Dineh

       A Newborn Little Soul

Once, on an early June night, when Sholem was returning from a nearby shtetl and had reached the small forest a verst or two from home, he heard a carriage ap­proaching from the opposite direction. He soon recognized the voice of his older daughter, Malkeh, speaking in goyish with Vasil, the farmhand.

“There goes your father. I recognize his horse’s gait,” said Vasil. And Sholem heard his daughter respond, “Well, okay, if it’s my father, we’ll have to go back and pick up Aunt Yakhe to stay with us and then get home. My mother said she won’t stay alone. My mother—she’s sick.”

“Sick? You’re just a kid. For women, this isn’t a sickness. It’s probably another little Yid. You’ll see—by the time we get home, it’ll be shrieking and not letting anyone get any sleep . . . Well, they’ll make a bris and raise a glass with a good fiery toast . . . Your father, along with everyone who comes to your house for the parties—they all just make it seem like they’re drinking and singing. They pretend to get drunk. But I know how to take a swig; I know how to get drunk for real,” Vasil responded.

At this point Sholem could no longer contain himself. “Vasil! Malkeh! What’s going on—what’s this about your mother?”

“Yes. Mama isn’t feeling well. They sent me to get Aunt Yakhe to bring her to stay with us.”

“Vasil, turn around and go right back. See what has to be...