Free Everyday Jews: Scenes From a Vanished Life by Yehoshue Perle Page A

apologize.”
    A fresh silence descended on the room. Wladek sucked dreamily on his pipe. Grandpa lifted his needle to the lamp and threaded it rapidly.
    “Who turned on the heat?” Mother broke the silence.
    “I told someone to do it. There’s milk, bread, butter … I didn’t want to get any meat … I didn’t know …”
    “And has the bedding at least been changed?”
    “Yes, I took care of that, too. Everything’s warm, clean …”
    Father’s voice was also warm and clean. He got up and moved closer to Grandpa’s worktable, where Mother was sitting.
    “Do you have any things?” he asked, “I’ll get a droshky.”
    “Where are you going to find a droshky at this hour?”
    “Don’t worry, I’ll find one.”
    Mother put aside her book. I don’t know if she indicated where her things were, but Father went straight to the Warsaw parcel and picked it up.
    “A drop of whiskey, maybe, Leyzer?” said Grandpa, putting down his sewing and already rummaging in the kitchen cupboard, where he had hidden his precious store.
    Father’s yellowish-gray mustache grew bigger and thicker as a smile spread across his beard.
    “ Lekhaim !”
    “ Lekhaim , to a good and peaceful life. May we drink only at celebrations! N-n-a!”
    Wladek woke up from his nap. He removed the pipe from his mouth and stood up. He smiled when he saw Grandpa’s bottle, gave a little dance, and shook his matted beard.
    “ Khaim! Khaim! Pan krawiec! ”
    “You want a drop, Wladek?”
    “Mmm, mmm …”
    “Here you are!” Grandpa handed him half a glassful. “Drink to the health of that Magda of yours, the one that slapped you on the face with a fish.”
    “No! A pox on her! To the health of Pan krawiec! Khaim! Khaim! ”
    Mother also took a sip. I myself, given the chance, would have finished off the whole bottle.
    “Nu, it’s getting late.”
    “Good night.”
    “Good night, good year, good fortune!”
    Father walked ahead, carrying Mother’s parcels in both hands. Mother and I followed a few paces behind. Wladek was still dancing. Grandma and Grandpa stood at the open door, Grandma holding the kerosene lamp high above her head, and Grandpa, a thread dangling from his lips, seeing us off with a song:
    Let’s be friends again, friends again,
    And buy me some oranges, while you’re at it.

Chapter Seven
    It was the custom in our town, a sort of unwritten law, that moving could take place only on the feast day of Saint John, coinciding with the week of Shabes Nakhamu , the Sabbath of Consolation, that falls in midsummer. During those days, the streets were littered with straw from ripped mattresses and other bed stuffings. Doors and windows stood wide open, young boys raced in and out, dogs scrounged in fresh garbage, and Jews, respectable householders all, could be seen, on an ordinary weekday, walking alongside carts packed tightly with their belongings.
    Mother, however, didn’t want to wait that long. She couldn’t bear looking at our old place any more. Every corner seemed to haunt her. So, soon after we left the grandparents’ house, she began her search for a new dwelling, made inquiries, and finally rented a place in the center of town, a palace compared to our old place.
    We waited till after the Sabbath and, on the following Tuesday—considered a lucky day—we moved out.
    The Gentile who came every morning to wake up Father knew nothing of this, and that morning, too, he knocked on the windowpane, calling, “ Pan kupiec ! Mr. merchant!” But Pan kupiec , that is, Father, was already up and dressed. He let the Gentile in and told him that they wouldn’t be making the rounds of the villages that day, that today we were moving to a new place, and could he stay and help out.
    That day I didn’t go to the kheyder . First Father said his morning prayers, then we snatched a quick bite, and, no sooner than Father finished reciting the Grace after Meals, we set to work.
    Groaning and straining, Father and the peasant