head who seemed to think that such ministrations made a difference. They didn’t. People kept vomiting. The air vibrated and steamed. Minna’s head felt like a child’s toy being cranked, its springs about to explode. She waited for the nausea to find her. She swung her head left and right, pursuing vertigo. Only the well, she thought, would go mad.
Yet each morning, she was well. She began to feel as she had in the village, surrounded by other children yet unable to play their games, to follow the rules. There were hundreds of rules. Always count each other like this—“Not-one, not-two, not-three . . .”—so as not to entice the Angel of Death. Don’t walk backward; for every step you take backward, your parents will burn in hell for as many years. Playing with fire will make you a bed wetter. Eating the first crust of bread will make you stupid. Minna knew—knowing was her problem—that it was all laughable. She told Galina once about the counting and Galina nearly fell over cackling. “The backward Yids!” she cried, and Minna ended the story there. She never told her how strongly she’d wanted to join the other children. If she believed in the rules, she’d thought, if she believed in God, obedience would come easily. If she feared, like the others, she would be free of choice, and therefore of sin, and she would no longer have to fear. Yet something in Minna had resisted. There was her sense that the other children sneered at her behind her back. There was her stubbornness—her pride—her father’s pride. There was her tendency to stand apart: what her aunts called her dim-wittedness.
She sat hunched in her bunk, facing the wall, cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. She couldn’t hear the crack; she only knew it had occurred when she felt a stabbing in her gums, and tasted the hull fall away from the bitter seed, and smelled, or imagined she smelled, over the bile, something of land. She spit the hulls into her palm and tossed them over her shoulder. The ship bucked, the bunk bruised her bottom. Minna continued to feel immoderately, noxiously sober. She thought of the “doctor” recommending she put on weight “en route” and wanted to cry. She wondered if there were other Rosenfeld girls on the ship. She’d looked for them on the docks; she felt she would recognize them, somehow, and that they would recognize her. But most of the girls on the docks had been huddled together, in packs. Other Rosenfeld girls would probably ride second class. They would not have succumbed, like Minna, to grapes and chocolate.
She pulled out her photograph.
In the dark of her bunk, the picture held new possibilities. She covered his hands with her thumbs and liked the way he kept them in his pockets: he was a man with his own secrets, his own vices, a man who wanted but did not need a woman. She pressed two fingers, vertically, to the edge of the picture: a house, tall and lean and white; her longer finger the chimney. She hid the man’s feet and liked that he was not so tall that he could afford to slouch. She took out her new comb and, as he watched, tugged the snarls out of her hair.
Yet sometimes she couldn’t help but glimpse the photograph unembellished. She saw details she’d missed, or chosen to miss, when he was first handed to her. The hands were empty and nervous, hanging awkwardly at his sides. The pants were too short. The toes pointed outward. The knees were locked.
She folded him back up, slid him away again, gone.
But on the fifth day, the problems worsened in front of her eyes. The pants seemed up to his knees now. His neck was gooselike, shrivelly, to match his toes. He was fearful and ugly.
In desperation she set Galina’s parcel in her lap. She had saved this pleasure as long as she could, and she unwrapped the sheet gravely, methodically, pretending her fingers belonged to someone more delicate, taking time, at each unfolding, to smooth any wrinkles. She had nothing but time.
Yet each morning, she was well. She began to feel as she had in the village, surrounded by other children yet unable to play their games, to follow the rules. There were hundreds of rules. Always count each other like this—“Not-one, not-two, not-three . . .”—so as not to entice the Angel of Death. Don’t walk backward; for every step you take backward, your parents will burn in hell for as many years. Playing with fire will make you a bed wetter. Eating the first crust of bread will make you stupid. Minna knew—knowing was her problem—that it was all laughable. She told Galina once about the counting and Galina nearly fell over cackling. “The backward Yids!” she cried, and Minna ended the story there. She never told her how strongly she’d wanted to join the other children. If she believed in the rules, she’d thought, if she believed in God, obedience would come easily. If she feared, like the others, she would be free of choice, and therefore of sin, and she would no longer have to fear. Yet something in Minna had resisted. There was her sense that the other children sneered at her behind her back. There was her stubbornness—her pride—her father’s pride. There was her tendency to stand apart: what her aunts called her dim-wittedness.
She sat hunched in her bunk, facing the wall, cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. She couldn’t hear the crack; she only knew it had occurred when she felt a stabbing in her gums, and tasted the hull fall away from the bitter seed, and smelled, or imagined she smelled, over the bile, something of land. She spit the hulls into her palm and tossed them over her shoulder. The ship bucked, the bunk bruised her bottom. Minna continued to feel immoderately, noxiously sober. She thought of the “doctor” recommending she put on weight “en route” and wanted to cry. She wondered if there were other Rosenfeld girls on the ship. She’d looked for them on the docks; she felt she would recognize them, somehow, and that they would recognize her. But most of the girls on the docks had been huddled together, in packs. Other Rosenfeld girls would probably ride second class. They would not have succumbed, like Minna, to grapes and chocolate.
She pulled out her photograph.
In the dark of her bunk, the picture held new possibilities. She covered his hands with her thumbs and liked the way he kept them in his pockets: he was a man with his own secrets, his own vices, a man who wanted but did not need a woman. She pressed two fingers, vertically, to the edge of the picture: a house, tall and lean and white; her longer finger the chimney. She hid the man’s feet and liked that he was not so tall that he could afford to slouch. She took out her new comb and, as he watched, tugged the snarls out of her hair.
Yet sometimes she couldn’t help but glimpse the photograph unembellished. She saw details she’d missed, or chosen to miss, when he was first handed to her. The hands were empty and nervous, hanging awkwardly at his sides. The pants were too short. The toes pointed outward. The knees were locked.
She folded him back up, slid him away again, gone.
But on the fifth day, the problems worsened in front of her eyes. The pants seemed up to his knees now. His neck was gooselike, shrivelly, to match his toes. He was fearful and ugly.
In desperation she set Galina’s parcel in her lap. She had saved this pleasure as long as she could, and she unwrapped the sheet gravely, methodically, pretending her fingers belonged to someone more delicate, taking time, at each unfolding, to smooth any wrinkles. She had nothing but time.
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