The Bobbe Malke – A Woman’s Tale of Vanished Eastern Europe

(Author: Cedric Ginsberg, Vol. 66, No. 1, Pesach 2011)

 

1)     Introductory Essay

On a recent visit to Israel, I discovered two unusual Yiddish volumes in a second-hand bookstore in Jerusalem. These intrigued me because they had both been published in the former Soviet Union in the 1960s. I had read about a Yiddish literary journal called Soviet Heimland, published from 1961¹ in Moscow, but was surprised to see these collections of short stories and novellas. It emerged, after some research, that these books were part of the process which permitted the publication of the Journal at that time, under the editorship of Aaron Vergelis. I bought the volumes and, for a long time, they stood on my bookshelf unread.

Towards the end of last year, I was looking for a Yiddish story to read with a monthly Yiddish reading group, in the course of which I rediscovered the two books. The first was a collection of short stories and novellas written by Dovid Bergelson,² a highly accomplished Yiddish writer in the first half of the 20^th Century. He was murdered by Stalin in 1952 in the purges that followed the so-called “Doctor’s Plot”³, along with other Yiddish writers and intellectuals. I did not choose a story from this collection because it was presented in the most extreme form of Soviet Yiddish orthography, making it difficult to read by those used to the standard orthography in general use in the West. As is well-known, Yiddish makes use of the Hebrew script. The YIVO convention is that the language is written phonetically in Hebrew characters, except for the Hebrew and Aramaic words. These appear in the text as they are written in the source languages, but are pronounced, when read, as in Yiddish. Below are a few examples taken from the novella Nokh alemen written between 1907-1917 (p83):

Translation	Transliteration	YIVO orthography	Soviet orthography
A scholar close (friend) North-eastern	ben-toyre mekurev tzofn-mizrekhdikn

There was apparently no objection to the use of the Hebrew alphabet for Yiddish texts in the Soviet Union. However, there was the strong imperative to remove any direct connection between Yiddish and Hebrew. The rendering of words of Hebrew origin in phonetic spelling rather than the Hebrew spelling, makes those words like any other word in Yiddish, thereby de-emphasizing their Hebrew origin. The use of the medial form of the letters ë, ô, ö, î, ð  at the end of a word instead the Hebrew final form ê, ó, õ, í, ï is very disturbing for the reader accustomed to the standard usage of the medial and final forms in Hebrew.

I thus turned to the second book, an anthology of short stories⁴. Published a few years later than the Bergelson book, it used a softened form of the strict Soviet orthography. Here, the Hebrew words are rendered phonetically but the final forms of the letters are used throughout. Once again, the phonetic spelling of words of Hebrew origin serves to blur or fudge the Hebrew connection. Within the process of reading, the immediate recognition of a Hebrew word is disturbed because of the discrepancy between the spelling and the pronunciation. The phonetically rendered Hebrew word becomes simply another Yiddish word. It is only the reader literate in Hebrew who would be able to recognise its Hebrew origin. Below are a few examples from the story Di Bobbe Malke:

Translation	Transliteration	YIVO orthography	Soviet orthography
cemetery Malke (proper name) besides	besoylem Malke akhutz

The Soviet citizen who read Yiddish probably knew very little Hebrew (apart from the alphabet). This was the case particularly a generation or two after the Russian Revolution. For him (or her) the text was recognisably Yiddish (from the Hebrew characters) and there was no reason to delve into the etymology of any word – be it of German, Hebrew or Slavic origin.

I chose the story Di Bobbe Malke because the name of the author, Shire Gorshman, was familiar to me. I had read a story written by her, published in the Israeli Yiddish literary journal Di Goldene Keyt. Set in the Lithuanian countryside, in the summer, it told of the time spent by a little girl with her Zeyde before the First World War. It was written in beautiful racy language reminiscent of a child frolicking in a field on a summer’s day.

Di Bobbe Malke is a very different tale. It was written in 1948 and tells the story of an elderly woman in the war-torn Soviet Union. In Yiddish, the word Bobbe may mean ‘granny’ or ‘a midwife’. The variation babke can mean a peasant woman or an old woman and is similar to the Russian babushka. In the case of babeshi (gran, or gran dear) the suffix is a familiar diminutive akin to tatenu (daddy) All these variations depend on the context for their meaning. The reader is given very little information as to the setting of the story. It is clearly somewhere in Eastern Europe – but one is not sure whether it takes place in Lithuania. The only clue is given towards the end of the story, when Vlades, one of the central characters, remarks with reference to the home-brew of liquor Malke has taught him to make: …zey veln bay mir aropshlingen di tzinger! Ekh Bobke, host litvishe hent un a litvishn kop oyf di pleytzes! (…They will swallow their tongues here in my house! Ekh Bobke, you have Lithuanian hands and a Lithuanian head on your shoulders!” – my emphasis)

Shire Gorshman was born in the shtetl Krakes (Krok) near Kaunas (Kovno), Lithuania, in 1906. During the First World War, the Russians expelled large numbers of Lithuanian Jews, fearing that they would support the Germans. Shire’s family landed up in Odessa. As a young girl, she went to live with her grandfather, who taught her the Hebrew of the Tanach. She became a Zionist and in 1924 immigrated to Palestine. There, she became part of Gedud Ha’avodah, one of the Socialist Labour groupings of the 3^rd Aliyah. Members of this group established Ein Harod and Kfar Giladi. The group was plagued by ideological splits and, in 1929, she returned to the Soviet Union to participate in the establishment of Jewish agricultural communes in the Crimea. By the early 1930s, these communes had been closed down by the Soviet authorities and Shire had moved to Moscow, where she engaged in literary work⁵. Very little of her considerable writing has been translated into English. She returned to Israel in 1990 and lived in Ashkelon until her death in 2001.

The opening section of Di Bobbe Malke describes shtetl-life before the Second World War – an uncomplicated village existence, affected by the changing seasons, bound up in community life and its celebrations and sorrows. The opening sentence of the second section summarises this background:

…azoy hot zikh getzoygen a lebn mit kimpetorns, brisn, khasenes, levayes…shoyn dos gantze shtetl pust… (And so her life played itself out with women in childbirth, brises, w e d d i n g s , funerals… now the whole town is empty…)

The Bobbe Malke lives a little out of town next to the old cemetery, and has seemingly been forgotten by those who were responsible for ‘emptying’ the town. The inference of the statement “the town is empty” is that it is empty of Jews. Thus, the author hints at what has happened in the shtetl – never explicitly informing the reader.

The Bobbe Malke alone carries the memory of the townspeople in her mind and her chattels. She, as the shtetl midwife, has all their details written in an exercise-book. As she reads through the list of names, the horror of their murder haunts her, overwhelms her. She relives the nightmare in her waking moments, until she can bear it no longer. At that point she puts on her coat, and walks out of her hovel, leaving the lamp on and the door open. We do not know how far she walks, but along the way she barters her coat for a sheepskin and a loaf of bread. She thus transforms herself outwardly into a peasant woman. An old peasant couple rent her the shed next to their house – she shares this space with a pig. And so she lives for some time, with no-one even imagining that she is Jewish. She tells the old lady that she is an experienced midwife, but the village already has one. One day a crisis occurs. The headman of the village’s wife is having a difficult childbirth which threatens her life and that of the baby. An old peasant woman rushes into the shed and calls on Malke to assist.

From this point the Bobbe Malke’s life changes. She comes into a spacious house and takes complete control, ordering the distraught husband: …balebos! Shtelt tzu vaser! Gib a trunk, farbeysn oykh!… (…Sir,

Prepare hot water! Give me a drink, a snack too!…)

She continues barking out orders to the husband and to the poor exhausted, struggling woman, forcing her to concentrate all her being on the delivery. In this way, she ‘psyches’ the woman into releasing her own almost superhuman effort in delivering the child – saving both the mother and baby’s life. After the birth, Malke remains in the house to assist the mother Mikhasye⁶, with the new baby and takes meals with the family. Malke becomes Mikhasye’s confidant and is shown by her hidden artefacts when her husband was not around:

…zilberne lefl-gopl, vesh, un andere zachen. ‘Vi meyns tu bobeshi, s’iz a zind? Mir voltn nit genumen, voltn dokh andere genumen. Nit azoy?’… (…silver cutlery, linen and other things. ‘What do you think, m’dear, was it a sin? If we wouldn’t have taken, others would certainly have. Not so?’…)

No further details are provided in the narrative. To whom did these artefacts belong? Why were they left ownerless (hefker) for people to take? But the Bobbe Malke knows that these had belonged to the murdered Jews of the town – she can only respond by silently nodding her head.

The answer is alluded to in Malke’s recurring nightmare, described in the next paragraph. She dreams she was the kvater (godfather) who brings the baby to the Mohel (the man who performs the circumcision on the eight-day old baby boy). But in the dream, the Mohel has the face of Vlade, Mikhasye’s husband and the village headman. It is he who is the person of authority in the town and who reports to the German occupiers. In the nightmare, Vlades casts a bundle wrapped in diapers back at her – and from this bundle pour out many bloodied little hands and feet.

Vlades may not have been personally responsible for the murder of the Jews of the town, but he certainly looted their possessions. As the figure of authority in the village, Malke sees him as synonymous with the murderers. Since the birth of the baby, she has become like a member of the family. She takes her meals with them and is Mikhasye’s constant companion and confidant, in addition to caring for the baby. As time goes by, she learns more about Vlades’ importance and standing in the town. This makes her feel ever more uneasy about living there, in the house of a man who is a collaborator with the Germans. The artefacts looted from murdered Jews are familiar to her – she knew people from her shtetl who owned just such a mirror as now hangs on Vlades’ wall. She becomes increasingly edgy and uncomfortable in his company and realises that while Mikhasye and the baby are in the house, she can do nothing to alleviate her anxiety. She has no formalised plan in mind, but her hatred, loathing and mistrust of Vlades is becoming unbearable. In an ever-fluid emerging process, the Bobbe Malke manipulates Vlades into agreeing to take his wife to her parents ahead of the impending visit of the Germans. Being alone in the house with Vlades became more difficult than ever for Malke. She is terrified of him, and despises his self-seeking cruel behaviour. He has betrayed to the Germans those who were engaged with the forces opposing them:

…Vlades hot gefirt dem molekhhamoves tzu di vos hobn gehat zin, brider, tates in der royter armey oder bay di partizaner… (Vlades lead the angel of death to those who had sons, brothers, fathers in the Red Army and with the Partisans…)

And, as if this betrayal of his fellow countrymen were not enough, Valdes shares the possessions of those condemned to death with the Germans. She curses him silently and all the while her suppressed rage is accumulating within her. In this way, Gorshman masterfully builds up the tension as the story advances towards its climax.

The Germans are due to visit the village on a Sunday. Vlades arranges to have roasted duck with apples ready to serve them. Bobbe Malke cooks the dish – a veritable banquet, particularly during the war years when food was so scarce. She has the meal set out for Vlades and his ‘guests’. For her, it is a fast day – no food passes her lips, the smell of the roasted duck was actually repulsive to her – in light of whom the “dinner guests” were to be.

Vlades leaves the house in the morning and when he has not returned by late afternoon, she lies down behind the oven and falls asleep. He arrives home after dark, bitterly disappointed that the Germans have not come to his house. They have come to the village, arrested whomever they wished, and left. He sits down at the laden table and begins to drink glass after glass of the delicious liquor Malke had taught him to make. She watches him with smouldering hatred and rage in her heart as he becomes more and more inebriated. She still does not know what she is going to do. She has been standing at the hearth (pripetchik) watching him. In the hearth, is a cast iron pot of boiling lye – it becomes clear that now is the moment when she has to act, otherwise the opportunity will be lost. Malke grabs the boiling pot and with the same immense force “she used to save a woman in childbirth”, she pours it over him. She grabs the sheepskin, wraps it round herself and leaves the house. Her intention was not to kill him, but rather to blind him – …”keyn vigl vet er shoyn mer nit onkuken” (“He will no longer be able to look into a cradle”). Those eyes, which had overseen the destruction of her people, the looting of their possessions, the betrayal of his own people to the German occupiers – would no longer be able enjoy the simple pleasure of regarding his baby in its crib.

This is a remarkable story, written in the Soviet Union at a time when Stalin’s regime was about to launch an unprecedented purge that would last for over four years. It is highly critical of the behaviour of Vlades, a Soviet citizen. That criticism is couched in terms of collaboration with the enemy and the amassing of possessions. It also ‘censures’ the betrayal by him of other Soviet citizens, who had attempted to fight against the enemy. The reproof is directed against the Soviet citizen who acted in a reprehensible way towards other Soviet citizens⁷ and the Soviet State. At the same time, almost imperceptibly and by a mere hint, there is comment on the disappearance of Jews and the appearance of artefacts hidden in the headman’s home. There is further suggestion that the artefacts were looted from forcibly abandoned Jewish homes. The sensitivity to the Jewish dimension would probably be picked up by a Jewish reader, who would identify with the Bobbe Malke, as an elderly Jewish woman as well as a midwife. The mention of brises, the Jewish cemetery (besoylem) weddings (khasenes) and the old Rabbi (der alter rov) as being part of the life of the people of the town, seem to reinforce this idea. It appears to me that the inclusion of these ‘parochial’, ethnic aspects of the Jewish life-cycle by their Yiddish names present a Jewish flavour to a story that otherwise is told in general terms. It would not have been permissible in terms of contemporary Soviet ‘culture’, to promote a ‘separatist’ cultural or religious message. The story was obviously passed by the Soviet political censer; otherwise it would not have been included in the anthology.

Although the story is set in the Holocaust period, it is not essentially a tale of the Holocaust. The narrative progresses against the backdrop of the War – but the War is clearly in the background. It comes to the fore only to offset the Bobbe Malke’s suffering as a result of the war. The reader is aware that the Bobbe Malke is Jewish, but none of the other characters are. The senior position Vlades holds in the town and his collaboration with the occupying German forces are the source of terrible suppressed pain and anger. She does not seek revenge – she only wants to prevent him from enjoying the pleasure of seeing his offspring grow and develop. This may perhaps be seen as some small recompense for his involvement in the murder of the children and townspeople and the looting of their possessions.

The translation of this story was quite challenging. The language is rich, drawing on Russian, Ukrainian and possibly Lithuanian and Hebrew words. There were several words I could not find in any of the three major Yiddish dictionaries at my disposal. I sent a list of these to Mendele, an internet forum for Yiddish literature and Yiddish language⁸. The response was overwhelming – no fewer than eight in-depth assessments and suggestions. Particularly interesting was a response from Faith (Nomi) Jones. She drew my attention to a translation of this story by Jennifer Kronovet, which had appeared in a wonderful anthology of stories concentrating on women.

As is to be expected in translation work, there are many opinions and few strict rules. As was pointed out by one of the respondents, when a minority language is used in everyday communication, it frequently borrows from the dominant language within which it operates. This ‘borrowing’ enriches the language, but when the reader is not familiar with the former ‘dominant’ language, it sometimes makes understanding difficult. A look into South African Yiddish literature reveals a similar phenomenon. We find words like smous (peddler) and shmoyzn (to peddle).

Both Yiddish and Afrikaans have a language structure similar to that of German, for example, the double negative and the frequent addition of ‘ge-’ to the verb to indicate the past tense. In the course of reading South African Yiddish texts, I have frequently come across words which are familiar from Afrikaans. For example in a story called Oysgeleshene funkn (Extinguished Sparks) by Hyman Polski, we came across the following: farkér (traffic – verkeer), neygung (inclination – neiging), bagrifn (comprehend, understand begrip). It would be fascinating to embark, in depth, on such a study. It is known that in the early days of Jewish settlement in the platteland (particularly the Free State) immigrant Jews learnt Afrikaans before they learnt English.

 

THE BOBBE MALKE

Shire Gorshman
(translated by Cedric Ginsberg)

Her little cottage with the low windows stood along-side the old cemetery. In winter the heavy snow-covered roof would sink down to the windowframe, like a large sheepskin hat over the eyes on a child’s head. In summer the earth-covered roof would become overgrown with mint and camomile; the longish tendrils with the white splashes among the creeper’s leaves wound around the chimney as if adorning the smoke. The nasturtiums with their red velvet hearts, which the Bobbe Malke loved so much, would almost block the narrow footpath to the low pine door. The cemetery-trees reached the cottage, and besides that they pushed green reminders into the Bobbe’s little window, they served a purpose as well: she collected linden blossoms for a really good body-sweat. She gathered mushrooms from under the aspens, she would make little holes in the birches with a gimlet, and tie on a little earthenware dish to catch the drops.

How often did the townsfolk savor Malke’s tsholnt with the tartness of her birch-brew! She would bury [lit. hide] empty uncorked bottles in ant heaps, the ‘clever’ ants would crawl in like fools. The Bobbe Malke would pour liquor over them. Old-folk with rheumatism would praise the remedy: “If the bones still squeak, its thanks first to it, and then you…” She would also drink a little glass and add: “Whether it is from it or from me, from me or from the ants, may the bones continue to creak!”

It is told that the old Rabbi called on Malke to chide her:

• You collect mushrooms right there, you tie up bundles of hyssop for the bath-house, isn’t this enough for you? You planted carrots and broad-beans among the graves, is this still too little for you? You boast, so I’m told, that one can hardly pull the carrots out of the ground and each bean pod has as many beans, as a woman’s tongue, words.

From then on, turnips began to grow between the graves. The Bobbe Malke would relate that it was as though her turnip tzimmes had honey poured over it, she had no need for carrots.

She always came to woman in childbirth, both through the wintery snow and the autumn mud, and when the towns-folk urged her to move house:

• A person alone, long nights, it’s lonely… The Bobbe would reply:
• Firstly, I have never been lonely, as long as I have lived. Secondly, my occupation requires a calm disposition. How often have I not suffered terribly, in empathy with the woman giving birth? But as soon as I tie that cord, I forget everything!

Once, at a wealthy bris, the Bobbe Malke drank cherry brandy from a tea glass, she polished off a little platter of chopped liver, from edge to edge. As she moved a deep bowl of ingberlekh closer to her, she noticed that Mendl the waiter was looking at her disapprovingly. She tipped the bowl over onto the table slid the ingberlekh towards herself and cried:

• Don’t look at me like that! I have earned this properly, the child was, you shouldn’t know about it, in breach!

And so her life played itself out with women in childbirth, brises, weddings, funerals…

The Bobbe Malke would consider the pieces of home-woven linen, as she aired her things and would then hide them again at the very bottom of the chest as she sadly thought: “It’s not a wedding veil, it can wait a bit longer”.

It was a life filled with reminders of the past, with hopes for the next two years and the next five years. Then suddenly everything was erased and emptied out…

The whole town was empty, but about her, apparently, they had forgotten. At night she sat at the draped little windows, passing her finger over the crooked lines in a yellowed exercise book, counting: “Avrom, Reize and their family. Hirshele, Feifke, Dinke, Frumke, Shaye, Khiyene, their Bentzele, Nekhemke, Shloymele, Menukhke and Yoynele”. She pointed for so long, that she remained sitting, swaying, with closed eyes… yellow flames began dancing in a circle in which infants were burning. Her cottage was filled the screams of children… and she sat fully clothed for long nights, opening her eyes every now and then, in order to dispel the horror… for months on end she sat like this, waiting for the angel of death, until one night she put on her navy-blue coat with the Bordeaux-velvet lapels and without extinguishing the lamp or closing the door, she left the cottage.

In some village, she exchanged the coat for a sheep-skin and a loaf of bread. Her face with its sunken and wrinkled cheeks, looked out over the collar like a little piece of dried-out yellow skin, in which her slightly faded blue eyes sat deep-set like two corn pancakes. She looked for all the world like a peasant woman, who had worked all her life in the fields. In another village she removed her amber beads from around her neck, in lieu of rent. The old couple allowed her to stay in the shed with the pig. The old man would pull a woollen sock over its snout at night, so that it should not disturb the Bobbe Malke’s sleep. Even so she hardly slept. At dawn she would tear nettle leaves and other greens for the pig. She told the old lady that she was a skilled midwife, but the village had its own midwife. No-one was willing to approach the stranger and no one even imagined that she was Jewish. The Bobbe Malke no longer believed that her occupation would be of any further use.

One evening she was chopping nettles for the pig as she did every day. An old peasant woman barged into the shed, pulled her by the sleeve and exclaimed:

• Come quickly! Vlades’ wife is in labour. Already two measures [second stage] – she is dying!

The old woman led the Bobbe Malke to a spacious house with clean floors, the unpainted walls were made of coarse beams. The moss between them was still greenish. On piles of bedclothes, with a holy icon at the head of the bed, lay the woman in labour, with her legs spread apart. Her belly obscured her face. Her husband paced back and forth from the mirror to the oven.

• Sir, Prepare water! Give me a drink, a snack too!

She drank up, snacked on a few cooked eggs, tied two hand towels to the headboard, and, bending down to the woman in labour, began earnestly:

• If you want to live, then help yourself! You don’t have as many hairs on your head as young women I have seen lying like this. Nu, move yourself!.. Grab the hand towels, more tightly, with all your strength pull them towards yourself!.. Stronger still!! Bend your knees, clever girl, no one can exit through a closed door!.. Again, darling, stronger… Sir, a glass of tea – half honey, half water, faster! Nu, drink. A sip! Swallow! Once again the hand towels – pull towards you! Help yourself! Harder!

In this way the Bobbe Malke barked out orders, until the woman in labour began to shout in a voice not her own. Then the Bobbe Malke rolled up her sleeves and shouted to the husband: “Pour over!” And holding her washed hands out in front of her, she ran towards the bed and called out in a soft quiet voice, as if she were afraid to frighten someone:

• Nu, come, quicker, fool, anyway there is no room for you up there…

She called softly and more softly still. The woman in labour shouted  more and more loudly, until some little smacks were heard and a thin brand-new ‘Wah!’ Vlades stood and looked on, as the Bobbe Malke held in her left palm a quivering blue-brown creature tummy facing up. With the other hand she poured lukewarm water over it as she joked:

• You have a peasant, weighs surely twelve pounds!

She wrapped him up and asked: –           Nu, now give something to eat.

Vlades once again brought out the liquor. He poured out two glasses.

• No, no more of that. Enough! I am not a drunk! I needed a shot of courage, you drink, and give me something to eat.

Vlades brought butter and honey, a round loaf of wheat-bread, and the Bobbe Malke spread one slice⁹ after another.

• Ay, Babke, splendid job. If one fed you up for a bit, you could yourself have children!
• For sure! You think your wife has had this baby? I had for her! And anyway now its time for you to go to sleep, since you have started talking nonsense. Go lie down, and I’ll sit with the young-mother.

Days went by. The Bobbe Malke knew already that Vlades was the [German appointed] headman of the village. The young-mother walked about, the new-born went from red to pink, the broad squashed little nose narrowed. The Bobbe Malke healed the thrush which spread in his mouth: she would roll a soft linen cloth around her little finger, dip it in saltwater and wipe his little tongue and palate. She would take meals together with the headman and his wife, quickly scraping aside the shortening with a spoon. She became one of the family.

When Vlades was not at home, Mikhasye would open the green chest and, displaying silver cutlery, linen and other things, ask:

• What do you think, Bobeshi, is it a sin? Had we not taken, others surely would have. Not so? The Bobbe Malke silently nodded her head.

At night she would dream the same dream: she was the godmother, handing over the child, the mohel had Vlades’ appearance, he threw it back wrapped in swaddling, and there poured out many, many bloodied little hands and feet… she cried out in her sleep, and the headman shouted at her:

• Make your bed in the summer part of the house, you don’t let me sleep, Bobke, the devil knows what crawls around in your head!

The Bobbe Malke would not merely have gone to the summer part of the house, she would have gone away, wherever her eyes would have taken her. From the first days onwards, she didn’t only feel hatred towards Vlades. It was a feeling of combined disgust, hatred and curiosity.

It happened that a peasant woman came in, and babbled in confusion: “Five viyorst from here the partisans have burnt down a military command post together with the Germans”. Mikhasye buried herself in the soft bedclothes and whimpered. Vlades came in from the street and boomed:

• How many times have I said, allow no one into the house. Their eyes are on stalks! They are filled with malice. Was I the only one who took? They, are all honest folk! Get out of bed, you slovenly creature! If not… – he made a movement towards Mikhasye with raised fists.
• Vladinke, I’m afraid, I have no strength left… burn everything, throw it away, I don’t need anything! – Mikhasye sobbed.
• Throw it out?! You stinking slob! You didn’t bring it in and you won’t throw it out!

And the Bobbe Malke thought as she rocked the hanging crib: “Dear Lord, may he never more hear the cry of a new-born child!”

The house was packed full of goods and chattels. Silver cutlery – but they ate with wooden forks and spoons. Dozens of Dutch sheets – but they slept on home-woven coarse cloth. Large copper bowls turning green, with the lids placed above the oven, only the cushions patiently held their heads up. The clock struck hour after hour, and the mirror showed a corner of the oven and the four cords of the hanging crib instead of everything which it had reflected not a long time previously…

Early in the morning when Vlades combed his hair, the Bobbe Malke was always reminded of Isaac’s Tzivke: She stood with uplifted hands before the mirror, as she wove her plaits around her head in Isaac’s house there was a mirror exactly like this one. And in the town they would speculate about who would marry Tzivke, the way she stood and preened… and now… she lies with her parents and many, many others in a large pit…

From the mirror Vlades’ face looks out, with his

flaxen forelock falling over his indifferent brow.

• Vlades, cover the mirror, it is made of the kind of glass which abhors warmth, and the house is like a bath-house. Take good care of the mirror, after all, its yours now! – the Bobbe Malke could not resist.

As he covered the mirror, Vlades muttered to himself:

• For sure, why should one pry open people’s eyes? Next year I’ll build a new house with a high ceiling, built to fit the mirror.

And the Bobbe Malke, tightly squeezing the handle of the hatchet and the raw potatoes for the chicken dish, grumbled into the cast-iron pot:

• May you not live to see your son grow up, and may he be your last!

Her hatred towards Vlades robbed the Bobbe Malke of her sleep. At night she looked down from the oven, and however dark it was in the house, she saw his face and the teeth in his open snoring mouth.

It would sometimes happen that he was delayed for several days in a nearby village.

Had Vlades been able to read her glance, when he returned, he would have detected that the Bobbe Malke strongly anticipated his arrival. Concerning Mikhasye, she had already long since decided: bland cooked food – without salt and without pepper. As regards Vlades, however, she thought differently, and for this very reason, she schemed for days, how to send Mikhasye away with the child. In addition to this, for the last few days Mikhasye had wandered around sighing and moaning. The Bobbe Malke understood that he was concealing something from her. She said nothing, until Mikhasye confided in her when Vlades was not at home.

• Next week Sunday – she told her – the Germans are coming to the village. Vlades says he will invite them to us, and he has asked me to make roast geese with apples. I know how to cook geese with cabbage, but with apples, I hear this for the first time… and you know him of course? If he says something, it must be carried out!
• Nu, until next week Sunday, there is still time! And anyway, why should he care who does the roasting, as long as there is a roast – the Bobbe Malke comforted her.

Mikhasye discussed the matter with her so often in secret, until she burst into tears in front of Vlades:

• I want to go and visit my parents, Vladinke, I miss them so!
• If you had any sense, you would have said yourself: Go, my wife, take the child and go! – the Bobbe Malke interjected – is it really necessary that she should hang around the house? Your guests are Germans, don’t forget! And they deny themselves nothing. Refreshments are refreshments, roasted geese are certainly tasty, and after a few glasses of liquor, a young woman is also not bad!… And further I wanted to tell you for some time, Vlades… I have been thinking: I have eaten your bread for long enough! It is time to move on. I have relatives some fifty viyorst from here. Spring is approaching, and I’ll help them on their land…
• What have you suddenly latched onto Bobke, as if I had put some gunpowder under your tail? Have I said anything? Let her go! And you stay! When she returns, we’ll see. – Vlades interrupted the Bobbe Malke in mid-sentence.

The next day he actually took Mikhasye himself. When he returned he couldn’t help but wonder, the oven was painted white, the walls scrubbed and the floors – you could eat kashe off them.

Now that the Bobbe Malke remained alone in the house with Vlades, she became more disquieted and strained than ever. It took a long time until she got used to the fact that the villagers and the people in the household did not think of her as being Jewish. And now she feared every step, each squeak of the door, each turn and movement of Vlades made her jump. All her strength and all the stubbornness upon which she had drawn throughout her life, she now tapped into in an instant, in order to appear outwardly calm, but only outwardly. Her old mind and true heart did not rest. Sometimes it appeared to her, that it would have been better and more sensible, had she remained in her own village. “Empty cradles are left, that only the wind can rock” – she thought, as she watched Vlades running the village.

Since Mikhasye and the child had left, he had more work then he could handle. Vlades was the son of a rich miller and it was not for nothing that the Germans made him a headman. Vlades lead the angel of death to those who had sons, brothers or fathers in the Red Army and with the Partisans. He shared the possessions of those executed, with the Germans. He knew no limits. He helped himself indiscriminately: an iron bar stripped from a neighbour’s house, to fruit-trees dug out roots and all from a stranger’s orchard.

May he be cursed, may a crib never more stand in his home, and may he never again hear the cry of a new-born child” – the Bobbe Malke whispered as she also cursed her own very being: “You old dodderer, vile creature! You remain in Vlades’ house, yet you do not choke with every bite you take”. She was distracted and cleaved in two. One Bobbe Malke stumbling around the town among the ruins, the second – intently watching Vlades. “The man who plundered and assisted in the murder of my nearest ones, this same man loots and kills his own people as well!” – she thought with a shudder, hearing the voices crying out at night: “Save us!”

The anticipated Sunday arrived. The Bobbe Malke stuffed the geese with schmaltz wheat cereal. She placed them in a scoured copper dish, surrounding them with cooking apples and herbs¹⁰, and put them in the oven. When she took them out cooked, they were perfectly browned and they smelt so good that Vlades bolted the door…. She had taught him how to make a delicious drink from raw spirits. He placed dried cherries, plums in a samovar, poured over the liquor, a bit of honey and cooked it up. Tasting the drink, Vlades heaped praise on it:

• They will swallow their tongues here in my house! Ekh Babke, you have Lithuanian hands and a Lithuanian head on your shoulders!

He left to greet the guests. The Bobbe Malke combed her hair, washed, put a cast iron pot of lye on to boil in the fire place, placed the roasted geese and the samovar on the table. The weather was already getting warmer. She could not understand why Vlades had not yet arrived with the guests. She herself had eaten nothing. That day was a fast-day for her. The smell of the roast was repugnant to her. She crawled up onto the oven and covered herself with the sheepskin. “May no crib stand in his house, Father in heaven!” – she thought as she drifted into sleep. She dreamt, they were knocking on the door shouting: “Wake up, we have been saved, the Red Army has arrived!” she crawled down from the oven and opened the door for Vlades.

• What’s the matter with you, Babke, I thought they had killed you. I nearly knocked the door down, may a pox take it. What a waste of three wonderful geese! They arrived, took away whomever they wanted, but they did not come to me!
• No matter, its cold, you won’t have to throw it away – the Bobbe Malke comforted him.

But Vlades did not hear what she said. He was already consoling himself. He sat down at the table, carved some goose flesh for himself and drank a toast alone.

And she stood at the hearth with her hands under her apron.

• Babke! Don’t you like me! Sit down at the table!
• No, such a roast is not for my teeth, I have already eaten mashed potato – she responded. – Mashed potato? – Vlades repeated drunkenly.

The Bobbe Malke stood all the while at the hearth. She watched as he downed glass after glass. Her eyes were half closed, but she saw this was the right time.

• You have drunk enough! – she screamed.
• As much as I want, so much will I drink, you knobby old hag! You had better guard your thorny roots! – he shouted at her as he tried to stand up.

The Bobbe Malke sensed that her scheming and planning could disappear like smoke.

• “You trampled the fresh green shoots and theflowers under-foot, and the oak-trees you have chopped down – so I have no need to guard my dry roots! – she thought, keeping her gaze fixed on him. As soon as she noticed that he had cut off a drum-stick and had begun chewing at it, she grabbed the cast-iron pot with the same force, she used to save a woman in labour from the last most acute pain, and running towards him, upturned the boiling contents on his head.

A thick vapor enveloped the house. She pulled the sheepskin down from the oven, threw it round her shoulders and left. She imagined that the street should have been full of people. She looked around in amazement: a clear starry night, a light frost. She stuck her hands in the sleeves, buttoned up and thought: “Thankfully the hands were not washed¹¹!… He will no longer look into a cradle”. She lifted her eyes to the stars and prayed: “If possible, Father in heaven, let me still live, just a little longer, not more…”

 

Cedric Ginsberg, a frequent contributor to and long-serving member of the editorial board of Jewish Affairs, has taught Jewish Studies at Wits and Hebrew and Jewish Studies at Unisa. He teaches Yiddish at the Hebrew Academy at the Rabbi Cyril Harris Community Centre in Johannesburg.

 

NOTES

1. h t t p : / / w w w . j c p a . o r g / J C P A / T e m p l a t e s / S h o w P a g e . a s p ? D R I T = 5 & D B I D = 1 & L N G I D = 1 & T M I D = 1 1 1 & F I D = 6 2 5 & P I D = 868&IID=1525&TTL=Spiritual_Potential_of the_Communal_Revival:_Yiddish_Culture_and_PostSoviet_Jewry Velvl Chernin.
2. Dovid Bergelson.1961. Oysgevaylte verk. Melukhe Farlag fun Kinstlerishe Literatur: Moscow.
3. Towards the end of his life, Stalin became increasingly paranoid. He believed the doctors of the Moscow State Hospital (many of whom were Jewish), were plotting to poison him. These were arrested and, following a “show trial” in which they were falsely charged with treason, executed.
4. Dertzeylungen fun yidishe sovetishe shrayber. Farlag Sovetski Pisatel: Moscow.
5. com, Faith Jones, Shira Gorshman: A life in three acts.
6. In the translation by Jennifer Kronovet, of this story, the name Mikhasye (as it appears in the Yiddish text) is rendered as Marina. I could find no reason for the change, except that ‘Marina’ is a less Jewish sounding name. The story is included in an anthology called: Beautiful as the moon, radiant as the stars: Jewish women in Yiddish stories. New York: Warner Books (Ed. Sandra Bark), pp. 279-290. It is a highly competent translation and sometimes tends to be more interpretative. My translation tends to be more literal, attempting to remain more faithful to the original text.
7. In this context, ‘Soviet citizens’ includes the Jews. In the former Soviet Union, the authorities set up memorial plaques at major killing sites of Jews in Lithuania. The plaques referred only to ‘Soviet Citizens’ murdered – even though only Jews were buried in the mass graves.
8. Mendele: Yiddish literature and language Vol. 20.012, a whole issue was devoted to the discussion of these difficulties.
9. The word used in the Yiddish text is “moytze”- “geshmirt a moytze nokh a moytze” from the blessing said over bread, “hamoytze lekhem min ho’oretz”.
10. The Yiddish word used is “plostn”. I could not find an appropriate English word for this. It could be ‘goose fat’ or herbs and spices.
11. The Yiddish reads: “a dank di hent nit gevashn!” I could not make sense of the phrase. Jennifer Kronovet translated this phrase “Thank the One whose Name cannot be uttered…”. Maybe the text she consulted differed from mine. This translation differs too greatly from the text I had in front of me.

[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]