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  Hodel nodded, holding Chava closer. “But Cain and Abel? You think Tzeitel and I are like Cain and Abel?”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “What? I should make certain Tzeitel doesn’t invite me into a field and kill me?”

  “I’m not saying that at all—and if you’re not careful I might just beat her to it!”

  “Oh, shah—quiet! You might try but I always come back stronger!”

  “Only because you’re a giant!”

  “Remember that time I got her to chase me around the barn?” Hodel cackled. “In search of that awful dress drippy Motel the tailor had fixed ‘espeeecially?”

  “Yes,” squealed Chava, “yes! I remember that look upon her face when she knew she had been beaten!”

  Their sides ached as they buried their laughter in the pillows before slowly nestling into each other and falling asleep.

  Hodel woke to a metal clang.

  “Potato,” the jailer called as he plodded back down the dark corridor.

  Alone again, she held the dish and sat, unmoving. Perchik, she thought. Perchik, I will find you. Her mind filled with him, her longing for him constant, coital, and unrequited.

  five

  A CLAMOR AT THE ENTRANCE OF HER CELL REVEALED A MAN IN A splendid high-ranking officer’s uniform accompanied by the jailer and several officers who lined the corridor behind him. With an angular face accented by a thin mustache, the man walked with an elegant cane of dark wood clutched in his meticulously maintained fingers.

  Hodel locked eyes with him and rose to her feet, resisting the urge to scratch at her skin itching from vermin and foul garments.

  The man before her was doubtless a descendant from the peoples of the North, for he was implausibly fairer and taller than any man she had ever seen, with hair so light it was almost white, eyes like razors, and a towering presence that commanded respect, aided by the fine clothing that draped his treelike limbs. He wore a cape lined with fur tied with a purple velvet cord that fell elegantly along his wide shoulders, yet his grooming was queer, with a beard kept to just his chin like that of a goat, his mustache curled at the sides, kept in place by both the force of his will and a sour-smelling wax. His presence was also aromatic, smelling pungently of exotic spices she did not recognize (perhaps native to the not-so-distant Orient).

  All told, the man was physically immaculate—everything except for his right trouser leg, which billowed oddly, hinting at a leg missing below the knee.

  She now realized she beheld no less a person than the Chief Commander of Omsk himself.

  At Omsk and Tobolsk sat the headquarters of the Commission of Inquiry and Deportation, whose business was to assign a definitive destination to each man, according to local convenience or the necessities of the public works. It has been calculated that at the time, the number of transported persons annually amounted to a little short of ten thousand.

  The Chief Commander removed his cape, pushed the bars open, and with the aid of his cane, sat himself down upon a chair, which materialized as he moved.

  “Who are you?” he said, to her shock, in serviceable, icy-voiced Yiddish, then signaled for her to return herself to the floor from which she had just risen.

  “Hodel, sir.”

  “Hello, Hodel,” he replied, emphasizing her name in a manner she could not detect. “So, your presence in Omsk has no other objective than that of joining your intended? This is your claim?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His gaze narrowed. Studying her, he proceeded henceforth to address her in Russian, lighting a cigarette as he did so. “Can you tell me the name of your leader?”

  Hodel did not answer at once; her mind was calculating—he had switched tongues perhaps tactically and she desired to keep up. Her Russian was good enough but patchy, and this man was so grand.

  “Leader?” she half asked, half repeated for the sake of clarity.

  The man seemed very much impressed and intrigued at this capability, though very much annoyed at the fetid air of the room and turned to the high window several times, as if to breathe freely.

  The man held up a familiar letter—the confiscated letter Perchik had written to her detailing his circumstances and whereabouts. “This leader.”

  “Well, Perchik Tselenovich is not my leader.”

  “Are you, or are you not, the intended wife of Perchik Tselenovich?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you now, or have you ever been, aligned with any sort of Democratic society?”

  “No.”

  “To your knowledge, is your intended husband a member of any such society?”

  She troubled herself with her answer for a moment, then spoke again. “I know that my intended husband once formed a part of one at the university in Kiev, but withdrew from it long ago.”

  “Ah, then you yourself are also an emissary of that society?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Then in coming here you had absolutely no political mission?”

  She stared hard at him without blinking, then said with total certainty, “I had none.”

  The Chief Commander took a final drag of his cigarette in contemplation. Exhaling, he spoke again. “Such assertions are not likely to improve your situation, my dear”—he glanced around the cell—“which, I grant you, is a very unpleasant one. Only a sincere and complete confession can diminish your troubles. Make you worthy of the indulgence of the tsar.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I merely wish to know with whom you were acquainted.”

  “But I knew no one!” she cried.

  “My dear,” he said. “Be serious.” His voice had turned to metal and grew firmer and more jarring as he continued. “The empire is rife with dissension and revolt. Wounds are festering, prisons filled to bursting with the filthy detritus of liberal thinkers. Do you not understand that?” She did not! “Or is that something that your little insulated communities of Christ killers take no notice of?” He flicked the stub of his cigarette toward her. “Your situation is most critical.” He leaned upon his cane and brought himself to standing. “Improve it by making a sincere confession; I can intercede with the tsar.”

  “But, sir, my husband!” So much of this she could not understand.

  “What of him?”

  “I have come so far to join him—not yet even told of his whereabouts—his condition—have just been kept alone in chains!”

  He towered above as he looked upon her with a certain gentleness. “You are weak, girl,” he said, “and under misapprehensions. I do not ask for all your secrets—only the names of the persons by whom you were known. Their names are all that is required.”

  She began to weep.

  “Now, now,” the Chief Commander said, furrowing his brow in mock sympathy. “Women too can be courageous.” He paused, eyeing her up and down. “You are young; you are not wanting in intellect. The course of your life depends entirely upon yourself. Even a concocted confession cleanses the soul. But you must keep your spirit, girl. It seems you shall be with us for quite some time.”

  He went out, stopped at the gate, and ordered to the jailer, “Chains off—and, for Christ’s sake, bring her some soup. Jews love to eat. Though Lord knows this soup is the piss of gutters.” He bowed and paused as if about to leave, then he turned back to her, smiling, his eyes making one last shrewd calculation.

  “And shave her.”

  He knocked his cane against the bars as he turned to take his leave.

  Hodel’s dreams had become less frequent as the weeks progressed, but they were no less vivid or stirring. It was summer as she slept tonight, and she was bathing with her sisters in the secluded river just west of their home. Sheets had been hung upon the tree branches to preserve their modesty, and the sails of white danced in the gentle breeze, catching the flickering light off the rippling river. Hodel could not help but see every aspect of the scene as essential. It was a perfect day.

  They had never spoken of it, but thi
s was the activity they looked forward to the most, and they always enjoyed it together—tromping as a motley quintet to the banks, in a rare but blissful silence, then taking to the waters with abandon.

  First, you must wash it.

  Shprintze, the fourth sister, was a nervous girl and afraid of the water, always had been. As the others swam and washed and splashed, Shprintze would often dangle her feet on the shores and watch, reluctant to enter; washing hair seemed to frighten her with its full and repeated submersions.

  Chava had a way of calming those around her, exuding an almost palpable warmth. She would distract Shprintze with little jokes.

  “I have a joke,” she said.

  “Please, Chava, do me a favor—” said Shprintze.

  “Don’t do me any favors!” Hodel chuckled.

  “Shah!” said Chava, smacking Hodel on the arm. “Shprintze, why do bees have sticky hair?”

  “Bees don’t have hair, Chavaleh.” Shprintze scoffed.

  “I know,” Chava said with a smile. “It’s a joke. Listen: Why do bees have sticky hair?”

  “I don’t know.” Shprintze sighed.

  “Because they use honeycombs.” Chava’s face sprouted a grin as she awaited her sisters’ reactions. They were very quiet as Shprintze stared at her blankly.

  “That is really terrible.”

  Chava’s smile broadened as they all convulsed with laughter. It was Chava’s soothing touch that allowed Shprintze the joy of freshly cleansed hair without a fuss; an image burned onto Hodel’s brain in the colors of compassion and golden summer light.

  Then, you must comb it.

  The sisters often joined forces to attend to Chava’s hair before the Sabbath. The taming required to bridle the indignant, irrepressible mop atop Chava’s head was astonishing.

  “How do the goyeshe do it?” whined Chava, removing her headscarf, steeling herself. “Without this I’d never be able to leave the house. I would frighten people.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tzeitel.

  “Yes, nonsense,” agreed Hodel. “You frighten them already.”

  And they all laughed together, even Tzeitel, after Hodel had been suitably smacked.

  And don’t forget: plaited is best.

  They often plaited one another’s hair before bed. At first Hodel was too vain to plait her hair at night, claiming it “crimped her natural curls” and that she preferred her hair “as God intended it to be” (at this she received head-shaking stares of disbelief). But once the very youngest, Bielke, was old enough to lure all her older sisters, they would sit upon the floor of their room in a tidy line—most often youngest to eldest, but oftentimes with Hodel at the back and Chava at the front (Hodel avoiding her hair being “bothered with” and Chava as clumsy with hair as she was with everything else).

  Then, last, it must be scarfed.

  The girls were taught about modesty, of course. But it was Hodel’s least favorite thing.

  The richer women in their community often wore sheitls, or wigs, though there was debate around the issue. Some said wigs were the best option—headscarves always left at least a few hairs sticking out here and there. Others claimed a headscarf made it easier to see that a woman was married.

  “According to Jewish law, we are commanded only to cover our hair. It doesn’t specify how,” said Golde under her breath. She would have died for the luxury of a wig.

  Hodel sometimes had to be spoken to. She was curious and flirtatious and more than a little self-admiring.

  “Hodel. My daughter. Listen to me. You are an attractive woman of great beauty, and beauty is one of the gifts the Almighty graciously gives us. But we must not be full to bursting with pride. Like every gift, it must be used wisely.” Hodel would not meet her eyes, so Golde tilted Hodel’s chin up and forced a look of maternal warning into Hodel’s view.

  “Hodelleh: your hair is beautiful. But it is intended for your family and future husband alone. You must find it within yourself to cover it as a sign of being a devout woman. I am not saying women should be hidden or unheard all the days of their life. . . .”

  Of course you aren’t, thought Hodel, rolling her eyes.

  Golde continued, sterner than before, “But we were given preventive measures against leading men into sin and women into vanity—a line you are dancing on, my dearest.”

  “But, Mama,” Hodel protested, “how am I supposed to both stand tall and maintain modesty?”

  “That,” Golde replied, “is what true womanhood is all about. So. Find a way or I will find it for you.” And with that, the matter was done with, and Golde gave her a newly handmade headscarf—the largest and dullest Hodel had ever seen.

  She jolted. Looking down, she saw the headscarf sitting neatly in her hand, just as if her mother had put it there a moment ago. Sitting on the brink of marriage, she appreciated her mother’s words anew. When she saw Perchik she would enthrall him—he would see her hair in all its wild glory and her lifetime of modesty would all be worth it. She lifted the scarf to her face, inhaling. It smelled of her home—the odors of brewing pots and feminine sweat and sweetened air. Her heart jerked and she began drawing the scarf around her head.

  Suddenly, from behind, the scarf was ripped from her hands. Firm grips caught her arms and dragged and pinned her down as she thrashed against them, teeth bared and now wide-awake.

  “Ooh! Ain’t she wild?” an aide declared, gripping her tighter.

  The jailer looked on as the aides held her down while she feverishly bucked and railed against the strength they possessed. The truculent woman held the razor.

  Hodel shrieked, pleading.

  “Keep her steady,” the jailer muttered, no life in his eyes, the gaze showing neither mercy nor cruelty.

  She was shaking when she returned to her cell. The cell itself had been purified too.

  “Better, yes?” the jailer asked. He took a rag from his pocket and indicated that she could use it to improve the cell further. She felt a fondness for the jailer. The rag was brown with use, but the fabric was so soft it made her heart lift. Greater still was the fact that she was without the chains and thus felt she had reclaimed her mind!

  Her legs were cut and bruised, but she stretched them, walking up and down her cell, the pain of the movement almost pleasing. She waved her arms about—she could not stop herself! She recalled the glories of basic motion, as perhaps a flailing insect might do when freed from a spiderweb. When she turned around, the gate was shut and locked, and there, before her, once again stood the upright figure of the Chief Commander.

  “Well, hello,” his said, his mouth dimpling. “I’ve come with news of your Perchik Tselenovich.” Hodel’s heart leapt, but she moved slowly toward him, her legs throbbing from lack of use, her wits still wary of this unnerving man.

  “My, my.” He chuckled. “It really is amusing how only the most pathetic of revolutionaries end up here.”

  His gaze turned blacker somehow as he began looking her over in a particularly indecent way.

  “Perchik Tselenovich is no longer a prisoner here, my girl,” the Chief Commander said. “But I’m certain he’d be terribly touched by your mettle. He was exported over three weeks ago to which far-off location I just cannot seem to recall. . . .” At this, his dimpled mouth became a fully fledged curl of the lip. “Though I am certain I could be moved to remember if, of course, your memory improved as well. . . .” He turned to the jailer hidden behind him in the shadows and spoke to him in a murmur. Then the jailer handed Hodel a bundle—the fabric stained, wet, and heavy with its contents.

  “For sentiment, girl. Consider it a wedding gift.”

  As she opened the bundle, she was surprised by a familiar color within.

  It was her hair.

  “We left you nothing but a short shave in the Jewish fashion. You are nearly a married woman, yes? And the married Jews wear nothing at all. Is that not so?”

  Her hands grasped the nakedness upon her head a moment before her mind did. A groan
of lamentation followed—nearly inhuman.

  Then all went white.

  six

  IT HAD BEEN EXACTLY NINETY-FOUR DAYS SINCE SHE HAD HEARD Perchik’s voice from beyond the bars, and, Hodel counted, well over seven months that she had been interned in Omsk. Days had turned to nights, weeks to months, and seasons had swiftly come and gone without a change to her captivity. There was an unrelenting wheel whirring in her chest—it churned within her ribs, exhausting her desire for anything but sleep.

  She found that the unnatural silence of the night had cracked open, revealing with each fracture a kind of nocturnal cacophony—every creaking chain and stone and creature, the stomp of every foot, clicking of every clock, thuds of clubs landing upon bodies, shrieks and moans and cries for loved ones or sometimes simply of despair, and once, the lone voice of a man singing in an unfamiliar language, whose song was so bright, and the emotion within it so clear, it made her insides swell.

  There were storms too, unlike any she had ever experienced. They would blow up around the place: ice would pelt; wind would roar furiously against the feeble windows and creep through the thickness of the walls. She could almost see Chava before her: hair loosened around her shoulders, the whiteness of her nightgown rivaling the sky beyond the window, tucked warmly into the bed they had shared since the beginning of their lives, and the overwhelming emptiness of the spot beside her.

  In the depths of the night, she could hear, as plain as day, the Seyder Tkhines, prayers in Yiddish sung and recited at home by women—in her mother’s distinctive contralto, and she opened her eyes to see the familiar outline of the door she had so come to loathe during her incarceration.

  But to her surprise, this time the door sat open, unhinged from itself. She grabbed the handle, pushed it, and was at once flooded with the sounds, smells, and lights of home. Her family was gathered around the Sabbath table, eyes closed in deepest devotion so that her tardy entrance went unnoticed.