Upon the Head of the Goat (12 page)

Then we lost Ladybeard. One afternoon in May, a knock sounded at the kitchen door. Mother opened it to see two strange men standing on the threshold.

“Are you Mrs. Davidowitz?” one of them asked in a formal tone of voice.

Mother's answer, a breathless “Yes, yes,” indicated to me that she hoped these men had come with news, either of Lilli or of Father.

“We are inspectors from the city housing bureau,” the taller of the two men said solemnly, “and we have come to investigate a complaint that you are keeping a goat on the premises. This is, as you know, a strictly residential neighborhood! No animals other than dogs and cats are allowed!”

“You don't have to investigate,” said Mother, lingering a little over the last word. “I admit that I have a goat in my woodshed. But, gentlemen, this goat is not bothering anybody, and she provides milk for my children. I'm sure you are reasonable men with children of your own. You can't blame a war mother whose husband is in a Russian prison camp for trying to feed her young children, can you?”

“We are inspectors from the Housing Department, and we have nothing to do with conditions of war. Where is this goat?” the taller man demanded.

“I'll take you there, and you can see for yourselves what a gentle and quiet animal she is. She could not disturb anyone.” Mother led the men off the porch into the yard and returned a few minutes later for the milking bucket. “I'm going to milk her at least; she is so full that she can hardly walk.”

“Don't let them take her away,” Sandor pleaded.

“They won't listen to me,” she answered him gently. Then she turned and left the kitchen, carrying the milk bucket. Sandor and Joli ran out after her. I grabbed our coats and followed them.

When I got to the woodshed, I saw Joli had thrown her arms around Ladybeard's neck. “She is mine,” she screamed at the two men who towered over her. “She is mine!” I saw them exchange glances. Mother pulled up the milking stool and proceeded to milk Ladybeard while I struggled with Joli to leave Ladybeard long enough for me to be able to put on her coat. Sandor stood at the woodshed entrance and looked at all the somber faces without giving a hint of what he felt. I had always been struck by the way Sandor, even as a small child, could hide his feelings. Was this, I wondered, what was meant by the expression
being a man.
I looked at the two inspectors' faces. “Stone,” I said silently to myself. Mother and Joli had enough expression for all of us; both of them were crying uncontrollably. But the only sound we could hear in the woodshed was that of the squirts of milk rhythmically swishing into the bucket. When Mother finished, she picked up the bucket and started to walk off, not saying another word to the men.

“Do you have a piece of rope?” the shorter man asked her.

“In the kitchen.”

All of us followed Mother into the kitchen. She put the bucket down on the kitchen table and tried again to persuade them not to take Ladybeard. “Couldn't you just forget that you saw her?”

“We have to do our job, lady,” the shorter man snapped at her. “Just give us the piece of rope, and we'll be on our way.”

Mother started toward the drawer where she kept string. Joli grabbed at her skirt; Mother picked her up, opened the drawer with her free hand, took out a long, frayed piece of rope, and held out her hand. As the shorter man walked over to take the rope, he passed the opening into the salon, glanced through it, and saw the radio.

“Didn't you know that you were supposed to turn those in last January?” The other man walked into the salon and unplugged the radio. He wrapped the cord around it and put it under his arm. Then he joined his companion, who was standing on the threshold, holding the piece of rope. Without saying another word, they walked off.

Mother put Joli down, closed the door after them, and stood facing us with her back against it. After a few minutes she walked out of the house, went down to the gate and bolted it, came back into the kitchen, and picked up Joli, who was still crying.

“What will they do with Ladybeard?” I asked.

“Send her into the wilderness with their sins, I suppose.”

“I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said as she went into the bedroom.

*   *   *

In the fall, a few days before school was to open, we heard that Jewish children would no longer be permitted to attend the public schools. Mrs. Gerber decided to give Iboya, Judi, and me lessons in Hungarian, German, and history. Iboya and I went to their house every morning, coming home at lunchtime. We had to walk past the schoolhouse on our way home, at the time that the other children were in the yard on recess, and it felt strange looking in from the outside to see them practicing gymnastics.

By October, the Jewish teachers, who had been barred from teaching in the public schools, opened a makeshift school in the Sunday-school room of the big synagogue on Main Street. The students in the room Iboya and I were assigned to ranged from fifth to tenth grade. The teachers at first attempted to teach all the school subjects, but soon gave up in despair and decided instead to concentrate on math, reading in Hebrew and Hungarian, and Jewish history.

It was here that I discovered Gari Weiss, who was almost three years older than I. His family was one of the wealthiest in town, and owned the big house in back of the brick factory. I sat and watched him in class as much as I could, and decided that I liked him best on the occasions when he wore a white shirt, which made his dark complexion look very manly and set off his sleekly combed back hair. Instead of doing my lessons, I would write notes to Gari, asking him to meet me in various places, and then tear them up. He walked home from school through the same streets that I did, but Robi Berg was always with him. He also played tennis with Robi on the tennis court in back of the Weisses' mansion. Judi and I often watched them play tennis, scheming unsuccessfully to attract Gari's attention. Iboya teased me about my crush on Gari, but Judi understood because she, too, had a crush on a clerk in the bookstore. Hari was sixteen, and she talked to him about books.

“Doesn't your mother mind?” I asked Judi the day she told me that Hari had eaten supper at her house. “He is so much older than you are, and he isn't Jewish.”

“Those things don't bother my mother. She is modern,” Judi answered very emphatically.

Whenever Judi told me how modern the Gerbers were, she made me feel uncomfortable—as if they were better than we were. I couldn't help wondering what she would think if she ever met Babi. Or what Babi would think of her. When I had first told Judi about Komjaty, her comment was, “Someday I'd like to see that sleeping village.”

“Those people are not sleeping,” I had protested. “They work very hard.”

“They are sleeping in history,” she had insisted. “They've let progress pass them by. They think and work the same way their ancestors did. They don't read the newspapers. They don't even know what goes on outside their village.”

“My Babi reads the newspapers and she knows all about Hitler.”

“Then she should have listened to your mother and gotten out of there.”

“But she can't leave her land and all her animals.”

“She is holding on to her land in false hope. I heard my mother talk about her. My mother said that your grandmother thinks that by holding land in Hungary, she is part of Hungary. No Jew is a part of the land he lives on and even owns unless that land is Palestine.”

“But you and your mother think that you are Hungarians.”

“Not really.”

Judi had a way of confusing me, and sometimes it seemed to me that she enjoyed doing just that. “My Babi is very smart,” I continued on that occasion. “She reads Hebrew, Yiddish, Ukrainian, and Hungarian. Even the rabbis in Komjaty respect her and ask for her opinions on things.”

“Rabbis,” Judi had interrupted sharply, “are not modern thinkers.”

It was impossible to win an argument with Judi. When we tried to discuss a book we had both read, we realized how different our points of view were. And Judi would invariably comment, “You didn't read it with an open mind.”

I did get ahead of Judi in one thing, though. I began to menstruate before she did. I felt it start one day while I was sitting in class at our makeshift school, and at recess I ran to find Judi and tell her. In spite of our having discussed menstruation many times, I was quite scared and shocked by it.

“Would you go and tell Miss Solomon that I went home with a stomach ache?” I asked Judi.

“No, I won't,” she answered. “We must both go to her and tell the truth.” She took my hand and led me over to the corner where the teachers sat at a table drinking their tea. I tried to pull free, but she held on so insistently that I felt embarrassed to run away.

“Miss Solomon,” Judi asked as we came up to the table, “could Piri and I see you for a moment? It's urgent.”

Miss Solomon left her place at the table and walked down the corridor with us. Then she stopped and waited for one of us to speak. Judi waited a moment for me to speak up, but I was too shy.

“Piri wants to be excused for the day,” she said finally. “She just started to menstruate.”

Miss Solomon's mouth opened in surprise. Then, looking from Judi to me, she said, “Piri, you are excused, and you don't have to come back until you feel fit.”

“May I walk home with her?” Judi asked.

“Yes, Judi, you may. Be careful, both of you,” and having said that, she turned away from us and went back to the teachers' table. We got our books and left.

On the way home, Judi asked a dozen different questions about what it felt like to be grown-up and to menstruate. I was grateful when we reached home and Mother, in her silent and efficient manner, took over.

15

I
BOYA DID NOT
find the makeshift school agreeable. She could not concentrate in the unruly and noisy classroom and developed frequent headaches. Because of them, she had lengthy discussions with Mother about the possibility of her quitting school and finding work. But Mother insisted that she had to stay in school at least until she was sixteen. Mother also pointed out that it would be next to impossible for a Jewish girl to find work. One Friday afternoon in early spring, as Mother and I were cleaning the fish which Mr. Schwartz had just brought, and Mr. Schwartz sat at the table sipping hot broth, Iboya came in from school, her face white and her eyes narrowed in pain.

“Another headache?” Mother asked.

“Yes,” she answered, setting her books down, and asking Mother for some aspirin.

Mother handed her the aspirin bottle from the cupboard, and then exclaimed, “I know you are restless and that school isn't fun. But you are too young to quit!”

“I don't see why,” Iboya began again, repeating an argument I heard her use several times. “We don't learn anything there, anyway. Nobody is interested in learning about wars their grandfathers fought in, when there is a war right outside our doors.”

“How old are you?” Mr. Schwartz interrupted, looking directly at Iboya.

“Fifteen.”

“What would you like to be doing instead?”

“Lujza has been taking her to the Zionist Club,” said Mother before Iboya could answer Mr. Schwartz's question. “And I know that she is very impressed with their mission.”

So Mother knew Iboya's secret! Iboya's face flushed deeply as she, too, realized that Mother had not been fooled by her different excuses for coming in so late from her Red Cross meetings.

“Did Lujza tell you?” she asked Mother in a haughty tone.

“No, she did not have to tell me. I was a revolutionary, too, at your age. I know all the signs.”

“Do you think you would like to come to work for me in the store?” Mr. Schwartz interrupted.

“What could she do in your store?”

“I need a cashier. Somebody I can trust.”

“You're not permitted to hire a Jewish clerk.”

“She could be what she is—a friend's daughter helping out. I could use her on Thursdays and Fridays, the busiest days. With meat impossible to get, all the Jewish women, like you, need fish for the Sabbath meal. I would find ways of compensating Iboya for her work. Credits at other stores. And I wouldn't charge you for Friday's fish!”

Mother laughed. “You haven't charged me for the fish in quite a while. I hope you're still keeping an account.”

“But with Iboya working for me, she can work off the account. Of course, she'll have to get used to the smell of fish.”

We had never gotten used to Mr. Schwartz's smelling of fish. We hated to sit next to him during the Friday evening meals he shared with us, and Mother had begun to invite him even more often since Lilli had gone. His empty sleeve had upset Lilli.

I had once heard Mother tell Lilli, “Losing his arm was a blessing in disguise. Mr. Schwartz is the only Jew in town still permitted to run his own store, and he still gets his pension payments as well.”

“He gives me the shivers,” Lilli had replied. “He's a constant reminder of the war.”

“That is how his wife must have felt. She ran away after he came home from the World War. Stupid woman. Didn't she realize how lucky she was that he came home? There are worse fates than having a man with one arm.”

At the time of that discussion, Lilli had put on her coat and walked out, saying she was going for the newspaper. Apparently, she did not care to hear any more about Mr. Schwartz and the war.

Now Mother turned to Iboya and said, “It sounds like a good idea to me. I'll get you excused from school on Thursdays and Fridays. What do you think?”

“I'd certainly like to try it,” Iboya said with enthusiasm.

“It's not exactly what I had in mind for my girls, but there is a war on, and working is always respectable,” Mother concluded.