The Woodcarver's Daughter Read online

  But I would be such a good carver! Oh, I help with the housework because girls are supposed to, but I’m no good at it. Already Gittel is so much better. Her stitches run in a straight line. She can bake challah as light as air. No one expects much from Sarah yet, but she’s so lively and sweet that she brightens all our days.

  But what about me? There is nothing special about me. Sometimes, I climb on Mala’s shiny black back and ride her around the meadow. Riding helps me sort out my thoughts. Papa worries that I’ll be thrown, but I know Mala won’t throw me.

  “Mama needs your help,” Papa says as the cottage comes into view.

  “I know, Papa,” I say. “I’ll try harder.”

  “Then you’ll succeed,” says Papa gently. “I have faith in you, Batya.”

  I stand still for a moment, taking in his praise. But I have to ask, “Papa, why won’t you tell me what you and Mr. Moskowitz were talking about at the fair? It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

  “What makes you think that?” he says.

  “Because you won’t say what it is.”

  “I don’t want to worry you, katzeleh.”

  “But I’m more worried not knowing,” I tell him.

  He is quiet for a moment. “There’ve been rumors,” he says finally. “About a pogrom.”

  I’ve heard about pogroms, nights of violence when drunken soldiers and peasants storm through Jewish shtetls, destroying anything and anyone they please. I know that there are many soldiers stationed in the village. Russia has been at war with Germany and Austria since 1914—a whole year. I’ve gotten used to seeing the soldiers. And there hasn’t been a pogrom here in a long time.

  “Do you really think that’s true?” I say.

  “I’m not sure,” admits Papa, which is much less reassuring than a simple no.

  Before I can ask anything else, I see Sarah in front of the cottage, about to pounce on one of the hens, and I catch her just in time. Good thing too; those hens have sharp beaks! When I turn back, Papa has gone inside.

  I follow, leading Sarah by the hand. Avram and Gittel are already seated at the table, and Mama is serving the food.

  “There you are!” she says. “I was calling and calling.”

  “Sorry, Mama.” I start tearing off hunks of bread, putting one at each place, while Mama spoons beets, potatoes, and dumplings onto the plates. Papa says a short prayer before we begin to eat. After lunch, Papa and Avram go back to work. I stay behind to wash the dishes, sweep, and put Sarah down for a nap. When she’s asleep, I step outside. Mama and Gittel are at the brook, pounding the clothes clean with big rocks, and I am alone. Finally.

  I pull out the small pocketknife I always carry, along with a piece of wood. Sitting down by the side of the cottage, I begin to whittle. I love the feel of the wood in my hand growing smaller—yet more alive—as I work. Right now, I’m carving a fish, using the sharp silver blade to shape the fins, the mouth, and the round, flat eye. As I carve, I think about the pogrom. Will it happen here? I don’t know; neither does Papa. But the movement of my hands calms my fears. Soon, I hear Mama and Gittel returning from the brook. Inside, Sarah is stirring. I get up. The fish still looks so rough. Why can’t I join the guild and apprentice to Papa so I can really learn to carve?

  “Batya?” calls Mama. “I need your help with the baskets—they’re so heavy!” Stuffing the fish and the knife back in my pocket, I head down the path to help my mother.

  Chapter 3

  Fire

  The next day, Papa and Avram leave for the shop at the usual time, but they’re home before lunch, just as we’ve finished making jam.

  “Is something wrong?” asks Mama. I look at Papa. He’s red-faced and out of breath. I follow Mama and Papa outside and see the reason: There are several rough planks of wood leaning against the wall of the cottage.

  “What are those doing here? Did you bring them from the shop?” I ask. Mama doesn’t say anything, but her bottom lip begins to tremble.

  “Pogrom,” says Papa in a strained voice. “That’s what they’re saying down at the shop.”

  “When?” Mama asks. The trembling is worse now.

  “Tonight,” says Papa. “Mr. Moskowitz heard a rumor the other day. Today he found out for sure. He sent us all home to get ready.” Papa gestures to the planks. “He gave us the wood. I wish it were more. But we had to share.”

  “Will they come here?” I ask. Our cottage is some distance from the other cottages in the village.

  “I don’t know,” Papa says. “We can only pray that they won’t. But in any case, we have to protect ourselves.”

  A pogrom! Coming here, to our little village! I’m so frightened that I can’t say another word. It’s like the time when Avram dared me to jump from the roof of the cottage. I landed with a terrible thud on the dirt below, not really hurt but with all the wind knocked out of me. I hadn’t been able to speak for an hour. That’s how I feel now.

  Papa and Avram pound the boards across the windows and the door. Next, they drag our biggest pieces of furniture in front of them. Mama and Gittel cook and get food ready for later on. Mama can’t risk cooking tonight, when the smoke coming up from the chimney would show that we’re home. I help by keeping Sarah quiet and out of the way.

  The light lingers in the sky for a long time, but finally, it’s dark. We eat our supper of mashed lentils and carrots quickly and in silence. Afterward, we sit quietly in the center of the room. At first, Sarah thinks it’s fun. She tries to get my attention, then Avram’s, and then Gittel’s. But Mama is constantly shushing her, and Sarah can’t understand why.

  “Let’s light the fire,” Sarah says. “I’m tired of sitting in the dark.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” says Papa.

  “But why?” Sarah whines.

  “Because Papa says so!” Mama is never this sharp. She must be very frightened.

  “Come sit on my lap,” I tell Sarah, and she climbs onto me. “Do you want to hear a story? I’ll whisper it in your ear.” If we could light a candle, I’d read her a story from the Bible we own. But we can’t take the risk, so I will have to make something up.

  “Yes, a story,” Sarah says, settling herself. So I tell her a story about a princess who lives in the forest whose clothes are made of bark and whose crown is the cap of an acorn. She wears a necklace made of tiny berries and sleeps on a bed made of feathers dropped by the whitest, softest doves. Sarah drinks in every word.

  Gittel and Avram stretch out awkwardly on the floor. We have blankets but no mattresses; the mattresses, like the pine cupboard and sideboard, are stacked in front of the windows and door. Still, a blanket is better than nothing. I wish I could stretch out too—my legs are tingling from the weight of Sarah’s body. But if I make Sarah move, she might start whining again. So I force myself to be strong.

  “I don’t hear anything,” says Gittel. “Maybe they won’t come here after all. Maybe they’ll all just go away.”

  Avram drifts off to sleep first, then Gittel, then Sarah. Even Mama’s eyelids begin to close. I gently shift Sarah to the floor once she’s dozed off. Now Papa and I are the only ones awake. I stretch out my legs in the dark. But just like the morning of the fair, I can’t sleep. This time, it’s fear, not excitement, that keeps me alert.

  My eyes have adjusted to the dark, so I try to calm myself by looking around the familiar room. There is the table, carved by Papa, where we eat our meals. There is the fireplace with logs and kindling neatly stacked beside it. There is the samovar that Mama uses for making tea.

  So far, nothing has happened. Maybe the rumors are false. I strain to listen but hear only the usual night noises: an owl’s soft hoot, the bark of a neighbor’s dog, the wind rustling in the trees. Mala is out there too; I can hear her snort and shift around in her stall.

  But now—a distant thumping, soft and low at first, growing louder, more urgent. The sound of horses’ hooves, thundering as they strike. I can hear voices too. Shouting. A muffled scream. And
a horrible, bitter smell—something is burning.

  I am more terrified than I have ever been in my life, but I do not utter a sound.

  Even though the night is mild, I feel cold all over. Papa’s hand reaches for mine, and I grip it tightly. The voices are loud now—loud and angry. There is laughter, but it sounds cruel. And there is cursing too. Even the horses sound angry, their neighs high-pitched and fierce. Does Mala hear them? Is she as frightened as I am? The throbbing of my heart keeps time with the hooves: ka thump, ka thump, KA THUMP. Louder and louder, until I think they will burst through the door in the next second. Mama is awake now. But my sisters and brother sleep on. I squeeze Papa’s hand even more tightly; it is as cold as my own.

  Amazingly, the sound of the hooves gets softer. At least that’s what I think. With every ounce of concentration I have, I strain to hear. Yes, I’m right. The hoofbeats are fainter now. The angry horses are going away. The voices grow fainter too until I can’t hear them anymore. What I do hear is a deep sigh coming from Papa. But we’re still too afraid to speak, and so we sit there silently until the sky gets light.

  Papa gets up, moves the furniture away from the door, and pries off the boards. Cautiously, he opens the door and looks out. The sun is hidden behind some puffy, gray clouds; there will be rain today. Everything looks fine. Our cottage is unharmed; the chickens scratch happily in the dirt. I run to the barn to see Mala. She pokes her black head out of her stall and whinnies happily.

  “I’m going to the shop,” Papa announces. I let my arms slide down from Mala’s neck and turn to look at him.

  “Do you have to?” Mama asks in a worried tone.

  “Yes,” he says. “Who knows what could have happened last night? I’ve got to find out.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Maybe someone will need our help. I should be there.”

  “Be careful, then,” says Mama.

  “Can I come with you?” I ask.

  “Better not,” he says. “Avram will come. You stay here.”

  “All right, Papa,” I say. “I’ll stay with Mama.”

  “You’re such a help with Sarah,” Mama adds.

  Her words make me feel good. There is something I can do besides whittle. I spend the morning with Sarah, teaching her to shell peas and fold clothes. She likes doing the peas, especially when they pop out of their pods and go rolling all over. But she’s too impatient to fold clothes. “Not like that,” I tell her. “See, you have to line this edge up with this edge.” I smooth the pillowcase down the middle, to show her. Sarah watches for a few seconds before grabbing the pillowcase and darting off.

  “Catch me, Batya!” she cries. She runs around the room, waving the pillowcase. I’ve just about got her cornered when she climbs over the window ledge and hops out. Now I’ll have to go and find her.

  But suddenly, Papa pushes the door open with such force that the knob slams the inside wall. He’s always so gentle, so calm. What’s come over him?

  Avram trails behind him, eyes wide.

  “Where’s your mother?” Papa barks. His hair is even messier than mine, and his eyes are wide with alarm. Gray smudges dot his cheeks, and his clothes are covered in ash.

  “She’s out with the chickens—”

  “Then get her! Now!”

  I run out the door just as Mama is coming in; we bump into each other before Mama steps aside, staring at Papa.

  “What is it?” Mama’s voice is low and filled with dread. “What’s happened?”

  “The shop!” Papa croaks. He draws in several deep breaths, as if he can’t get enough air. “The shop is gone!”

  “Gone?”

  “It was set on fire last night. It burned down to the ground!” Papa puts his hands to his face and lets out a harsh, terrible noise.

  It takes me several seconds to understand that he is crying. I’ve never seen him cry before.

  “What will happen to us, Papa?” I ask in a quivering voice. “And what will happen to Mr. Moskowitz?”

  Papa looks up. “Mr. Moskowitz was hurt last night. In the fire.”

  I watch, horrified, as Papa continues to cry. Mama puts her arms around Papa. Her face is as pale as her best white linen tablecloth. But her touch must be comforting, because he lifts his face again.

  “Start packing,” he says. “We’re leaving.” His voice, though hoarse, is firm.

  “But where are we going?” I ask.

  “To America,” Papa says. “As soon as we can.”

  “Who’s going to America?” says Gittel, coming into the cottage. No one answers.

  America! Yes, of course we know of people who have gone, driven out by worry and fear. But the idea of leaving our home, traveling all that way across the ocean—Papa might as well have asked us to climb on the backs of the honking geese and fly all the way to the moon.

  The silence stretches as we all stare at Papa—until, quite abruptly, he turns and leaves the cottage, the door banging behind him.

  Seconds later, Sarah comes in, pillowcase now dangling limp in her hand. “I was waiting,” she says. “You didn’t come.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” I say, taking her in my arms. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 4

  Water

  Of course it isn’t so easy to just get up and go to America. There are things that have to be done first. There is the matter of something called papers, which Papa has to fill out three separate times. It takes him hours: scratching away with his pen, dribbling the ink, and leaving his dark fingerprints all over. When the papers are finally done, he has to deliver them to an office several villages away. He’s gone for two days, and Mama is worried the whole time. But finally, Papa comes back, the papers now signed and stamped with big blobs of red sealing wax.

  Next, Papa has to get the tickets, which cost a lot of money. Mama scours the cottage for things we can sell: six silver spoons that belonged to her mother, her necklace of crystal beads, our Bible with its leather cover. Papa sells them all. Finally, there is enough money to buy the tickets.

  We begin to pack. Mama fills boxes with linens, dishes, and clothes. There is a special box for the samovar and one for the brass candlesticks we use on Shabbos. Still other boxes hold pots, a kettle, all the cutlery, and Papa’s wood carving tools—at least the ones that weren’t destroyed by the fire. Sarah wants to take a wooden doll and a cradle Papa has carved for her, and Gittel wants to take her sewing box, knitting needles, and yarn. I want my carving knife and enough wood to last the journey. Avram, standing out in front of the cottage, says he wants to take the meadow, the forest, and the brook. I know what he means. So many things have to be left behind.

  “Is America far?” asks Gittel.

  “Very far,” says Papa.

  “Will we ever come back here?” Sarah wants to know.

  “No,” says Papa. “We won’t.”

  “Never?” I ask.

  “Never,” Papa declares.

  “Can’t we just move to another village?” I ask.

  “What for?” says Papa angrily. “The pogroms will come again. There’s no hiding. Only escaping.”

  I look at the growing pile of boxes. I don’t want to leave our home. But then I think of that terrible night: the horses, the shouting, the fire, Mr. Moskowitz. Papa is right. We do have to go.

  * * *

  It’s time to say goodbye to our cottage, the cherry tree whose pink blossoms cover the ground like a carpet every spring, the fence with the gate I loved to swing on. The chicken coop is empty now; Papa sold the chickens at the market. I think of how many times I grumbled about having to take care of them—the smell of the coop, the way they sometimes pecked my hands—and yet when I see the door standing open, with nothing inside, my heart constricts.

  The worst is saying goodbye to Mala. Papa has sold her too, and the new owner is coming to take her away. I hug her neck and press my lips against her muzzle. “I’ll miss you,” I whisper. The black triangles of her ears prick up as if she understands me.

 
All morning long, our neighbors—the rabbi, the butcher, and the candlemaker—come quietly to say goodbye. They know it’s dangerous to bring too much attention to a Jewish family leaving the shtetl; it’s dangerous to bring too much attention to a Jewish family at all.

  Papa has hired a wagon to take us to the port. Two big, spotted gray horses with huge heads and large brown eyes are ready to pull it. They seem like good, solid horses, but they are not Mala. Tears fill my eyes, though I try not to let them fall. Still, Sarah sees and comes over to comfort me. “Are you sad about going?” she says, slipping her little hand in mine.

  I nod. “Are you?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask, surprised.

  “Because we’re going to have fun! A ship! Water! America!”

  I do not think this trip is going to be fun. Not one bit. But I say nothing.

  Riga, the capital of Latvia, is many versts away from our village. We spend four days and four nights in the wagon. Since we have no money for an inn, we sleep by the side of the road, with Mama and Papa taking turns at remaining awake. The horses shift and snort their way through the night.

  Gradually, the small shtetls and the forests give way to towns. As we clip-clop along, I can see what the war has done: trees scarred by bullet holes, empty trenches, coils of barbed wire.

  Soon we come to the grand port city of Riga. It’s larger than any town I’ve ever seen. There are so many people, and they all seem to be in such a hurry. And I’ve never seen such houses, even bigger and finer than the one where the count lived. I see a cathedral, with a tall black clock tower pointing straight up into the sky, and an enormous palace made of pale orange bricks.