Oedipus in Brooklyn and Other Stories by Blume Lempel

Author:Blume Lempel
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781942134220
Publisher: Mandel Vilar Press
Published: 2016-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

Whenever snow fell, Tsirele would light a memorial candle. Not wanting to upset Yoyne, she lit it in silence, inside her heart. The flame extended all the way to the distant forest. The trees were alight like candles, rays of sunlit gold that melted, dripping wax like white lambs, frightened lambs without a shepherd that ran helter-skelter into the night. The nightingale sang. The frogs croaked. Needing fresh air, Tsirele opened the window. The birds were waiting. They, too, would risk their lives for a mouthful of bread. A fat tomcat lurked nearby. On the telephone wire, some birds kept watch while those on the ground pecked at the grain. Perhaps the birds on the wire were the mothers? She, the mother of her only child, had lain like a stone and allowed her child to run into the fire. Tsirele threw out a handful of seeds. She talked to herself without stopping. Sometimes she spoke to the birds, not caring whether they heard or understood. She spoke because she had to speak. She even told them about her two miscarriages. She had not been able to disgrace Yosele’s memory by allowing another being to take root in the place where he had begun.

Tsirele spoke as the birds pecked. When those on the wire became greedy for a bite and descended to the perilous ground, Tsirele took over the vigil for them. She knew that the gluttonous tomcat was crouching in the bushes. He was not even hungry; he was simply luxuriating in his good fortune. The collar at his throat was set with colored stones. He did not eat the birds. He bit their necks in two and looked on with pleasure until they stopped moving.

To Yoyne and his daughter she did not speak about Yosele. They who had not looked into his eyes, who had not felt his trembling pulse or rejoiced in his triumphs, who had not shared in his fear, could not understand what he meant to her. She spoke instead to the birds above, to the squirrels on the ground, to the wind in the air. She heard her own echo as it resounded across the courtyard: “Yosele! Yosele?”

Her husband’s daughter was preparing a bar mitzvah celebration for her son. Of course Tsirele would go to the party dressed in her best, as befitted a mother-in-law. Perhaps she would also dance. Why shouldn’t she? After all, she had lived to see the Brown Shirts defeated. She had a roof over her head, shoes on her feet, a dress on her body, a husband — and yet all the blessings in the world could not restore Yosele’s unlived life or the life of the generations he was destined to bring to the world. From whom could she demand her due? To whom could she submit her claim? Common sense dictated that she admit defeat, but her heart could not accept the verdict.

Whenever a holiday arrived, Tsirele went looking for Holocaust literature to read, the memorial volumes of the annihilated Jewish towns.

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