Free The River Midnight by Lilian Nattel Page B

like her mother, said nothing. At the mention of Misha’s name, she blushed.
    The sound of a horse and cart clattering up to the bakery distracted Faygela, and the girls rushed outside, Berel toddling behind them.
    “What did you bring me, Papa?” and “Me, what about me,” the younger children called out. “Candy? Did you bring us candy?”
    “First the horse has to go into his stall, children.
Shabbas
is coming for him, too,” Shmuel said. His cart was loaded with supplies fromPlotsk, rye flour, wheat flour, sugar, almonds, cinnamon, raisins, a pastry crimper, poppy seeds, and kerosene. Unhitching the horse, he carried the supplies out back, the younger children running after him, putting their hands in his pockets, shouting, “Good Papa,” when they pulled out sticks of candy. The middle girls, waiting for Shmuel to give them their brightly colored ribbons, poked and elbowed one another until Faygela pushed them apart with an exasperated grunt, then held them close, her arms linked with theirs, while they snuggled against her. How patient Shmuel was with the children, she thought. And as she watched the feathery motion of his fingers touching their cheeks, she imagined the same light touch on her own body, later, when the children slept. And he would be just as patient when she braided his silvery beard after they made love, listening to everything she said, though he wouldn’t understand half of it.
    “I’m sorry, Ruthie,” he was saying. “I couldn’t get the herbal book you wanted. It was too expensive. But look at this. The bookseller gave it to me cheap because it’s in English. And you see, Ruthie, there are drawings of plants.” He patted her shoulder.
    Thanking her father quietly, Ruthie slipped the book into her apron pocket, ignoring her sisters who were laughing and wrinkling their noses. “English, who wants a book in English?” they said.
    “Don’t tease your sister,” Faygela said. “At least she can read a little German and Russian, which is more than either of you. If only my father was still alive, I might have educated daughters who respected their older sister. And who knows, maybe a little English might be useful someday. Ruthie could write a letter to your uncle in America. Well, once he learns to speak English. Yes, it could be quite useful. There are plenty of Jews in America. Plenty. Nearly as many as in Warsaw. It so happens that it was just lucky that your father found this book.”
    Shmuel gave her arm a quick squeeze as he handed her a package tied with string. “I found everything you wanted,” he said. In the package was the latest issue of
The Israelite
, a book, two notebooks, and several pencils. Shmuel always made sure that Faygela had a few pencils and something to write in. Whenever she could spare a minute, she would sit on a low stool, using her bridal trunk as a desk. The notebooks were locked inside, and she wore the key around herneck. If she ran out of time or paper, she got cranky, and when Faygela was cranky her Friday nights with Shmuel lacked a certain enthusiasm.
    As she cut the string, the book, sandwiched between the notebooks, fell into her hand. “Oh Shmuel, you brought it. And it wasn’t too much?” She stroked the cloth cover of
Bakenta Bilder—Familiar Pictures
—by I. L. Peretz.
    “Not too much,” Shmuel said, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, his face alight as Faygela threw her arms around him.
    “I don’t know how an intelligent, cultured man like Peretz knows so much about life in a small village, but his last book could have been Blaszka itself. Every word was written on my heart. Look, girls,” she said, opening the new book. “These are the words of a man who knows the truth about life. This is what I want you to read, not those cheap fantasies of Shomer’s.” She sighed. “If only I had time to teach you then you could read the books that belonged to my father. But a family of girls