Free Letters From Rifka by Karen Hesse Page B
Authors: Karen Hesse
meat and carrots and bread. The boy stared at my plate, but he took nothing for himself.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked in Yiddish. “Why don’t you eat?”
He didn’t answer.
“Eat,” I said in English.
Still no answer.
“Take something to eat,” I said in Russian.
Now he looked up at me, straight into my eyes.
“Russian you understand?” I said. “But not Yiddish?”
Then I knew. The boy was a peasant. A Russian peasant. Here, sitting before me, Tovah, was the reason we had fled our homeland. He was the reason for my being alone for so long, separated from my family. The reason I had had typhus. The reason I had lost my hair. The reason Uncle Zeb was dead and all your lives were in danger. I had him sitting in front of me in the dining hall of the hospital at Ellis Island.
I tried not to look at him. I did not want anything to do with him. But there he was, in front of me. A little Russian peasant.
He stared at his pale hands, folded in front of him at his place. Then he looked back up at me with those eyes.
I remembered then. He looked like a small version of the soldier at the train station, the one with the eyes of green ice. I didn’t want anything to do with him. Nothing.
But no one should starve to death, Tovah. Certainly not a little boy, maybe seven years old.
“Is there something wrong with you that keeps you from eating?” I asked in Russian.
He shook his head.
“If you don’t eat,” I told him, “they will send you back.”
He nodded.
“You want to go back?” I asked.
He nodded again, and this time tears filled his eyes.
“Well, just tell them you want to go back!” I cried.
If I go back, they will kill me. His father or his uncle, his cousin or his neighbor, they will make a pogrom, and they will kill me.
Crazy Russian peasant! He could stay here. He could stay here in America. There is nothing wrong with him. He could live in either place, Russia, America, and no harm would come to him. But no, he is starving himself so they will send him back.
People were eating all around us. The boy sat at his empty plate, tears rolling down his cheeks.
I hated him. I hated what he stood for.
I also hated seeing him cry. He was just a little boy.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ilya,” he answered. His voice came out thin and high and frail.
“Ilya,” I said. “If you don’t eat anything, you will grow so weak that when they do send you back,
you will die before you reach home. You must eat a little.”
I stood up and looked for food to spoon onto his plate, but by now all the food bowls were empty.
What could I do? He was just a little boy, a hungry, frightened little boy. I lifted my plate and slid some of my own food onto his dish.
“Now eat,” I said. “Or I will be hungry for nothing.”
He put a little piece of carrot in his mouth and chewed. Then faster and faster he pushed the food in.
“Slow down,” I said. “You’ll get sick.”
He finished everything on his plate, so I gave him a little more.
Maybe it is not very clever to feel what I felt about this Russian peasant, this enemy of my people.
But Tovah, he was just a little, hungry boy. Taking care of him made me feel better than I had felt in a very long time.
Ever since then, I have a shadow. He follows me everywhere, holding on to my skirts. He sits by me when I rock the Polish baby, though I will not let him come too close. He follows me around the buildings, he sits under my elbow at mealtime, he is always under my feet.
The nurses call me the little mother. I don’t mind so much.
What do you think about your cousin taking care of a little Russian peasant? You will probably think me the most foolish of all, to befriend such a child. I know Mama will not be happy, not the way she feels about everything Russian. I must figure out a way to explain to her when she comes to visit.
Oh, Tovah, how I hope she comes to visit soon.
Shalom,
Rifka
… I’m lean and shaven,
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked in Yiddish. “Why don’t you eat?”
He didn’t answer.
“Eat,” I said in English.
Still no answer.
“Take something to eat,” I said in Russian.
Now he looked up at me, straight into my eyes.
“Russian you understand?” I said. “But not Yiddish?”
Then I knew. The boy was a peasant. A Russian peasant. Here, sitting before me, Tovah, was the reason we had fled our homeland. He was the reason for my being alone for so long, separated from my family. The reason I had had typhus. The reason I had lost my hair. The reason Uncle Zeb was dead and all your lives were in danger. I had him sitting in front of me in the dining hall of the hospital at Ellis Island.
I tried not to look at him. I did not want anything to do with him. But there he was, in front of me. A little Russian peasant.
He stared at his pale hands, folded in front of him at his place. Then he looked back up at me with those eyes.
I remembered then. He looked like a small version of the soldier at the train station, the one with the eyes of green ice. I didn’t want anything to do with him. Nothing.
But no one should starve to death, Tovah. Certainly not a little boy, maybe seven years old.
“Is there something wrong with you that keeps you from eating?” I asked in Russian.
He shook his head.
“If you don’t eat,” I told him, “they will send you back.”
He nodded.
“You want to go back?” I asked.
He nodded again, and this time tears filled his eyes.
“Well, just tell them you want to go back!” I cried.
If I go back, they will kill me. His father or his uncle, his cousin or his neighbor, they will make a pogrom, and they will kill me.
Crazy Russian peasant! He could stay here. He could stay here in America. There is nothing wrong with him. He could live in either place, Russia, America, and no harm would come to him. But no, he is starving himself so they will send him back.
People were eating all around us. The boy sat at his empty plate, tears rolling down his cheeks.
I hated him. I hated what he stood for.
I also hated seeing him cry. He was just a little boy.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ilya,” he answered. His voice came out thin and high and frail.
“Ilya,” I said. “If you don’t eat anything, you will grow so weak that when they do send you back,
you will die before you reach home. You must eat a little.”
I stood up and looked for food to spoon onto his plate, but by now all the food bowls were empty.
What could I do? He was just a little boy, a hungry, frightened little boy. I lifted my plate and slid some of my own food onto his dish.
“Now eat,” I said. “Or I will be hungry for nothing.”
He put a little piece of carrot in his mouth and chewed. Then faster and faster he pushed the food in.
“Slow down,” I said. “You’ll get sick.”
He finished everything on his plate, so I gave him a little more.
Maybe it is not very clever to feel what I felt about this Russian peasant, this enemy of my people.
But Tovah, he was just a little, hungry boy. Taking care of him made me feel better than I had felt in a very long time.
Ever since then, I have a shadow. He follows me everywhere, holding on to my skirts. He sits by me when I rock the Polish baby, though I will not let him come too close. He follows me around the buildings, he sits under my elbow at mealtime, he is always under my feet.
The nurses call me the little mother. I don’t mind so much.
What do you think about your cousin taking care of a little Russian peasant? You will probably think me the most foolish of all, to befriend such a child. I know Mama will not be happy, not the way she feels about everything Russian. I must figure out a way to explain to her when she comes to visit.
Oh, Tovah, how I hope she comes to visit soon.
Shalom,
Rifka
… I’m lean and shaven,