Among Strangers

The third whistle. Reb Zerakh Lilienthal clutched his beloved family to his heart, kissed them, and boarded the train. He did not have the strength to wish them well yet again. His throat was so tight that he could not speak. He felt tears about to fall, but he knew that a man must not cry. Still, as soon as the train began to move, he felt the hot tears flow over his cheeks and beard like a teeming rain.

He could still see his wife, Freyda through the carriage window as she broke down, falling into the arms of the older children and surrounded by the younger ones.

His heart broke. To have just one more minute! Just one more glance at his unfortunate, downtrodden family, to speak just one more word of comfort to them! But no—some power drew him further and further from all that was dear to him. They were standing there as if shattered, with broken hearts, crying bitterly as he was being carried into the dark night. [ . . . ]

By the time the train reached the next station he was no longer so conflicted, though he was even sadder and his heart even heavier than before. The old, familiar thoughts tore through his heartbreak, the thoughts that had kept sleep from him for so long, that had finally pushed him from his home to God knows where.

No, no, one must be a man, he said to himself. If luck doesn’t come to find me, I must go seek it out. Enough of these foolish feelings, longings, tears. I won’t help my beloved family with that. [ . . . ]

All his life, he was known in his town as a quiet, calm man. He and his family were nicely dressed. The household was well managed. The children were raised as God commanded, and his wife, Freyda, was an excellent housewife. She was even able to put aside some money for their daughters’ dowries.

Lilienthal had been happy and had never wanted things to change. Suddenly, though, the wheel turned, and his employer Zikherraykh had trouble paying his salary. Zikherraykh’s audits began showing higher expenses and lower income. Lilienthal understood what that meant for his future.

He thought for a long time and consulted his wife about what to do. Finally, they reached a decision: Freyda must open a shop and earn a living from that until God helped Zikherraykh’s business to improve, or until Lilienthal found another job.

And that’s what happened. Freyda used the few hundred rubles she had painstakingly saved over their twenty-three years of marriage to open a small herring store. At first, the little shop and its slimy herrings did well. [ . . . ]

For two years now, Lilienthal’s family had been drawing its entire income from herring. Eventually, they had to take the children out of school and, one by one, bring them into the business. Eventually, Freyda replaced the beautiful, clean coat she had always worn with a smock smeared with brine. The children wore oily aprons, dipping their frostbitten hands into the barrels of herring.

In the beginning, Lilienthal stayed home and dealt with such things as the paperwork, negotiating with sellers, doing the accounts, signing IOUs (no business can function without borrowing money), paying bills, and sorting the dirty coins into piles. His clothes remained clean and tidy. But he began to see that he was living off his wife and children. He felt as if he were choking on every bite he put into his mouth. When they sat down to eat, he saw their frozen hands and faces and couldn’t bear knowing that he had been in his warm home while they labored.

“No, I can’t do this anymore,” he would mutter to himself, and he began to come into the store more and more often. But he was just taking up space there, hindering his wife and children in their work because they were always careful not to smear his clothes. That bothered him even more. He asked that, once and for all, they stop worrying about him. He wanted to work with them in the shop, to no longer be the privileged member of the family. He began to dip his delicate hands into the barrels for every little coin he could earn. He did not rest until he too, like his entire family, had immersed his soul in brine.

Freyda was not pleased with this and constantly yelled that he was a much too expensive helper for her. She often reminded him that finding a job that paid forty or even thirty rubles a month would be more productive than his work in the shop, where he earned no more than a shopgirl who was paid a ruble a week in exchange for doing more work than he ever could. [ . . . ]

All his thinking finally led him to a clear decision: he had to leave Golodovke.

“The world doesn’t end with our shtetl,” he said to Freyda early one morning, “and a man like me, who wants to work honestly, devotedly, and diligently, can find work. You’ll see, Freyda, we’ll once again live as we used to. With God’s help, I’ll pull us out of the brine.” [ . . . ]

II

It had been several days since Lilienthal left home. He had already called on all the people for whom he had letters of recommendation and his high hopes were half-gone.

It was Friday evening, his first Shabbos away from home. On the table in his small room there was a white tea kettle, a glass, a saucer, and a tin spoon. From the other side of the wall, he could hear the tinny sound of an accordion and a hoarse voice singing the kind of song that can’t be printed. [ . . . ]

That evening, Lilienthal wandered through the streets of Nedikhanov for a long time. He passed large windows brightly lit by gas and electric lamps. The lights were too bright, too white, cold, and strange. He sought the rosy glow of tallow Shabbos candles and kerosene lamps.

III

After six weeks, Lilienthal lost all hope that the recommendation letters would help him in this strange place. His pockets grew lighter and lighter. What should I do now? he asked himself for the hundredth time. When he looked through windows into the front rooms of the rich people of Nedikhanov, he choked up, feeling as if a bone was stuck in his throat.

What should I write to my family? How do I tell them the truth? Their only hope rests on me. . . . No, I don’t dare. I can’t go back like this. Maybe I haven’t tried absolutely everything! I ask people for a position, and they look at me like I’m mad. Then I feel ashamed, as if it’s my fault that my nose is too Jewish, my coat too long and in the old-fashioned Golodovker style. That’s not the kind of employee they need. No, I won’t ask for a bookkeeper’s job. I’ll be a servant. I’ll polish shoes, carry water, anything to earn a ruble to send to my wife and children. [ . . . ]

Two more weeks passed during which Lilienthal tried to find some kind of work or business, until his last kopek was gone. What happens now? he asked himself. He now knew hunger, cold, want. Home! Home! To rest on his own bed, to warm himself at his oven, to eat his fill at his table, and to tell his family of his sad heart.

But how do I get back home now? There’s not a kopek in my pocket, not even enough for a pound of bread, let alone a ticket. He remembered the rich man who had offered him a free ticket.

With a deep sigh, he lowered his hat over his eyes and went to that rich man. . . .

It’s hard, very hard, he thought as he was sitting on the train going back home. It’s hard for a Jew to climb out of the muck once he’s fallen into it.