Dasvidaniya

Chapter 6

Chapter 6After dinner that evening, Frederick sat on the verandah smoking a cigarette. Simmy and I hid around the corner of the house, listening in. I had to shush him several times or he'd have given us away.

“You'll ruin your lungs.” Frederick turned to see Katya standing in the shadows. He smiled at her.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.” Despite her bold pronouncement, she sat beside him demurely. “You're probably right. I don't have the wind I once had. Your brother outran me today. I guess I'm getting old.”

“Nonsense,” she said then hesitated. “I mean, it is proven that the chemical properties in tobacco cause lung damage. Maybe you shouldn't inhale.”

Frederick dropped the glowing butt on the verandah floor and ground it out under the heel of his summer loafers. “I heed your command.”

“Don't be silly. I can't command you,” and she smiled at the thought of ordering him about.

“You may command me anywhere and anytime,” Frederick replied. “Give me an order and I'll obey it.”

“Now you really are being silly,” she said.

Frederick gathered her hands in his. They were fine-boned and supple. Katya tensed. “Don't be afraid, dear Katya. I mean you no harm.” And he pressed his lips fervently to her palm.

Katya stared at him, astonished but didn't pull her hand away. “Frederick, what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” and he smiled at her then became serious. “You're too beautiful, Katya. It's painful for me to see you. It's why I came back.”

“I thought you were helping Mordecai and working with my father?”

“Just excuses really. I wanted to see you again.”

“Frederick, I…”

“Katya. I may be a grown man and you are much younger but your beauty makes you seem older. I'm sure all the boys are in love with you.”

“I don't have time for boys. I'm too busy studying and doing meaningless housework.”

“No time for love?”

“No, well, not yet,” and she watched him for a long moment.

“There is always time for love, dear little Katya.” He lapsed into silence and looked at her in the growing darkness. But then Mama's voice crashed through the quiet.

“Katya. Katya darling, where are you? I need your help for a moment.”

She stood up. “I'd better go.”

Frederick grabbed her arm. “Meet me tomorrow night? I'll wait for you by the fence in the back. I'll wait all night if I have to.” She stepped back gathering her skirts holding his gaze as she went inside, reluctant to take her eyes off him. After she left, Frederick turned to stare out into the darkness.

Simmy squeezed my hand and I knew we were both determined to be there, to protect our sister from this man.

All the next day, I waited as the farmers brought in their sacks of wheat. The men, gruffly bearded with piercing blue eyes and peasant caps pulled low on their ruddy faces. Their clothes ragged and dirty, their expressions haggard and suspicious. They brought their wheat and in return, received flour for baking breads and cakes that fed them over the winter. On this day, Pyotr helped out. The farmers were a hard lot and could be quarrelsome, even violent at times. A farmer came in. I'd seen him before and the man nodded without saying anything. Without waiting for me, he dumped his wheat directly into the wooden box to be measured.

“You see? It's all wheat, nothing else,” he said. Then muttered something unintelligible and spat.

“Thank you sir,” I replied politely. Pyotr stood by silently, arms crossed, watching the farmer. I checked the gauge.

“Thirty-five kilos,” I said.

“Eh?” The farmer jerked his head up in surprise. “No,” he said. “Forty kilos there.”

I checked the gauge again. “No. Thirty-five. Take a look,” I said and stepped to the side. The farmer bent over and squinted at the gauge.

“No,” he said again. “You cheat.”

I could sense the man's anger. This was his livelihood. The bread to feed his family. “Forty,” he repeated. “You make a mistake.”

“No,” I said firmly. “No mistake.”

“f*****g Jew. I know how much I put in. Forty kilos.”

Pyotr stepped in. “No need to get upset, friend. The measurement is accurate. I'm certain of it.”

The farmer spat. “You work for them,” he said. “The Jews.”

“Do you want the flour or not?” Pyotr asked.

“Of course.”

“Then don't cause trouble.”

“I cause whatever I want. They steal from us, these Jews. They take our money and they take our souls. Even the priest says so.” His voice thundered in the small weighing shed.

I listened and outwardly tried to appear calm. Inside, my blood boiled, my anger raged. I reached behind the counter. The farmer had turned his back to me as he spoke to Pyotr.

“Hey,” I said.

The farmer turned. I lashed out. The two by four I held in my hands caught the farmer across the forehead and he fell back in a heap, knocked cold. Pyotr stood stunned and speechless.

“Take him outside. Give him his flour when it's ready and tell him never to come back here again.”

Pyotr looked at me with a flummoxed expression, then down at the farmer where a dark welt had swollen up in the middle of his forehead.

“What if you have killed him?” he whispered.

“I don't think so,” I replied. “He has a hard head. But if you like, fetch Katya to take a look at him. But get him out of here. Others are waiting.” Pyotr gulped, but nodded.

He picked the farmer up under the armpits and dragged him outside. The other farmers looked at them curiously. One came up to Pyotr. I watched from inside then stepped closer to the window to hear better.

“What happened?” Pyotr told him. The other man nodded. “That Slava is a hot head. I would not have called him a f*****g Jew to his face. Not here. There are other times and places, eh?” Pyotr said nothing, torn in his loyalty. He backed away and went to fetch Katya. The next man went in to have his wheat put on the scale. The hothead, Slava, now cooled off, began to moan as he slowly regained consciousness.

That evening, I stood out in the yard shadow boxing. Simmy sat in the grass watching me. My father had bought a pair of gloves for me and a helmet. I danced back and forth, punching, jabbing, weaving, keeping up on my toes.

“Mordecai!” came a roar from around the front of the house.

“Papa,” I said, and felt the bile rise in my chest.

“He sounds angry,” Simmy said.

Papa barreled around the corner. Frederick sauntered after him, a smug grin on his face. “How dare you,” Papa bellowed, the color rising into his full cheeks.

“Yes, Papa?”

“What's happened?” Frederick asked with feigned innocence, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his white trousers.

“Tell him,” Papa commanded. I didn't want to say anything to Frederick but he seethed with anger.

“You better say something,” Simmy said.

I struggled to speak, but my father's angry glare coaxed the words out of me.

As soon as I finished, Papa interjected.

“This will never happen again. Next week your work at the mill is finished. You will never go back there.”

“I'm sorry, Papa. I let myself get angry at what that foul-mouthed bastard farmer said about us. They all try to cheat.”

“You were wrong to do this. It will only incite them.”

“It will teach them respect.”

Simmy wisely elected to stay quiet.

“And what if you had started a riot? What then? What if you didn't knock the fellow out and he attacked you? You might have been badly hurt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Enough!” Papa roared. “This will not happen again. Violence begets violence. I will not hear of it, do you understand? We are a peaceful people. We live side by side with our neighbors. No more.”

I felt my heart race and anger flushed into my veins but I loved my father and wouldn't speak against him. “Yes, Papa.”

“From now on, if you must fight, then box, like this. You must get this anger out of you. It will hurt you in the end, Mordecai. It will destroy you.” I stared at my toes. And then Papa's anger was spent. He just looked sad. “Now go inside and clean yourself up. I want to speak with Frederick.”

The following week, the farmers came again to have their grain weighed. The troublemaker, Slava, was not among them. He sent his son instead, a boy a few years older than me. The other men averted their eyes and shuffled their feet but there was no trouble.

Slava's son, a hulking young man, was physically developed beyond his years with thick wrists and broad shoulders. His lank blond hair looked as if it had been hacked at with a machete and fell across his broad face in an uneven thatch. He flicked the hair from sharp eyes that never left me as the boy waited for the grain to be ground into flour. Occasionally, he whistled a tuneless song or bit down on his fingernails, all without taking his eyes away. I ignored the hulking boy's looks and carried on with the work. When the flour was brought out from the back, the boy hefted it easily on to his shoulder. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back.

“You there, Jew,” he said. I glanced up at him. “I shall see you soon at school. I won't turn my back.” The boy spat on the floor, then turned and walked out the door, ducking as he made the entranceway, his heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor of the shed. I stared after him. The term hadn't even started yet.

“He's mean, that one,” Pyotr said. “I know him. He takes after his father. You must avoid him. Cruelty runs in that family.”

“I can take care of myself,” I replied with a confidence I didn't really feel. I signaled to the next man in line who hefted his sack of wheat and stepped forward.

I was reading at the dining room table when I heard a pounding on the door. Papa went to see who it was. A police officer stood on the threshold.

“Are you Goldman?” the officer demanded.

I went to my father's side.

Reb Goldman smoothed his hair. He glanced at me. “Yes,” he replied.

“I have instructions to bring you down to the station. Get your hat and coat and come with me,” he said brusquely.

“What for?” I asked. “What is it he's supposed to have done?”

The officer stood tall and wore a waxed moustache. He looked at me with contempt. “It's none of your business.”

“But of course it is my business. This is my father.”

I felt my father's hand on my chest. “Sshh,” he said. 'I'll deal with this. Now, Officer, am I charged with something?”

“Not yet. We are investigating a complaint.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“A number of farmers claim you have cheated them out of flour.”

“Those bastards,” I screeched. “They're the ones who cheated. They've been cheating for years.”

“Be quiet,” Papa said and turned to me. By his look, I could tell that my father blamed me for this. That this had been my doing.

Papa removed his hat from the stand in the hall. I glanced up the stairs and saw Mama descending rapidly.

“Chaim, what's going on?” she asked. Behind her Frederick followed.

“Nothing, it's nothing. I'm simply helping the police resolve a simple misunderstanding, that's all, my dear. Don't upset yourself.”

I saw my mother's complexion pale.

Frederick broke in. “Chaim, let me come with you. I'm sure we can sort this out together, don't you, Officer?” And I saw the even lips part and the white teeth gleam.

“Well, er…”

Frederick rubbed his large hands together. “There, you see? We'll clear this up in no time, don't you agree, Officer?”

I grudgingly admired Frederick's approach. How easy it seemed for him. That confident manner put the policeman off balance.

Frederick removed his linen jacket from the closet and slipped it on.

“We're ready now, Officer. Shall we go?”

“Don't go with him,” I pleaded to my father. I didn't know if I meant the policeman or Frederick.

“I must,” Papa replied. “We'll be home soon.” The officer stood away from the door allowing Frederick and Papa to step out first.

Mama looked on the verge of tears. Katya stood at the top of the stairs staring down at me. Beside her stood Simmy, lips trembling. Even he seemed to understand what had happened. I burned with shame.