Then Sings My Soul (8 page)

CHAPTER 12

“He's suffered a pretty bad break in that right hip,” the orthopedic surgeon explained. A tall, burly fellow with kind eyes, Dr. Weiss had found Nel sitting in a corner of the lounge outside the recovery room at Battle Creek Memorial Hospital. The surgery to repair the hip had lasted nearly three hours. “His bones are brittle. Normally I wouldn't have done surgery at all on someone his age, but as vibrant as you indicated he was before, it's worth a shot.”

“My mom said he's been needing to have that hip replaced.”

“She was right.”

“When can I see him?”

“Let the nurses get him settled. I'm going to keep him in the progressive care unit for a day or two for closer monitoring before I send him to the ward. After that, he'll start rehabilitation here at the hospital. And depending on how that goes—”

“He won't want to live in a nursing home.”

Dr. Weiss sat back and exhaled. “You need to prepare yourself for that. And him. Recovery from a surgery like this takes a lot out of a sixty- or seventy-year-old. Given his age … well … folks that old don't have much reserve to pull from. There could be confusion, too, acute delusions and, or, a worsening of his dementia.”

“Dementia?”

“You weren't aware of his dementia?”

“I suppose I wasn't. I mean, I've been living in New Mexico for twenty years. I talk to him on the phone pretty regularly and visit during holidays, but I hadn't noticed … Mom never said he had an official diagnosis.” Nel thought about how Catherine had refused her offer to organize a fiftieth wedding anniversary party for them. She'd said they preferred a quiet celebration, just the two of them. But now Nel wondered—had Mom been protecting her from Jakob's decline?

Dr. Weiss opened Jakob's chart and flipped through several pages. “Looks like he's been seeing a doctor over at the Center for Aging here since last fall. They've got a great program. But honestly, it wouldn't be unusual for you not to have noticed. The short-term memory goes first. A lot of times these patients can carry on a conversation and remember things from decades ago with great detail.”

Nel tried to recall patterns or anything off about their phone conversations over the past several months. He'd told a lot of the same stories over and over, but otherwise he seemed to be the same dad as always.

“So what should I expect?” Nel didn't know if she could deal with losing both her parents within a couple of weeks of each other.

“Expect to take things day by day.” He stood, tucking Jakob's chart under his arm, and put a hand on Nel's shoulder. “Some of these folks surprise us.”

If the first few days of Jakob's hospitalization were any indication of how things would go, Nel was terrified. When she saw him for the first time in the progressive care unit, he had no idea who she was. The nurses had placed giant, mitten-like restraints on his hands and tied down his arms.

“He's yanked his IV out three times already. The restraints are there to protect him more than anything,” one of the nurses explained.

One morning, Nel was visiting when a physical therapist carrying a walker came into the room for the first time. “It's time for you to get up, Mr. Stewart.”

Jakob's eyes widened. “And just who do you think you are?”

“My name's Tom, and I'm here to get you moving. Can't stay in bed, or else you'll get too weak, your bowels will stop up, you'll get pneumonia—”

“Where's Peter?” Jakob asked him.

“We don't have a therapist named Peter. I'm Tom.”

“But where is Peter? I need to talk to him about all this,” Jakob insisted, fidgeting with the blankets tangled around his waist from his restlessness.

“Dad, it's okay. Tom just wants to help you get up.”

The troubled lines on Jakob's forehead softened when he turned toward Nel. “Why, Catherine, you look beautiful today. Tell this man to quit bothering me, will you?”

Any hesitation she'd had about correcting him in the past vanished with her frustration with the whole situation. “Dad. It's me. Nel.”

“Nel?” He looked at her quizzically. “Oh, Nel! Yes, of course! I'm sorry.” He shook his head and turned back to Tom. “What are we doing here? What do you want?”

Tom explained again that he was there to help Jakob get up from bed, but despite Tom's patient coaxing and help from Nel, Jakob barely had the wits or the strength to stand at the side of the bed. He nearly fell as they tried to ease him back down, his feet flying up in the air and knocking the walker over as he plopped precariously onto the mattress.

“We'll try again this afternoon,” Tom said, breathless.

That afternoon and the seventy-two hours that followed were a disaster. The nurses gave Jakob pain medicine to help him get up, but the medicine only made him more confused. Even when Nel was there visiting—which was most of the time, since she hadn't wanted to leave him alone—the staff insisted on tying him up. He'd become delirious, fighting the staff when they tried to move him, slugging poor Tom in the gut at one point.

“Don't let them take my fingers! Don't let them take my fingers!” Jakob cried over and over one evening as two nurses struggled to put the mitten restraints on his hands.

Nel backed out of the room as she watched them tie the restraints onto the bedframe. She was beside herself with emotion and exhausted from all the time she'd been there. She couldn't remember the last time she had taken a shower. When the nurses came back into the hallway, she told them she was going home. “Please call me if he gets worse.”

“We will,” they assured her. “Get some rest. That'll make you feel better.”

She doubted that but went home anyway, grateful to find that someone had dropped off another casserole—something Italian, which was a nice change from tuna and chicken. A hot shower had never felt as good as the one she had after she ate. And the nurses were right about getting some rest. She slept for sixteen hours that night, and if the phone had rung, she hadn't heard it.

In the morning, she padded to the kitchen and made herself some scrambled eggs, adding a bit of water to fluff them up. Then she called the hospital.

“He did okay last night. Less combative—we didn't have to put him in the mitt restraints. But he keeps talking about a man coming to take his baby.” The nurse chuckled.

Nel didn't get what was funny.

“Never know what these patients are going to come up with when they're confused. Said something about a missing gem too. As though he were reliving that old movie—what was it? …
Romancing the Stone
with Michael Douglas, right? I wish I could go live with them in their make-believe worlds sometimes.”

Nel set the phone down and heard the sound of a nail gun coming from the direction of Mattie's house. She stepped out onto the back deck and saw David up on the ladder, working his way around to the back eaves of the house. He must've been there early, judging by all the old wood torn off and strewn around the yard below him. He reached around to his belt for a new strip of nails, and Nel jumped back so he wouldn't see her in her saggy old pajama pants and matted hair. Maybe she'd say hello to him, but she at least wanted to have a bra on and her teeth brushed.

Inside, she sat at the round oak dining table and halfheartedly sifted through a growing stack of mail Mattie'd been bringing in for them. Most of it was junk mail and catalogs addressed to her mom, social security checks she'd deposit on the way back to the hospital, and utility bills. Underneath was the envelope from immigration she'd found the day of the funeral. She opened it again and looked more closely at the ship manifest for clues as to what her mom had been searching for. The information fascinated Nel as she read through the list: Stanislaw Zolinsky, a laborer from Russia, Hebrew. Maryanne Bujeloska, a laborer from Lithuania. Gossel Kalmonowik, a tailor, and his wife, Judes, and children, Abraham and Sarah, listed as Russian and Hebrew. Rudolph Lipelk, a locksmith from Russia, Hebrew. Adam Greschenko, a twenty-one-year-old Russian egg packer.

Nel stopped when she came to a line that read “Peter Maevski, 14,” and below it, “Jakob Maevski, 5. Place of residence: Chudniv, Russia. Race or people group: Hebrew.”

She studied the photograph of the two boys. They looked sad, but maybe it was because they weren't smiling. Everyone in old photos had sad, stoic expressions whether it was a wedding day or a funeral. She'd never seen any childhood pictures of her father, so she couldn't say if the boys resembled anyone for certain. And the last name didn't make sense, unless … unless they'd been adopted. And if they were brothers who had come from Russia, what kind of life would they have come from? What happened to their mother and father? Why hadn't they come with the boys to America? She didn't know much about that period in Russian history, except that large numbers had emigrated from Eastern Europe in the early 1900s. And the only thing she knew about what life was like there was from
Fiddler on the Roof
, one of her favorite musicals. She and her mom had seen it more than once in Chicago, but her dad never wanted to come. He said he didn't like plays. He was glad his girls enjoyed shows, but the theater was not for him.

And why had her mom grown interested in researching this after so many years of marriage?

EARLY 1904

Eastern Ukraine, Russian Empire

CHAPTER 13

Jakob jammed himself against the wall of the barn and pressed his hands over his ears, but nothing could dampen the sound of Peter screaming. He kept his eyes squeezed shut except to open them momentarily to see if the girl was still there, sitting across from him, her eyes wide open, her face pale, and her expression as vacant as it had been from the first moment they saw her.

He wished Peter had never found the place, but they'd been desperate for shelter. Galya could barely lift his legs to plod through the snowdrifts, and the blizzard itself was so blinding, for all they knew they could've been traveling in circles, or worse, back toward Chudniv. So when they'd seen the large barn, which had appeared vacant at first, they didn't worry about what or who was inside. They were only glad to have a place to stay.

At first inspection, they thought they were alone. The main barn was high and open, and empty stalls lined each side wall. They shook the snow off themselves and brushed off Galya before Peter began a more thorough inspection of the building. At the back of the barn, a corridor led to a smaller, low-ceilinged building. There, the stalls were lined with fresh straw—too fresh. In the far corner, a potbellied stove glowed from a waning fire. Next to it were baskets of beets, potatoes, and jerky.

“Hello?” Peter called. “Anyone here?”

Peter hadn't needed to call out and ask. Jakob had already found the girl, who appeared about as old as their middle sister, Tova. She cowered under a table near the stove and reminded Jakob of the feral cats, timid and wide-eyed with fear, that hid under their front porch at home. She wore only a
vyshyvanka,
1
sized for a large woman, which fell to her knees. The garment must've been white at some point but was now yellowed with age and dirt. Jakob and the girl stared at each other, silent, until Peter noticed them.

Peter got down on his haunches and smiled at the girl. “Come on out now. It's all right. We won't hurt you.”

She only continued to stare past him at nothing, until she glanced toward the one window in the room for a moment before staring back at nothing again.

“What is it? Someone here with you?”

Peter's answer came only too soon, as a man burst through the door, cursing and coughing until he nearly ran into them.

“What's this?” the man said, brushing the snow off his coat and tossing a rabbit carcass onto the pile of straw nearby before taking a gulp from a filthy, tarnished flask. “If I'd known we'd have company, I'd have tried to catch another. Then again, the trap's only big enough to catch one.”

Peter scooted closer to Jakob, who was glad to feel his brother's arm around his shoulders.

The man came toward them, and as he bent near, the boys could smell the thick scent of alcohol on his breath. “I was getting tired of only one around here.” He nodded toward the girl and laughed in a way that caused Jakob to shiver. The man paused for a moment, as if in thought, rubbing his chin with his gloved fingers. “You can stay, I suppose, but there'll be chores as long as you're here. For starters, skin that rabbit.”

Peter nodded. “Do you have a knife, sir?”

“Right here.” He pulled a blade from beneath his pants leg, and the metal gleamed against the glow of the coals in the stove. Just as it looked like he was going to hand it to Peter, the metal flashed, and the man had the tip of the knife pointed against the side of Peter's neck.

Peter stiffened, not daring to move.

“Don't be getting any ideas, little Jew. This is my barn, and I decide who goes and who stays. For the time being, you two are staying.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said.

Galya whinnied from the stalls in the large section of the barn.

“Ah, so you have a horse. We'll make good use of him too.”

The man pulled the knife away from Peter's neck and handed it to him. Peter skinned and cooked the rabbit, and the three of them ate in silence while the girl still hid under the table. The man offered some rabbit to her, but her countenance did not change, nor did she move. He threw a chunk of meat at her. “Have it your way, little miss. I don't care much now if
you
starve, seeing as how we've got company. Worthless little Jew whore.”

Eventually the man drank until he passed out, and Peter and Jakob made a warm nest for themselves in the straw. “Do as he says for now, Jakob. We'll leave as soon as the storm stops,” Peter whispered as he held Jakob close.

Peter began to recite the evening Shema, and Jakob tried to listen, to find comfort in the words, but he was unable to keep his eyes open. It was the first time he'd been warm in days.

What seemed like minutes later, he awoke to the sound of the girl whimpering. Jakob sat up to see what was the matter, but Peter pushed him down into the straw. “Stay there. Close your eyes and don't get up again. Don't
move
.”

Peter inched in the direction of the sound, and Jakob couldn't help but look and see what was the matter, though he soon wished he never had. The man was on top of the girl, still under the table, her bony leg pushed to one side at an impossible angle, and he thrust against her in a way that made bits of the rabbit supper come up into the back of Jakob's throat. Jakob saw Peter grab a shovel and continue to move toward the man, who was working too hard at whatever awful thing he was doing to her to notice.

“Stop now, or this goes into your skull!” Peter yelled.

The man rose so quickly, apparently forgetting he was under a table, that he hit his head and cursed.

Peter brought the shovel down hard in the direction of the man's head, somehow missing entirely and slamming the shovel onto the floor. The man began to laugh, a sick, throaty laugh. Peter grew all the more angry, until the man turned over and pointed a gun at his head.

“You're no match for lead, boy.” He cocked the trigger.

Peter backed up a step and dropped the shovel.

The man stood, pulling up his pants with his free hand.

The girl pulled her shirt over her knees and scurried back farther under the table, so far the darkness caused her to disappear from Jakob's sight.

“Over there.” The man nodded toward a post at the corner of the empty calf stalls.

Peter obeyed, and the man grabbed a rope and ordered the girl out from under the table to help him tie Peter to the post. The girl's black hair fell in strings around her face, and though her face showed no emotion, new tears had washed the dirt away, leaving trails of clean skin in their path. She tied Peter's hands, then his ankles as the man continued to bark instructions at her and hold the gun to the side of Peter's head. She stayed close as the man walked across the room to get the knife Peter had used to skin and clean the rabbit, and before he returned, Jakob saw her whisper in Peter's ear, then kiss him, her thin lips like the wings of a butterfly against his face. Then she hurried back to her spot underneath the table.

“I should kill you, but you could come in useful. Instead, I will teach you the place of a Jew.” He moved behind Peter with the knife, and spread the fingers of Peter's hand flat against the post. “I was thinking one finger, but there are three of you here. I will take one for each of you, so you will know what will happen to them, too, the next time you try to protect one of them.”

That was when Peter's screaming began, as the man sliced through Peter's fifth finger. If it hadn't been for the snow, the screams would've awakened anyone within three kilometers of the barn, for certain. When the man started on Peter's fourth finger, Jakob clambered through the straw across the room and under the table to where the girl cowered.

All Jakob could do was close his eyes and cover his ears as the man sliced and laughed like a madman, moving on to the third finger. The knife, though shiny, was quite dull, and he hacked more forcefully. Peter screamed on and on, Jakob curled into himself as he had in the cupboard in Chudniv.

The girl nudged Jakob with her foot, startling him. She said nothing, only nodded toward Jakob's right, where the shovel Peter had intended to use lay half hidden under the straw. She nudged him again and nodded; then Jakob grabbed the shovel as the man focused on riving and holding down Peter's struggling arm. She took the shovel slowly from Jakob so as not to create a sudden movement the man might see. Surely she wasn't thinking of using it, Jakob thought. He'd never seen anyone with arms and legs so thin and pale. But she was on her feet before he could take another breath, tiptoeing behind the man, who was still laughing like a lunatic.

Jakob squeezed himself tight against the wall beneath the table as the girl raised the shovel without a sound. She lowered it as hard as her small arms could toward the man's head. As she did, the man turned. The sharp edge of the shovel embedded itself in the man's temple, and he crumpled to the ground.

She dropped the shovel and stared at the unmoving man. For what seemed like forever, Jakob watched as she stood and the man lay still in a heap at her feet.

“He's dead,” Peter gasped.

Jakob knew this already, too familiar with the unmistakable slump of flesh in the absence of a soul. But it did not make him brave enough to come out from under the table. Once again he'd hidden and done nothing while someone else he loved was hurt. He thought of Faigy and how she'd whimpered so, her cries for Mama choked by the darkness closing in around her when the man in the black robes stuffed her under his cloak. Jakob had done nothing then, and he'd done nothing to help Peter either.

Peter sagged against the post, sweat and splatters of blood and tears of his own running together down his neck, blood pooling on the floor under his hand. He struggled to lift his head and look at the girl. “You saved our lives.”

The girl moved toward Peter, grabbed the knife, and began cutting the ropes on Peter's wrists and ankles. Only then did Jakob run to Peter and cling to him.

“My name is Raisa,” she finally spoke as she wrapped Peter's hand.

“Thank you, Raisa.”

“I'm the one who should thank you.” A flush of color rose to her cheeks, the only sign of emotion she'd shown besides silent tears since they found her. She continued bandaging Peter's hand with scraps of the dead man's shirt. “When the bleeding slows, I know how to sew up and clean a wound.”

Peter's pain didn't keep him from helping Raisa pull the dead man from the barn. The snow still fell in a near-whiteout torrent, so Jakob held a lantern at the barn door to make sure they found their way back from the edge of the woods where they dragged him. Later, by the warmth of the potbellied stove, Raisa made strips of bandages and boiled them in lye and water. She sewed the gaping holes over Peter's knuckles as gently as she could and spread a poultice made of dried yarrow over the sutured wounds, then wrapped it all with the clean cloths.

“How do you know how to do this?” Peter asked.

“My mother was a medicine woman in our village.” She nodded in the direction of where they'd dragged the man's corpse. “He kept me from running, but he didn't pay attention to anything else I did. I collected herbs in the fall when I had the chance.”

“Where is your family?”

She stopped wrapping and met Peter's eyes. “I am the only one who survived.”

Raisa went on to explain how she ran when the raid began, as far and as fast as she could, and how she'd watched from a distance as the whole village burned. She had nothing, of course, and this man had found her and seemed kind at first when she came upon him and the barn. He'd provided her with food and basic clothing. But when the winter set in, he began to rape her, and it became obvious she couldn't leave unless she wished to die either from him or from exposure, since she had no horse or warm clothes or shoes (he'd made sure of that, burning them in the fire one night when she'd tried).

“Come with us, Raisa,” Peter said. “We can at least take you to the next town, somewhere with a safe family.”

She agreed, and the three of them stayed in the barn until the snowstorm broke, eating all they could, mending themselves and their tattered clothes, altering shoes and
valenk
i
2
for Raisa. Even Galya eventually appeared rested, happy to munch on the straw and a couple of stray bags of oats the pogromshchik left behind.

The snow stopped and the sky turned blue again, and though it was cold, the world appeared clean and new.