Miriam and Esther

That evening, Alexander’s tavern was emptier than ever. No one was checking into the rooms; the food runner had been idle for hours and was getting irritated; and the fresh flatbreads, made for the fish soup, were cooling off on the stove. Alexander’s small establishment—a three-room inn and tavern—stood almost on the outskirts of Balta, next to the Jewish cemetery. The tavern was famous for its cheap wine and vodka, so on weekends and even on weekdays, there was never a vacant seat. Regulars would ask Alexander for a shot, or even two, on credit until the following week, though they had a few crumpled paper notes in the inner pocket of their vests. The good-natured old man worked not so much for money, but for praise. It was this rare quality of his Jewish nature, and this very quality provoked mockery and gossip; led the tavern keeper into quick poverty and debt.

The corners of his thin, faded lips, hidden beneath a dense beard, would always lift in a welcoming smile for each new guest who wandered into the warmth of his establishment. He did not wear payot—the distinctive Jewish curls by the temples—nor did he force his son to; yet, in the menu of his restaurant, meticulously planned by his own hand every six hours, there was always a moment set aside for prayer.

“Today, Kogan has the finest fish!” This would echo through the streets every Thursday.

“I’ll come by on Saturday,” a passing Jewish woman would call back. “Kogan’s lentil soup on Saturdays is simply the best!”

And Kogan would be profoundly pleased. He spent eighteen hours a day in his tavern; the other six he devoted to prayer, sleep, and then more prayer. Sometimes, he would doze off right at the table over his recipe journal, spilling ink onto the floor, and then Sarah, his second eldest daughter, concerned for her father, would bring him a warm camel-hair blanket from home. By morning, he was back to work once more.

Kogan was a widower, yet he had four children—his wife hadn’t survived the birth of their fourth, giving the last of her life to the infant. As soon as the newborn girl was placed at her breast, she passed away, having only the breath to whisper, “Mir…”

No one ever understood what peace she spoke of, and Alexander, deciding it must have been a name, called the girl Miriam, or Miri, or Mimi. And so, the old tavern keeper was left alone with his four children.

Fira (or Esther) was the first. A biblical name, yet a fate far from biblical. She was born in 1859, the long-awaited firstborn of Alexander and Nina after nine childless years of marriage. In 1875, Esther lost her mother, abandoned her sewing lessons, and took up a yellow ticket—in plain terms, she became a prostitute. She sewed well, and the better she got, the quicker she found her way into well-known homes, dressing the wives of police chiefs, doctors, and lawyers.

Yet in her small, pretty head, she couldn’t quite grasp why she was the one dressing others, instead of being the one dressed and served. Born into the family of a prosperous, though not wealthy, tavern keeper, she saw only one path to a higher standing: marrying the right, convenient man. So, as she walked through the central streets of Balta, Fira missed not a single corner where Russian officers might whistle after her. Esther passed from hand to hand and soon realized that there was no quicker, easier way to accumulate capital than with the yellow ticket, and thus she began trading not in dresses, but in herself.

She was sixteen when she began, and thus no house of ill fame would have taken her in for another five years. Besides, Fira could never have tolerated the authority of a madam over her. So, she became a ticketless wanderer—a simple streetwalker, unregistered with the police or doctors; sheer luck kept her within the bounds of the law, and she never fell into the hands of the police chief, for no one would have suspected a girl from a respectable, well-to-do family of such indecency.

Esther became a harlot, but she was no fool and knew how to handle her own body. Her first earnings came from selling her innocence to a drunken officer in one of the taverns, where she enjoyed a glass of wine and a game of cards. Yet, to be fair, Esther chose only those she found agreeable; she wouldn’t sleep with the fat, the old, or the ugly. Her first earnings lasted her a good while, for Esther preferred not to pay with money. Her thrill was stronger than that. Within a month, every man in Balta desired her.

“She’ll definitely go for me!” the sailors argued among themselves.

“She even gave Mishka the boot, and you’re not even half the man he is!”

“I’ll pay her three times as much!”

Six months later, every one of those men had had her.

“Nothing special. Just a hole like any other!”

“That’s ’cause your ‘boy’ is barely a ‘man’! After Sofka, I couldn’t walk right for three days!”

“And did you see… how she… wipes it all down so slick… with that little cotton hanky from her sleeve? They say she learned it from the Japanese.”

A year later, Alexander learned of his eldest daughter’s “hobbies,” broke two of her ribs, and forbade her from bearing the Kogan name. On the next train out, Esther fled to try her luck in Odessa, and then to St. Petersburg. There, in the capital, she received her lawful substitute’s ticket, becoming a legal prostitute, subject to annual medical examinations. She didn’t say goodbye to her father, her sisters, or her brother, and she wasn’t saddened by it: by then, every man in Balta who had interested her was used up, and the rest of it no longer mattered.

“Do you know, my little girl, what your name means?” her mother would often say as she tucked her long-awaited, beloved daughter into bed. “Esther, Fira, little Fira, Ester… Some say your name means a star. So shine brightly, my daughter, shine and light up this world. I heard somewhere that Esther means ‘flower,’ so blossom, my dear, and share your beautiful fragrance with this world, but never let yourself be plucked or trampled…”

Then Nina would kiss her little daughter on the left cheek, stroke the right with her hand, and tuck the strands of chestnut hair behind her ear.

“One day, when you’re older, I’ll give you a special book. In it, you’ll read about a beautiful Jewish girl named Esther, who saved her people from destruction. Every year, we celebrate Purim in her honor and bake those very same triangular cookies you love so much. Don’t forget, my little star, my flower, the importance of your name. Carry it with pride.”

Thus, without knowing it, Nina placed an unbearable burden on young Esther’s fragile shoulders. And so, before parting her legs for yet another passing officer, Esther would call herself Sophia or Sopha. She had invented the name for herself right after her mother’s death. And every time another officer would finish over her stomach or thighs, her mother’s words echoed in her ears: “Carry that name with pride.”

“What’s Purim, Mommy?” Little Fira would ask the same question again and again, her curiosity as genuine as ever, though she’d heard the answer dozens of times.

“It’s a holiday, my flower,” Nina would say, smoothing the blanket and patting her daughter’s shoulder to help her drift off to sleep. “They say Purim means ‘lot’… it’s something in a foreign language. A cruel man named Haman, who lived in the Persian court, cast lots to choose the month in which he would kill all the Jews…”

“And what’s a lot, Mommy?”

“It’s…”

And then Esther would fall asleep. A biblical name, but a fate far from biblical. A star meant to shine brightly for all. A flower that, in the end, allowed itself to be plucked and trampled.

Alexander thought of her every single day. He hated her, cursed her, and yet he thought of her. Sometimes, he was grateful that his wife hadn’t lived to know this shame. At other times, he blamed himself, feeling that with his wife’s death, he had buried himself alive as well: shut himself up in the tavern, kept away from the children, and no longer slept at home. And he was thinking of her even now. It had been six years since he last saw his eldest daughter, but every single day, when the tavern door creaked, the old man held onto the hope that Esther would be the one to walk through it.

That evening, all the Jews of Balta were filled with anticipation for the upcoming holiday. Purim had long passed, and all the triangular pastries were eaten. There was only one day left until the beginning of Pesach, the Jewish Passover, yet Kogan’s tavern stood empty. The evening prayer had ended, and the sun, reddened, was rolling slowly toward the horizon. The old tavern keeper moved tables, spread worn tablecloths, arranged the candle stubs—but nothing could distract him. Nervously cracking his knuckles, Kogan moved from one corner to another, looked out the window, closed it, then opened it again, as the spring breeze, still with a touch of chill, tickled his face.

“What is this, eh? Where has everyone gone to?” he muttered under his breath. “Hey, Tishka!”

“Huh?!” The waiter sprang off the stool, where he had nearly dozed off.

“Ah! Never mind…” Alexander Abramovich waved him off. “Go on, go home!”

And so, the tavern keeper was left alone, sat at the table, and continued his grumbling. But then the door did creak open, though it was not Esther, nor any other guests. Alexander got up to meet whoever had come in, muttering to himself, since Tishka had already bolted out the door.

It was the local coachman and an old acquaintance of the Kogan family. By name—David, by surname—Dov. Twenty-four years old, a complete orphan, a troublemaker, and a vagabond whom no one wanted. He was like a stray dog that finds a home on some street corner, getting a crust of bread from each gate.

“A good evening to you, Alexander Abramovich!” he walked in with confidence, pulled his cap off his messy red hair, and stretched out his hand to the old man. “Bit quiet in here tonight, I see.”

“Shalom, Davidka. I can’t for the life of me figure out where everyone’s vanished to… So, what news?” The tavern keeper clasped his hand with both of his and held on a moment, before catching himself and hurrying behind the counter. “You sit down, my boy, I’ll ladle you some fish soup. Fresh catch from this morning! Can’t get any fresher! But today’s a cursed day! Where has everyone gone, eh? And what am I to do with all this fish now?”

David sat down, spread his legs wide, leaned on the table, practically lying on it, and began to speak.

“Last week, the twenty-first of March… there was a pogrom. Over in Voligotsolovo, I think… You didn’t hear, did you?”

“Haven’t heard, huh” Kogan muttered, setting the soup in front of David and sitting across from him. “Here, eat… and some matzo? Should I bring it, eh? Got some proper kosher flatbreads here… nu, talk, talk…”

“Haven’t heard! Ha! You sit here like in a cave, and then you wonder, where’s everyone gone, huh? The Jews sent dozens of telegrams to Petersburg, begging, pleading, please, send troops. You think there’s an answer? The police chief, he just pretends, like he’s doing something. Jews are panicking, I tell you. Soon it’ll be here too, you’ll see! You’ll see, Alexander Abramovich! Before the riot even… our folks offered to hire guards. At their own expense, mind you! And you know what? Absolutely nothing!”

David’s face flushed. He was so worked up, he didn’t even notice his bowl was empty. Alexander took it away to the pile of dirty dishes.

“My boy, how about some Russian spirit? Eh, why do I even ask…”

“I’m telling you, our Tsar, he’s just waiting for this bloodshed…” David added, now calm, almost quiet. “Look here,” he pulled out a crumpled newspaper from inside his coat. “Here, take a look. This big fancy newspaper, Novy Mir. Got an article here with a nice title: ‘To Beat or Not to Beat?’ Ha! You hear that? Those bastards got quite the sense of humor! They’re saying… hold on! Let me read it to you!”

“‘The best representatives of the intelligentsia approve and justify these savage displays of hatred toward the Jews and hardly condemn them at all.’ Oh, and here’s more! ‘While the local intelligentsia did not participate directly in the pogroms, they showed complete indifference and secretly approved of them.’ Sons of bitches! And more! Ha! They call the beating of our brothers here ‘the awakening of the peasants’ national consciousness,’” — David jabbed his finger into the paper several times — “‘as they merely cleansed the unfairly gained kike property!’”

Alexander Abramovich heard David’s words but wasn’t truly listening. He only grunted, nodded sympathetically, but his mind drifted to Esther, and to the question of why no one had come to his tavern that evening. Dov continued.

“Our people—naked, freezing like dogs—were lying there at the train station, and the Red Cross didn’t lift a finger to help, even though they’re supposed to help anyone who’s been through such suffering! And the children? What did they do to deserve this? Women—what reason to violate them? Fine, you want to rob us? Go on! Take whatever you find! But life? Who gave you that right? God, you say? Where is God? Huh? Where is He? They threw the Jews in jail. The Russians? They let them go. The Ukrainians? They let them go too. They say, ‘There’s no evidence!’ You hear that? ‘No evidence!’ And dead children aren’t evidence to them? Huh? Huh? And the women who took their own lives out of shame—is that not enough proof? Tomorrow, maybe the day after. It’ll happen here. You know how I know? You know what I saw last night? The police chief’s men were smashing windows in the local church. Did you hear that? Christians breaking windows in their own church. And the police chief—arms folded nice and neat—just standing there, watching. Do you know what that means? Alexander Abramovich! Wake up!”

“Huh? Oh… Tomorrow, they’ll blame the Jews for it,” Alexander Abramovich shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. “So that’s why everyone’s gone… most likely locked up at home already…” he muttered under his breath.

“That’s what I told you ten minutes ago!”

And yet David went on and on. A dull buzzing filled the tavern keeper’s ears. To him, David suddenly seemed like one of those little wind-up toys, and he kept thinking of how he might turn the key to stop him, only there was no key to be found. Better if he hadn’t come at all! A single bowl of soup and a shot of vodka wouldn’t add much to poor Kogan’s till…

“We need to gather the people. We need a force. We must be ready. I spoke to our rabbi, Shapiro. He agreed to help. He’s the one who went to the police chief to ask for troops; he offered money to hire guards for our protection. And the police chief? He said it’s all nonsense, all nonsense, that this ‘pogrom’ is just in our heads. Just like that!”

Kogan returned to the table with a shot of vodka and set it down before David with a loud thud, hoping the noise might finally make his guest stop shouting.

“Here, Davidka. Drink to your father’s memory… I’ve endured many persecutions, my son. Believe me, it’s nothing personal, it’s all a matter of state, and so there’s no point in fearing it… For thousands of years, no one has solved our Jewish question. Neither gods nor rulers. And we won’t solve it either, you and I… Our task is to live, and if we want to live, then we must keep quiet and not stick our noses where they don’t belong.”

“Oh, come on now, Alexander Abramovich! Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes!” David spoke fast, with a flourish typical of a southern Podolian Jew. “You’d better think about where you’ll hide your beauties. If Miri’s still young, they’ll be after Sarah like a piece of meat. And that Isaac of yours—quite the pretty one too; you’d barely tell him from a girl,” he chuckled and downed his shot of vodka. “L’chaim!”

“After my own daughter became a wh… —engaged in… indecent behavior, I fear nothing anymore,” Kogan chuckled bitterly, mocking himself.

“Pff! You’re some strange Jew, Alexander Abramovich! Did you know, by the way, that out of every hundred harlots, twenty-five of them are Jewish?”

“Davidka… what are you babbling about again?”

“I read it in the papers. They call it… what’s the fancy word for it, their word… oh! STA-TIS-TIS-TICS!”

Alexander Abramovich froze, blinked, then let out a heavy sigh.

“A couple of weeks ago, I got a letter from Petersburg… by the way,” the tavern keeper continued, changing the subject to avoid talking about “statitistics,” especially with the half-mad Dov.

“Fira?..” David straightened up, feeling a rush of heat. He forgot about the newspaper lying before him, forgot about the police chief, forgot about the pogrom, the statitistics; he forgot that he needed to gather his force. He tossed back his vodka in one gulp and wiped his mouth carelessly with his shirt sleeve.

David was raised by the streets. His childhood years were spent caring for his dying father. After his father passed, he, untrained and unskilled, took up work as a coachman, and meanwhile, devoted his long days to mischief in the Gentile quarters—harassing girls, picking fights, causing disturbances that unsettled the peace of the whole southern town. Perhaps by now, David would have been hanged along with other guilty and innocent Jews alike, but even the police chief seemed to keep his distance from him.

Few knew that Fira was David’s accomplice in all his dirty dealings against the “unfaithful,” and few know it even now. He’d known her since childhood, had no qualms about her line of work, and often gave her tips—who had recently lost a wife, who might stray even while still married. He was, in a sense, her pander. And while Esther was busy pleasing drunk and depraved men in their homes, David would empty their pockets. They were never seen together, and whenever they encountered each other in public, the pair of young troublemakers kept a careful distance.

Hearing of the letter from his old friend, David could hardly hide the excitement stirring in his chest for reasons no one else could have understood: with dry, warm hands caressing his face, Fira had once promised, so sincerely and passionately, to be his. He had waited, believed, and hoped for her return all these past six years. No one knew what had become of her during those six years, except Alexander Abramovich and David. It was their little secret—a secret binding an old Jewish tavern keeper and a Jewish criminal. Kogan hid the letters from his other three children, reading them only to David, pouring out his heart without realizing he was wounding another’s.

“How is she?” David asked hesitantly, not wanting to reveal his particular interest.

Alexander Abramovich shrugged, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Married. An actress… at… some theater over there… where her husband either works or… or maybe manages,” he stammered as he spoke, as though he couldn’t recall the details of the letter, but David could see it was merely a sign of fatherly shame. He also knew that, out of habit, Alexander Abramovich read Fira’s letters so many times he’d memorized them.

David fell silent. His blood boiled. He thought of how hard it was to contain his anger in that moment—not to lash out, not to shout, not to betray his feelings about the marriage of his beloved, the betrayal of his Esther. His eyes grew damp, his heart pounded feverishly in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he caught himself wishing for her death, shuddered at the thought, and quickly changed the subject.

“And the youngest? Miri?… She still…”

“Still doesn’t know about her older sister,” Alexander finished. “And she won’t. I have Sarah, Isaac, and Miriam. That one… she is no daughter of mine,” his voice trembled. “What’s she even called now? Pff! Sophia!”

When Esther fled from home, little Miri had scarcely turned one. Since then, none spoke of Fira, nor was her name ever uttered. To his elder children, Sarah and Isaac, Alexander said nothing of the letters, and they lived unaware of how Esther’s life had unfolded since. At times, they pondered and believed that Fira had long since died, or had been stolen away, or shamed and tormented—which was unsurprising given the profession she had taken up.

“Sophia?”

“Sophia! Sophia Alexandrovna Mironova!” Kogan covered his face with trembling hands to stifle his tears, then pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to David. “A letter came under such a name! There’s nothing left of our own in her! Neither name nor honor!”

“May I read it?” David asked, unfolding the sheet, while thinking to himself, “If she has taken this name, perhaps she married because she had to? Esther, Fira, little Fira—only for me. Sofa—for all the others who touched her body but not her soul... And if to her husband she is Sophia, then she does not love him... does not love!”

“Aloud, read it aloud,” the innkeeper wiped the frozen tears from his eyes and smiled in a particularly tender way.

“She always wrote beautifully,” David smiled back, his gaze running over the neatly penned letters.

David owed his ability to read to Esther. Suddenly, he recalled how she taught him letters and syllables after nights spent together in the attic of the inn. Naked and sweating, they lay entwined; Fira would draw letters on his chest, tracing them slowly and gently, so that David would be covered in goosebumps.

David began to read aloud, with feeling:

“Father dearest, I can bear it no longer! My heart aches with longing for home, for you. Yet not a word have I received from you! Still, I must ask once more. How is little Sarah? How is Isaac? And Miriam—how fares she? She must be seven by now. Whom does she take after? Whom does she resemble?

It has been a month since I became a wife, and henceforth I shall be known as Mironova. Thus, I am coming home, coming to see you all. Now you need not feel shame on my account. I am now a respected actress! And my husband shall be a son to you, Father, of that I have no doubt. Upon learning how I left home, he purchased tickets to Odessa without delay. We seek your blessing as soon as we return from our wedding journey—we depart for Italy on the morrow!

I enclose our wedding photograph. To my left stands my husband’s sister, Maria, and to my right is my betrothed—Ilya Ilyich Mironov!”

“Where is the photograph?” David paused, glancing at the old man. “It would be interesting to see.”

“Send my regards to everyone. I hope to arrive by Passover. I kiss your hands, endlessly repentant, endlessly loving. Your daughter, Esther.”

Alexander pulled a folded photograph from his pocket and carefully smoothed it out, gently stroking it with his index finger. David hesitantly took it into his hands and gazed upon Esther.

In Balta, she had been a true beauty; in Petersburg, she had become a true lady. Her small, graceful head leaned toward her husband’s shoulder, and waves of long hair cascaded over her chest. She smiled, revealing white, even teeth that outshone even the pearls on her slender neck. Her dress, sewn from fine brocade, tightly embraced her sculpted waist and ample bosom, so much so that it seemed ready to burst forth. Her husband, just a bit taller and twice as broad, did not smile. Perhaps it was the other way around, but his thick mustache and beard concealed half his face. His sister Maria, at Esther’s right side, seemed almost like a servant—so plain, unremarkable, and worn-out did she appear next to the esteemed, well-off, and contented actress.

“And yet, in the letter, she called herself Esther,” David returned the photograph, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and abruptly leapt from the bench.

“Eh?..”

“Alexander Abramovich, be cautious. I must go! We’ll see each other again, God willing. Go home and lock yourself in with the children until everything becomes clear and calm!”

“But what about the fish soup?!”

“Eh?”

“You haven’t paid, you scoundrel!”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow!” came a shout from the courtyard.

Life is astonishing. You never know when you’re saying or doing something ordinary for the last time. Alexander would never receive payment for the soup and vodka. And he would never see David again.

The innkeeper bolted the door behind his guest and returned to the table where the letter lay. He picked up the photograph and ran his index finger over Esther’s hair.

“We’ll see each other again, God willing,” he whispered David’s words and wiped his tear-streaked face with his sleeve.

But God would not grant even this.