bronya soon broke down. All trace of her finery disappeared. Her tears washed the mascara from her eyes and the powder from her cheeks. They ran in little sticky, black streams, streaking her face. On her still youthful face appeared all the wrinkles which she had so cleverly concealed. No sign of her beauty remained.

  When the sailors appeared at the other end of the ship, carrying the two bodies that had been enclosed in coffins, hastily made because of the epidemic—one bigger than the other—Mrs Fabyash startled everyone with a shrill scream and then became quiet again. The ship stopped. The sailors carried up the bodies quickly and the captain saluted, standing stiffly to attention. It was so qu
iet that the heavy tread of the sailors on the deck could be clearly heard. And now the wind blew more strongly and fiercely.

  Two gentle splashes were heard. The sea swallowed the two bodies, then rose and subsided as if demanding more. It curled back quickly and broke into tiny, silvery splinters.

  ‘God gives, God takes away. Praise be to God Who is a Just Judge.’ It was the voice of Reb Lazar, the grocer.

  A wild gust of wind blew in amongst the group and disturbed the doctor’s long hair, blowing it in all directions. The sun, big and round, was fastened in the sky like a radiant golden window and shone on Reb Lazar’s coat that was the green-red colour of rusty, old iron and on the new rent of mourning on his lapel. Reb Lazar stood quietly and with closed eyes recited the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Loudly and distinctly he uttered each word:

  ‘Lord God, hear my voice! At the moment I do not murmur against Thy decree...May his great name be praised for ever and for eternity of eternities.’

  Rockman nudged Fabyash, blinking encouragement from his pale, delicate face.

  ‘Say Kaddish, Fabyash,’ he urged him, ‘say it, Fabyash.’

  Fabyash listened to him and then quickly gabbled something as if talking to himself. He mumbled the prayer and when he had finished Reb Lazar could still be heard chanting the words:

  ‘At this moment I know only one resolve. As my parent has lived for Thee, so shall my life be dedicated to the glory of Thy name.’

  ‘Disappeared into the water!’ someone said. ‘At least when the earth has them one can visit the grave occasionally.’

  The crowd broke up but Mrs Fabyash would not move from her place. She didn’t want to go, saying that there was plenty of time. What was the hurry? Hadn’t she time to wait?

  Fabyash was called to persuade her to go. He mechanically mumbled a few words to her and quickly left her. Then suddenly Mrs Fabyash escaped from Mrs Hudess’s and Ida’s hands and her swollen body fell to the ground like a burst sack. They lifted her and attempted to put her back on her feet but her legs no longer served her.

  Reb Lazar sat down to mourn on an upturned, low box and removed his shoes. His face was drawn and anguished and he constantly saw his wife before his eyes. She had shared with him all the burdens of their lives. She had been a great housekeeper and she had performed her labours without any fuss. She worked quickly but silently and no one noticed it until everything was finished. Then they marvelled at how well everything was done. And just as quickly as she did everything else, she brought the Sabbath into the house as with a glance. Then, bathed and dressed in honour of the Sabbath, she would come into the shop and send Lazar upstairs. He hadn’t eaten since the morning so that he would enjoy more the forthcoming Sabbath meal.

  ‘Go, go, Lazar,’ she would urge him. ‘Go upstairs to the house. I have already sugared a glass of tea for you. It’s on the table. I’ll stay here...Go, Lazar.’

  When he came up to the house the odours of Sabbath foods were wafted from every corner. The fish was cooling in the clay bowl at the window. The brown, well-baked, twisted loaves were lying on the table and the smell of chicken soup rose from the pot. Not any worse, thanks to God, than in the richest house where there are many maids.

  And later, when he came back from prayers, bringing with him a poor man as it is commanded, his wife wouldn’t know where to seat him or what to give him, anxious that she might not be doing enough for him.

  Once, when a ragged beggar sat at the Sabbath table with them, and the children hadn’t been able to take their eyes off his rags and the bare toes that peeped from his shoes, she had been greatly perturbed. A silent and hidden war had taken place between the children and the beggar. The poor man had hidden his shoes under the table in shame, but the children had searched for them and followed them with their gaze. They couldn’t take their eyes from the wet muddy stains left by the shoes and finally they could control themselves no longer and burst into speech.

  ‘Look, Mummy,’ they gave the poor man away, ‘look over there, Mummy!’

  But his wife had pretended that she hadn’t seen or heard anything but in the end she shouted angrily at the children. She made signs to Lazar, complaining that he did nothing.

  ‘Stop it! Why don’t you sit up properly at the table?’ she said. ‘You’re not on your own! Have you lost your manners?’

  She had called the children into the kitchen and lectured them for a long time. And when they returned to the table, they no longer stared at the beggar. Although they were still fascinated by his tattered clothes and above all, his worn-out shoes, they controlled themselves and only occasionally gazed fearfully in his direction.

  After the meal, as the beggar was about to leave, his wife had stopped him at the door and spoken so that no one could hear:

  ‘Soon, after the Sabbath, you must come back. Don’t take it for granted—but, God willing—don’t forget.’

  And on Saturday night when Lazar was getting ready to go to the Chapel for the meal in honour of the departure of the Sabbath, he had noticed that his wife was searching among his clothes. She had chosen a pair of trousers, a pair of shoes and an old overcoat and made a pack of it. Reb Lazar understood for whom the parcel was intended.

  Over Reb Lazar’s face there spread a sorrow that gathered in the two deep folds beside his thin, straight nose and in the close web of creases around his open, light-brown eyes. He sat on the low, overturned box, trying to reckon up the virtues of his wife, may God rest her soul, speaking her praises as is the custom; but he didn’t have anyone to listen to him. Suddenly he rose, pushed the box away, and from his face the sadness slowly disappeared. For the Sabbath had arrived.

  Reb Lazar pulled on his shoes. He took off his everyday coat, that was torn, and put on in honour of the Sabbath the best that he owned. It was another old coat of the same green-red colour of rusted iron. And so he prepared for the Sabbath. To call together a minyan, ten male Jews over the age of thirteen, was now out of the question. He looked up at the sky. It was sunset. The sun, blood-red, had burst and covered a part of the sky. Like a flooded river, the setting sun poured over the sea, mingled with it and became one with it. Reb Lazar received the Sabbath as he had at the end of every other week, as though he had not just buried his wife. He forgot all his troubles and shed all his daily cares. Quietly he recited the prayers that read:

  ‘Come my beloved, to meet the bride. Let us welcome the presence of the Sabbath. Come my beloved.’

  ‘Come then, in peace, thou crown of thy husband.’ He turned to the east and bowed forward three times, welcoming the Sabbath which is likened to a bride.

  Then he prepared for the feast of the Sabbath. He took a bit of hard, dry barley and some cold soup that had stood since the morning when he had prepared it and put it aside for the Friday evening meal. Loudly and tunefully he intoned:

  ‘Shalom Aleichem, Peace be unto you, Ye Ministering Angels!’

  With joy he received the Sabbath angels, with hardly a tremor in his voice. But when it came to the prayer, ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? Her value is far above gems’, his voice wavered and he lost himself. His beard was silvered with the tears that coursed down his face. But soon he was himself again. While he ate he sang loudly the Sabbath songs, clapping his hands together.

  CHAPTER IX

  The raging water rose in an enormous swell and flattened out level with the ship’s decks. Then it receded like a mighty, crooked wall, demanding ever more victims.

  And the sea received its victims, sucking them quickly down, covering them with foaming angry waters. But still unsatisfied and wailing from the depths, as from some strange underwater world, it shrieked for more. It seemed that the mighty sea was only concerned with the ship that so pitifully rocked and swayed on its lap, that it wanted only to draw this ship into its great abyss.

  Soon after Fabyash’s little girl, his son departed from this world. The tall, strong boy, who had been Fabyash’s neighbour could not withstand the disease and he we
nt out like a candle. And the Greek lost his wife, whom he was taking back to Australia, and once again he was left quite alone. He had travelled so far to bring a wife from his birth place but he was going back alone to wash his dishes in his little cafe. He still listened to the radio that brought news of his invaded country and his bony fists were more tightly clenched than ever.

  Little by little they grew accustomed to hearing the news of more deaths and they no longer went to watch the dead being lowered into the water in sacks weighted with stones. They were afraid of the sight and they avoided it as far as they could. The dead were cast into the sea at night so that no one would see, quietly and without any fuss.

  They were heartily tired of each other’s company and could hardly bear to look at each other or to hear the same old talk over and over again, nevertheless each morning they carefully glanced around to see that everybody was still there, that the epidemic had not carried one more off overnight. Every morning, friends looked at each other with shining eyes, unable to conceal their relief. Everyone was terrified. If any person noticed the slightest thing—a dizziness, an insignificant blotch on the skin, a tiredness in the legs—he magnified it and was certain that all was over, that at any moment he would fall victim. He would immediately go away from the others so as not to attract attention and wait until he felt better.

  When a few days passed without anybody being missed, they secretly believed that, with God’s help, the worst was over, but they dared not speak of it openly for fear of tempting the evil eye.

  Meanwhile they were assailed by an intense heat that seemed to have fallen from the sky. It came unnoticed, like a plague, and everybody was alarmed.