The Day Aunt Chaya Was Buried

by WOLF MANKOWITZ

ONE Sabbath my great-grandfather was singing some verses of the service which belonged to the cantor. The cantor sang loud. My greatgrandfather, who had a very strong voice, sang louder still so that one or two men in the synagogue felt uncomfortable and wished that Reb Sholem Pinsk the beadle would arrive and quietly request my great-grandfather to let the cantor earn the few pennies he was paid.

But where was Reb Sholem? This was really a question to ask, for where should a beadle be on a Sabbath morning if not in the synagogue? Then, suddenly, like an explosion, in ran Reb Sholem waving his spectacles in one hand and his praying shawl in the other. He rushed up to my greatgrandfather and pulled at his coat. “ Why shouldn’t I sing?" asked my great-grandfather. “What sort of a cantor does he think he is anyway? My own cow can sing belter.”Reb Sholem pulled his arm. “Listen, he wheezed between coughing and spitting for he was an old man to have boon running so fast. “Listen,”he grunted, “the bronze horse at Novel lias been blown up.”“What?" cried all the men around. “The bronze horse at Novel? You don’t say so!” they said.

“I’m telling you,”shouted Reb Sholem Pinsk, “the bronze horse standing in the market place at Novel has been blown up.”

The cantor was taking advantage of the disturbance to get through a few verses without assistance. But what was the use since everyone was listening to Reb Sholem. The cantor stopped singing and called out in his rich voice, “Reb Sholem, why should we care whether the bronze horse at Nevel is blown up or not? This is the Sabbath and we are at worship.”

“He’s right,”said my great-grandfather. “He can’t sing but what he says is true. What do I care about the bronze horse at Nevel? I already have enough worries of my own,”and he began to sing again where he had left off before.

“He’s right,”said all the men. “We should worry about the bronze horse at Nevel,” and they straightened their praying shawls and went back to their seats.

Reb Sholem pulled at my great-grandfather’s coat again even harder. “Believe me,” he said, “you should be worried. We should all be worried.”

“You should have no false gods, even a bronze horse, Reb Sholem, especially as you are the beadle,”called the cantor severely.

“God forbid,”answered Reb Sholem, “let all bronze idols be blown up. But"—and again he pulled at my great-grandfather’s coat —“not by your youngest sister Chaya.”

“What shouted my great-grandfather.

“Your youngest sister Chaya has blown up the bronze horse at Novel,” repeated Reb Sholem. “God help us,”whispered my great-grandfather and walked straight out of the synagogue. “Now perhaps I can sing without an ass braying,” thought the cantor.

When my great-grandfather arrived home he was greeted by the sound of crying and voices all asking different questions at the same time. The family was gathered around Aunt Chaya asking her questions, and weeping for her, and so worrying the poor woman that, true as she remained in principle to the Revolution, she was beginning to wish she had never learned how to make bombs, or how to throw them, particularly in the direction of, for example, bronze horses. But everyone was silenced by my great-grandfather shouting, “Hold your tongues, you geese, or I will give you something to cry about. You understand me?” Then he continued politely, “First you must understand, my dear Chaya, that we are very pleased to see you.” Everyone shouted out “Certainly,” “I should think so.”

“Be quiet,” my great-grandfather shouted. He turned again to his young sister. “Chaya,” he said in a solemn voice, “Chaya, I have always said to you, make your own decisions and go your own way, for if you must associate with riffraff then it must surely be God’s intention and it is not for me to interfere. But now you have done some terrible thing, and although God certainly knows what you have done and why you have done it, I do not, and if it is not troubling you too much I should like to hear the entire story.” And my great-grand father sat down in his chair.

2

AUNT CHAYA was a little woman even at the best of times but when my great-grandfather stood beside her they looked like a big gander and a little goose. She had never been a great talker, but you could see from the way her eyes moved quickly like a pair of small fish that she thought a great deal.

The revolutionary party Aunt Chaya belonged to was not very large, but Aunt Chaya had been a member ever since she was a girl. In those days a few of the less religious youngsters from the village used to go in couples, the boys with red handkerchiefs tied round their necks, their arms round the waists of the girls, the girls with red ribbons in their hair, into the woods, there to listen to one another’s speeches, and to sing revolutionary songs, and also, to be frank, to make love. One Sunday afternoon, Chaya, a young girl at the time, followed them into the wood, hid in a tree nearby, listened, watched, and learned. Then she came down from the tree and said that unless they let her become a member she would tell all their fathers what the Revolution really meant. So they let her join although she was so small and so young, but soon they began to respect her. She had a genius for hiding revolutionary pamphlets. She became secretary of the group, and once when the police came to the village to see if there were any deserters from the tsar’s army about, Chaya hid a broken pistol which a party speaker from Lutzen had given her. She hid it in an earth closet and all the brothers and sisters in the party said what a genius she had for organization. But when Chaya left the village and the others had all married, and the boys blew their noses or carried their dinners in the red handkerchiefs, and the girls used their red ribbons to tie their aprons, Chaya began to learn other things. She even went on missions and, because the party remained so small, became a very important person indeed.

I am telling you all this so that you shouldn’t be surprised that Aunt Chaya, small as she was, should be chosen to throw the bomb at Peter Petrovich Minsky. But now I expect you want to know something about Peter Petrovich as well, for there is no end to people’s curiosity. So.

Peter Petrovich was a clerk in the recruitment office at Nevel. When the recruits were brought in, Peter Petrovich pulled his thick mustaches, stared through his steel-framed spectacles which contained only plain glass but which made him feel important, and asked questions. “Your name is what? You were born where? Your father was what?” Naturally a man who asks so many questions is a great nuisance.

Aunt Chaya’s party had just decided that the only way to be noticed was to become a great nuisance just like Peter Petrovich. There he was, a very small official indeed, but if it weren’t for Peter Petrovich there would be no recruitment office; and if there were no office, there would be nowhere for the recruits to go to; and if there were nowhere for the recruits to go to, they would have to stay at home in their villages; and if they stayed at home they wouldn’t be in the tsar’s army, and then the tsar would have no army, and there would be nothing to stop the Revolution. If it weren’t for Peter Petrovich there would be happiness for all and a picture of Aunt Chaya in every village in Russia, but there was Peter Petrovich sitting every day in his recruitment office, pulling his mustaches, looking through his plain glasses, asking questions, and sending men into the tsar’s army. It was unbearable that a man like him should stand in the way of the Revolution, and the party decided it wouldn’t put up with it any longer. Peter Petrovich was to be blown up one morning as he went into his recruitment office. The morning was better than the evening because there would be more people about and this would make the bomb-thrower harder to find. It would also save another day’s lot of men from the tsar’s army. What was more natural than that Aunt Chaya with her record and reputation should be chosen lo throw the bomb? Though my great-grandfather was against lighting except sometimes with fists like a man, believe me, he (we all) would have been insulted if Aunt Chaya had not been chosen.

Now the recruitment office of Peter Petrovich Minsky stood in the market place of Nevel, and in the center of this market place there also stood a large, beautiful, very old bronze horse. Tell me, how many towns do you know where they have a bronze horse? You agree, not every town in the world can turn round and say, “We have a bronze horse standing in the market place.” And the bronze horse at Nevel was certainly a horse to end horses. There it stood in the snow and in the heat, covered with ice or covered with dust, always at the center of Nevel for everyone to see and admire. It pranced up, waving its forefeet in the air, its mane blew all over the place, its tail was long and thick, its thighs were enormous, its eyes were wild, its nostrils wide open, its teeth bared, its lips covered with spume. Why, you could almost hear it neighing, you could almost hear its hind feet stamp the earth, and any minute it might run you over and leave Nevel behind in a cloud of dust. No wonder the citizens of Nevel were proud of that horse.

Peter Petrovich Minsky passed the bronze horse every day as he crossed the market place to his recruitment office. Every day he walked past the horse without so much as a look at it, staring straight ahead through his glasses, counting up, no doubt, how many good men he would throw to the tsar that day. For all I know he got a commission on each man, per head, you might say, like cattle or sheep. Nevel could spare such a man, and nothing more might have been said if only Aunt Chaya had been a little more careful. The fart is that in spite of her quick bright eyes she was a little bit long-sighted. Certainly Peter Petrovich must have been very annoyed at losing all his hair, especially his mustaches, and of course his glasses were completely destroyed, and his office overcoat torn to shreds, but he himself was still alive after the bomb was thrown. But the bronze horse, oh my goodness, the bronze horse had really left Nevel in a cloud of dust. And when the dust cleared there was nothing to be seen except its hind feet. Everything else was spread all over the market place. A cabbageseller was knocked out by one of the front legs, a stall of cakes was upset by it s head, everything was in a terrible state, and the bronze horse had left Nevel for good. You can imagine how everyone felt about Aunt Chaya.

So it was with great enthusiasm that the police from Nevel began to make inquiries after Aunt Chaya. And, she said, it was only a matter of time before they traced her to the village. “And to my house?” asked my great-grandfather. “Exactly so,” replied Aunt Chaya, her eyes darting about the room looking for policemen.

Everyone started to shout and ask questions again and, naturally, my great-grandmother was crying. “Well,” said my great-grandfather, “let everyone be quiet. We are all in great danger and I must think carefully. But what, first of all, is that terrible smell?” Everyone turned round and sniffed, and my great-grandmother cried out, “It must be the cat. She is dead, you know.”

At this moment who should run in but a friend of my young grandfather’s, a boy with a very long nose and sidecurls who was, in spite of being pious, a terrible liar. “Listen,” he shouted, “a whole lot of police are arriving on horses. Which is your Aunt Chaya who blew up the bronze horse at Nevel?” “Oh my God,” cried my great-grandfather, “it is too late to do anything. Hide under the stove, Chayele, quickly, with the chickens, and perhaps they will not see you. What a terrible smell,” he went on. “Where is this dead cat?”

Now though it was really a had smell, my greatgrandfather was sorry to see the cat gone like that, for she was a good cat and had lived with the family for a long time, catching rats sometimes as long as your arm. All the children played with her and she hardly ever hit them except when rats were short, and this wasn’t often because there were plenty of rats at all times in the village. She was not a cat to die so easily, brought up like that, to a hard life with few comforts. But what had happened was that by dying this cat actually saved eight lives. Now I expect, you had better hear all about that before I finally explain how Aunt Chaya was buried.

3

IT IS a strange thing that among all the foods which the true believer may not eat you do not find mushrooms mentioned. And yet on the other hand it is not such a strange thing, because the rabbis must have known how good a pot of mushrooms can taste, and how they make a change from soup and potatoes. My great-grandmother’s mother was very fond of a dish of mushrooms; so fond of them, in fact, that in the season, in spite of being a very old woman — you can tell how old, she was my great-grandfather’s mother-in-law—she would go down to the meadows and look around for perhaps two or three hours for mushrooms. In those days there were really mushrooms, big as saucers, big as plates some of them.

One morning the old woman was searching in some new fields, slowly walking along talking to herself, and looking carefully about—but she couldn’t find her mushrooms anywhere. “So,” she said, “now they are taking from me my only pleasure. They take from an old woman a few mushrooms nobody wants. Nobody wants me. Nobody looks after me, so they takeaway my mushrooms.” As she got ready to cry a little she suddenly noticed a whole dinner of mushrooms under some trees. “My prayer has been answered,” she wheezed. “There is a God who cares for the old and will never see them want.”

What wonderful mushrooms they were, bigger than ever before and golden yellow like rich butter! Home she took them, talking all the time and feeling like an angel. She skinned and washed them, flavored them just so, and left the pot on the stove to cook while she sat in a corner and saw that no one took them away. But she was tired by the excitement and so much talking to herself, and fell asleep in no time. When, suddenly, there was a noise and the old woman woke up, it was already too late, for the cat had knocked the pot. down and was eating the mushrooms up as quickly as she could swallow. How the old woman swore at the cat, and kicked her, and threw things at her, but she was too hungry to notice. Without moving she finished the mushrooms and then, leaving the old woman crying her eyes out lamenting the misery of being old and weak, the cat walked into my great-grandfather’s workshop and went to sleep and died from fungus-poisoning in one of his biggest and warmest tool chests.

So it was that this famished cat saved the old woman’s life —such as there was left of it — as well as the lives of her grandchildren because, naturally, she always gave them a few spoonfuls of her mushroom stew. And everyone in the house knew it at last, for when my great-grandmother had seen the cat lying dead in the tool chest, she had said “Aach,” and closed the lid hoping somehow she would disappear. She did not disappear. She was smelling to the highest part of heaven — which brings us back to the story of how Aunt Chaya was buried.

It turned out that this little liar who, you remember, came rushing in shouting, “The police are coming,” was telling the truth for a change. In next to no time the police were in the house, and they all stood around with their mouths open, saying “Sir” because this is the only way to make sure that a policeman doesn’t take you to prison. Only two policemen came into the house but believe me, when you’ve got a hunted criminal hiding under the stove with the chickens, even two policemen are no joke. Furthermore outside could be heard the voices of a whole regiment swearing and laughing and telling dirty stories to one another.

One of the policemen must have been a general almost, for he was covered from head to foot in gold braid and gold lines and gold tassels. He had an enormous mustache — much bigger than Peter Petrovich’s—and he kept his helmet on, which my great-grand mother thought was very nice of him, it being the custom in an orthodox house. The other policeman was less well-dressed but much fatter. He took his helmet off and called my great-grandmother “Dear lady” and she didn’t like the look of him at all. My great-grandfather just said good day to them, and beckoned all the children to leave the room.

The first policeman looked round the room and wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell something unpleasant, Ruspensky?” he asked.

The other replied, “I do, Peter Ilyitch. Are you the brother of the revolutionary Chaya?” he snapped at my great-grandfather.

“It is a deathly smell, Ruspensky,” said the other policeman. “I believe—”

“Don’t say it, Ruspensky,” answered Peter Ilyitch. “I think you are right.” He turned on my great-grandfather and said sternly, “There is something dead in this house, is there not?” And truthfully my great-grandfather replied, “There is.”

“And where is your sister Chaya, the red cow?” asked one of the two. Praying silently my greatgrandfather said, “She has been dead these two days and in this hot weather, you understand. Let me take you to the body so that you can arrest her, because if what I hear is true then she deserves to be sent to Siberia whether she is dead or not.”

The two policemen were crossing themselves again and again. “Peter Ilyitch, we should never have come into this accursed place. We shall be cursed forever — already I have a pain in my belly,” said Ruspensky.

“We must inspect the coffin, Ruspensky, or we cannot make a report,” replied Peter Ilyitch. “Take us to it,”he ordered my great-grandfather.

When he had led them into his workshop, praying all the time, my great-grandfather said, “Here is the coffin and accursed remains of that devil’s cat. Perhaps you would care to inspect them?”

Now you must understand that the atmosphere in the workshop was really unbearable. The cat had been dead for maybe six or seven days in very hot weather, and there she had stayed, for business was too bad for my great-grandfather to bother to go into his workshop. And since it would be terrible bad luck, the last thing the police wanted was to examine my devilish Aunt Chaya’s mortal remains. “No,” he said, “unnecessary. She smells dead enough, the witch. God — the pain in my belly is terrible,” and he pushed Peter Ilyitch out of the house. “Arrange to bury that malignant tomorrow, you,” he shouted to my great-grandfather.

“Certainly, my lord,” called my great-grandfather, “with pleasure.” And he wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

Aunt Chaya remained under the stove throughout her burial. Very quickly it was whispered round the village what had happened, and naturally everyone was pleased to attend the burial service the next day. The cat in the tool chest was carried up to the graveyard, with the whole village following behind my great-grandfather and three others carrying the box. The cantor was there and sang the whole service beautifully without a single interruption from my great-grandfather. Everyone wept, and after the last shovelful of earth had fallen they all shook hands and wished my great-grandfather and -mother long life.

Meanwhile Ruspensky and Peter Ilyitch stood by on their horses. They both had headaches because the brandy at the inn where they stayed the night was so bad, and Ruspensky still had a terrible stomach-ache and knew he was accursed.

Everyone said what a pity it was that Aunt Chaya had to miss her burial. As for the cat, believe me, she had the finest funeral any cat, believer or otherwise, has ever had, anywhere. Even in Pinsk I bet they don’t look after cats better.