“Who says I’m getting married,” Berta said.
“Don’t be silly. You’re getting married.” Lhaye propped her head up on her palm and looked over at Berta. “Do you think his house is large? Do you think it’s a mansion?”
“How would I know?” Berta rolled over and closed her eyes.
“I think it’s a mansion. I think it has a turret and lots of servants.” Usually Berta enjoyed talking about these things, girlish dreams of weddings, of her escape from Mosny and the life that awaited her once she and Hershel were married. Yet even in the happiest times these dreams were tempered by niggling doubts. After all, there hadn’t even been a proposal. Hershel hadn’t talked to Tateh and nothing definite had been said, although much had been hinted at. “You’re going to like Cherkast,” he had said to her on more than one occasion. Sometimes he talked about traveling together and how he wanted to show her Petersburg and Paris. Once, out of the blue, he asked her if she liked rubies. When she said she did, he nodded with satisfaction and fell silent as if he were filing it away for future use.
While he was in Mosny it all seemed possible. He was attentive and affectionate, brushing the hair out of her eyes when she worked at the sink, nibbling the back of her neck, stealing kisses even when her parents were in the house. But when he was gone and she didn’t know where he was or when he was coming back, the doubts would begin to surface, making it increasingly hard for her to believe that there would ever be a wedding or a life with him in Cherkast.
That spring he stayed with them for several weeks while he traveled the countryside buying wheat. One day, he invited Berta to come along, and soon after that she was accompanying him on most every trip. Typically, they would start out early, just after sunrise, and not be back until late in the afternoon. Sometimes they traveled great distances before they came to a particular farmstead that Hershel had marked on the map that hung over his bed. They both enjoyed these outings in the sunshine and under the new leaves, especially since Hershel was good at finding dry roads and staying out of the mud that plagued the other travelers.
Whenever he pulled into a drive, she would ask: chaver or prostak? A chaver, a friend, meant that she could go down with him. It meant that the bol’shak wouldn’t be offended if he brought a female onto the property. A prostak, an uneducated boar, meant that she had to wait for him up on the road. If he brought her with him, there would be too many questions and it might jeopardize the sale.
That afternoon they stopped at the top of a drive overlooking a small farmstead below. A line of clothes was drying in the hot sun and a woman bent over a washtub on legs. She straightened to look at them, sheltering her eyes with her hand and shushing the dog that had begun to bark.
“A prostak,” replied Hershel to Berta’s question. “So you better get out here and wait for me.” Berta looked disappointed, but gathered up her parasol, book, and blanket and climbed down.
When Hershel came back up nearly an hour later it was already getting late. The ride back was a long one, but he knew a shortcut that would get them back before dark. They rode out under a tunnel of glittering leaves, emerging now and then into the brilliant sunshine. Somewhere along the way they came to a crossroads marked by a signpost where numerous signs for peasant villages and townlets were posted in Russian. They were just passing the sign when Berta cried out to stop and Hershel pulled up on the reins.
“Did you see that?” she said turning back. She was nearly shouting in her excitement. She didn’t even wait for the carriage to come to a stop, but jumped down and ran back to take a look at the signs. “Hershel look, it’s Leski! It’s only three versts from here.”
Beside them was a freshly plowed field of sweet-smelling earth. There were women in the field moving up one row and down another, sowing handfuls of seeds from sacks hitched over their shoulders. Their attention kept getting drawn away from their task to the two people in the new droshky who had stopped at the crossroads. They were strangers who were probably lost and arguing about which way to go. They were far more interesting than the seeds.
“I know. Get in. It’s late. We have to be heading home.” He suddenly sounded very tired.
“But it’s so close. Don’t you want to see it?”
“No.”
“But it’s where you were born.”
His expression hardened. “Berta, get in the carriage.”
“Why?”
“Just get in.” He kept his eyes on the road.
She shook her head and climbed back into the carriage. She adjusted her skirts and held on to the side as it lunged forward. Even though it took over an hour to get home, they rode in silence.
THAT SUMMER Hershel came often, his visits sometimes stretching into weeks, and it seemed to Berta that he was with them more than he was away. It was calming and exciting to have him so close, to meet him in the hall in the morning, to sit across from him while they ate their bread with wild blackberry jam that she had made the summer before. Many mornings she woke up with a luxurious feeling of contentment, knowing that her doubts were trivial, that she had nothing to worry about, that she could dream about a new life and not be afraid.
One night after supper, she and Hershel went out walking down the main road into the countryside. There was a full moon and their shadows glided along beside them, over the ruts in the road, over the piles of dead leaves still smelling of hot dust. They walked on until they came to the tavern on the outskirts of town, where a blind man sat with his son at an outdoor table. He wore a long coat of homespun wool, beside him was a wooden staff propped up against the table, and in front of him was an empty shot glass. He looked up and stared sightlessly at Hershel and Berta as they walked past. His son, who was sitting beside him, raised his head from the table to see who was going by. His hair had been hacked into uneven waves that nearly covered his ears. His beard was ragged and mostly gray. His blind father asked him about the strangers.
“Only zhydy from town,” his son told him. He dropped his head back down on his arms and closed his eyes. He was more tired than drunk. “The grocer’s daughter and the wheat merchant.”
They walked on until the only sound they could hear was the clacking of the bare branches in the wind, the snuffling of horses in the pasture, and the crunch of their feet on the gravel. Hershel stopped by a small collection of gravestones and leaned over to kiss her. He paused just as his lips touched hers. His movements were unhurried and even a little playful, nibbles on her upper lip, his mouth covering hers, until finally what had been innocent became more urgent. When he was about to let her go, she drew him back, reaching up and pulling him closer.
Afterward, they stayed in each other’s arms, her breasts against his chest, their bodies so close that she could feel his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. They began to sway together, ever so slightly, dancing without music. He whispered in her ear. “I’m going away soon.”
She pulled away from him. “Again? Where?”
“All over. Odessa mostly.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know. Depends. Could be a while.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? I could’ve prepared for it.”