The Darkest Hour Page 3

  ‘Sometimes I think your father is not thinking straight,’ my mother said. ‘He shouldn’t be teaching you Torah and how to read books. Instead of sitting all day with a book, you should be learning to cook, to clean, to sew. It’s important that you should know how to keep your home kosher for your husband. He will expect that of you. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve taught you well enough to make you a good wife. Oy, Ruchel, please don’t dilly dally, you must hurry up and get ready. Your Papa and his guest will be here very soon,’ my mother said.

  I could see that she was trying very hard to be stern. She was doing this for my benefit. She thought she needed to be firm in order to help me go down the path she believed would be the best for me. But the truth was that she loved me too much to be hard on me. She taught me how to change dishes for Passover, and what it meant to be a good pious wife, but she also allowed me to rest and even though she didn’t think it was right . . . she let me have time to read. My friends’ mothers were not nearly as tolerant.

  ‘And, please, this time, don’t talk so much while the boy is here. You scare these boys away. You are a challenge for them. When you ask them so many questions they start to think that maybe you’re too smart to make them a good wife. A girl should be quiet. Don’t try to discuss Torah with men. Husbands don’t want wives who are smart, Ruchel. They want wives who make them feel important,’ my mother said, as she began rifling through the clothes she made for me in order to find my newest long black skirt.

  Why? I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I nodded.

  ‘Put on your nice clothes,’ my mother said as she laid the skirt on my bed. Then she left the room.

  I reluctantly put down the book that I was engrossed in and started to dress. First, I carefully washed my face and hands in the bowl of water that I’d carried in from the well that morning. Then I put on my skirt and a white, high-neck, long-sleeve blouse. These were my best things; they were the clothes I wore to synagogue for the holidays. But I always dressed modestly. You see, it was important that women be covered from their collarbones to their ankles. Elbows must never be exposed, either. My family was not rich, but my clothes were always clean, modest, and presentable every day. I didn’t much care for the Talumd scholars my parents found so appealing. They were always so opinionated and condescending. I was sure that once they were married, they would be difficult husbands. One of my girlfriends that had married a scholar secretly complained to me that he was bossy and hard to live with. But for some reason, every very religious Jewish parent wanted that kind of man for their daughter. Of course, I felt differently. I would never admit it to my papa, but I would look at these pale skinny boys he brought home to me and think, If I am going to marry and devote the rest of my life to one person, I want him to be someone strong and handsome. Not one of these boring boys who will lord over me and l tell me what I must do or not do. Of course, I knew that was only wishful thinking. In the long run, I would marry the boy my father chose. That was our way.

  Dinner that night was like it had been with all the other boys my father brought home from the Yeshiva—uncomfortable and awkward.

  “Bubbe, is a Yeshiva some kind of special school?” Shayna asked.

  “A Yeshiva is a religious school, Shayna. That night, the boy was Kalman. He was a tall beanpole, more interested in talking to my father than anything else. In fact, he only spoke to me twice the entire evening. The first time was during dinner when he said, ‘The food is very good. Did you do the cooking?’

  ‘I helped my mother,’ I answered. I knew that it said in the Torah that a husband should always compliment his wife on her cooking. I figured Kalman felt as uncomfortable as I did and had no idea what else to say to me. Anyway, while Kalman and my father were talking, my mother and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. I would have liked to have joined the discussion. It would have been stimulating to share my opinions on the sacred text but because I was a woman my thoughts were not regarded to be as valuable as a man’s. So I knew I must shut my mouth and do what was expected—clean up the kitchen. You see, I’d been bold with the last marriage prospect my father brought home. I sat down and spoke my mind. I injected my opinions on stories from the Talmud. I wanted him to see me as more than a future cook, housekeeper, and baby breeder. But when he left that night, my father was furious. Papa was so mad at me that he threatened to take my books away forever, yelling, ‘What Ruchel? What? You want to be an old maid? You will be one if you act like this, I promise you that.’

  So, this time, when he brought Kalman home, I tried my best to be obedient and kept quiet. Then later, at the end of the evening, Kalman finally spoke to me again.

  ‘Thank you for the lovely dinner,’ he said before he left. All I could think was that I didn’t know anything about him. Yet, if my father decided that it was to be so, I might be engaged to him by the end of the week. The idea of it filled me with dread.

  I knew I was not the prettiest girl in town but because my father was a respected teacher at the Yeshiva, I had suitors that my friends envied. Unlike me, they wanted to marry scholars.

  The following day, my papa came home from the Yeshiva wearing a big smile.

  ‘Kalman liked you, Ruchel. He said nice things about you. In fact, he said that you look like a very frum girl.’ I tried to smile. Frum means religious, pious. It was nice to hear that the man I am supposed to be with for the rest of my life thinks of me as pious. But secretly, I would have preferred to hear him say he thought I was pretty. Who was I fooling? No boy would ever say that about me to my father, and if he did say such a thing, my father would never think it was fitting to tell me.

  That night as I set the table for my mother, I was thinking about Kalman. He wasn’t the man of my dreams by any means. But I knew that he was exactly what my parents wanted for me. I let my mind wander. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be alone with him, to feel his touch on my bare arm. The thought was unappealing. I wished that I felt more of a spark when I thought of Kalman. His skin was so chalky white from sitting inside and studying all day and he looked so physically weak and helpless to me. I remember being so upset by the idea of marrying him that I could hardly breathe.

  ‘Come, come, dinner is on the table,’ my mother called my father who was washing up.

  ‘I’m coming. I’ll be right there,’ he answered.

  While we were eating, Papa brought up the previous evening. ‘I am thinking that Kalman is going to make you a proposal,’ he said to me. I almost choked on the bread I was chewing. ‘The only problem I have with him is that he wants to go to America to live with his cousin. That would mean you would have to go with him.’

  ‘Oh no. Not my only child, Zindel,’ my mother said to my father. ‘You can’t send my only baby so far away from me. I won’t let you do it.’ Mama was almost hysterical.

  The idea of going to America was exciting to me, but it was scary too. It would mean leaving everything and everyone I knew behind in Poland. It would mean starting a completely new life with a stranger in a different land. And the worst part of it was that I knew that if I went all the way across the ocean, there was a good possibility that I would never see my parents again.

  ‘Ruchel, what do you want to do? I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you are getting older and the men aren’t breaking down our doors here. You’re seventeen already. Let’s face it, the older you get the more the prospects are thinning out,’ my mother said.

  I looked at my mother’s face. She had made a very strong attempt to harden her facial features. However, I knew her too well and I could see the pain behind her eyes. She wouldn’t be able to go on if I left her behind and went to live in America. Everything she’d done her entire life had been for me. She and I had always been close. I thought, Well, I could cope with moving. I could even try to adjust to life in a new country, but I couldn’t bear to live without ever seeing my parents’ faces again.

  ‘Papa, I would rather die an old maid then leave you and Ma
ma to go to America.’

  ‘Poo, poo, poo, you shouldn’t say that.’ My mama spit on the floor to ward off the evil eye. ‘You don’t even want to say the word, old maid,’ she whispered under her breath.

  ‘But I want to stay here with you and Papa.’

  My poor father; he wanted to be strong and direct me with discipline but his heart wouldn’t let him. He loved his family too much to force a separation so he nodded with defeat.

  ‘So, what should I do? All I can do is keep my eye open for another marriage prospect. Our little Ruchel. She is our only child, Charna,’ he addressed my mother. ‘We will do what we always do. We will ask for help from Hashem, God, to find her a husband who is going to be good to her and who will also be living here in town. That way she will always be close to us,’ he said in the kindest, most comforting voice he could muster.

  That night before I fell asleep, I heard my parents talking through the wall. My father whispered to my mother, ‘I want she should be married. But . . . I must admit . . . I am glad she will not be leaving us to go across the ocean. If she went, who knows if we would ever see her again?’

  ‘Thank you, Zindel. Thank you for not sending my baby away. She is my life,’ Mama said to Papa. ‘You are a good husband, Zindel Rosenblum.’

  ‘You are a good wife, Charna Rosenblum.’

  That was all I heard.

  The next day was Friday, the Sabbath. On Friday afternoon my mother and I were busy preparing our Sabbath dinner so that it would be done early enough for Papa to be finished in time to get to the synagogue for Sabbath services by sundown. As I braided the dough for the challah, my mother touched my shoulder. I turned my head to look at her.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Ruchella. Hashem will send you a good husband.’

  ‘I hope so, Mama. But I’m glad I’m not going away from you and Papa. Kalman seemed like a nice person, and I know Papa thought highly of him. But I have to tell you the truth; I wouldn’t want to leave you and Papa.’

  ‘Don’t let him fool you. Your father would be lost without you as much as I would. I know it’s selfish, but my dream is for you to meet and marry someone who is part of our community. My dream is to see my grandchildren and hold them in my arms. What else is more important to a mother? Nu, Ruchel, you tell me?’

  Before I could say a word, Papa came through the door.

  ‘Good Shabbos to my girls,’ he said with a big smile on his face.

  ‘Good Shabbos, Papa.’

  Almost four full years passed. Our little village hardly changed at all, except Kalman did leave for America. And since his visit to our home, there had not been a single man who showed any interest in marrying me. I overheard my father tell my mother that he was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake by refusing Kalman’s proposal. But then he also said, ‘If Hashem decides that Ruchel is to be unwed, then we must accept God’s will.’

  ‘Pew Pew Pew,’ I heard my mother make the spitting sound that she makes to ward off the evil eye. ‘Don’t even think it, don’t even speak it.’

  ‘You’re right, Charna. Let’s just wait and pray and we’ll see what Hashem sends our way.’

  That was all that they said. But of course, I began to worry that perhaps I would be an old maid. And I knew how the others in our village felt about women who never married or had children. People spoke of these women in whispers, shaking their heads as they spit on the ground three times. And whenever the old maids’ names were mentioned, the word rachmones was always spoken. ‘Oh,’ they would say. ‘It’s a terrible rachmones on Sara Waldman. She never married, poor thing. Spent her whole life alone.’

  The word rachmones means pity. I began to pray as hard as I could that a man would come along and be the kind of husband my parents wanted for me, a man I could learn to be happy with too. I also prayed that no one would ever look at me and say the word rachmones.

  My mother and I did everything together to keep the house. We cooked and cleaned. But quite often, I went alone into town to buy our food. Early one morning, I was on my way to pick up a few things we needed for dinner. As I was walking through the center of our village, I saw a sign nailed into a tree. It said: All Jews must report for resettlement.

  Resettlement? I reread it twice to be sure I was not mistaken. My heart pounded. Resettlement? Where? Why? Our family and our neighbors had lived here for generations. Now we were to be resettled? I remembered that my father had a guest at our house a couple of weeks ago. I had overheard Papa talking to him about what was going on in Warsaw. This man lived in our village but he did a lot of trading in the city so he had information that few of us knew. The man said that Warsaw had been bombed for two weeks in 1939. He told my father that lots of people died and the city had suffered a great deal of destruction. I knew it was true because I could still remember looking up and seeing billows of black smoke rise high in the air, and I’d felt the earth tremble when I heard the terrible thunder of the explosions. Then I recalled that one afternoon about a week ago, a trader had come through our village bringing fabrics to sell. I had gone into town to purchase some eggs. He was standing in the square talking to a whole group of our Hassidic men when I overheard him. Being a woman, I was not supposed to be a part of the discussion so I hid and listened. This trader was telling them a political regime from Germany called the Nazis had taken over Poland. He said they were ruthless and cruel. I had heard talk of these Nazis before. Because of them, my parents and I had been forced to register because we were Jewish. Still, I didn’t think anything of it, my father made light of it and so I always thought we were safe in our small protected world, our little Jewish village where nothing ever really happened. But as I listened to this man speaking I began to fear that perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps we were not safe. Boy oh boy, was I scared. I wasn’t sure what that takeover would mean to my family. However, I just hoped that somehow it wouldn’t be as bad as it seemed. Then as the week went on, I got busy and wiped the man and his frightening message from my mind. But now as I was reading this notice on the tree, I was reminded of the words of that strange outsider. I felt a twinge of fear scratch at my spine as I thought, This is the beginning of something. But at the time, I had no idea what was to come or just how terrible it would be . . .

  I remembered another time when I had recently heard the world Nazi. It was outside the butcher shop in town. A heated discussion between a group of men, my father among them, was taking place. They were talking about the Nazis who had taken over Poland.

  ‘It’s always the Jews who will suffer’ they said. ‘Throughout history, governments of all kinds have persecuted the Jews. This one will be no different,’ one man said.

  Another added, ‘Our community will be destroyed and we will be forced to find a new place to live.’

  ‘Where are they going to send us? And why?’ one of the younger men from the Yeshiva asked directing his question to my father.

  “I don’t know. They may not send us anywhere. This could all easily blow over and nothing at all might happen. But if we should be sent away, wherever they send us, it is the will of Hashem that we go,” Papa answered.

  I dared not ask Papa anything in public. He would have been angry if I had tried to participate in the conversation. So all I could do was listen as my heart filled with fear like a pitcher overflowing with water.

  That was two weeks ago. I had almost forgotten about that conversation. The men in town were always talking and although the idea of being sent away scared me, my father’s words had comforted me, and I hadn’t taken the threat of the Nazis very seriously. However, after seeing the notice, I was reminded instantly of that conversation and now I was taking it very seriously.

  I ran home and told my mother.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ruchella. We’ll talk to your father about it tonight. He’ll know what to do.’

  That night, we talked to Papa. We told him what we had heard about the resettlement. We explained that all the other women in town were frightened and
we were too. We looked to Papa for comfort. He did the best he could to calm our fears, but the truth was that he had no answers.

  The following day, we did what was demanded of us. We gathered what we could carry and reported to the center of town as was required by law. Then a troop of soldiers rounded us up and transported us by truck to the city of Warsaw.

  I was such a sheltered girl. Having never left the village where I was born, the only time I’d ever seen people who were not of our religious sect was when they came to our town to trade. You see, my family belonged to a very pious Jewish group that had a distinctive way of dressing. So, to me, Warsaw looked like a different world. As I gazed through the slat in the back of the truck where I sat between my parents, I saw things that my eyes had never beheld before. My face grew hot when I saw women sauntering down the streets with their collarbones, knees, and elbows exposed. Their immodesty made me turn my face away in embarrassment. There were groups of men on the streets. All of them unshaven and without payas, which are the long curled sidelocks all the men in our shetel wore. I saw people driving in cars, men dressed in dapper business suits. All the men I had ever known wore the same outfit—black pants and white shirts except for the special clothing reserved for holidays. And here in Warsaw, almost no one covered their head.

  Can you imagine how I felt? This was all so foreign to me then. My heart felt like it was going to explode in my chest from fear of the unknown. I was so uncomfortable, so out of my element as I held tightly to my mother’s hand.

  ‘I am so afraid,’ I whispered in her ear.

  ‘Shaa, mine kind, my child. I’m here with you. Your papa is here too. We will manage,’ my mother said, patting my head like I was still a little girl.

  ‘Mama, will we ever go home? I can’t imagine not going home again.’

  ‘Our home is where our family is, Ruchel. If it’s Hashem’s will, then we will return to our little village. But if it is his will that we should live here in this city, then we will abide.’