Those Who Walk in Darkness

THOSE WHO WALK IN DARKNESS

A Novel

Theodore Kohan

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers

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Published by:

Theodore Kohan on Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by Theodore Kohan

ISBN: 978-0-9837096-1-9

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To Susie, without whom nothing would have been possible

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For those who walk in darkness

Both in the day time and in the night time

The right time and the right place are not here

T. S. Eliot

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PROLOGUE

Boston

1969

Moishele! Hello, Moishele, Shmuel Rabinowitz yelled in Yiddish-accented English. How are you, Moishele? He switched his cane to his left hand and put out his right.

Mo took a step forward to shake the old man’s hand. I’m good, Mr. Rabinowitz, very good. And how are you? In good health, I hope? He tried to retrieve his hand but the old man’s grip was as relentless as a hunter’s trap.

Tova Rabinowitz, standing next to her husband—Mo had never seen one without the other—seemed aloof, absent, as if her mind resided on some faraway planet.

Health, good health—eh. His voice cracked like a bag full of walnuts spilling onto a tabletop. What can you expect from an old bag of bones like me, Moishele?

Hearing the old man call him Moishele never failed to bring a smile to Mo’s lips. Shmuel knew perfectly well, of course, that his real name was Maurice. But because everyone called him Mo, Shmuel had transmuted the name into Moishe, and from Moishe into the more endearing Moishele. The old man thought it was a hilarious joke, and always got a chuckle out of it.

Mo wasn’t certain how old Shmuel and Tova Rabinowitz were, but to his eyes they looked ancient. Shmuel walked with an ebony cane crowned by a silver handle, and his body swayed from side to side like a ship in a storm. His back was stooped and his demeanor uncertain. Tova, in contrast, was tall and erect, towering over her husband. She dressed simply, in black skirts and white blouses. She wore no jewelry or makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a braid as long and as thick as her arm. When it was cold or windy she wore a headscarf knotted under the chin.

Mo had heard Elaine, his wife, say time and again how inappropriate that hairstyle was for a woman of her age. It makes her look like a Russian babushka, like she just got off the boat. Yet she admitted that her face and figure hinted at former beauty. She must’ve been striking as a young woman. Look at those high cheekbones. And her hair—the body and gleam of it, like a young woman’s. If only she bothered to have it colored… She’s probably too cheap to do that.

One day Mo and Elaine received an invitation to a party celebrating the Rabinowitzes’ fiftieth wedding anniversary.

"I hope it’s not a surprise party, said Elaine. The old man would croak right then and there. She let out a deep sigh. It’s going to be booooring. Do we really have to go?"

"We’ve got to. You know how Isidore is when it comes to his parents. He’ll never forgive us if we don’t show up."

She shrugged her shoulders. I don’t know why Isidore bothers with a party, anyway. Half the time the old fart doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. And she—she’s never been altogether there.

To Mo, Shmuel Rabinowitz didn’t look so out of it. He never forgot to call him Moishele and his eyes were bright and piercing. As for Tova Rabinowitz, he couldn’t tell. He’d never heard a word out of her mouth.

PART I

BLEAKNESS AND INDIGNITIES

Boston

1936

1

Yaakov, where are you going? Tova yelled from the kitchen.

He let his feet slide on the uncarpeted floor before coming to a halt. He’d hoped to sneak out of the apartment without being noticed. Out for a little while, Mameh, he answered.

You don’t have homework to do?

All done. He shrugged dismissively. Easy stuff.

Yaakov, I don’t want you to get into any fights out in the streets.

I won’t, Mameh.

And I don’t want you to be late for dinner. Don’t forget it’s Shabbes eve. Your father will be home tonight.

I won’t, Mameh.

He jumped down the three flights of stairs two steps at a time and dashed to the building’s front entrance. Before stepping onto the street, though, he stood under the archway and looked stealthily left and right. Plenty of people were strolling back and forth—Italian men dressed in suits and ties and wearing fedoras; broad-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked Irish workers in flannel shirts and baggy pants held up by dark-colored suspenders; young women pushing baby carriages; shoppers carrying grocery bags. But no kids his age—and certainly no Jewish kids—were in sight. It’d be unusual to see Jewish kids out by themselves at this hour, anyway. They knew better.

He ought to know better himself, of course. But he loathed behaving like a wimp, and didn’t want the Irish gangs to think he was one. If he ran into a single Irish boy, or even two, it’d be no problem. They’d give him murderous stares but they wouldn’t dare to pick a fight with him. He was big and strong, with quick hands and feet, and they knew it. If he ran into a gang of four or five—well, that’d be a different story.

He headed north, walking at a brisk pace along North Bennet Street. It was late fall, and the long-limbed maples and oaks lining the street, their branches almost bare, swayed rhythmically in the gentle breeze. A profusion of brown, yellow, and red leaves covered the sidewalk like a lush wall-to-wall carpet. Jake enjoyed the sound and feel of crunching them underfoot. The sun was setting in the west, and the last rays of sunlight careened over the tops of the tenement buildings. In another minute or two he’d have to cross Hanover Street, and that would be the danger point. He’d be completely exposed, and any gang members hanging around would be able to see him from anywhere they stood.

He stopped at the corner of North Bennet and Hanover. Pressing his body against the wall, he surveyed his surroundings. Hanover Street was crowded, as usual, but, once again, only adults, many carrying shopping bags, threaded their way along the sidewalks. A soup kitchen was open across the street, and a long line of ragged, hunch-shouldered men with gazes fixed on the floor stood outside. Their silence seemed ghostlike to him. A delivery truck came barreling down the street. He waited for it to go by and, shielded by the cloud of dust it left behind, he dashed across the street. His momentum carried him forward, and he ran for another full block before slowing to a walking pace. He was now only three blocks from Bernie’s apartment building. All he had to do was cover a long block on Fleet Street, turn left onto North Street, and then it would be just another two blocks.

The moment he turned onto North Street, though, high-pitched voices yelling his name like a battle cry pierced his ears.

Jake, Jake. You fuckin’ kike, wait for us.

He glanced over his shoulder without slowing down, and saw what he feared most: five Irish boys in hot pursuit.

Jake, wait. We wanna talk to you. What are you afraid of? We just wanna talk to you.

Putting his head down he sprinted. Gusts of cold wind prickled his face, and the sensation felt reassuring. It meant he was running fast—fast and away from his pursuers.

Bring your sister Hanna with you next time. I bet she’d enjoy getting ten inches of good Irish meat in her.

He glanced over his shoulder once again and noticed with relief that he was opening the gap between them. Those guys were slow, slow and heavy. They’d never catch up to him, and in another minute or two he’d be safely inside Bernie’s apartment building.

We just ran into your four-eyed brother and we beat the shit out of him. He cried like a fucking baby, your brother.

That couldn’t be true. Izzy never ventured out in the evenings, when gangs roamed the streets.

We’re not gonna beat you, we just wanna tell you about your brother, how he cried like a baby.

He reached the building’s archway and, panting, turned to face them. A broad smile came up to his lips and, with relish, he gave them the finger. He stood still for one more second to savor the savage fury that contorted their faces. He then scuttled up the stairs. They wouldn’t follow him into the building. They knew if they did, the cops would have grounds to arrest them, and they wouldn’t take that risk. But they’d hang around in the street waiting for him to come out, and he’d have no choice but to stay in Bernie’s apartment for an hour or two, until they got bored and went away. The problem, of course, was that he’d be very late for dinner. His father would be home from his weekly trip and he’d be madder than a mad bull. But, given the choice, he’d rather get beaten by his father than by a gang of Irish boys.

2

On Saturday evening, thirty minutes after sundown, Dr. Arthur Myerson climbed the stairs of the Rabinowitzes’ North End apartment building and knocked three times on their door. A few moments passed.

Who is it? a female voice asked.

Rabbi Myerson from Temple Adath Israel.

The door was thrown open and Tova stared at him with a baffled expression. She wore a white apron over her dress and her hair was covered with a black kerchief tied at the back of the neck. She held a kitchen rag.

Rabbi, what a surprise, she said in Yiddish.

He smiled benignly. I thought I’d pay the Rabinowitz family a visit. He spoke Yiddish, too. What would be the point of speaking English? Tova and Shmuel, like so many of his European congregants, lost all fluency and coherence when forced to speak their adopted language. And maybe have a little shnapps with Shmuel if he’s around.

Yes, of course, please come in. Excuse the mess, Rabbi, she said, bending down as she spoke to pick up articles of clothing, old homework, dirty dishes, and yellowed magazines and newspapers, all strewn about the floor. With five people in such a cramped apartment… Shmuel, Rabbi Myerson is here to see you.

The rabbi was a large man; he filled almost the entire doorframe as he passed through it. He made himself comfortable on a two-cushion sofa beneath the front window and took off his wide-brimmed black hat, revealing a black silk yarmulke underneath. He rested a huge, hairy hand on the sofa’s armrest. He didn’t have to look down to know how frayed the fabric was. He could also feel broken springs pinching his ample backside.

Shmuel came into the room and shook hands with him. To the rabbi’s eyes he looked hesitant—a child caught in a mischievous act.

Shmuel sat down on an armchair in front of the rabbi and Tova disappeared down the shadowy hallway.

The room was tenuously lit by a single, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Well, Shmuel, aren’t you going to offer me a little shnapps? asked the rabbi.

Shmuel jumped up from his seat and snatched two glasses and a bottle out of a glass-paned cupboard at the far end of the living room. He filled the glasses and handed one to the rabbi.

The rabbi raised his glass. The amber-colored liquor, acting like a highly-polished prism, dispersed the light passing through it. "L’chaim, he said. He took a sip and smacked his lips. Aaah, good, very good. Shmuel, sitting at the edge of his chair, held his drink in his hand. The rabbi sized him up. I thought I’d come to say hi. I don’t have the opportunity to see you much, Shmuel."

Shmuel cringed and the rabbi immediately regretted having said those words.

I’m away the whole week, Rabbi.

Now he’d put Shmuel on the defensive, causing him to think the purpose of his visit was to accuse him of not attending services often enough. Yes, I know how hard you work for a living. With three children it’s not easy.

Plus my mother, Rabbi. She’s back in Romania. I send her money every month.

The rabbi acknowledged Shmuel’s remark with a nod. It’s not easy but you have a good family, Shmuel. An excellent wife and three wonderful children. It’s what makes all you efforts worthwhile, isn’t it? He took another sip. You’re a good Jew, Shmuel. Not a religious Jew, but a good Jew. You work hard for your family and you raise your children as Jews. That’s what really matters. I respect that. In my book, that’s being a good Jew.

He knocked back what liquor remained in his glass and then put it out with a twinkle in his eyes. Shmuel’s entire body seemed to writhe like a freshly caught fish when he got up to refill it. Relax, Shmuel, relax; I’m not here to bite your head off, the rabbi felt like saying. He looked around the apartment, taking in the bare walls, devoid of decorations or knickknacks and grimy at the corners, the uncarpeted wooden floor, the few tattered pieces of furniture scattered around the living room-dining room combination. From where he sat he couldn’t tell whether the apartment contained two bedrooms or three. Most likely two, and, with five people living in it, he wouldn’t be surprised if one of the boys, or possibly Hanna, slept on the sofa he was now sitting on. Perhaps during the week, when Shmuel was away, Hanna slept with her mother.

How are the children, Shmuel? Is Isidore well?

Shmuel nodded. Isidore is a good boy.

"Well, I still remember his Bar Mitzvah. It was a wonderful occasion. A real mitzvah, an offering to God."

The rabbi still recalled his surprise at seeing Shmuel show up in his office one day, maybe three or four years ago, he didn’t remember exactly. He’d looked uncomfortable, unsure of himself, and after much hesitation and with the voice of a supplicant begging for some kind of divine intervention, he’d finally explained the reason for his visit: he wanted Isidore, his oldest son, to have a Bar Mitzvah. The problem was, he didn’t have the money to pay for anything. The rabbi barely knew him prior to that visit. Shmuel rarely came to the synagogue and showed minimal interest in Jewish affairs, whether religious or communitarian. And Tova, his wife, seemed just as uninterested. At the Bar Mitzvah the entire family had sat by itself in a back row, and afterwards had left without attending the Kiddush or talking to anyone. In the years since, the rabbi had hardly seen Shmuel or Tova again.

Isidore, on the other hand, showed up for Hebrew School on the Sunday following his Bar Mitzvah. His brother, Yaakov, was with him.

I’m so happy to see you back, said the rabbi. Will you be coming every Sunday?

Yes, Rabbi. And Jake would like to come, too.

Wonderful. There is one issue, though. There is a small charge for attending Hebrew School. Fifty cents per person per class.

Isidore dropped his head and his myopic eyes welled with tears behind his bottle-bottom glasses.

Can’t you ask your father for the money?

The tears now ran like rivers down his cheeks.

The rabbi was silent for a moment. Well, I suppose we can make an exception in your case.

Isidore and Yaakov still attended Hebrew School faithfully every Sunday. Yet the rabbi wasn’t so sure whether at this point, three or four years after his Bar Mitzvah, Isidore attended of his own volition. He suspected that Yaakov, the spunkier and more intellectually curious of the two, dragged him along.

Yes, Isidore is a good boy, said the rabbi. He’ll make a fine young man and a good Jew. He’ll be a source of pride to you and your wife.

Shmuel remained motionless. He held his glass in his hand though the liquor hadn’t touched his lips.

And Yaakov, is he well?

Shmuel shook his head, and a blend of pain and anger clouded his expression.

Is there something the matter with him?

Shmuel hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to let out what weighed heavily in his heart. Yaakov is nothing but trouble, he blurted out at last.

How so?

Shmuel hesitated once again, and the rabbi could almost see the thought process taking place in his mind: Why should I pour my heart out to this man—a stranger, someone I barely know? Just because he is a rabbi?

Shmuel, I’d like you to trust me. People tell me their troubles all the time. It’s part of my job to listen to them, and many times I’m able to help. Besides, I’ve got lots of experience with young people. Believe me, there is nothing I haven’t heard before.

Well… I just can’t control him—and neither can Tova. He’s so rebellious, so stubborn. He won’t listen to me, he won’t listen to anybody. He’s always out in the streets getting into fights. You have no idea how many times Tova has been called into the principal’s office. The floodgates had burst open and the anger and frustration they’d held back were now pouring out like a torrent. Last night, when I got home, he wasn’t here. We waited and waited for him before sitting down for our Shabbes dinner, until it got so late that we couldn’t wait any longer. We were all finished eating when he showed up. And you should’ve seen the attitude he showed when he walked in—like, here I am, and if I’m late, that’s tough. So insolent, so defiant. I’m not a violent man, Rabbi, but I couldn’t control myself. I slapped him on the face. Now he’s punished. He’s not allowed to leave the apartment after school for a whole week. But I’m not here during the week. How do I know he won’t sneak out?

The rabbi considered his words very carefully before speaking. Yaakov is a very special boy, Shmuel. The kind you don’t find very often. Even at this young age he’s already his own man. What I mean by that is that Yaakov doesn’t follow anybody’s lead, and what comes across as rebelliousness may very well be just the need to express himself in his own way. Nobody can force him into anything. He’ll do only what comes naturally to him. He’s an original thinker, too. I see it on Sundays, in Hebrew School. The interpretations of the Torah he sometimes comes up with are truly amazing. The rabbi stopped abruptly, for a mixture of surprise and confusion was contorting Shmuel’s face. And so the thought struck him: Was it possible that Shmuel was unaware that Isidore and Yaakov attended Hebrew School? Shmuel would be already on the road when the boys left for school. Tova would know, of course, but… Was she perhaps hiding it from Shmuel?

As Shmuel didn’t pursue the subject, the rabbi continued. What I’m trying to say, Shmuel, is that perhaps Yaakov needs to be treated a little differently. I’m not suggesting you show him preference, but perhaps you ought to give him a little more room, a little more leeway. He’s like a bird that needs its freedom—a bird that would die if kept in a cage. And I believe he’s smart enough to not get into any serious trouble.

Shmuel had folded into himself. His back was bent and his shoulders were hunched.

Yaakov is twelve and a half, isn’t he? said the rabbi. His Bar Mitzvah will be coming up soon. What are your thoughts about it?

Shmuel lowered his gaze. I don’t think Yaakov will be having a Bar Mitzvah, he said. His tone was uncertain, his demeanor almost apologetic.

The rabbi inhaled deeply and held the air in for ten seconds before speaking. Why is that, Shmuel?

Shmuel showed the apartment with a sweep of his hand. We are poor, Rabbi. I work very hard.

Everybody’s poor. These are very difficult times, Shmuel. The Depression is hurting everyone. But the Bar Mitzvah doesn’t have to be a financial burden on you. We worked something out for Isidore’s Bar Mitzvah, didn’t we?

Yet I can hardly make ends meet, continued Shmuel, evidently too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear the rabbi’s remarks. With three children, plus my mother… He passed the back of his hand across his brow. I’m tired, Rabbi, and I think it’s time for someone else in the family to start carrying some of the load. As soon as Yaakov finishes school this year he’ll be going to work. I was thirteen when my father sent me to work.

How about Isidore? He’s the oldest.

I want Isidore to finish school. Perhaps even go to college, if I can manage it. That’s my dream, Rabbi—I’d like at least one of my children to go to college.

But Yaakov is the better scholar.

The moment the words left his mouth the rabbi realized he’d said the wrong thing. Shmuel tensed visibly. His chin trembled and his eyes took on the accusing look of someone who’d been lashed across the face. He got up and stood unsteadily in front of the rabbi.

The rabbi got up too.

I’m sorry, Rabbi, but it’s late, said Shmuel in a tone that, to the rabbi’s ears, contained equal doses of humbleness and rage. It’s time for me to go to bed.

The rabbi took two steps towards the entrance and then stopped. "But a Bar Mitzvah, Shmuel…a mitzvah to the almighty… He took a deep breath. Would you at least think about it?"

Shmuel hunched his shoulders, apologetically once again. I’ve got to get up at four-thirty tomorrow morning.

3

It was still pitch black outside when Tova opened her eyes. She couldn’t see the clock in the dark, but she sensed it was four o’clock. She always woke up at four o’clock on Sundays. After so many years, an internal alarm clock was permanently set in her brain. Shmuel slept on his side, and the sound of his steady snoring reached her ears like the rumble of a distant train. She lay on her back for several moments, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark. She then sat up, slid her feet into her slippers and, wrapping herself in a woolen shawl, tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the living room-dining room.

She could now distinguish everything in the apartment—the dinner table with six chairs surrounding it, the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, the cupboard against the wall, the sofa on which a shapeless form lay covered with a blanket. She stepped into the kitchenette and turned on a dim light above the sink. The form on the sofa emitted a grunt and turned away from the light. She let the water run for thirty seconds before filling the kettle, then struck a match, lit a burner, and placed the kettle on it. She fetched a loaf of bread out of a metal box, sliced it on a cutting board, and brought it to the table. She went back to the kitchenette to get a stick of butter, which she kept in a water-filled container, and a jar of apricot jam. She’d been lucky to find apricots on sale at the grocery store, and on Friday, before the beginning of Shabbes, she’d made the jam. Hanna had helped her, and Isidore, behaving like an impatient child, had kept asking whether it was ready so he could have a taste.

She tiptoed to the window while waiting for the water to boil and looked outside. Everything was quiet; quiet and, it seemed to her, forlorn. The North End slept. Yet she had the feeling that, beyond sleeping, it was actually dead and would never wake up. For some unknown reason, she had trouble visualizing it four or five hours later, although she knew perfectly well it’d be teeming with people—her Irish and Italian neighbors dressed in their Sunday best on their way to church, children fluttering all around them, horse-drawn carts cruising back and forth, trucks and automobiles zipping by. There would be energy, movement; the city would be fully awake. And yet…

Yes, forlorn. There was no other word to describe it. Thirteen years in the North End raising a family—two good boys; a sweet, affectionate girl—and yet she couldn’t think of it as home. Not that she missed the shtetl. On the contrary: every time memories of it snuck into her thoughts she pushed them vehemently away, as if they were a poison that might tear up her insides. But home? The North End was the place in which she lived.

Perhaps she’d feel differently if she and Shmuel had made an effort to make friends or to become involved in the community. Why hadn’t they?

It was easy to blame their inaction on the fact that Shmuel was away the whole week and too tired when he got back to do anything but fall into bed. But she could’ve made friends on her own. Several women in the building had made welcoming overtures to her when they’d first moved in, yet she’d cringed at even the hint of intimacy. Nowadays they barely deigned to say hello when she ran into them in the stairwell.

The water was boiling and Tova went back to the kitchenette to make the coffee. Shmuel was up. She could see a strip of light under the bathroom door.

Several minutes passed—the toilet flushed, water ran, and heavy steps resonated with distant echoes. Shmuel then came into the dining room, turned on the ceiling light, and sat down at the table. The body on the sofa turned onto its stomach and wrapped the pillow around its ears. Tova filled Shmuel’s coffee cup and sat down facing him. He poured milk into it and stirred. He took a small sip and then buttered a slice of bread. He kept his eyes low; his body seemed tense. He always seemed tense before going on the road.

Shmuel, last night, the rabbi—

Who does he think he is? he cut her off. Just because I asked him to prepare Isidore for his Bar Mitzvah he thinks he can come in here and tell us what to do? He had no right.

Yes, but… To send Yaakov to work… Don’t you think…?

My father sent me to work when I was thirteen and nothing bad happened to me. In fact, I was proud to be able to support the family. He puckered his lips before taking a sip of coffee. He then held the coffee for a moment or two in his mouth before swallowing it. We can’t keep going this way—me working like a horse and everyone else depending on me. It’s getting harder and harder to make a living. You should know that, Tova.

Did she know? Was she interested in knowing?

You can see the trouble I go through every month trying to put together the money I send my mother.

That part she knew well. At the beginning of each month she asked Shmuel, Have you sent the money to your mother yet? And his usual response—a troubled, brooding response—was, No, not yet. As soon as I can, maybe next week. He hadn’t increased Tova’s weekly allowance in years, either. She had to work miracles to make those dollars last the whole week.

A few years back, after Hanna had started school, Tova had scrubbed floors in office buildings five days a week. She hadn’t told Shmuel or anyone else about it. She couldn’t begin to imagine how he would’ve reacted had she told him—whether he’d have been pleased because she’d taken the initiative to supplement the family’s income or furious because she’d done it without consulting with him. He’d become so unpredictable since coming to America; since leaving the shtetl, since, since… In any event, the few dollars she’d made had been her own; she’d used them to get treats for the children and a few luxuries for herself—a new pair of shoes, a second-hand dress. Not infrequently, though, she’d been forced to dip into those funds to make it through the week. But after a while she’d quit that job. She’d gotten tired of it. Not physically—she had plenty of energy left. But the need to keep it secret from Shmuel had weighed too heavily on her mind.

Yes, but still. Yaakov, he’s such a… She stopped. She wanted to say, He’s such a special boy, but she knew those words—the words the rabbi had used—would make Shmuel’s hair stand on end.

Someone’s got to do it, said Shmuel. I’ve sacrificed enough. Now it’s Yaakov’s turn to do his part. Isidore is the oldest. He’s got the right to finish his education.

She could, of course, propose to go to work herself instead. But she knew Shmuel would never agree to it. His motives for sending Yaakov to work went well beyond mere economic need.

Shmuel finished eating, put on his winter coat, and then lifted and hung from his shoulders his two bags of merchandise. Tova opened the door for him.

Goodbye, Tova. I’ll see you on Friday. He stepped into the hallway. And don’t forget; Yaakov is punished for the week.

Tova turned off the lights and went back to her bedroom. She sat on top of the bed in the dark, her back propped against the pillow, and sighed. It’d be next to impossible to keep Yaakov in the apartment after school for a whole week. In a day or two he’d simply forget about his punishment. Mameh, I’m going out for a while, he’d say, and she would not have the strength to stop him. He wasn’t disobedient—at least not with her—and he didn’t try to provoke her—at least not consciously. But, as the rabbi had said, he did what came naturally to him.

Slowly she bent her knees and hugged them with her arms. If she could only go back to sleep…

Bessarabia

1892-1909

Shmuel Rabinowitz was born in the last decade of the nineteenth century in a tiny shtetl—a jumble of wooden houses clustering around the marketplace—set at the foot of a gentle hill in the heart of Bessarabia. The slow-flowing waters of the Dniester River bounded it on the east.

Although part of the Russian Empire at the time, Bessarabia’s population was mostly Romanian. Shmuel, like most young people in the region, grew up speaking Romanian and Russian. His mother tongue, however, was Yiddish. It was the language he spoke at home and with his classmates in the cheder.

His father leased a small patch of land from a Romanian landowner on which he grew an assortment of vegetables—tomatoes, cucumbers, cabbages, pumpkins. Once a week he rode a horse-drawn carriage to the farmers’ market to sell his produce, mostly to gentile customers. The results were meager, barely enough to keep the family fed and clothed, and, if he didn’t manage to save enough during the summer months, the spectrum of hunger in the winter, when snow covered the fields and bitter temperatures kept the family mostly indoors, would hover over their heads like a bad omen.

But everyone in the shtetl struggled to scratch out a living. And, to add to their woes, the threat of pogroms was ever present. One, in fact, had taken place when Shmuel was a baby. A bunch of Cossacks, drunk and incensed like beasts smelling blood, had pillaged the town, beating senseless whatever men they could sniff out of hiding and raping women regardless of age or appearance. Shmuel had no recollection of it, but the event had become engraved in the shtetl’s collective memory. People talked about it as if it had taken place the day before. They recalled with terror on their faces the sound of hammers boarding up doors and windows, and the clatter of horses’ hooves as the Cossacks rode through the streets torching houses.

In the cheder, Shmuel learned the aleph beit and to read from the Torah. His father put on tfillin and said his prayers at dawn every morning, and after Shmuel’s Bar Mitzvah he was required to join in. Shmuel stood next to his father facing east, trying his best to keep up with him but barely managing to keep his eyes open. Every Sabbath and during the high holidays, they attended services at the synagogue.

Shortly after Shmuel’s Bar Mitzvah, his father found him a job with a local merchant as an errand boy. He made next to nothing, but even the few coins the merchant dropped contemptuously into his hand before the beginning of the Sabbath went a long way in shoring up the family’s finances.

***

When Shmuel turned seventeen, a young man he barely knew invited him to attend a secret communist party meeting.

You’ve got to hear tonight’s speaker. You’ll be impressed, said the young man. Meet me tonight at nine and we’ll go together. Just make sure to keep it quiet; not a word to anybody.

Shmuel wondered why the young man had invited him—they knew each other by sight but had never exchanged words until now. But he was curious about the meeting and agreed to attend. He snuck out of the house shortly before nine and met the young man in the central square, a rectangle enclosed by old, dilapidated buildings. On market days it teemed with people talking and bargaining, chickens clucking, and horses neighing. Now it was empty and silent. The young man signaled for him to follow and they marched towards the edge of town. The night was moonless and dark.

Where is the meeting? asked Shmuel.

In Duba.

Duba! Duba was a gentile town, and despite its proximity to the shtetl—only three miles away—to the shtetl’s residents it felt as alien