The Family Moskat (76 page)

Now she found his underwear and put it in the coal box. Abram had only one thought: "I've had it coming to me . . . I've had it coming to me. . . ." Manya hurried to dress, too. She drew off her nightgown, standing there naked, with her pendulous breasts, broad hips, flat belly, hairy legs. One of Abram's eyes was closed; through the other he looked curiously at her feet, the crooked toes overlapping. So this was the bargain he had given up his life to possess! It occurred to him that he ought to pronounce the prayer for forgiveness, but he could not capture the words. As he sat on the edge of the bed he must have fallen into a doze, for when he started up, Manya was com--500-pletely clothed. The stabbing in his chest had stopped. Manya helped him to his feet, and with trembling steps he walked with her out of the room into the corridor. There his strength left him, and he fell to the floor. Manya pawed over him, pulling and tugging, but he made no movement. "Ah, my God! Mamma, for God's sake have mercy on me," she muttered. In the dimness his face was like the face of a corpse. She ran out of the house, the snap lock slipping into place as she banged the door behind her.

She had forgotten her key! She started back, but it was too late; the door was locked. She stumbled down the dark stairs. "God in heaven, God in heaven, Mamma, Mamma," she kept moaning, over and over again. She had an urge to knock at a neighbor's door for help. Why was the night so long? In the courtyard she glimpsed a white shadowy form. "Dear God, it's he! He's coming after me!" She stopped stock-still, frozen with terror. She heard a man's voice.

"Who's there? Who is it?"

"It's me. Manya."

"Manya? From the crockery shop? What are you doing here?"

Manya realized that it was one of the workmen in the bakery on the courtyard. "Someone got sick upstairs. Fainted. An uncle.

From the provinces."

"Where are the others?"

"Out of the city. Away. Not coming back until morning."

"You better call for the ambulance."

"Help me! Help me! As you've got God in your heart, help me!"

"I've got the loaves in the oven. Better call a policeman."

She stumbled on, the baker after her. He caught her by the shoulder."

"You're lying," he said. "It isn't your uncle."

"What do you want? Leave me alone."

"A whore. That's what you are, curse your mother's womb."

He clutched at her breast and rubbed his face against hers.

She struggled silently. "I'll shout for help."

"Whore! Your father's father! Beat it!" He spat and threw her off. She almost fell. She was about to faint. In the darkness she heard the baker urinating. Disgust rose in her. She rushed to lean against a wall, doubling over and vomiting. "Ah, God! Ah, God!" she kept on moaning.

When she raised her head she saw that patches of gray light -501-were

beginning to show in the sky. The stars were fading. She wiped her face and went to the courtyard gate. It was already open.

She hurried through the empty street, her knees quaking. The night of terror was gone. She moved in purity and pious-ness.

She raised her eyes to the glowing hems of the clouds. She murmured a promise to the Unseen that if He released her from the trap she would become a decent daughter of Israel.

Abram was not dead. After a while he rose from his coma. He sat up and listened. There was a ringing in his ears. The blood foamed through his veins. He now remembered everything.

Where was she? Had she run off and left him? There was only one thing he wanted now: not to die here, in this strange place.

He summoned all his strength and struggled to his feet. He opened the door, slowly felt his way down the stairs, holding on to the stair rails, resting and panting after every step. (Never had he imagined that it would be such a formidable task to put one foot ahead of the other.) His teeth chattered. In the courtyard he moved along the wall. He opened one eye and saw a red sky. A word, a phrase, hung on the tip of his lips, but he could not recall it. A white apparition loomed in front of him. It was the baker. "Here, panic, I'll help you. I'll get a droshky."

He lowered himself to the ground. Wisps of smoke rose from chimneys. Windows opened. He heard the shrill voices of women. Someone was holding a drink of water to his lips. "Is this the end?" he thought. "Not so terrible." He smiled into his beard. Up above, beyond the rooftops, the newly risen sun flamed out.

2

It was some time before the baker's apprentice managed to find a droshky. The driver refused to take the sick man unless there was someone to accompany him. The baker climbed up to the flat of Manya's employers to see if the girl was there. The door was open. He spent a few minutes in the flat, then came down. With the driver's help he put Abram into the carriage and climbed in after him. Abram was able to give Ida's address to the driver. The droshky rolled off, the passers-by gaping in surprise at the two strange passengers. Abram's head leaned back against the side of the carriage. His fellow passenger held him by the sleeve. For all his exhaustion, Abram was aware of every--502-thing: the smoke, the smell of freshly baked bread, the newly swept gutter. A newsboy was hawking the morning papers. The droshky came to a stop at the building that housed Ida's studio. The janitor came out.

He and his wife helped Abram up the five flights of stairs. He must be drunk, they decided. They laid him down on Ida's bed and went out, not thinking to call a doctor. The janitor shook his head.

"Fine times, these," he murmured. "Even Jews are becoming sots."

Manya wandered through the streets for a long time. Most of the stores were still shuttered and locked. Here and there a milk store or grocery stall was open. A delivery man carried some loaves of bread artfully suspended on his flour-covered coat. Trucks unloaded cans of milk and forequarters of beef. A wagon loaded with refuse came out of a courtyard. Manya looked about her. She was on Nizka Street, where Naomi and her husband had their bakery. She hurried to the place. Naomi, formerly Reb Meshulam Moskat's servant, was already seated near the gate, guarding a basket of freshly baked loaves and rolls. She was wearing a heavy gray coat. A large pocketbook hung from her waist. She looked up at Manya and wrung her hands. "My goodness, what are you doing here?"

Manya started to stammer and swallow convulsively, the tears streaming from her eyes. Naomi stared at her. At first she could not understand what the girl was saying. When she finally understood, her hand itched to strike the wanton. She called for her stepdaughter to come and take over the business. Then she stopped a droshky and ordered the driver to take them to Ptasha Street, where Manya lived. Naomi swayed from side to side, blowing her nose in a fold of her apron, as though she were riding in a funeral coach.

"My God! My God! To do a thing like that. And your father was a decent Jew."

"I should be cut to pieces," Manya moaned.

All right, all right. Stop your wailing. God knows I don't envy you.

Naomi became exhilarated. She liked the excitement of complicated situations, liked to have to do with the police, to fuss around with corpses and funerals. Ah, Manya, that common strumpet! And the Moskats, too, had a good scandal in store for them. Let them know that she, Naomi, was an honorable woman. She could hardly wait for the droshky to get to its des--

503-tination. She lifted herself in her seat, clutching Manya by the arm, as though afraid she would jump out of the carriage.

She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "What a way to die!

Woe to his years! And you--may a flame consume your guts!"

"If only I'd died in my sleep!"

"It would have been better for you."

Naomi did not lose her head. She went into the janitor's quarters and told him everything she had learned. She talked loudly in her ragged Polish. The janitor listened, peering at her with his small, half-closed eyes. Naomi told him to get a master key.

They walked out and across the large courtyard, Naomi in the lead, the janitor following, and Manya after them. They climbed the stairs. The janitor pushed against the door and it opened.

There was no corpse. The flat was empty. They looked through all the rooms. Naomi broke out into raucous laughter. "A devill"

She rummaged in her pocketbook and brought out a five-zloty note, which she handed to the janitor, putting her finger to her lips in a meaningful gesture. The janitor took the money, scratched the nape of his neck, muttered something, and shuffled out. Naomi's glance fell on the coal box; there was some white cloth there--Abram's underpants. She whispered quickly to Manya: "Hide these."

Manya went out of the kitchen to put the clothing into the basket of soiled laundry. She passed the owner's room. The drawers of the writing-desk were open. The floor was strewn with papers. A chamois purse lay open and empty. Manya began to shriek. "Help! Thieves!"

Naomi was quick to respond. She threw open the door and started to shout at the top of her voice. Now she was beginning to be afraid for her own skin. Suppose they thought that she and Manya had done the thing together? And who knew--maybe the filthy whore had brought her here deliberately to cover up her own theft. She rushed up to Manya and flung her fist at her.

Manya stumbled back against the wall, letting the underpants fall to the floor. Neighbors appeared in the doorway, half-clothed. The janitor, who was already on his way downstairs, turned back at the sounds of the commotion.

"Call the police," Naomi yelled. "Right away." She pointed an accusing finger at Manya.

The janitor took off his cap, took out from it the banknote Naomi had given him, and flung it back at her. One of the -504-neighbors,

who had a telephone, rushed to call the commissariat. Manya remained where she was, terror in her small, hunted eyes. Out of all the excitement there was one thing clear to her: the whole book of judgments and recriminations was being thrown at her head. Now she was being paid back for all her sins.

Naomi clutched her by the shoulders, shook her back and forth.

"What have you done here? Talk! Talk plainly, or I'll lay you out cold."

"Go on. Go on and kill me."

"Whore! Thief! Why did you drag me over here?"

Naomi seemed to be suddenly seized by a new thought. She took a step toward the door. "What's this mob doing here? Let me out."

The group of people gazing curiously at the two made way for her. She pushed past them, steering her way with her belly. She had her stepdaughter as a witness that this thief had come to call her. She hurried down the stairs, her face set, her eyes angry.

Downstairs, near the gate, a dog came barking at her. She kicked at him, catching him on the leg. The animal went limping away.

"What a dirty mess," she thought with scorn. "Tries to get me in a trap, curse her guts." The droshky that had brought them was still standing outside. The horse was munching oats from the nose bag. Apart from the fact that Naomi did not want to walk the long distance back, it would be good to have the driver, too, as a witness.

3

At three in the morning Masha left the ball. She took with her a torn dress, trampled shoes, a
bonbonniAre,
and a headache. It was too late to find a droshky; she took one of the late streetcars.

Marianna, the servant, opened the door for her and Masha proceeded at once into her boudoir. It was some time since she and Yanek had shared a bed; Masha slept on a made-up sofa. Now she threw herself down and put out the lamp. She was too tired to undress. She pulled the coverlet over her and fell asleep.

Early in the morning the ringing of the telephone woke her.

The instrument was on the toilet table near her sofa. Half asleep, she picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. She heard a woman's voice, harsh and hoarse.

-505-

"Mrs. Zazhitska? You'll please excuse me. This is Gina Yanovar Maybe you'll remember me."

"Yes, I remember you."

"Dear lady, forgive me. I've just had a terrible misfortune. We were at the ball last night. I noticed you there. You looked wonderful. We got home to find the house full of policemen and detectives. You see, I'm forced to keep lodgers. My husband, unfortunately, is unable to find any employment. And we have a lodger, Broide is his name, with his wife, Lila--"

"This Broide is a Communist, isn't he?"

"That's just the tragedy. He promised me he'd keep his politics out of my place, but you can't trust those people. They found whole bundles of propaganda in his room. And they've arrested my husband. God knows he's innocent, he's got nothing to do with it." Gina began to sob.

Masha closed her eyes in weariness. "What is it you want from me?" she said. "How can I help?"

Gina gasped. "Dear lady, he'll never survive it. It'll be too much for his strength. I beg you~I plead with you by all that you hold dearest, to talk to your husband, the colonel. Please, please, whatever your scruples are. A single word from the colonel can save him." Gina's voice again broke into tears. In her desperation she spoke a mixture of Polish and Yiddish. She said something about her husband's papers--his reports on psy-chical research--which the police had taken together with Broide's Communist pamphlets.

Masha stopped the flow of words. "My husband's sleeping now," she said. "I'll talk to him later."

"Oh, oh, I'll never stop thanking you. God bless you, you still have a Jewish heart."

Masha hung up the receiver and tried to fall asleep, but again the telephone shrilled. This time it was Hadassah. She talked in so low a tone that Masha had to strain to make out what she was saying. Hadassah told her that her Uncle Abram had had a heart attack, that he had been picked up somewhere in a courtyard on Ptasha Street; a baker's apprentice had brought him in a droshky to Ida Prager's studio. And there was some confused business about a robbery; a girl called Manya, who was once a servant at Grandfather's, had been arrested. Masha listened, one hand to her temple, as though the fierce throbbing might split her skull.

-506-"But,

darling," she managed to interrupt, "I really don't understand a word you're saying. I'm more dead than alive."