Read an Excerpt
Portraits
A Novel
By Cynthia Freeman OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1979 Cynthia Freeman Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-3572-8
CHAPTER 1
Jacob was born in a village which is no longer on the map. History and war have changed that. But at the time, it was on the border between Poland and Germany. His father died when Jacob was three, leaving his mother, Esther, with two small children—a five-year-old daughter, Gittel, and little Jacob. But Esther was a woman of enormous strength and little time for sentimentality. After she buried the dead, dried the tears, she knew there was only one thing for a widow to do, and that was to get married. After a year of mourning, Esther Dubin Sandsonitsky met Yankel Greenberg at the house of Tante Chava. There they were married. What did love have to do with it? He provided a roof over her head and she provided him with a wife who cooked, cleaned and worked from morning to night.
She soon found that her marriage was not a happy solution, nor even an acceptable one to a woman of her pride and independence. Soon after the nuptials, Esther found herself not only pregnant, but a slave to Yankel and his three sons, who were uncouth, lazy and demanding. As Esther scrubbed away, she planned that as soon as the child she carried inside her was born, she would pick up and leave. A roof and a bed hardly warranted the kind of abuse she and her children took from Yankel and his sons. True, she didn't have a profession, but one thing she could do was cook. She'd make a living and survive without the benevolence of Mr. Greenberg.
After the nine months passed, a son lay in her arms. When the circumcision was healed, she packed whatever belongings she had, stole the money Yankel hoarded under his mattress, took her three children and without a word she left. Logic made the decisions for Esther.
She deposited four-year-old Jacob with the family of a distant relative who lived in a small village in Poland. They were hardly overjoyed at having another mouth to feed, but as Esther handed them a few of Yankel's zlotys their resistance seemed to soften. She assured them they need not worry, that Jacob's board would be taken care of.
That night a bewildered Jacob cried as he lay on the thin blanket covering the floor in the corner, which was to be his for the next few years.
With Gittel and baby Shlomo, Esther boarded the train for Germany. Logic, however, did not replace her longings and regrets, and she sat up for two nights and days thinking about Jacob. But what could she do? What? It wasn't easy being a woman in the first place. How could she take care of three children and work? She shoved aside the guilt, realizing there were no alternatives.
When they arrived in Frankfurt, they went directly to the small hut, on the edge of the city, where Esther's parents lived. Fatigued and weary, she knocked at the door. The house seemed even smaller than she had remembered when she married Avrum Sandsonitsky and had gone to live in Poland.
After a few days of rest and reunion, Esther left Gittel with her family, knowing the little girl would be loved. It was different for a girl. Somehow Jacob would adjust. He was a boy and boys didn't require the same attention or affection. Besides, her mother was too old and sick to take care of two small children. Amid a tearful good-by, once again Esther boarded the train, this time to Berlin.
For the first time in a long time, Esther began to think maybe God loved her a little, that He'd not forgotten she existed, for soon after her arrival she found a clean room with a kitchenette and, added to this windfall, the landlady fell in love with the baby. How lucky could Esther get? The landlady said she'd be overjoyed to care for the little one while Esther worked. In return for any kinder gelt, Esther could clean on her day off. She assured Esther the work wouldn't be too difficult—the basement, windows, woodwork, kindling the furnace, a few more chores as they arose. The deal consummated, Esther immediately weaned baby Shlomo away from her breast. Heaven looked down on her once more, for within a week she found a job cooking in a kosher restaurant not too far from where she lived. Again, Esther had a plan.
The next year was dedicated to one thing—saving enough money so that she could go to America. She would go first with Shlomo, open a small restaurant, establish a home and send for her other children. Her frugality with her hardearned wages and the money she had stolen from Yankel finally brought about the moment of departure, and without a moment of indecision she quit her job, left Berlin, and returned to Frankfurt to see her family before setting off for America.
As Esther stood before her parents' house, she felt a nervous quiver at the pit of her stomach. This would be the last time she would see her parents, of that she was more than sure, but this final, painful severing would mean a new and, Esther hoped, a better life for herself and her children. There were beginnings and endings. That's what life was made up of.
CHAPTER 2
Esther became a part of the multitude of rejected humanity that waited in droves at Ellis Island. If the great American watchword was "Give me your poor," then her dream had been realized. The disenfranchised of the old world stood on the threshold of the new, waiting to be embraced. They were weary, dirty, tired, bewildered people who had traveled a long distance from the lands of their birth. This promised land seemed as unprepared for them as they for it They were herded from one place to another and separated into different ethnic groups—Poles, Irish, Russians, Jews. It was little different from the cattle boat from which they had just disembarked.
The immigrations officer looked at Esther's name tag pinned to her coat. Boy, this was a tough one. Sands-o-nit-sky? To hell with it. The name was stamped Esther Sanders.
What Esther found in America the Beautiful was a dark, rat-infested room on the fifth floor of a five-story building on Rivington Street. Poverty anywhere was ugly, but here it seemed unrelievedly so. At least in the village she'd left in Poland there was a tree, a little garden, a little space, a patch of blue sky, a shul. And Berlin had been heaven compared to this promised land. And for this she had dreamed, yearned, never spending a cent that wasn't a matter of life or death. The heat, the stench, the crush of humanity seemed worse than in the ghettos of Europe. Here, everyone screamed at the fruit vendor for a penny, at the fish peddler for a pound and the butcher would steal you blind if you didn't watch the scales every moment.
So this was the goldeneh medina. This was the place where the streets were lined in gold?
With Shlomo in her arms, she started to look for a store she could turn into a restaurant, but it seemed that half of the East Side was made up of restaurants. What they didn't need was another one. Besides, when she found out what it cost to buy a stove and equipment, she knew it was out of the question. She couldn't put her money into something so uncertain; if things didn't work out she'd be penniless. No, she'd have to do something else to live on in the meantime. And so Esther went to work for Kreach's Restaurant, where she all but collapsed during the summer standing over the steaming pots and worrying about her future. Things were not working out as she'd dreamed, and for once Esther's hopes and plans were faltering. But at least Shlomo, thank God, was taken care of. In the same building where she lived, Esther became acquainted with a Mrs. Rubinstein, who had seven children. For five dollars a month, taking care of another one was no problem.
Esther had been working at Kreach's for some months when she came through the back door at six o'clock one morning and heard wails of sorrow from Mrs. Kreach. Alarmed, Esther ran to Mrs. Kreach and looked down at the floor where Herman Kreach's lifeless body lay. His eyes, still open, had a look of surprise. Esther unthinkingly took charge that day, helping Malka Kreach with the most immediate arrangements until the widow's family finally came and took over.
When an exhausted Esther left at the end of the day, she knew it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Kreach closed the restaurant and Esther would have to search for another job. Or was it? Another plan began to take form in her mind, and with it, new hope that she might yet reunite her family.
After the mourning period was over, Esther approached Mrs. Kreach.
"Now that Herman's gone, how are you going to run the restaurant alone?"
Malka winced at the mention of Herman's name, then sighed deeply.
With tears she answered, "To tell the truth, I don't know. In the meantime, maybe you should look for another job. I don't feel well myself. To tell the truth, I'm lost without Herman."
"You want to sell the restaurant?" Esther asked without preamble.
Bewildered by the suggestion, Malka simply stared. Sell, sell Herman's sweat? Sell what Herman worked so hard for? Never took a day off except Shabbes? But she was too sick now to manage the restaurant, and besides, she knew little about handling money. Herman had taken care of everything, from the moment they had married, when she was fifteen and he seventeen. When they had set out to make their fortune in the land of opportunity, the opportunities they found had amounted to ten years of drudgery. With the untimely death of Herman, she was left without a penny in the bank, for they had only managed to live from day to day on the restaurant's earnings. The future looked bleak. They had not been blessed with children who could have taken care of her in her old age. Malka sighed. Maybe a dollar in the hand was better than ...
Malka was suddenly brought back from her reverie. Vaguely she asked, "What did you say, Esther?"
"That no one knows more than me what it means to be a widow, but in time you'll get over it. You're a young woman."
Malka blew her nose on her apron, wiped the tears and shook her head. "Sure, a young woman. I'm twenty-six."
"You're still not exactly an old yenta, and in time you'll get married."
Malka looked at her in horror. "Never, after Herman."
"That's what I said when my first husband died. I was younger than you and I was left with two small children. It could be worse, Malka. I didn't have a business I could sell."
"You were luckier than me. At least you had the children." Malka started to cry again.
Esther took her hand and said, "Very lucky, sure, mazel tov. I had to be both mother and father and make a living so my children should have to eat. Malka, the restaurant is the answer for you. You can't run it and I'm willing to buy it."
Malka knew she was right, but she also knew the restaurant was the answer for Esther. Poor Esther, Malka thought, it's not easy being a woman alone, with two children in Europe to bring over. How painful it must be parted from your flesh and blood.
Malka sighed deeply and shook her head. "All right, I'll sell."
Esther stopped shaking inside. Evenly, she asked, "How much do you want?"
Want? Why were the decisions of life so difficult. How much was it worth? "How much do you want to pay?"
"Five hundred dollars," Esther answered quickly and with a tone of finality.
Ten years of Herman's life was worth only five hundred dollars? Malka sighed, remembering the day she and Herman had first stood outside and seen the sign, KREACH'S KOSHER RESTAURANT. They had thought they owned the world then.
"All right, I'll sell," she said again. "I hope you make a living for your children."
Esther was beside herself, but she managed to contain her excitement and replied calmly, "I'll give you two hundred and fifty dollars today, and the rest I'll pay out in six months."
Malka wanted to protest that she wanted it all now, but something about Esther's manner stopped her, so she merely nodded her head.
The place was filthy. Esther bought a gallon of yellow paint and a large brush, and for three nights in a row she painted. Then she changed the oilcloth on the tables, varnished the chairs, took down the Kreaches' sign and put up her own. Finally, Esther was in business.
Three months after Esther had become an entrepreneur, she sent for Gittel. When she saw her child come through the gates of Ellis Island, her heart began to pound. Gittel wasn't a little girl anymore; she was ten years old. Unbelievable—she had grown so that Esther could scarcely believe her eyes. Why were memories so unrealistic? Somehow, she could only remember a small child of eight, waving good-by, and here was a self-possessed little girl coming toward her.
Soon they were holding each other, their tears and words overlapping, and suddenly the worry and the loneliness of the past few years was dispelled. They were together now. Esther composed herself, wiped the tears and held the little girl at arm's length, observing the whole of her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, "Come, Gittel, we'll go home."
CHAPTER 3
Jacob wasn't sure if he was seven or eight years old, but one thing he was certain of: no one loved him. In all the years he'd lived with his relatives, there had never been a word of endearment, never a kiss or a hug. No one wiped away the tears or consoled him or held him through the nights of despair. The money his mother sent for his keep and the brief letters did nothing to alleviate the pain of feeling he was neither needed nor wanted. Why had she sent for Gittel but not for him? Was he that unimportant to her? Well, as far as he was concerned, he was motherless, fatherless and penniless. So he was going to have to be a man and stand on his own.
Whatever Jacob's age, he was bigger and stronger than any of the other little boys in his village, and the thick curly head of blond hair and the deep blue eyes certainly made him the most handsome. If anyone had bothered to observe the boy in the last few weeks, they would have seen a change in him. There was still the haunting look in his eyes that made him seem older than any child had a right to, but his manner had taken on a calm resolve. For some time now, he had thought carefully about his life, and if there were many uncertainties that remained, one thing he was not uncertain about and that was what he now had to do.
One night, after everyone was asleep, he quietly got up, went to the meager larder, broke off a large piece of black bread and stuffed it into a small sack. He climbed through the rear window and, once outside, he put on his shoes and ran across the field until he reached the huge tree where he'd hidden the sharp knife in a hollow. Quickly opening the sack, he stuck the knife into the bread. His journey had just begun, but he never once looked back.
He walked for three days, resting only when he was too exhausted to go on. But the urgency to escape compelled him to continue almost beyond his endurance. He slept for only a few hours each night, in a hayloft, a meadow, a forest, wherever he happened to be. He kept alive by stealing a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole. At first he almost gagged, but he forced himself to hold it down, and the rumbling in his stomach subsided. When he came to a stream, he would bend down, cup his hands in the cold water and drink until his belly bulged. Once he was even lucky enough to spear a trout with his knife, though he had to eat the fish raw.
Finally, he felt a little less apprehensive, having put many miles between himself and his captors. But Jacob needn't have been so concerned. It was several days before anyone even realized he was missing and the worry he caused was not because anyone fretted that perhaps he had met with danger, but because he had the chutzpah to steal the bread from his benefactors, who chose to forget that he had not lived on their charity but on Esther's hard-earned money. However, their anger was assuaged when a ticket and a little money arrived, shortly after Jacob's departure, to take him to America. Unfortunately, Jacob would not be the recipient. How could he be? So they chose their Mottel, to carry the torch of freedom to the golden shores of America.
If Mottel and his family were jubilant about his imminent departure, it was no more than Jacob felt at this moment. He had finally arrived at the train station. It really didn't matter how long it had taken or what he had gone through; he was here and the last leg of his journey to freedom was at hand.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Portraits by Cynthia Freeman. Copyright © 1979 Cynthia Freeman Enterprises, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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