turned back.
The door of a bar opened. A bent silhouette stumbled out, cupped cigarette to mouth, and teetered in front of a fender. Cracked singing spilled onto the curb, about a canary going silent in a mine. In another life, she might have known what the canary song was about, she might have spoken to these people; in her life, she could not be seen talking to a non-Jew. She walked on. The street ended in front of a slag heap. She turned back.
A barge moaned downriver. On the tar-dark riverbank, blue-clad workers leaned over fires in tin drums, small hells in the early night.
On High Street, a car veered and spattered her coat.
• • •
She heard the girls as soon as she turned onto the seminary’s block, heard the stamping feet—did passersby wonder what kind of life warranted so much singing and dancing? Time and again, the dining tables were pushed against the walls, the chairs piled high against the tables, and Atara sighed with relief; no one would have noticed her absence in the excitement that followed the news of a girl’s engagement. In the cleared space, the girls were wound in circles, some facing into the center, some facing out. Zissi, Mila, Goldie danced arm over arm.
Atara’s study partner caught sight of Atara and broke away from the round. “I looked for you, Bless the Lord you are here.…”
The girls’ speech pattern also grated on Atara’s nerves, the ready-made locutions.
“Atara is here!” a voice called.
“Is she singing, is Atara singing?”
“Not now,” Atara whispered to no one in particular.
“Atara will sing!”
Atara stepped back.
A T3 girl who stood by the door rebuked Atara: “It is a mitzvah to be happy on such a joyous occasion.”
Atara wanted to quiet the singing; she wanted to speak up, loud, so that all the girls would hear; she wanted to share with them that in the library in Paris, she had read that the Nazis could have been defeated much earlier if forces hadunited, but religious leaders, fearing assimilation, chose to organize
against
the Bolsheviks who were fighting the Nazis, chose not to unite with less religious or secular Jews. Atara’s mouth opened but what came out was a sound like the bleating of a sheep. Her hands came to her ears, to block the echoing bleats. She stumbled out.
Every morning, she woke to the same impasse. Could she marry a Hasid who expected a Hasidic wife to cherish orthodox life? Would she raise children, who, in turn, would be forbidden to read secular books?
Climbing the stairs to the classroom, her calves cramped. Sitting in front of the Expanded Rabbinic Bible, her scalp itched.
Was it not better to
choose
one’s death and die all at once?
*
March 1957
M ILA and Atara had been at the seminary a year and a half when the principal called Atara into his office. Zalman had written a letter, Hannah was having a difficult pregnancy and the doctor prescribed bed rest. Zalman asked that one of the girls come home. The principal thought Atara should go. Let Mila benefit a bit longer from the seminary’s teachings since her T2 year might be cut short … there had been inquiries.…
“Mila is getting engaged?”
“Shh … inquiries only. You mustn’t disturb Mila’s peace of mind.”
Atara was packing when Mila came running.
“Auntie Hannah isn’t well? I’m going with you. I am!”
The girls boarded the train to London, they scanned the rows of tired upholstered seats, wiggled their heavy suitcases into an empty row, sat in the row behind.
“You think Auntie Hannah is very sick?” Mila asked.
“No, it must be as my father wrote, she’s having a difficult pregnancy and he needs help with the children and cooking. If it were serious, he would have asked that we both come home. Don’t be afraid, Mila.”
“Then why are you so upset?”
“I’m not … I … Mila, do you feel ready to marry?”
Mila lifted a shoulder and let it drop; she smiled; she brushed her new short bangs to the
The door of a bar opened. A bent silhouette stumbled out, cupped cigarette to mouth, and teetered in front of a fender. Cracked singing spilled onto the curb, about a canary going silent in a mine. In another life, she might have known what the canary song was about, she might have spoken to these people; in her life, she could not be seen talking to a non-Jew. She walked on. The street ended in front of a slag heap. She turned back.
A barge moaned downriver. On the tar-dark riverbank, blue-clad workers leaned over fires in tin drums, small hells in the early night.
On High Street, a car veered and spattered her coat.
• • •
She heard the girls as soon as she turned onto the seminary’s block, heard the stamping feet—did passersby wonder what kind of life warranted so much singing and dancing? Time and again, the dining tables were pushed against the walls, the chairs piled high against the tables, and Atara sighed with relief; no one would have noticed her absence in the excitement that followed the news of a girl’s engagement. In the cleared space, the girls were wound in circles, some facing into the center, some facing out. Zissi, Mila, Goldie danced arm over arm.
Atara’s study partner caught sight of Atara and broke away from the round. “I looked for you, Bless the Lord you are here.…”
The girls’ speech pattern also grated on Atara’s nerves, the ready-made locutions.
“Atara is here!” a voice called.
“Is she singing, is Atara singing?”
“Not now,” Atara whispered to no one in particular.
“Atara will sing!”
Atara stepped back.
A T3 girl who stood by the door rebuked Atara: “It is a mitzvah to be happy on such a joyous occasion.”
Atara wanted to quiet the singing; she wanted to speak up, loud, so that all the girls would hear; she wanted to share with them that in the library in Paris, she had read that the Nazis could have been defeated much earlier if forces hadunited, but religious leaders, fearing assimilation, chose to organize
against
the Bolsheviks who were fighting the Nazis, chose not to unite with less religious or secular Jews. Atara’s mouth opened but what came out was a sound like the bleating of a sheep. Her hands came to her ears, to block the echoing bleats. She stumbled out.
Every morning, she woke to the same impasse. Could she marry a Hasid who expected a Hasidic wife to cherish orthodox life? Would she raise children, who, in turn, would be forbidden to read secular books?
Climbing the stairs to the classroom, her calves cramped. Sitting in front of the Expanded Rabbinic Bible, her scalp itched.
Was it not better to
choose
one’s death and die all at once?
*
March 1957
M ILA and Atara had been at the seminary a year and a half when the principal called Atara into his office. Zalman had written a letter, Hannah was having a difficult pregnancy and the doctor prescribed bed rest. Zalman asked that one of the girls come home. The principal thought Atara should go. Let Mila benefit a bit longer from the seminary’s teachings since her T2 year might be cut short … there had been inquiries.…
“Mila is getting engaged?”
“Shh … inquiries only. You mustn’t disturb Mila’s peace of mind.”
Atara was packing when Mila came running.
“Auntie Hannah isn’t well? I’m going with you. I am!”
The girls boarded the train to London, they scanned the rows of tired upholstered seats, wiggled their heavy suitcases into an empty row, sat in the row behind.
“You think Auntie Hannah is very sick?” Mila asked.
“No, it must be as my father wrote, she’s having a difficult pregnancy and he needs help with the children and cooking. If it were serious, he would have asked that we both come home. Don’t be afraid, Mila.”
“Then why are you so upset?”
“I’m not … I … Mila, do you feel ready to marry?”
Mila lifted a shoulder and let it drop; she smiled; she brushed her new short bangs to the
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