adapted himself to putting a little more pressure on his hip and walking somewhat straighter.
“He’s here,” said Motlie. “The Hasid.” Israel lowered himself gingerly onto a chair. “Some tea?”
“Is there hot water?”
“Is there never hot water?” asked Motlie, placing a small amount of tea in a glass.
“All right. If there’s hot water.” He arched his back slightly. “Look, I can move my back a little.”
Motlie’s eyes grew soft as she nodded fondly at him. “Maybe, God willing, someday you’ll throw away even that cane.”
Israel made a face. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But you know…” he turned to Hanna, “…the Lord works in funny ways. It was my Great Uncle Schlemy, a bull of a man. He used to cut down trees in Minsk Gebemia. He didn’t go to shul, he went with a shiksa for…God knows how long…maybe four, five years, and he was as much of a Jew as the seniunas. Well, one day he’s cutting this tree, and when it starts falling, he stands back and trips on something. He lands right on his axe and cuts the muscles and the tendons and everything else in his left leg. Another man, the doctor would have cut off the leg, but Uncle Schlemy is such a bull that he sews him up and sends him home. He says that Uncle Schlemy will never use that leg again. Then, all of a sudden, after a year of doing nothing, he gets rid of the shiksa, finds a nice Jewish girl, and starts going to the shul every other day.” Israel sipped at the glass of tea Motlie placed in front of him. “Everybody said he was trying to bribe the Lord. You know, I’ll do this if you’ll do that. But the Lord looks at things different from you and I. Whatever the reason, the Lord doesn’t count it a bribe. He’s just so happy that you come to Him–like a father when a child asks for help–that the reason isn’t important. Well, you won’t believe it, but six months to the day that Uncle Schlemy turns to the Lord, he gets feeling in that leg. Not much. A tingling maybe, but it starts. And six months later, he’s back cutting trees again. Until the day he died, may God rest his soul, he blessed the name of the Lord.” He bit down on a sugar cube, took a sip of tea, and leaned back into his chair. “I want to walk again, like everybody else, and I hope the Lord will help me. But what is important, for me, and…” he pointed at Hanna and Motlie, “…to both of you, is that you should love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and whatever He decides, so be it.”
Hanna’s heart almost stopped beating. He knows about Stephen and me, went pounding in her mind. She eyed him closely, but Israel was finishing up his tea and gave no indication the story was for her.
He got up from the chair, hobbled to the sink, and rinsed his glass. “What’s he like?” he asked Motlie.
“So thin you can see the bones.” She took the glass and dried it. “A queer one, though. Zelek took to him like you never saw before.”
“Where are they? I’ll be going to shul pretty soon.”
“They went down to the river,” said Hanna, wiping off the table. She slipped out of her apron. “I will go after Zelek and tell him to come home.
CHAPTER 8
About half an hour before sunset, Israel, Jakob, and Zelek went to the synagogue. Inside the small building, in the center of the room, was the bimah, a raised platform from which the services took place. About three-quarters of the men and boys in the village were in attendance, each of them wearing his best clothing, and, under his shirt, his fringed tallith katan, to remind him to keep God’s commandments.
On the bimah was Rabbi Warnitski and his cantor, an assistant who chanted the prayers. In large synagogues, the cantor was a full time employee, and his greatest attraction was his voice, but in Gremai he was Moishe Feldman, the owner of the small shop. Feldman had been an unpaid volunteer for fifteen years, and during the past two or three, his voice had begun to give out. At the times he was to strike a high note, the boys would start grinning, expecting the worst, which did come, but their fathers kept their respect, for Feldman gave what he could.
When Jakob entered, the rabbi spoke a few quiet words in Feldman’s ear, then motioned his cousin’s son to him. Jakob stepped up to the bimah, and, standing by Rabbi Warnitski’s side, began assisting him. He chanted with such clarity, in such perfect tone and speed, that the members nodded in satisfaction.
It was a short service, about forty-five minutes, then the three started homeward, Israel making the best speed he could, and Zelek holding onto Jakob’s hand. Israel had been impressed by his new boarder. Generally, he was tuned off by the young men who dedicated themselves too eagerly to every dot and dash of ceremonial fervor. He himself was religious, and he gave the Lord His due at every turn, but he accepted the fact that God was slightly less concerned about how often you bowed your head then He was for man’s true feelings. So Israel had made his peace with ritual, and did not feel guilty about cutting a corner here or there. Jakob had made him feel that ritual did have meaning beyond its purely exhibitionist character. Here was a youth headed straight for a seat among the pious Talmid Chachems, yet equally the kind of lad he would have liked to sail with. He spoke straight out, with respect, even though he had an air which placed him far above the norm. And look at the way Zelek took to him. Furthermore, he did not make an effort to help Israel walk, like so many did, but unobtrusively kept down his long-legged gait so the older man could limp along without undue stress.
By sunset, the house had been swept and scrubbed, and the women and girls dressed in their Sabbath finery. Motlie lit the traditional two candles and closed her eyes. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe,” she prayed, passing her palms towards herself over the candles, “Who has sanctified us by Thy commandments, and has commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light.” Alongside the candles was her prized plate, and on it was a small coin, the most she could afford for charity. Beside her were Hanna and the girls, for they, too, must memorize the words, since it was the wife’s duty to recite them every Sabbath for the reminder of her life.
When Israel entered, he kissed each of them, wishing them a good Sabbath. Hershel was there, clad in a fine, light blue suit with five buttons down the front, a white, high-collared shirt, blue tie, and soft, ankle high dress boots.
He eyed the Hasid curiously, having been told of his presence earlier, and was surprised at the firm grip he received when shaking his hand. In short order, all were seated at the table, set with the best linen tablecloth, the best dinnerware, as is custom on the Sabbath.
At Israel’s place were two braided challahs covered by Motlie’s favorite cloth, and his silver goblet, given to him on his bar mitzvah almost thirty years before, containing wine. He gave the blessing, then pulled pieces from a challah and passed them around for each to eat and sip their own wine.
Suddenly, Jakob began to sing a Sabbath song. One by one the others joined in. He switched to a more spirited tune and clapped his hands to keep time. Quicker and quicker went his beat, then he rose from his chair and started dancing, whirling with the tempo, raising his hands high, jumping into the air. The gold flecks in his eyes sparkled with pleasure and his face shone.
“Come!” he called out to the others. “Dance to the Shabbas, the Queen of our week. Our Bride.”
He began to sing:
Come my beloved to meet the Bride
Let us welcome the presence of the Sabbath
Come in peace…and come in joy…
Come, O Bride! Come, O Bride!
Zelek stood up and ran over to him, hopping in the air and kicking his feet, trying to follow Jakob’s movements. All laughed at the boy’s antics and began clapping their hands and joining in with the singing.
“Come, everyone!” said Jakob. “Dance to the Lord. He is here, with us. Come, show your love for Him.”
Motlie got to her feet and danced around him, singing in a high, thin voice. In seconds, color came to her