Fear and Other Stories by Chana Blankshteyn

Author:Chana Blankshteyn [Blankshteyn, Chana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LCO019000 Literary Collections / Women Authors, LCO008010 Literary Collections / European / Eastern (see Also Russian & Former Soviet Union), LIT004210 Literary Criticism / Jewish, FIC014000 Fiction / Historical
Publisher: Wayne State University Press
Published: 2022-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

III

The government-appointed rabbi, a Doctor of Philosophy and a poet, had just fallen asleep. He had sat until late at night near the little tin oven, writing, blinding himself by the light of the improvised lamp, and tending to the makeshift wick in his jar of oil. He was writing his memoirs. During the day he kept his notebook in the kitchen hidden behind the rusty faucet because he feared someone might find his notes. He would only write in his diary late at night, describing what had happened during his unsettling days. He wanted to leave a memoir for his sons in case he never saw them again.

His wife had gone to bed earlier and asked him to take pity on his weak eyes and go to sleep.

He joked,—Pity on my eyes? Maybe you mean pity on the expensive eyeglasses?

He has barely gotten warm under the fleece covers when he hears something under his window and springs up. The neighing of horses, a knock on the door, the too familiar knock of a rifle at the entrance that was barred with wooden boards. Leaning on his elbows, he listens. He glances over at the other bed where his wife is sleeping, snoring loudly. He lies back down, waiting. From a distance, he hears the barricaded door open. He hears loud steps going up the stairs and angry ringing at his door. Startled, he puts his trembling feet into his warm slippers. His arms have trouble finding their way into the warm robe.

—Sara, get up!

But she is already up, lighting the jar of oil and shivering from cold and fear. Their maid comes in.

—It’s an inspection.

The three of them shuffle toward the door.

—Who’s there?—stammers the rabbi.

—Open up. We mean you.

The rabbi’s fingers flitter aimlessly. He is unable to turn the key. An impatient fist bangs on the door.

—Open!

His wife pushes him aside, undoes the chain, opens the door. The sparkling bayonets of two rifles appear. A man in a long, hooded fur cape enters. Wearing a large fur hat, he looks unnaturally tall in the flickering lamplight. A little being stands next to him, wrapped entirely in fur.

The rabbi does not move. He looks at the tall man and cannot utter a word. What could they be searching for in his house? Has he hidden the diary well enough? His heart grows cold and heavy. The lamp shakes in his hand. His wife takes the jar of oil from him. They go into his office.

—Comrade rabbi—says the man in the cape—we’ve come for you to marry us.

The rabbi sits down on a chair near his desk. His voice returns. Quietly, he says,

—Do you have papers?

The man takes off his fur hat, undoes his cape. At the belt of his short leather jacket two revolvers stick out of their holsters. He hands over some papers.

The rabbi nearly faints when he reads the name of the bridegroom. He takes off his glasses, wipes the lenses, looks the bridegroom in the face. Yes, it really is he: it’s Shtoltsman.

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