At just this moment, there was a knocking at the door.
Shulamis froze.
After a long, still moment, the knocking came again.
“Yehuda Leib,” whispered Shulamis. “Get under your bed, and no matter what happens, you don’t make a sound, understand?”
Yehuda Leib’s keen eyes were wide. “Yes, Mama,” he said, and in a flash he was hidden.
Slowly, Shulamis smoothed herself. She took a deep breath, and, just as the knocking began again, she opened the door.
“Oh,” said Shulamis, letting her breath go. “Oh, Rabbi.”
“I apologize,” said the rabbi’s round voice, “for disturbing you.”
“No, no,” said Shulamis. “Not at all. Would you like to come in?”
“No,” said the rabbi. “No, thank you. I just thought you ought to be told: Avimelekh is in Zubinsk, and he could be here as soon as this evening.”
“Yes,” said Shulamis. “I heard.”
“He’s in debt again, Shulamis. And he thinks he can get himself clear by selling boys into the Tsar’s army.”
Shulamis sighed deeply. “Ah.”
“Yes.”
Now there was a silence—long, empty, immovable.
“Shulamis, I’m so sorry,” said the rabbi softly.
“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib’s mother, and then, again, softly, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” said the rabbi. “Keep safe.”
“I’ll try,” said Shulamis. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Gently, the door closed.
* * *
—
Yehuda Leib crawled out from under the bed.
His mother’s face was as still as a death mask.
“Yehuda Leib,” she said.
“Mama?” said Yehuda Leib.
“You have to go away.”
“What?” Yehuda Leib felt his throat catch. His jaw was impossibly tight; his chin began to quiver. “Why?”
Shulamis shook her head so softly it was almost impossible to see. “Because he’s coming.”
“I can fight?”
Shulamis laughed like nothing was funny. “Not against him, you can’t.”
“Yes I can!” All of a sudden, Yehuda Leib found himself yelling. His eyes were filled with tears. He felt helpless and frightened, as if he were little again. “Won’t you even try to stop him?”
Shulamis turned away and wiped at her eyes. “If I thought it would change anything, I’d let him tear me limb from limb. But it won’t.” Slowly, she began to walk about the room, taking things from shelves and cupboards: a threadbare knapsack, a spare cap, a bowl, a cup, an extra shirt, a few potatoes. “If you can make it to Zubinsk, you should be able to lose him. Just get yourself as far away as you can.”
Yehuda Leib swallowed. “Okay.”
Carefully, Shulamis hung the knapsack on her son’s shoulders and set to fastening his coat.
“Mama?” said Yehuda Leib.
Shulamis did not look up from her work. “Yes?”
“Who is he? Avimelekh?”
Shulamis sighed. “He’s a very bad man. He hurts people, even when he doesn’t mean to—and he means to more often than not.”
Her voice was trembling; Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.
“If you want to stay the good young man you are—if you want to stay my son, Yehuda Leib—you keep yourself away from him.”
He nodded. “I will.”
Shulamis’s right cheek bunched up as she struggled to keep the tension from her voice. “Don’t you make any trouble.”
Yehuda Leib shook his head. “I won’t.”
Shulamis pulled the front door open and stood back.
“Will you be all right?” said Yehuda Leib to his mother, and she sighed long and low before saying, “I will.”
They both knew she was lying.
Outside, for the first time that year, fat white flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
Yehuda Leib took a deep breath, stepped out through the open door, and pulled it shut behind him.
Shulamis stood at the window, watching him walk away until she could see him no longer.
Only then did her eyes fall on the chair beside the door.
Tonight—of all nights—she had let him forget his warm red scarf.
* * *
—
It was not until he reached the cemetery on the hillside that Yehuda Leib began to consider what it would mean to flee into the forest at night. He was not wholly confident of the truth of the stories people told: of evil things among those trees, of accidents and mishaps, of long, snatching fingers and sharp, shearing teeth. He was, however, rapidly becoming sure that if he was going to find out, he would prefer to do so in the light of day.
Through the veil of falling snow, the low-hanging trees and leaning headstones met to create the impression of a mouthful of jagged teeth.
No. He would be far safer on this side of the cemetery tonight. He would hide himself somewhere in town, and when the morning came, he would make his way to Zubinsk.
Slowly, the town lay down to sleep; slowly, the eyes of Tupik began to shut.
Presently, things became still, only Yehuda Leib and the snow creeping on through the darkness.
And then, into the hush on the far side of midnight, a door swung open; Yehuda Leib saw light cutting through the snow and the dim.
Bluma. She had always been kind to him.
“You look cold.”
Yehuda Leib nodded. “I am.”
Bluma shook her head softly, as if this were a very stupid response. “Then why don’t you go home?”
“Believe me,” said Yehuda Leib, tramping across the snowy road to the door. “I’d love to.”
Bluma sighed.
“What are you doing up so late?” said Yehuda Leib.
“Waiting,” said Bluma.
Bluma’s bubbe had not come home. Her father had gone walking the streets to look for her two separate times, but no one had seen her, and eventually, with no other good option, he’d gone to sleep—or at least to toss and turn in bed.