all her kopecks combined she’d been ready to pay second class, an indulgence but why not: she would ride in style, as Galina liked to say, and land in style; she would make a clean, ladylike first impression. But at the German border there had been a string of outbuildings in the forest, a fence made of wire, teenage boys shouldering rifles—the kind of station only the Germans could make look official. Payment was optional, the guards grinned. You could pay or you could strip.
Minna considered stripping. She had already done it once, after all, in front of strangers whose own legitimacy was doubtful. There must be, she thought, a law of firsts in such circumstances, a limit to humiliation. Then she saw a group of naked women. She saw the boys with the guns peeing on sticks and shoving the sticks into the women’s faces.
She paid the toll. And what she had left she spent at the docks in Hamburg, on oranges and apricots and long, heavy, powdery grapes, then on chocolate and walnut brittle, then at the last minute, reprimanding herself for her frivolity, on dehydrated biscuits. Then she ate all of it except the biscuits before the boat even boarded. And so here she was, in steerage, with nothing but biscuits and the sunflower seeds she’d bought her last day in Odessa. She hadn’t expected it to be so foul. She hadn’t expected to long for the hard cot in Galina’s attic.
“You must teach your mind humility!”
Minna had been warned, like all the single girls, against talking to strangers. She’d been warned on the train and on the roads and at the checkpoints and on the docks, by mothers and rabbi’s wives and women who had nothing better to do than shake their fingers at her. Talk to strangers, you’ll become a slave. You’ll wind up in places you never meant to be. Brazil. Texas. Evil places. You’ll do things you’d never do in your worst nightmares. But Minna knew the kinds of girls who’d get themselves caught in such a mess. Girls who were taught suspicion, but only of evil spirits; doubt, but only that they would reach heaven. Even before she left the village, Minna hadn’t been one of these girls. Her father would say, as their fathers said, “This is done, this is not done,” but then, unlike their fathers, he would promptly do the opposite himself. He’d lost his willpower; he swung between drink and abstinence, cleanliness and filth. And so Minna learned that it was this world you couldn’t trust. She developed instincts. And this man, her instincts told her, was not out to enslave her. Through the cage, with a thin wrist, he stroked his doves; his hands were absentminded, languorous, another sign that he’d known leisure. Galina would call him a feygele and Minna thought it could be true.
“The humbled mind lets go, and is released!”
That the man spewed nonsense didn’t bother Minna. Just the opposite, in fact; it made him seem wholly indifferent to the dim squalor around him. The engine roared, the people were poor, an accordion wobbled, a baby screamed—yet the magician was somehow insulated. Exempt. Respectable. Which was how Minna intended to be.
B Y the second day, the floor was slick with vomit. People argued: it was something in the water; no, it was a storm; it was always like this; no, it wasn’t usually this bad. The ones who spoke in Yiddish or Russian, Minna understood, but she couldn’t see how their debates would be of any use. Each time the boat tilted, the sick passengers groaned with the engine. By the fourth morning, they’d started to cry. They muttered unintelligibly, or in foreign languages. The air was too warm—it smelled of rye and urine. A baby died. From light to dark to light, the hold was the same, a vibrating, steamy swamp. A small band of passengers ferried the sick out to the fresh air of the deck and threw buckets of seawater across the floor. Out they would go, in they would come again, led by a man with a bandage wrapped around his
Minna considered stripping. She had already done it once, after all, in front of strangers whose own legitimacy was doubtful. There must be, she thought, a law of firsts in such circumstances, a limit to humiliation. Then she saw a group of naked women. She saw the boys with the guns peeing on sticks and shoving the sticks into the women’s faces.
She paid the toll. And what she had left she spent at the docks in Hamburg, on oranges and apricots and long, heavy, powdery grapes, then on chocolate and walnut brittle, then at the last minute, reprimanding herself for her frivolity, on dehydrated biscuits. Then she ate all of it except the biscuits before the boat even boarded. And so here she was, in steerage, with nothing but biscuits and the sunflower seeds she’d bought her last day in Odessa. She hadn’t expected it to be so foul. She hadn’t expected to long for the hard cot in Galina’s attic.
“You must teach your mind humility!”
Minna had been warned, like all the single girls, against talking to strangers. She’d been warned on the train and on the roads and at the checkpoints and on the docks, by mothers and rabbi’s wives and women who had nothing better to do than shake their fingers at her. Talk to strangers, you’ll become a slave. You’ll wind up in places you never meant to be. Brazil. Texas. Evil places. You’ll do things you’d never do in your worst nightmares. But Minna knew the kinds of girls who’d get themselves caught in such a mess. Girls who were taught suspicion, but only of evil spirits; doubt, but only that they would reach heaven. Even before she left the village, Minna hadn’t been one of these girls. Her father would say, as their fathers said, “This is done, this is not done,” but then, unlike their fathers, he would promptly do the opposite himself. He’d lost his willpower; he swung between drink and abstinence, cleanliness and filth. And so Minna learned that it was this world you couldn’t trust. She developed instincts. And this man, her instincts told her, was not out to enslave her. Through the cage, with a thin wrist, he stroked his doves; his hands were absentminded, languorous, another sign that he’d known leisure. Galina would call him a feygele and Minna thought it could be true.
“The humbled mind lets go, and is released!”
That the man spewed nonsense didn’t bother Minna. Just the opposite, in fact; it made him seem wholly indifferent to the dim squalor around him. The engine roared, the people were poor, an accordion wobbled, a baby screamed—yet the magician was somehow insulated. Exempt. Respectable. Which was how Minna intended to be.
B Y the second day, the floor was slick with vomit. People argued: it was something in the water; no, it was a storm; it was always like this; no, it wasn’t usually this bad. The ones who spoke in Yiddish or Russian, Minna understood, but she couldn’t see how their debates would be of any use. Each time the boat tilted, the sick passengers groaned with the engine. By the fourth morning, they’d started to cry. They muttered unintelligibly, or in foreign languages. The air was too warm—it smelled of rye and urine. A baby died. From light to dark to light, the hold was the same, a vibrating, steamy swamp. A small band of passengers ferried the sick out to the fresh air of the deck and threw buckets of seawater across the floor. Out they would go, in they would come again, led by a man with a bandage wrapped around his
Similar Books
