“Stephen says to stop by the house. He caught some fish today. Much more than we can eat.”
Hanna chuckled. “I just bought two.”
“That won’t be enough for all of you. Why don’t you come now?”
“All right.” She did not feel shy about accepting things from Larisa. She was her friend, and friends shared good fortune. It always seemed, though, that she never had any good fortune to share. But she did mend Larisa’s clothes now and then, working on them when they were gabbing about this or that. It was not really work, just the taking in or letting out of a skirt or jacket. Stephen was gutting a bucketful of fish in the back yard when the two women came up. “Hello, Hanna,” he said, waving a bloody knife at her. “Look at these.”
She sat on a bench next to where he squatted. “Did you catch all of these today?” she asked, eyeing the dozen or so fat fish.
“Yes. They were biting furiously.” He pointed to a pail at one side. “They are for you.”
“Thank you, Stephen.” She glanced into the pail, relieved to see that they had scales, for only scaled fish were kosher. He had remembered her mentioning it one time. Stephen’s nose was red from being in the sun. “Was it windy out there?”
“No more than usual.” He looked up at her from under bushy brows. “I could take you and Larisa some afternoon.” His eyes lowered in shyness, for he knew as well as she what implications could arise from just that simple act.
“I’d like to go with you,” she said, suddenly bold. There were five or six fish in the pail, she saw now, and her spirits rose at being able to provide two good meals for the family. She noticed a tear in the sleeve of his shirt. “I would also like to mend that sleeve.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. My mother can sew that.”
“But I would like to do it.”
He stopped gutting the fish and looked into her clear hazel eyes. He realized at once how important it was for her to do something for him. Hanna was always like that, he reflected. “It’s pretty smelly,” he cautioned her.
“That’s all right. When can I have it?”
Stephen grinned at her. She was not about to put it off, like some people who offer to help, then conveniently forgetting it as soon as they safely can. He liked that about her. It struck him that he liked a lot of things about Hanna, and it seemed strange, since he had met her barely a dozen times. He liked the simple, but proper way she dressed, and the direct manner of speaking, and the glint of controlled humor, for you could see she always had a grin inside waiting to break out, and the…what was it?…pride, I guess. His grandfather said it was the stiff neck of the Jews.
Both his grandfather and his father had a low opinion of Jews, Stephen knew, and he was quite prepared to feel the same, except that Larisa, whom he thought the world of, said that Hanna and her family were first class. He decided to wait a while and get to know her before making a decision about them. There was a mystery about her, not of gloom or misfortune, but of warmth, like the shadow of a forest floor when you rested on a pile of leaves.
“I can give it to you as soon as I finish with these fish. Another ten or fifteen minutes.”
“All right. Can I help you?”
Stephen had to chuckle. Most women could not stand the smell of fish, let alone want to handle them. “No, thanks. I can manage.”
She sat quietly watching him work. She knew he would not speak unless first addressed. He had a deep reserve, something rare for the usually vocal Russians. Larisa had gone into the house to drop off a package, and it was the first time the two young people had been alone.
“You are going to the university, are you not?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What are you studying there?”
“Engineering.”
“What kind of engineering?” Hanna’s curiosity made the words seem to jump from her lips.
“Mechanical.”
“My grandfather used to build things, too. Well, not exactly. He did cement work. My father did the same thing when he was a boy.”
Stephen wanted to say it was too bad about her father being crippled from that boat accident, for he felt it might make her sad, and he would rather bite off his tongue than cause her unhappiness. Everyone knew that if it were not for Hanna working all hours, the family would have starved long before now. His own father, come to think of it, was not much better off physically, what with diabetes and his rheumatism, but at least they were well off financially with his pension and mother’s dowry invested in several buildings in Vilnius, and the family farm a verst out of town managed by a Polish foreman.
He finished gutting the last fish, washed his hands at the pump, then went inside the house, soon returning wearing a new shirt. He handed over his blue woolen one with the ripped sleeve.
“I’ll pick it up when it’s ready,” he told her.
“All right. It will be finished tomorrow.”
“That’s your Sabbath, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But…” she grinned, “…giving over a shirt is not against our religion.”
As she picked up the pail containing the fish, he stepped closer. “I’ll carry it home for you.”
She held her ground. “Thank you, Stephen, but I can manage.”
He nodded, and stood back as she started away with her various packages. There was a sudden tingling inside him as he watched her erect figure walk gracefully down the street, and he abruptly felt a sense of loneliness, as if he had lost something of value.
It was nearly dusk when Hanna arrived home. Her mother, Motlie, was waiting in the kitchen, her face flushed with excitement.
“We have a boarder,” she said at once to Hanna.
“I heard,” replied Hanna. Boarders were common in the shtetls of larger towns and cities, but one in the village of Gremai was a rarity. “Who is he?”
“A young man.” Motlie’s eyes danced. “A handsome young man, from Germany.”
“How much is he paying?” That was the key to Hanna. Money meant food, six cords of firewood, a coat for her sister, Reba.
“Three rubles a week,” burst out Motlie, barely able to contain her joy.
Hanna was impressed. The money would pay for his food four times over. “That is good,” she conceded, placing her packages on the table. “Look, Mama, fish. Stephen, the brother of Larisa, gave them to me.”
While Hanna changed to a smock and her worn felt boots, Motlie began scaling the fish. “I put him upstairs in bubbe’s room,” she said. The mother of her husband, Israel, had slept there until her death two years ago. Since then, the room had been closed off to conserve linens in the summer and heat in the winter.
“What
