a dream and felt myself smothering. I felt buried in snow and ice, and then woke fully and realized I had slid down into my coat and the lined hood was over my head. I got into pajamas and went to the bathroom. I heard the snowon the frosted window. My father was in Detroit in the snow. The snow blew against the window. I went to my room and got into bed. The darkness was alive with the sounds of the storm-filled night. I had known of my father’s trip and had forgotten it in the warmth of Yudel Krinsky’s store. I thought of the brushes I had helped Yudel Krinsky sort. Then I thought of the metal cabinet filled with tubes of oil color. I did not understand why I should be thinking of that cabinet. Then I fell asleep.
My mother said to me the next morning over breakfast, “Asher, if you want to continue going to Reb Yudel Krinsky’s store, you will have to remember to return at a reasonable time.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And if it snows when you leave school, please come straight home.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She looked at me soberly. “I lost my temper last night.”
I was quiet.
“You frightened me, Asher. But I should not have lost my temper.”
“I apologize for what I did, Mama.”
“Yes. You frightened me. I’m trying very hard to get used to it, Asher. I’m really trying.” She looked at me through the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t lost my temper. I told myself that the next time it happened I wouldn’t be frightened. But I was a failure.” She put a napkin to her eyes. Then she said softly, “Drink your juice, my Asher. I’ll walk with you to your school.”
Later, we came out of the apartment house and walked along the snow-filled parkway and stopped at the path that led to the entrance doors of the school.
She kissed my forehead and said, “Have a good day in school, Asher. I hope you get a fine mark on your arithmetic test.”
“Thank you, Mama.” The test had been postponed fromlast week to today. But I had forgotten again to study for it. “Will Papa’s plane be able to land today?”
“If the Ribbono Shel Olom wants it to land, it will land.”
She turned and started along the parkway. I watched her walk up the street carrying her books.
I failed the arithmetic test.
Three
During supper on the first Monday in March, the phone rang and my father went to answer it. When he returned, he said in a choked voice, quoting in Hebrew, “‘When your enemy falls, do not rejoice,’” and he told us that Stalin had had a stroke, was paralyzed and unconscious, and was dying.
The following Wednesday, the story was in the newspapers. The official announcement had come out of Russia Tuesday midnight, Eastern Standard Time. I never asked my father how he had learned of Stalin’s illness more than a day before the official announcement. He would not have told me.
On my way home from school Thursday afternoon, I saw a car pull up in front of our headquarters building. Six men came out of the car. I recognized one of them; he was in his twenties and he had worked two offices down from my father when my father had been on the first floor of the building. The others looked to be in their fifties or sixties, men with gray beards, dark coats, and dark hats. They went up the steps of the building and disappeared inside.
My father did not come home that night. The next morning, my mother and I heard over the radio that Stalin had died the previous afternoon at 1:50 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
My mother turned off the radio as the announcer started a commercial. We sat in silence. The refrigerator hummed softly.
“‘So perish the enemies of God,’” my mother quoted softly in Hebrew.
I told my mother about the men I had seen come out of the car the day before.
“Who were they, Mama?”
“Ask your father,” she said quietly.
I asked my father later that day. “Ladover from Europe,” he said.
Early the next morning, my father went to the mikveh. He returned to
My mother said to me the next morning over breakfast, “Asher, if you want to continue going to Reb Yudel Krinsky’s store, you will have to remember to return at a reasonable time.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And if it snows when you leave school, please come straight home.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She looked at me soberly. “I lost my temper last night.”
I was quiet.
“You frightened me, Asher. But I should not have lost my temper.”
“I apologize for what I did, Mama.”
“Yes. You frightened me. I’m trying very hard to get used to it, Asher. I’m really trying.” She looked at me through the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t lost my temper. I told myself that the next time it happened I wouldn’t be frightened. But I was a failure.” She put a napkin to her eyes. Then she said softly, “Drink your juice, my Asher. I’ll walk with you to your school.”
Later, we came out of the apartment house and walked along the snow-filled parkway and stopped at the path that led to the entrance doors of the school.
She kissed my forehead and said, “Have a good day in school, Asher. I hope you get a fine mark on your arithmetic test.”
“Thank you, Mama.” The test had been postponed fromlast week to today. But I had forgotten again to study for it. “Will Papa’s plane be able to land today?”
“If the Ribbono Shel Olom wants it to land, it will land.”
She turned and started along the parkway. I watched her walk up the street carrying her books.
I failed the arithmetic test.
Three
During supper on the first Monday in March, the phone rang and my father went to answer it. When he returned, he said in a choked voice, quoting in Hebrew, “‘When your enemy falls, do not rejoice,’” and he told us that Stalin had had a stroke, was paralyzed and unconscious, and was dying.
The following Wednesday, the story was in the newspapers. The official announcement had come out of Russia Tuesday midnight, Eastern Standard Time. I never asked my father how he had learned of Stalin’s illness more than a day before the official announcement. He would not have told me.
On my way home from school Thursday afternoon, I saw a car pull up in front of our headquarters building. Six men came out of the car. I recognized one of them; he was in his twenties and he had worked two offices down from my father when my father had been on the first floor of the building. The others looked to be in their fifties or sixties, men with gray beards, dark coats, and dark hats. They went up the steps of the building and disappeared inside.
My father did not come home that night. The next morning, my mother and I heard over the radio that Stalin had died the previous afternoon at 1:50 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
My mother turned off the radio as the announcer started a commercial. We sat in silence. The refrigerator hummed softly.
“‘So perish the enemies of God,’” my mother quoted softly in Hebrew.
I told my mother about the men I had seen come out of the car the day before.
“Who were they, Mama?”
“Ask your father,” she said quietly.
I asked my father later that day. “Ladover from Europe,” he said.
Early the next morning, my father went to the mikveh. He returned to
Similar Books
