My father made every possible effort to turn the conversation to my mother, may she rest in peace, exclaiming, “We are the miserable widowers.” How strange his words were — it was as if all of womankind had died and every man was a widower.
One day Mr. Gottlieb journeyed to see his brother. He was a wealthy man and Gottlieb hoped he might join his business and contribute to the factory’s expansion. Mintshi, who normally did not like to interfere in her husband’s affairs, let slip more than she wished. Suddenly she realized what she had done and seemed to ask me to forget what she had just recounted, and she told me of her first visit to her father-in-law’s house when the groom had entered and welcomed her, and then had turned on his heel and left. Mintshi had been greatly distressed by his abrupt manner. But he was no sooner gone than he returned, and before she had time to recover he asked to kiss her and she had drawn back, offended. Mintshi had not known at the time that she had been greeted at first not by the groom, but by his brother, whose features were identical to the groom’s.
The holidays were coming to an end. “Stay until Tuesday evening,” my father said. “I will come Tuesday evening and we will return home together.” He was suddenly seized by a spasm of coughing. Mintshi poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught a cold, Mr. Mintz?” she asked my father. “Indeed,” he answered, “I have considered leaving my work.” We listened in astonishment as he continued, “If not for my daughter I would wipe my hands clean of my trade.” How strange a reply. Does a man leave his trade because of a slight cold? To wear a long face would only have led him to think that he was ill. And so Mrs. Gottlieb said, “What will you do then, write books?” We all laughed. He, the merchant, such a practical man, sitting down and writing books.
The train’s whistle sounded. Mrs. Gottlieb exclaimed, “My husband should be here in ten minutes,” and fell silent. Our conversation was cut short as we waited for Mr. Gottlieb to arrive. Mr. Gottlieb entered. Mintshi peered at him intently; her eyes ran over her spouse. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose and chuckled like a man intending to amuse his listeners. He then spoke to us of his travels and what had happened at his brother’s home. On arriving, he had found his brother’s wife sitting with her son. And he lifted the boy up on his lap and leaped up and whirled him about. They had been surprised, for the boy followed him fearlessly even though he had never seen him before. Mr. Gottlieb’s brother entered while they were playing and the boy stared first at his father and then at his father’s brother — his eyes darting from one to the other in disbelief. All of a sudden he turned his face away, burst into tears and flung his small arms out to his mother, and she embraced him as he buried his face in her bosom.
I returned home and to school. And my father found me a new Hebrew teacher, a Mr. Segal with whom I studied for many days. Mr. Segal came three times a week, and not liking to skip from subject to subject, divided my studies into three parts: one day of the week I studied the Bible, another, grammar, and on the third day I studied composition. Segal set out to explain the Holy Writings in a lucid manner, and he did not refrain from teaching me the commentaries of our Sages. Hours were spent over such commentaries and exegeses, leaving us little time for the Book. He spoke to me of all the splendors which until then I had not found in books. Wishing to revive our language, whenever I spoke he would say, “Please, say it in Hebrew.” He spoke with a certain flourish, like an advocate, and delighted whenever he stumbled upon a passage that resonated in his heart, for a prophet had spoken, and the prophets, after all, knew Hebrew.
Of all the hours spent in study I cherished most those devoted to composition. Segal would relax and lean back, his left hand under his head and his eyes firmly shut. Ever so quietly he would read from the wellsprings of his heart without glancing even once at the book. Like a musician plying his instrument during the darkest hour of the night, his heart brimming to its banks, without a glance at his notes, playing only what God had placed in his heart — so was this man.
My father paid Segal three gulden a month for my studies. After clipping the notes together, I would quietly hand them over to Segal. Segal, however, counted the money openly, and exclaimed, “I am not a doctor and needn’t be paid furtively. I’m a worker and am not ashamed to receive a salary for my labors.”
And my father toiled ceaselessly at his work. Nor did he rest at night. When I went to sleep he would remain seated by the lamplight. Sometimes I rose in the morning to find the light still lit beside him, for being preoccupied with his accounts he would forget to extinguish the light. My mother’s name no longer hovered on his lips.
On the eve of Yom Kippur my father bought two candles: one candle, the candle of the living, he lit in the house, and the other, the memorial candle, he took to the synagogue. My father brought the candle to the synagogue, and as I accompanied him, he said, “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Remembrance Day for the souls of the dead.” His voice shook as he spoke. I bent forward and kissed his hand.
We arrived at the synagogue. I peered through the lattice and saw one man greeting another in the midst of the assembly, asking forgiveness of the other. I then saw my father standing in front of a man without a prayer shawl, and I recognized Akaviah Mazal and my eyes misted with tears.
The cantor intoned Kol Nidre and his singing waxed from one moment to the next. The candles flickered and the building filled with light. The men swayed between the candles, their faces covered. How I loved the holiness of the day.
We returned home without speaking a word. The stars of silence in the firmament and the candles of the living in each home lit up our way. We took the path leading to the bridge, for my father said, “Let us rest by the water for a while, my throat is choked with dust.” From within the rippling water the nocturnal stars peered out at the stars in the sky. The moon broke through the furrowed clouds and a low murmuring sound rose from the water. From his heavenly heights God sent forth silence. I shall never forget that night. The candle of the living bent its flame towards us as we arrived home. I read the Shema and slept till morning. I was roused from my sleep in the morning by my father’s voice. We left for the house of prayer. The sky had veiled itself in white as was its custom in autumn. The trees cast their russet leaves earthward and the old womenfolk bestirred themselves to gather the leaves into their homes. From the surrounding farmhouses thin plumes of smoke rose where the dry leaves burned in the stoves. People wrapped in white garments swayed back and forth in the courtyards. We arrived at the synagogue and prayed, meeting in the courtyard between the morning prayer and the additional service, and then again between the additional service and the afternoon prayer. My father asked whether the fast was not too great a strain for me. How my father’s voice confused me.
I barely saw my father during the holiday. I studied in a Polish school and we were not exempt from class during our own holidays. Returning from school at noon I would find my father and the neighbors crowded together in the succah. And I would eat by myself, as there was no place for women in the booth. But I was consoled by the coming of winter. Late in the evening we supped together and then bent over our work by the light of a single lamp. And the white oval shade cast its light over us as our heads merged into one black presence in the shadows. I prepared my lessons and my father put his accounts into order. At nine o’clock Kaila set before us three glasses of tea, two for my father and one for me. My father pushed aside ledger and pen, and reached for the glass of tea. One glass he drained steaming hot, and the second he drained cold after dropping into it a lump of sugar. We then resumed our work, I my lessons, and my father his accounts. At ten o’clock my father would rise, stroke my hair, and say, “And now go to sleep, Tirtza.” How I loved his use of the conjunction “and”. I always grew happy in its presence: it was as though all that my father told me was but the continuation of his innermost thoughts. That is, first he spoke to me from within his heart and then out loud. And so I would say to my father, “If you are not going to sleep I too will not sleep, I will stay up with you until you go to sleep.” But my father did not pay attention to my words, so I would go to bed. And when I woke I would find my father still bent over his accounts, his ledgers crowding the table. Had he risen early or had he not slept the entire night? I did not ask nor did I ever find out. Late into the night I told myself: I will go now and appeal to his heart, perhaps he will listen to me and rest. But I would fall fast asleep before ever getting out of bed. I knew my father intended to leave his business, and that wishing to set his accounts in order, he now bent over his affairs with redoubled effort. I did not ask what he would do afterwards.