Free The Little Russian by Susan Sherman

platter to Lhaye, who eyed it suspiciously and passed it on. She didn’t like fish. “Will you be back tomorrow?” she asked, helping herself to the potatoes.
    “No, I go on to Bogitslav.”
    Tateh’s jaw clicked as he chewed. “I have a cousin in Bogitslav,” he said between bites, “maybe you have heard of him, Mottel Royzen?”
    Hershel thought for a moment. “I know a Zevi Royzen from Medvin.”
    Tateh considered this and shook his head. “No, never heard of him.”
    “Still, tragic story, Zevi Royzen,” said Hershel, carefully removing the skin from his sturgeon before sticking a fork into the white flesh.
    Mameh kept her eyes on her plate.
    “What happened?” asked Lhaye.
    “Excuse me?”
    “To Zevi Royzen. What’s the tragic story?”
    “Oh, very sad. His wife died. Beautiful woman and a fine housekeeper. A real balebosteh , they say.”
    “How did she die?”
    “She was cleaning a chicken and she cut her finger on the neck bone. It was nothing, a little cut, some blood, nothing to fuss about. But then the finger turned all red and her hand blew up like a balloon and she started to run a high fever. Her husband called in the best doctors, a whole team of them, but it was too late. Three days later she was dead.”
    Mameh looked up.
    “Just like that?” asked Lhaye.
    “Just like that. And that’s not the worst of it. He remarried. The
daughter of a rope spinner, so of course there was no dowry. Not that he cared. He was a rich man. Well, not rich exactly, but he had money, could go out for a meal once in a while and take in a play. He made fine saddles and sold them to people who could afford them. Anyway, as marriages go, this one was a disaster.” He stabbed a potato with his fork and stuck it into his mouth.
    “How come?” Lhaye asked.
    Hershel chewed, swallowed, and shook his head. “Not such a nice story. You don’t want to know.”
    “But I do,” she said, her feather bobbing emphatically.
    Tateh said irritably, “What difference does it make? He’s not my cousin. We don’t know him. I’m sorry for his troubles, but it’s got nothing to do with us.”
    “But I want to know, Tateh.”
    “Go on, Reb Alshonsky. It’s all right. We’re all grown-ups here,” said Berta.
    Mameh poured herself another glass of wine and glanced briefly at him from over the rim.
    “Well,” Hershel continued a little doubtfully, “Let’s just say that a young girl gets ideas in her head. Maybe she starts to think she doesn’t want to be with such an old man. Maybe her eyes wander over the fence where the grass is greener. Maybe they linger a little too long on the glazer’s son.” His voice trailed off and they sat there in silence, mulling over the implications.
    After dinner they moved across the room to the settee and chairs. Hershel declined Tateh’s offer of the wing chair and pulled over one of the chairs from the table. “You know a Rabbi Liebermann from Dunivits?” he asked his host, once they were all settled.
    “I think I’ve heard of him. Is he famous?”
    “A little famous.” His eyes flicked over to Mameh, who was mending one of Tateh’s shirts. There was a rust-colored rip on the sleeve as if stained by old blood. “So you haven’t heard about his son?”
    “I didn’t know he had a son.”
    “Oh yes, he had a good son. A promising scholar they say, until the trouble started. All out of the blue like that. Without warning. Shocked everybody. No one could understand how one day he could be himself,
a good, obedient boy, and the next . . . disrespectful to his mother, shouting out obscenities in shul. And you have to remember this was from a boy who never did anything wrong in his whole life.”
    “How old was he?” asked Lhaye.
    “Thirteen, fourteen. He was already promised to the daughter of a rich textile merchant. Of course, his father didn’t want the girl’s family finding out about it and calling off the wedding. He tried beating the boy, but the outrages