Letters From Rifka Read online

  Saul came to visit, but they sent him to the first ward and he couldn’t find me. No one could find me. So they sent Saul away.

  Saul would have been the first familiar face in almost a year. I didn’t care that it was just Saul. I would love to have seen Saul, but they sent him away.

  When they did find me, they put me in still another ward. Here a nurse has taken an interest in me.

  Her name is Nurse Bowen. Sometimes she takes me to her room in a building on a different part of Ellis Island. We go in a little boat to get there. I help her clean her apartment. Mostly, though, I eat candy when I am there. She always has candy. It is not as good as Belgian chocolate, but still it tastes very good. I like going with her.

  I make better sense of English now. I listen to the nurses and the doctors, following them on their rounds of the wards. I have been able, even, to interpret a little for the Polish and Russian patients; only simple things, but the nurses and the doctors seem pleased to have me help them.

  There is a little Polish baby here. She has no one. Her mama died of the typhus. Because I’ve already had the disease, I help take care of her. She is such a beautiful little thing, with dark eyes taking up half her face and a bald head, as bald as mine. She never fusses. I hold her and rock her and sing her Yiddish lullabies. I tell her stories and recite Pushkin to her. She reminds me a little of the baby on the train in Poland.

  I have another responsibility. In the dining hall one night, a little boy sat across from me at the table. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with him, why they were keeping him in the hospital, except that he was very thin and pale, with dark circles under his eyes. I looked in those eyes and remembered something, someone, but I was too hungry to give it much thought.

  They served the food. It’s not bad food, and there is so much of it. Hands went every which way, passing, dishing out, spooning in. But the little boy sat, watching it all go past him.

  I helped myself to potatoes and meat and carrots and bread. The boy stared at my plate, but he took nothing for himself.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked in Yiddish. “Why don’t you eat?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Eat,” I said in English.

  Still no answer.

  “Take something to eat,” I said in Russian.

  Now he looked up at me, straight into my eyes.

  “Russian you understand?” I said. “But not Yiddish?”

  Then I knew. The boy was a peasant. A Russian peasant. Here, sitting before me, Tovah, was the reason we had fled our homeland. He was the reason for my being alone for so long, separated from my family. The reason I had had typhus. The reason I had lost my hair. The reason Uncle Zeb was dead and all your lives were in danger. I had him sitting in front of me in the dining hall of the hospital at Ellis Island.

  I tried not to look at him. I did not want anything to do with him. But there he was, in front of me. A little Russian peasant.

  He stared at his pale hands, folded in front of him at his place. Then he looked back up at me with those eyes.

  I remembered then. He looked like a small version of the soldier at the train station, the one with the eyes of green ice. I didn’t want anything to do with him. Nothing.

  But no one should starve to death, Tovah. Certainly not a little boy, maybe seven years old.

  “Is there something wrong with you that keeps you from eating?” I asked in Russian.

  He shook his head.

  “If you don’t eat,” I told him, “they will send you back.”

  He nodded.

  “You want to go back?” I asked.

  He nodded again, and this time tears filled his eyes.

  “Well, just tell them you want to go back!” I cried.

  If I go back, they will kill me. His father or his uncle, his cousin or his neighbor, they will make a pogrom, and they will kill me.

  Crazy Russian peasant! He could stay here. He could stay here in America. There is nothing wrong with him. He could live in either place, Russia, America, and no harm would come to him. But no, he is starving himself so they will send him back.

  People were eating all around us. The boy sat at his empty plate, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  I hated him. I hated what he stood for.

  I also hated seeing him cry. He was just a little boy.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Ilya,” he answered. His voice came out thin and high and frail.

  “Ilya,” I said. “If you don’t eat anything, you will grow so weak that when they do send you back, you will die before you reach home. You must eat a little.”

  I stood up and looked for food to spoon onto his plate, but by now all the food bowls were empty.

  What could I do? He was just a little boy, a hungry, frightened little boy. I lifted my plate and slid some of my own food onto his dish.

  “Now eat,” I said. “Or I will be hungry for nothing.”

  He put a little piece of carrot in his mouth and chewed. Then faster and faster he pushed the food in.

  “Slow down,” I said. “You’ll get sick.”

  He finished everything on his plate, so I gave him a little more.

  Maybe it is not very clever to feel what I felt about this Russian peasant, this enemy of my people.

  But Tovah, he was just a little, hungry boy. Taking care of him made me feel better than I had felt in a very long time.

  Ever since then, I have a shadow. He follows me everywhere, holding on to my skirts. He sits by me when I rock the Polish baby, though I will not let him come too close. He follows me around the buildings, he sits under my elbow at mealtime, he is always under my feet.

  The nurses call me the little mother. I don’t mind so much.

  What do you think about your cousin taking care of a little Russian peasant? You will probably think me the most foolish of all, to befriend such a child. I know Mama will not be happy, not the way she feels about everything Russian. I must figure out a way to explain to her when she comes to visit.

  Oh, Tovah, how I hope she comes to visit soon.

  Shalom,

  Rifka

  … I’m lean and shaven, but alive; … And there is hope that I may thrive … .

  —Pushkin

  October 9, 1920

  Ellis Island

  Dear Tovah,

  At last, I have seen someone from the family. I had started believing they weren’t really here, that something terrible had happened to them and no one would tell me. I thought the Americans had stolen them away and imprisoned them and I would never see them again.

  But Saul came. He skipped school and came to see me at the hospital.

  “Mama and Papa and the others can’t get away,” he said in Yiddish. “They must all work. I thought I’d come.”

  Tovah, when I saw him—he’s so big, so handsome—I almost cried.

  But I wouldn’t let Saul see me cry. He walked through the door and stood there, looking around the ward for me.

  “Saul!” I called out. I ran to him and threw my arms around him.

  He backed me away and looked down at me. “Rifka?”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You don’t recognize your own sister?”

  He swallowed. I saw the knob in his big neck go up and down.

  “You look different,” Saul said.

  I touched the kerchief covering my bald head.

  “My hair,” I said. “It’s been gone a long time.”

  “No, it’s not that,” he said. “I don’t remember your eyes being so big.”

  “I have the same eyes, Saul.”

  I took my brother by the hand and led him into the ward. I was glad to have a bed of my own when Saul came. It would embarrass me if he should learn I slept in a crib. He would never let me forget that.

  “Here, I brought something for you.”

  Saul reached into his pocket and brought out a banana. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  I took
the banana and peeled it and started to bite into it. Then I remembered how he had shared with me in Motziv, and I offered him the first bite. He shook his head. The sparkle had gone from his eyes. He looked disappointed.

  “What’s the matter, Saul?” I asked.

  “How did you know to do that?” Saul asked. “How did you know to peel the banana? In Russia, we didn’t see bananas.”

  I laughed. “Is that what’s worrying you? There are lots of bananas in Antwerp,” I told him. “And chocolates, and ice cream, too.”

  “Humph,” Saul said. “I guess you’re not such a greenhorn.”

  “What’s a greenhorn?” I asked.

  “It’s when you come off the boat and you don’t know what a banana is,” Saul said.

  “Well, I guess I’m not a greenhorn, then.”

  Saul was dressed like a dandy. He wore knickers and a stiff shirt. A cap sat cocked on his head. He was showing off in front of me. He wanted me to say something nice about his clothes. But he had hoped to make a fool of me with that banana. I didn’t want him to know how handsome I thought he looked. My American brother.

  When Doctor Askin came by on his rounds, I spoke English, introducing the doctor to Saul.

  Doctor Askin said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.”

  Saul, my giant brother Saul, looked down at his big feet and said nothing. His ears turned red.

  “Saul,” I said, kicking his shoe with my boot.

  Still Saul said nothing.

  “He is happy to meet you too, Doctor Askin,” I said. “Are you not, Saul?”

  Saul nodded. Doctor Askin said good-bye and walked away.

  “Doctor Askin is my friend,” I told Saul, still speaking in English. “Why did you not talk to him? He is a good man. He brings the comics here. We look at the pictures. I can read a little.”

  “You read English too?” Saul asked.

  “A little,” I said. “I am learning each day. Nurse Bowen helps. Doctor Askin helps too, before he and Mr. Fargate talk about patients.”

  “Your English,” Saul said, “is very good. Where did you learn to speak this way, Rifka? You learned this in Antwerp too?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “I learned much in Antwerp.”

  Saul looked at me with his head tilted to one side. “My sister Rifka speaks like an American in one week?”

  “Nine days,” I said. “I’ve been here nine days.”

  “Smarty,” he said. He lifted his hand to tousle my hair, something he used to do when I had blond curls, back in Russia.

  Saul pulled his hand back before he touched the kerchief hiding my bald head.

  “What should I tell Mama about your hair?” he asked.

  “Tell her the truth,” I said. “It’s not growing. Why should it grow now? It hasn’t grown in a year.”

  Saul looked down at his feet. “So they will send you back?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Saul looked so big and healthy and uncomfortable in the busy hospital ward. I smiled at him. “If I have to go back, Saul, I’m sure I can stay with Bubbe Ruth. Or Uncle Avrum and Tovah and Hannah. It won’t be so bad for me.”

  Saul and I both knew the truth. We’d left Berdichev to save his life. Because of this, I might very well lose mine.

  Just then, Ilya appeared, wiggling his way under my arm. I introduced him to Saul in English. “This is my little friend,” I said. “He also comes from Russia.”

  Saul noticed the book of Pushkin that Ilya pulled out from under my pillow. Ilya likes when I read Pushkin to him, especially in the afternoon when things quiet down for a little while around the ward.

  “What have you got there?” Saul asked Ilya in Yiddish.

  Ilya did not answer. He looked frightened of Saul.

  Saul took the book from him.

  Ilya’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Ilya,” I said in Russian. “This is my brother.”

  Ilya looked from me to Saul, but he is a stubborn little boy. He tried to get the book back from Saul. Between the two pulling on it, Tovah, the Pushkin dropped and fell open. My Star of David, the one I had woven from broom straws in Antwerp, bounced off the floor and broke apart.

  Ilya knew how precious the little straw star had been to me. Always, he had handled it with such care. He looked into my face, blinked his green eyes, and then ran out of the ward.

  “He’s a nasty little peasant,” Saul said. “I don’t believe you, Rifka. What are you doing with a peasant? And this book. Throw it away. It’s a Russian book! And what is all this scribbling inside?”

  “Leave it alone, Saul,” I said, grabbing the book and holding it tight to my chest. I was angry at him. He had broken my star. But I was angry at him for more than that. Inside, it felt like much more than that.

  “You can’t tell me what I should throw away,” I said. It hurt deep in my heart, Tovah, but at this moment I loved Ilya more than I loved my own brother. “This book, it’s mine—”

  Saul grabbed for the book again, but I stood my ground, squeezing the hard cover against my ribs.

  “You’re different, Rifka,” Saul said.

  “I am the same, Saul,” I cried. “Still, my life has gone on while we’ve been apart. I am older in many ways since you left me in Warsaw.”

  “You’re still my little sister, though,” Saul said.

  Saul’s dark eyes burned with anger, but something else burned there too. I remembered Pieter and what he’d said about my being a treasure to my brothers.

  I put my hand on Saul’s sleeve. “Yes. I am still your little sister. Let’s not fight, Saul. I have been so lonely. You haven’t even told me anything about Mama or Papa or Nathan and the others. Please stay and talk with me.”

  Saul looked as if he was still angry, but he sat back down. My cot groaned under his weight.

  “Papa and Mama work all day at the clothing factory,” Saul said. “When they come home at night, they bring bags of trousers to hem. They work together until late. I help, but I can’t stay awake so long to finish.”

  Mama and Papa—working so hard? They needed my help. Couldn’t the Americans see how much my family needed me?

  “What about Nathan?” I asked.

  “Nathan has a job in a bakery. He leaves before light and comes home after dark, his clothes always covered with flour.”

  “And you?”

  “I go to school,” Saul said. “Papa says I must get an education. I’d rather be working, but Papa says no. If you were with us, Rifka, maybe he would let me work. Maybe it would be enough for you to go to school. But …”

  Saul didn’t finish. None of us had any say about whether I could come to join my family and go to an American school. I wanted nothing more than that.

  But only Mr. Fargate could decide.

  Saul said, “Isaac married a girl named Sadie. Sadie Chenowitz, of the Berdichev Chenowitzes.”

  What a small world, Tovah. My oldest brother, Isaac, comes all the way from Russia and who does he pick to marry but a landsman, a girl from our own village, a Chenowitz girl.

  “She’s very pretty,” Saul said.

  He said Isaac and Sadie had a baby boy named Aaron.

  “That makes me an aunt,” I said, clapping my hands. “Can you believe it? Me, Aunt Rifka.” I wanted to hold my brother Isaac’s baby, right that instant.

  “Did Mama ever get new candlesticks?” I asked.

  Saul said they could not afford to buy candlesticks. He said everything they earned they sent to me in Belgium. My dear family, how much they had given up for me.

  “What do you do on the Sabbath?” I asked.

  “We work on the Sabbath,” Saul said.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Mama, Papa, working on the Sabbath?

  I opened my rucksack and took out my pouch of money.

  “Where did you get all this, Rifka?” Saul asked.

  “I saved it,” I said. “From the money Papa sent.”

  “Papa sent that money f
or you to eat, Rifka. What did you eat?”

  “I ate, Saul,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell him what I ate.

  “I want you to take this money, Saul,” I said. “I want you to take it and buy candlesticks for Mama. If there is any money left, tell Mama and Papa to use it so they do not have to work on the Sabbath. Do you hear me, Saul?”

  Saul promised about the candlesticks. He apologized for breaking my star. Then he was gone. I had forgotten how lonely I’d been until he was gone.

  Tovah, I have never seen my brother Isaac. He fled Russia before I was born. Now I wonder if I ever will see him, or his baby. Would they send me back, do you think, without ever holding my brother’s baby?

  Shalom,

  Rifka

  … They say ill things of the last days of Autumn:

  But I, friend reader, not a one will hear;

  Her quiet beauty touches me as surely

  As does a wistful child, to no one dear … .

  —Pushkin

  October 11, 1920

  Ellis Island

  Dear Tovah,

  Mama came today.

  My wonderful, beautiful Mama. She hugged me and kissed me and I smelled onion on her and chicken and celery and yeast. I was so happy I thought my heart had broken open like an egg.

  “Mama,” I kept repeating, afraid I would blink and she would no longer be sitting beside me on my cot.

  Mama brought out a tiny honey cake. “For your thirteenth birthday,” she said in Yiddish.

  She watched me eat it, the whole thing, as we sat close together on the edge of my bed. I licked each finger. It tasted as good as I remembered, Mama’s honey cake.

  “Tell me about Antwerp,” Mama said.

  I told her about Sister Katrina and the lady from the HIAS and Gizelle in the park. I told her about the awful storm at sea, and how our ship needed towing to Ellis Island.

  “What about your hair?” Mama asked. “Is it really so bad?”

  Mama led me over to the window and took off my kerchief. She examined my scalp. I felt envy for the long black hair coiled around her ears.

  She sighed and rested her hand on my naked head.