The Little Russian (30 page)

That night the neighbors came in to read the Megillah, the book of Esther, and break the fast. They brought noisemakers so that every time Haman’s name was mentioned they could spin the handles and make a loud racket. The men stamped their feet and the children spun their
graggers
until there wasn’t an apartment on the street where one could find peace and quiet. When the people upstairs came down to complain they were invited in to stay
.
Soon the little apartment was filled to capacity and people were spilling out into the hallway and even into the street. The crowd stood around, talking over each other and eating
mohnelach
and hamantashen and washing it down with good strong tea.

The next day Berta and Lhaye cooked all day for the celebration that night. Zev should have been in shul reading the Megillah for a second time, but instead he went to work. He was a Bolshevik and had nothing good to say about the ritualistic nonsense of his forebears. It was a sore subject between him and Lhaye. She nagged him to go to shul and to stop lighting his cigarettes on the Shabbes candles. In turn he begrudged her the few kopecks for a Shabbes goy.

That night the Purim players came to their courtyard and put on a play about King Artaxerxes, Haman, Mordecai, and Esther. There were songs; a man dressed as a woman; three-cornered hats made out of brightly colored cardboard; and
kozeh
, the goat, a man dressed in a goatskin decorated with beads, coins, and little bells.

Berta and the children stood on the sidelines and watched the play, clapping and singing at all the appropriate parts. After that came another play about Joseph, more songs, and even some pathos. To lighten the mood,
kozeh
came bounding into the circle, leaping into
the air, twirling and shaking until all the bells, big and small, were ringing. He sang a nonsensical song that made the children laugh and even Sura forgot her shyness and joined in.

 

IT WASN’T long before Berta’s money was gone and she had to rely on Lhaye and Zev for her most basic needs. To their credit they never complained or even mentioned the work that awaited her down at the factory. They didn’t have to. She knew where she was headed and so did they. She had even begun to wake up before dawn to the sound of the factory whistle.

She hadn’t thought of another line of work until she went to Alix’s house, one afternoon in late March, to sell the pearl bracelet. She thought she might get a better price from Alix than from the Baranov brothers. She purposely made an appointment on Thursday, because the Tretiakovs always went to the Melgunovs’ for a late supper after the theater on Thursdays and she knew Alix would want to wear it that night and be more likely to accept her price without question. So at half past four she arrived at Alix’s house and was shown into the sea green parlor.

Berta had been counting on tea at Alix’s all day long. Since she had to rely on Lhaye for her food, she had taken to eating less and that day had eaten nothing in anticipation of a proper Russian tea. She was not disappointed. There were cakes and tea sandwiches and a large plate of scones. When Alix left the room to have a word with the cook, Berta scooped up several sandwiches and four scones and put them into her just-in-case bag. She had a fleeting notion of regret, that she was not only manipulating her friend to get more money out of her, but also stealing food from her as well. Then her stomach rumbled and all thoughts of regret evaporated.

When Alix returned, Berta took out the velvet pouch and removed the bracelet. She had no feelings about it now. It was no longer the bracelet Hershel had given her when Samuil was born. Now, it was simply food.

“Put it on,” Alix said eagerly, holding out her wrist.

For a moment Berta was worried that the bracelet wouldn’t fit. She
put it around Alix’s wrist and tugged on it a little to make the clasp lock. “Perfect,” she said, thinking that if it had been a millimeter shorter, she would’ve gone hungry that night.

“It’s not too small?” Alix asked, moving her hand this way and that so she could see it from different angles.

“No, it’s a little snug, but they’re wearing them like that.”

Alix looked at her doubtfully. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“How much? Give me a bargain. I’m your best friend.”

Berta quoted her a price that was twice what the Baranov brothers would give her.

“It that a good price?”

“Of course. You think I would take advantage of you?”

Alix apologized for doubting her and went to a cabinet decorated with carved shells and seaweed and got the money out of a little box. Berta stuffed the bills into her bodice, kissed her friend twice, once on each cheek, and saw herself out. On the way down the hill she stopped off in a little public square and sat down on a bench to eat her tea sandwiches and scones. There she surveyed her feelings and found that she was relieved and happy to have the money, but saddened by the change in her friendship with Alix. Alix was no longer her best friend. In fact she was no longer a friend at all. Alix was a customer.

After that, she sold a brooch to Maria Gerasimovna Melgunova, who had no problem doing business with Berta Alshonsky as long as she came to the back door like any other tradesman. When Berta ran out of jewelry to sell she borrowed some from the Baranov brothers, who were happy to give it to her at a steeply discounted price. Their discount plus a modest markup kept her out of the factory and her children fed. After that she acquired other customers, some strangers, some former friends. Soon she was branching out into furniture, shoes, clothing, whatever was wanted. She knew where to get the best merchandise at a discount and how to make profit.

By the summer, Anna Mikhailovna Vishniakova had heard that Berta Alshonsky could find anything at a good price, even with the war, and ordered a gilt mirror of good quality. Berta had such a mirror
stored in the professor’s basement. She wrapped it in burlap and took the train to a station that was several versts from Anna Mikhailovna’s estate. Since she didn’t have the money to hire a cart, she had to walk all the way with it. It was hot and her shoes hurt and she was worried about breaking it. A small convoy of trucks passed her loaded with supplies for the front. Their heavy tires left a choking cloud of dust in their wake, which stuck to her sweaty face and made it hard to breathe. There was a family of muzhiki at a haying station near the road, an old man, his wife, and several young girls, who stopped by their cartload of hay to watch the pretty woman, with arms like sticks, carry the heavy gold mirror down the dusty road.

Finally she reached the country estate, limped up the stone steps, and knocked on the door. It was opened by Olya, the maid from Moscow, a bony Slav with a faint moustache and prominent cheekbones. She stood there, taking Berta in, while wiping her hands on her apron.

“Who is it, Olya?” called her mistress from somewhere inside.

“It’s the house Jew, Madame,” Olya called back, keeping a wary eye on Berta. “She’s come with your mirror.”

“Tell her to go around to the back,” called out Mikhailovna.

“Yes, Madame. You heard her,” the maid grumbled, blocking her way. She nodded to a path that led around to the back and then shut the door.

Berta stood on the steps and looked out into the yard, to an oak and birch stand just beyond the grass that was ablaze with the color of autumn. The fallen leaves formed choppy waves at the base of the trees and dead branches poked bony fingers up through them like the skeletal remains of fallen soldiers. She was not the house Jew. She would never be a house Jew. She was Berta Alshonsky, temporarily reduced in circumstances. She had no doubt that her situation would soon right itself. There had been a mistake. She was not meant to live like this. She was meant for her former life and soon it would be returned to her.

She picked up the mirror and went down the steps. The sky was a cloudless expanse of white and somewhere in the stand of oaks she heard the monotonous drone of a woodcutter’s saw. For the time being she would have to ignore the unsavory parts of her life, the little
terrors, the slights and insults, the injuries to her pride and the bitter uncertainties of the future. She had room for only simple thoughts now: keep going, turn a profit, bring food home, and extract the most out of the least. All the rest was a distraction that kept her from a good day’s work. She decided to add a surcharge on to the price of the mirror: 5 percent for the journey, 5 for the heat and dust, and another 5 for having been mistaken for a house Jew.

 

THERE WAS a one-story house of weathered wood and peeling plaster that shared a courtyard with three similar houses. It was just off Davidkovo Square near the
zemstvo
building and directly across from the Church of the Resurrection. It wasn’t a very fashionable neighborhood. These weren’t fashionable people. The owner of the house was the assistant manager of a textile plant owned by Yuvelir’s family. In the past Berta wouldn’t have known these people. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to stop and speak with them, to exchange a pleasantry or ask about their children. Now everything was different. Now they were her customers and she couldn’t afford to be picky.

It was January 1917 and the country had been at war for nearly two and a half years. Everyone was talking about revolution. The consensus was that it was only a matter of time. Bread was scarce in the cities. People had to wait in long lines for it, only to find that the bakeries had run out of flour. Food shortages were everywhere. The factories were on strike. The war was going badly: inexperienced leadership, wholesale desertion, and the rolling stock had proven inadequate to supply the front. There was a stench of decay in the air. Russia was festering. Everyone knew it was going to be bad, but no one imagined how it could be much worse, with people dropping everywhere of disease, of starvation, of war, young and old and even children, the bodies piling up like hayricks after the autumn harvest.

Berta stepped off the curb and crossed in front of a sledge that was being pulled by its driver. The man had a harness over his shoulder and he trudged through the snowy street pulling his heavy load, his face screwed up with the effort. She jumped over a mound of snow in the gutter and landed up on the other side, ignoring the taunts of three
soldiers who were standing over a fire in an old drum. One of them was roasting chestnuts over a grate and selling them in paper cones.

She followed the little walkway around to the back of the house where the
dvornik
was shoveling out the courtyard. He looked up briefly when she passed but said nothing and returned to his work. She tried to knock on the door, despite the heavy bundles in her hands, but soon gave up and kicked it several times instead. She didn’t want to put the packages down because it was hard to pick them up again. She was wearing men’s gloves that were too big for her and made it difficult to hold things. She wanted to take them off but knew she would be risking frostbite. There was a sharp wind, and the sun, a dull orb in the sky swaddled in clouds of frost and snow, hung over the domes of the Church of the Annunciation.

She heard a voice from inside: “Nastya! It’s the boy with the wood.”

It was the cook. Berta recognized her voice. Then she heard quick footsteps crossing the kitchen and the door opened with a gentle gust of warm air and the cloistered smell of baking bread. The housemaid looked her over. “It’s only the house Jew,” she called back over her shoulder. She stood there dressed in her starched white blouse and black pinafore. Her cap was a large black bow.

“Well, bring her in,” said the cook, bristling with impatience. “You’re letting in the cold air.”

The maid stepped aside to let Berta in but made no move to help her with the bundles. Berta nodded a greeting and edged past her into the kitchen. The cook looked up from her worktable. She was stuffing a bird with bread crumbs, dried apples, and cranberries, and Berta caught the velvety perfume of cloves and cinnamon.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kick our door,” the cook said, shoving another handful of stuffing into the breast. “We have better things to do then paint our back door every time you come to call.”

She was a trim woman wearing a starched white cap and apron. Her hands were glistening with grease, and bits of berries and apples were sticking to them. “Well, just don’t stand there,” she said to the housemaid. “Show her into the parlor and tell Miss she’s here.” And then to Berta she added, “I expect you brought the boas?”

Berta nodded.

“Well, go on then,” she said, nodding in the direction of the parlor. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and went back to stuffing the bird.

The parlor was damp and smelled of mold and wet carpet. It was crowded with gilded pine furniture, flimsy sticks of wood covered with cheap fabric. After the maid had gone Berta unpacked the boas and laid them out on the settee. Then she went over to the porcelain stove that stood in the corner and tried to warm her hands. They were frugal with wood in this house and the fire had been allowed to go out. Still there were a few lingering coals in the grate and she bent down to gather in what warmth she could.

“Have you been waiting long?” asked the girl, breezing in through the double doors. She hardly gave Berta a glance as she hurried over to the boas hanging over the back of the settee. “Oh, these are lovely.” She was the youngest of five daughters and the only one still left in the house. The others had made suitable marriages long ago and were scattered all over Little Russia. All of her brothers were dead except for the one who was in the tubercular hospital in Poltava.

“What do you think? This one?”

She held up a garish one, the only one of the five that was too big for her. She was a short girl with a thick waist and the last thing she needed was more bulk hanging around her neck. But she had chosen the ostrich feathers, the most expensive one, the one that would bring in two extra rubles.