That’s easy to say. How was I not supposed to feel homesick? The spring mud was gone, the summer sun was shining down, the sky was crystal clear, and I even had my own pile of logs. The logs weren’t ours. They belonged to a rich Jew named Yosi who was building a house and had dumped them next door. Three cheers for Yosi! I made a fort out of them and picked the brambles and puffballs that grew between them. The brambles made good swords and the puffballs went bang when you blew them up and knocked them against your head.
I had a good life. So did Menye. The whole outdoors was ours. And I shouldn’t feel homesick?
After three weeks of living with Hirsh-Ber I’ve hardly sung a note. I have another job. It’s taking care of Dobtshe. Dobtshe is a hunchback. That’s why she outweighs me even though she isn’t two years old. Carrying her around can break your back. But Dobtshe loves me. She likes to grab me and feel me all over. “Kiko,” she calls me, don’t ask me why. At night it’s “Kiko ki,” which means I should stay up and rock her. Love isn’t the word for it. At mealtimes it’s “Kiko pi,” which means I should give her all my food. I want to go home. Even without Dobtshe, the food at Hirsh-Ber’s isn’t great.
Last night was the night of Shavuos. That’s when you can see the sky open up if you stand outside and wait to wish on it. But not with Dobtshe loving me. “Kiko ki!” she said and I had to rock her until I fell asleep myself. That’s when I had a visit from Menye. He looked at me with his human eyes and said: “Come!” The two of us headed downhill for the river. As soon as we reached it—hup! I rolled up my pants and was in the water with Menye swimming behind me. I made for the opposite bank, as far away as I could get from Dobtshe, Hirsh-Ber, and my sick father.
I woke up with a start. It was only a dream. But I have to get away. How? Where? Home, of course. The problem is that Hirsh-Ber is awake, too. He has a big tuning fork that he tests on his teeth and holds to his ear. He wants me to dress quickly. We have a new number to sing today after the Torah reading.
In synagogue I see my brother Elye. What is he doing here? He usually prays at the butchers’ place, where my father is the cantor. As soon as the Torah scroll is taken out, he goes over to talk to Hirsh-Ber. Hirsh-Ber doesn’t look very happy. I hear him say:
“Don’t forget: as soon as your Sabbath lunch is over!”
“Come, you’re going to see Papa,” Elye says. The two of us start for home. Elye walks and I skip. I mean, I run. That is, I fly.
“Take it easy! What’s the hurry?” my brother asks. I can see he wants to talk to me. “You know Papa is sick, very sick. God knows what will become of him. We have to do all we can for him. There’s no one else to help. Mama’s dead set against putting him in the public sick ward. She says she’d rather die first…. Shhh, here she comes.”
My mother holds out her arms and throws them around me. I feel a tear that isn’t mine on my cheek. Elye goes to my father and leaves us standing outside. We’re not alone. Around us stand our neighbor Fat Pesye, her daughter Mindl, her daughter-in-law Perl, and two other women.
“A guest for Shavuos! God grant you pleasure from him!”
My mother doesn’t lift her swollen eyes. “A guest? A child! He’s come to see his sick father. My little boy!”
That’s what she says out loud to everyone. She adds quietly to Pesye, who is shaking her head:
“What a town! You would think someone might drop in on him. For twenty-three years he ruined his health by praying his heart out for them. There’s nothing left to pay the doctors with. Everything has been sold except the sheets and pillows, God help us! I’ve boarded the boy with Hirsh-Ber the cantor, done all I could.”
I let her complain while craning my neck in all directions. “What are you looking for?” she asks.
“What could a young scamp like him be looking for?” Pesye says. “It’s got to be that calf.” She turns to me and says like my best friend:
“What can I tell you, my boy? Your calf is gone. We had to sell it to the butcher. What choice did we have? Supporting one dumb critter is hard enough. Two is asking too much.”
So Menye has become a dumb critter. A strange woman. Pesye, sticking her nose into everything. What’s it to her whether we’re planning to have dairy for Shavuos?
“How come you ask?” asks my mother.
“I was just wondering,” Pesye says, pressing a pot of sour cream into my mother’s hands.
“What in God’s world are you doing, Pesye! What do you take us for? God forbid we should be that badly off. You ought to know better.”
“I do,” Pesye says. “That’s why I’m doing it. Lately, knock wood, our cow has been swimming in milk. We have more cheese and butter than we can eat. I set this aside for you. You’ll return it when you can.”
Pesye talks to my mother while I think of my logs and my calf. If I weren’t ashamed I would cry.
My mother says: “When Papa asks how you are, just say: ‘Praise God, I’m fine.’”
Elye makes sure I understand: “No complaints and no sob stories, do you hear? ‘Praise God, I’m fine,’ that’s all you say.”
Elye leads me to my father’s room. The table is covered with bottles, pillboxes, cupping glasses. The window is closed and the room smells like an apothecary’s. In honor of the holiday the walls are decorated with green branches. A paper cutout of a Star of David hangs over the bed. That’s Elye’s work. Sweet-smelling grasses are spread on the floor. My father motions to me with a long, thin finger. My brother Elye gives me a push and I go to him.
I hardly recognize him. His skin is like clay. The gray hairs on his head glisten damply. Each of them looks pasted on. His two eyes are stuck deep in their sockets. His teeth don’t look like his own, either. His neck is so thin it can hardly hold up his head. But at least he can sit. He makes a sound like a drowning man, lays his bony fingers on my face, and gives me a smile as crooked as a corpse’s. He says:
“I reckon you know enough to say the kaddish, eh?”
Elye bends and pretends to blow his nose while he sniffles.
Just then my mother walks in. Behind her is Dr. Blackwhiskers. He greets me like a younger brother, pokes me in the stomach, and says cheerfully to my father:
“I see you have a guest for Shavuos. Enjoy him!”
“Thank you,” my mother says. She signals to the doctor to examine my father and give him his medicine.
The doctor opens the window noisily and scolds Elye for keeping it closed. “I’ve told you a thousand times he needs fresh air!”
Elye points to my mother to say it’s her fault. My mother says she’s afraid my father will catch cold. She signals to the doctor again. He takes out a big gold pocket watch. Elye stares at it. The doctor notices and says: “I’ve got half-past five. What time do you have?”
“My watch isn’t running,” Elye says, flushing from the tip of his nose to the ends of his ears.
My mother fidgets. She wants my father to get his medicine. The doctor takes his time asking all kinds of questions. When is my brother’s wedding? What does Hirsh-Ber think of my voice? I should have a good one, because voices are inherited. My mother fidgets some more. At last the doctor moves a stool to the sick bed and takes my father’s hot, dry hand.
“Well, cantor! How has Shavuos been treating you?”
“Praise God.” My father smiles like a corpse.
“Aha! You’ve been coughing less? You slept well?” The doctor bends close to him.
“Not at all …,” my father answers, stopping to catch his breath after every few words. “I’ve been coughing more and sleeping less …but God be praised …it’s Shavuos …the day the Torah was given …and we have a guest …a guest for the holiday …”