Two Scholars Who Were in Our Town and Other Novellas (32 page)

Those were fine times when I skated on the river. My body grew stronger and my eyes widened in their orbs and were no longer overcast with melancholy. My flesh and bones had found a cure. I ate heartily and when I sat down to read a book I lost all sense of myself. Twice on returning home I tiptoed up to Kaila as she bent over her work and suddenly lifted her into the air. Kaila cried out in vain, for I clashed my skates together and the din drowned out her voice.

But such times did not last for long. Although the sun was not to be seen, the snow melted. And when I went down to the river I found it deserted. The ice had almost thawed and crows perched on the loose floes of ice. It was then I felt sharp stabbing pains in my chest, and the doctor came and gave me medicine, and forbade me to exert myself over my lessons. “But sir,” I said, “I have to complete my studies this year.” “If that is so,” he replied, “your turn to teach the villagers will come a year from now.” And having gone that winter with the schoolgirls to skate on the ice I grew almost fond of the college. If the thing on which love depends ceases, love ceases.

Now the house was swept clean for the Passover holiday. And I fetched old books from the closet to give them a good airing. Whenever I found a book with a damaged binding I told myself, I will take it to the bookbinders. And rummaging through the closet I found the
mizrah
that had hung in the home of my mother’s father, and I tucked it into my bag along with the books, intending to take it to the glazier, for its glass casing and gilt frame were cracked and scraped, and the crimson ribbon that my mother, may she rest in peace, had used to hang the
mizrah
was torn. And as I was about to leave, the seamstress arrived with my new spring dress. I quickly slipped on the dress, put on my hat and set out with the books and the
mizrah
for the bookbinder and the glazier. While at the bookbinder Mazal came in and stared at the books I had brought and then at the
mizrah
that was wrapped in broad sheets of paper, and he asked, “What is that book?” I removed the paper and said, “One moment, sir,” and I unwound the string that I had twisted round my hand after running into Mazal and the dog, and I fastened the string to the
mizrah
and hung it on the wall. Mazal stared in disbelief. I read what was written on the
mizrah
: Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee. Mazal bowed his head. I blushed and my eyes filled with tears. One moment I longed to cry out: You have brought upon me this shame! And the next moment I longed to prostrate myself before him. I made to leave, not wanting to linger at the bookbinder’s.

But I stepped outside only to find Mazal standing on my right. I laughed and said loudly, “Now you know, sir.” My throat burned and I could hardly bear the sound of my own voice. Mazal grasped my hand. His hand shook like his voice. He looked askance and said, “Soon we shall be seen.” I dried my tears and tidied my hair. “Let them look,” I said, still upset. “It’s all the same to me.” We walked on for a short while and, reaching the corner of my street, Mazal said, “Here is your father’s house.” I stared hard into his face. “I will not go home,” I declared. Mazal remained silent. I was at a loss where to go. Many thoughts stirred within me and I feared lest Mazal abandon me without my having said a thing. Meanwhile we left the town behind and approached the edge of the woods. The verdant forest was about to burst into leaf. Birch trees opened their buds and a new sun rose over the woods. Mazal said, “Spring has arrived.” And he gazed at my face and knew I was annoyed by his words. And he swept the palm of his hand over his head and sighed.

I sat on a tree trunk and Mazal was ill at ease and groped for words. He stared at my dress, my spring dress, and said, “The tree is still damp and you are wearing a light dress.” I knew the tree was damp and that my dress was light. All the same I did not rise and I even took pleasure in my discomfort. Mazal turned pale, his eyes dimmed and an odd smile swept over his lips. I thought he would ask, Has your hand healed from the dog bite? My spirits weighed upon me. But I suddenly sensed a joy which until that moment I had never experienced, a wonderful warmth kindled within my heart. I quietly smoothed my soft dress. It seemed then that the man with whom I sat in the woods on that early spring day had already revealed to me all that was harbored in his heart. And I was startled to hear Mazal say, “I heard your voice at night. Was it you at my window?” “I was not by your window,” I replied, “however I have called out to you from my bed at night. I think of you every day, and I looked for traces of you in the cemetery, by my mother’s grave. Last summer I left some flowers and you came and went but you did not stop to smell my flowers.” “Now let me tell you something,” Mazal said, “such feelings will pass. You are still young. Another man has not captured your heart yet. That is why your heart is set upon mine. The men you have met were shallow, whereas you were not bored in my company and so you swore to yourself, It is he. But what will you do the day you find the man who will really capture your heart? As for me, I have come to the age when all I desire is some peace and quiet. Think of your future, Tirtza, and admit it is best we part before it is too late.” I gripped the tree trunk and a stifled cry escaped from within me. “Let us remain good friends,” Mazal said, placing his hand on my head. “Friends!” I cried out. How I loathed such romantic nonsense. Mazal stretched out his warm hand and I leaned forward and kissed his hand. And Mazal rested his head on my shoulder, which he then kissed.

The sun set and we made our way home. A spring chill, doubly potent after a sunlit day, settled in my bones. “We must talk again,” Mazal said. “When, when?” I asked. Mazal repeated my words as though he did not grasp their meaning. “When? Tomorrow, before dusk, in the forest.” “Fine.” I looked at my watch and asked, “At what time?” “At what time?” Akaviah repeated, “At six o’clock.” I bent over my watch and kissed the very same numeral on the face of the watch. And I relished the warmth of the watch that hung over my heart.

I made my way home and my body shook all over. My bones quaked from the cold as I walked, and I told myself: once home it will pass. But when I got home, rather than diminish the fever only grew worse. I lost all desire to eat and my throat burned. Kaila brewed me some tea and added sugar and a slice of lemon. I drank the tea and lay on my bed and pulled up the covers. But I was not warmed.

I awoke, my throat burning. And I lit a candle and then snuffed it out, for its flickering flame hurt my eyes. The wick’s thin curl of smoke and my cold hands only increased my discomfort. The clock struck and I took fright, as I imagined that I was late in meeting Mazal in the forest. I counted the hours and prayed to God to keep the hour we’d arranged to meet from ever arriving. Three, four, five. Ah, I should get up, but I was overcome by sleep. Why couldn’t I sleep until now? Soon I would meet Mazal, a restless night in my eyes. I must get out of bed and rid myself of any traces of sleep. But how can I wash when I have caught such a bad cold? I fumbled against the bedposts and finally managed to get out of bed. I shivered from cold and knew not where I stood. Here is the doorway, or is it the closet door? Where are the matches, and where the window? Why has Kaila drawn the curtains? I could slip and crack my skull against the table or stove—damn it! Where is the lamp? This time I won’t find a thing, perhaps I’ve been struck blind. And now, just as I’ve lost all hope of finding myself a man, Akaviah Mazal will take me to be his wedded wife, and as one who leads the blind, so will Mr. Mazal lead me. Ah, why did I even dare talk to him? I have found my bed, thanks to a merciful God. I lay on the bed and covered myself, yet I fancied that I was still on my feet, walking. I tramped for a good many hours. Where to? An old woman stood by the road waiting for me to ask her the way. Wasn’t she the old woman I first saw last month, when one bright day I ventured out of town? The old woman opened her mouth. “Here she is,” she said. “I barely recognized you, aren’t you Leah’s daughter? Aren’t you Leah’s daughter,” the old woman exclaimed, snuffing tobacco. And prattling on she did not allow me a word in edgewise. I nodded my head: Yes, I was Leah’s daughter. The old woman said, “I said you were Leah’s daughter didn’t I, while you swept by me as if it did not matter a straw. The lambs are ignorant of the pastures where their mothers grazed.” The old woman snuffed a second time, “Did I not nurse your mother with my own milk?” I knew this to be a dream, yet I was confused: my mother had never been nursed at the breast of a stranger, how dare the old woman claim she had nursed my mother. I hadn’t seen the old woman for a great many days, nor had I thought of her, and this gave me further cause for surprise. So why had she suddenly accosted me in my dream? Wondrous are the ways of dreams and who knows their paths.

My father’s footsteps woke me and I saw that he was sad. He gazed at me with tenderness through his bloodshot eyes. I felt ashamed of the mess in my room. My new dress and my stockings lay scattered on the floor. For a moment I forgot it was my father who stood before me, all I could think of was that a man was present in my room. I shut my eyes, filled with shame. I then heard my father’s voice addressing Kaila, who stood by the door, “She’s asleep.” “Good morning, father,” I called out, no longer ashamed. “Weren’t you sleeping? So how are you my child?” “I’m fine,” I replied, straining to speak in a clear voice, but a spasm of coughing took hold of me. “I caught a slight cold and now I will get up, for my cold is over.” “Thank God!,” my father said. “But I suggest that you stay in bed today my child.” “No, I must get up,” I cried out stubbornly, for I imagined my father would prevent me from going to my groom.

I knew that I had to throw myself on my father’s mercy. Perhaps he would forgive me for having done that which is forbidden. My good father, my good father, I called out from within my heart, and I took courage and exclaimed, “Father, I was betrothed yesterday.” My father stared at me. I longed to lower my eyes, yet took heart and called out, “Father, didn’t you hear?” My father remained silent, thinking I had spoken out of my fever, and he whispered something to Kaila that I could not hear. He then went to the window to see if it was shut. Regaining my strength I sat up in bed and said to him “Although I caught a chill I am now better, sit by the bed, for I have something to tell you. Let Kaila come too, I have no secrets to hide.” My father’s eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets and worry dimmed their light. He sat on the bed and I said, “Yesterday I met and spoke to Mazal. Father, what is wrong?” “You are a bad girl,” Kaila exclaimed, frightened. “Hush, Kaila,” I retorted. “I have opened my heart to Mazal. But why go on like this, I am betrothed to him.” “Who ever heard of such a thing?” Kaila exclaimed, wringing her hands in despair. My father calmed Kaila down and asked, “When was this done?” “I do not remember,” I replied, “even though I glanced at my watch I have forgotten the hour.” “Have you ever heard of such a thing,” my father said in embarrassment and laughed. “She doesn’t know when it happened.” I too laughed and all at once I heaved a deep sigh and my body shook. “Calm down, Tirtza,” my father said in a worried voice. “Lie in bed for a while, later we will talk.” And as he turned to go I called out after him, “Father, promise not to speak to Mazal until I tell you to do so.” “What can I do,” he exclaimed, and left the house.

As soon as he had gone, I took pen, ink and paper and wrote:
My dearly beloved, I won’t be able to come today to the forest, for I have caught a cold. Several days hence I will come to you. In the meantime, be well. I am lying in bed and I am happy, for you dwell in my thoughts all day, undisturbed.
I then bade Kaila send the letter. “To whom have you written,” she asked, letter in hand, “the teacher?” Knowing that Kaila did not know how to read or write, I replied in anger, “Read and find out for yourself.” “Don’t foam at the mouth, my bird,” Kaila said. “The man is old while you are young and full of life. Why, you are just a child and barely weaned at that. If it weren’t for my rheumatism I would carry you in my arms. But I have been thinking of your decision. Why fuss over a man?” “Good, good, good,” I cried out laughing. “Hurry now and send the letter, for there is no time to waste.” “But you haven’t drunk your tea yet,” Kaila said. “Let me bring you something hot to drink and water to wash your hands with.” Kaila soon returned with the water. The chill subsided somewhat, my body grew warm under the bedcovers, and my weary bones seemed to melt into the sheets. Although my head burned, its heat was soothing. My eyes flamed in their sockets, and yet my heart was content and my thoughts had calmed. “Look, you’ve let the tea go cold,” Kaila exclaimed, “and I’ve already brought you something hot to drink. It’s all because of your endless brooding and soul-searching.” I laughed and was overcome by a pleasant weariness. I barely managed to call out, “Don’t forget the letter,” before a welcome slumber settled over my eyes.

The day waned and Mintshi Gottlieb arrived. “I heard you were ill,” she said, “and I have come to see how you are feeling.” I knew my father had sent for her and so I concealed my thoughts and said, “I caught cold, but now I am well.” Suddenly I seized hold of her hand and stared into her eyes, and said, “Why are you so quiet, Mrs. Gottlieb?” “But we haven’t stopped talking,” Mintshi replied. “Although we haven’t stopped talking we haven’t mentioned what is really important.” “What’s so important?” Mintshi exclaimed in surprise. And suddenly she added sourly, “Did you expect me to congratulate you?” I placed my right hand over my heart and thrust my left hand towards her, crying, “Indeed, why haven’t you congratulated me?” Mintshi frowned. “Don’t you know, Tirtza, that Mazal is very dear to me, and you are a young girl, while he is forty years old? Even though you are young, you can plainly see that a few years hence he will be like a withered tree whereas your youthful charm will only grow.” I listened and then cried out, “I knew what you would say, but I will do what I must.” “What you must?” exclaimed Mrs. Gottlieb in astonishment. “The obligations of a faithful woman who loves her husband,” I replied, laying stress on my last words. Mrs. Gottlieb was silent for a moment and then opened her mouth and said, “When are you meeting?” I glanced at my watch. “If my letter has not reached him yet then he will now be waiting for me in the forest.” “He will not wait for you in the forest,” Mintshi said, “for he too has surely caught cold. Who knows if he isn’t lying in bed? Why, you have behaved like schoolchildren. I can scarcely believe my ears.” “Is he ill?” I asked, alarmed by her words. “How can I know if he is ill?” Mintshi replied. “It certainly is possible. Haven’t you behaved like little children, sallying into the forest on a winter day in a summer dress?” “No!” I cried out. “I wore a spring dress on a spring day.” “Heaven forbid,” she said, “if I have offended your pride by saying you wore a summer dress on a winter day.”