The River Midnight by Lilian Nattel

Author:Lilian Nattel [Nattel, Lilian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-36428-9
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2000-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

IN 1894, Tishah b’Av would be falling on Saturday, August 9th. Since it was forbidden to mourn on the Sabbath, the fast day would have to be observed after the Sabbath ended—from Saturday evening to Sunday evening.

That Sabbath was a solemn one, anticipating Tishah b’Av, the villagers anxious about the possibility of an epidemic, Alta-Fruma sleeplessly watching over Emma. After Hershel and Izzie returned from services on Friday evening, Hanna-Leah put the boy right to bed. “He’s worn out with worry. He has to sleep,” she said, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “It’s too warm in the house. I need a breath of air. A walk. Watch over the boy, Hershel.”

She left and he watched her go, chewing the inside of his cheek, worried that she might be getting sick and more worried, to his shame, that she might have another reason for going out at this time of night.

Hershel sat, arms flat on the table, looking at the carved figure in the green satin dress on its shelf above the fireplace. Where did she get the wooden doll? It couldn’t be from anyone in Blaszka. If it was, he would have heard. Someone gave it to her. What kind of someone? Not a scholar. Not a person with holy thoughts who wouldn’t lift his eyes to a woman. No. It had to be someone who worked with his hands. A proster. Not any better than Hershel himself. Looking at his Hanna-Leah. Touching her.

“Where is she?” he asked. “Who is she with?” He began to pace. Walking back and forth, he muttered, he groaned. “If I find her—them—I’ll …” He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He was always trying to hold himself back. Enough. It would be a relief to let himself go. He would find them and he would give them what they deserved. He hit the wall with his fist. The wall cracked and the boy whimpered, tossing in his sleep. “Sha, sha,” Hershel said, wiping away the blood on his knuckles. He sat down. He stood up. He sat down, his head in his hands. “Hankela, Hankela,” he whispered, “what would I do without you?”

He remembered their wedding day, when he stood in front of her, weak with fasting, Shmuel at his side. He had a speech prepared, the injunction to the bride informing her of her duties and instructing her in her behavior. But in that moment, looking at her sitting tall in her bride’s chair, wreathed with a veil and a crown of flowers, he thought only of how lucky he was. The same hands that could split a cow in half would soon lift her veil, and he saw himself falling into a bed of gold. The older men laughed at his speechlessness. It was something he would remember later. But then he didn’t care. He only said, “Hankela, if you’ll be a good wife for me, I’ll be very happy.”

But years had passed and now look what it all had come to. “Enough,” he said.

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