The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

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      Some light. Every time she climbed the stairs, day or night, Rebecca thought of nothing else. She had been climbing them on her own since she was three years old and started carrying small packages of matzoh meal up the stairs for her mother. By seven, she was running errands alone. But instead of getting used to it as she got older, the stairwell began to frighten her more and more. Partly it was because she heard ghost stories from the girls in the factory, but mostly it was because she simply knew more about the world, and more about the things men could do to women.

      So she lit matches. It was the only other thing that she spent her wages on, except that in this case, her mother and father knew about it. It took her three matches to get to the top floor, if she was good and didn’t stumble. One she lit right after closing the front door, the second on the landing to the second floor, and the third on the landing to the fourth.

      To take her mind off her fear, she made it into a game: to see if she could make it up to the fifth floor with only two matches. She had not yet succeeded, but she was determined. It was an unusual game in that speed and slowness were equal opponents: too fast and the match would be blown out by air currents, too slow and it would burn out on its own. Rebecca believed that her agility and concentration would eventually beat these worthy adversaries. If she was lucky and didn’t have parcels to carry, the trick was to get her legs moving fast but isolate her upper body so that her hand could remain steady to shield the match.

      Today, she made it to the middle of the fifth flight before her second match blew out. The closest yet. She struck another one against the wall and continued up to the apartment. Outside the door, she blew it out, quietly turned the handle, and slipped inside. Once she stepped in from the hallway, she was already in the tiny kitchen. Her mother was at the wash basin making a loud scratching noise with a scouring pad and didn’t immediately turn around. But then the smoke from the match must have reached her nostrils because she craned her neck over her shoulder and looked Rebecca up and down, standing there at the door all sweaty and out of breath. She raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and turned back to the dishes.

      Rebecca opened an eye and peeked at her mother as she lit the shabbus candles and said the benediction. Her eyes were closed, her chin tilted down, and the corners of the lace kerchief that she had placed on her head hung down in points over her cheeks. The hair from her black wig could be seen through the holes of the creamy cloth, and Rebecca thought that this made her look like those floppy-eared dogs on fire trucks.

      When her father blessed the wine, Rebecca again glanced up but caught her mother staring at her, so she quickly turned her gaze down to her plate. When she noticed her watching her again during the blessing for the bread, Rebecca looked down at her dress to see if it was unbuttoned, but it was not. Her mother completed the blessings by burning a very small piece of challah as an offering to God, which she blew out immediately, vigorously waving away the smoke.

      Her mother brought a pot to the table and served lentil soup. She seemed distracted as she ladled some into a bowl, looking to Rebecca’s father, then to her. She began to pick her head up as though to say something, but a subtle shake of her father’s head stopped her.

      “What is it, Mama?”

      “It’s nothing darling. Later, after dinner, there’s something we want to talk to you about.”

      Rebecca was about to press for information, but her mother spilled a drop of soup onto the sleeve of her black dress. “Ach, the one day I buy some shmaltz to add a little flavour, and I get it on my dress. As if God were punishing me for being extravagant.” She sucked the material quickly into her mouth, then rushed off to blot it with a cloth.

      Everyone stared at the spot on her sleeve while her mother resumed her task and, starting with her father, skimmed most of the fat from the top of the pot into his tin bowl. Next she served Ida, the boarder who shared a room with Rebecca. After Ida, she divided what was left between Rebecca and herself. This was exactly why Rebecca didn’t feel bad about not bringing any bread for her father. He always got the tastiest piece of food: the fat from the soup, the skin from the chicken, the crust from the noodle kugel.

      Thank God her mother chose to eat with them today. She watched her father and Ida tear at their piece of challah and dip it deeply into the soup. Her mother brushed again at the spot on her sleeve, then adjusted her wig before beginning.

      “Mama, is it bothering you?”

      “No, it’s nothing. You know sometimes it’s a little scratchy.”

      “Why don’t you take it off for a while? We can pretend we’re a modern American family tonight. There’s no company, it’s just us here.”

      “Pfaa!” her mother replied. “In Poland, a fine they could give if they caught you wearing the sheitel, because the czars made laws. Here there are no such laws. This I wear not only because I respect God — not that you would understand such a thing, mind you — I wear this also because it is a symbol of liberation!” she said, her voice rising in agitation.

      Rebecca chided herself. Usually if she made any reference to the old country, it was turned into a lesson. Nevertheless, she found she couldn’t resist pursuing her point, even if she might be stepping further into the trap.

      “Well, I know it was terrible in Poland. But that’s exactly the thing. We have more freedom here in every respect, and that also means in religious matters. In America, lots of women choose not to wear the sheitel, even though they can. Isn’t that liberation?”

      “America, shmerica. Sure, here in America, they don’t fine you, but they still yell at you and call at you ‘filthy Jew.’ It’s as bad as in Russia, frankly.”

      Russia? Wasn’t it Poland? She could never figure this out. When her parents talked about the old country, they spoke in cryptic references and confusing contradictory recollections, one praising, the next damning. And the two country names appeared to be interchangeable.

      “Oh, forget it, I can’t win,” said Rebecca.

      “You’re right, you can’t,” her father said.

      “Yesterday when you complained about the price of bread, I tried to sympathize, and you told me that here at least there was food to buy, even if we can’t pay. You switch allegiance so quickly, I can’t tell which country you hate more. Poland-Russia or America.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Rebecca,” her mother said sharply. “I don’t hate it here. But does that mean I have to stupidly smile and remain cheerful if something is not just?”

      “No, of course not, Mama.”

      “What are you getting all bothered and hot for? Because I wear the sheitel? This does not mean you will have to, we have never said so. That will be between you and your husband.” Again, she glanced to her father.

      Rebecca tried hard not to appear foolish in these conversations, but there was no steadfast rule she could follow. Whether or not she said a word, her mother was just as likely to hold a perfectly depressing debate with herself. If Rebecca stayed out of it, the difference was that she was less likely to be accused, in the course of that debate, of being naive or too young to understand. But one could not always rely on this strategy; her mother sometimes presumed opinions or attitudes in her silence and scolded her anyway.

      Her mother adjusted her wig again, making it a little lopsided. Rebecca suppressed a giggle. She had to admit that though her mother looked old-fashioned, it took courage to wear it, and that was to be admired. Also, even СКАЧАТЬ