Nudelman - Borrowed Light

MERLE NUDELMAN

Leah, seventeen, composed, a precious meteor blushing, is betrothed. Aaron, scholar, voice lyrical, ambles into the parlour, hat in hand, stoops into armchair creases. Whisked away, he bumps onto the rug, wags a finger at bobbing black curls. She poses for hours in emerald satin, head tilted at cobwebs, dreaming as her likeness emerges in vivid oils. 1939 wedding plans halt the future vanishes We swelled the streets of our neighbourhood in Kielce, shouting, joking, cheers tumbling like a roll on my snare drum. 1939 wedding plans halt the future vanishes We swelled the streets of our neighbourhood in Kielce, shouting, joking, cheers tumbling like a roll on my snare drum.

Handsome guys girls liked us, let us sneak a kiss. Winters, we sailed across the ice, triangles of wood sharp with metal strips tied to our shoes. Summers, we played street-soccer, kicked a ball of suit scraps begged from Papas tailor shop. We thought those days would grow. The Nazis cut them into the dirt.

i They force-march female worker-prisoners in rows of five along Polish country road.

They stumble, suffer beatings, cursed commands: Rise or be killed. ii She trudges, head bent, merges with the striped mass, lifts one foot in front of the other. iii He points with his gun to the clearing. She obeys, thinks her beauty bears food. iv Stand there, Jew, next to the pit closer, hands at your side completely still. v An officer growls, Nein, and the guard lowers his gun.

Gentle in sepia tones the solemn couple, heads touching, rest heavy eyes on the cameras heart. Gentle in sepia tones the solemn couple, heads touching, rest heavy eyes on the cameras heart.

They look beyond the tiny bridal circle to shadow faces, phantom witnesses to this hasty day, short months after the war. She in a suit of navy, notched collar of white, unadorned waves loosening at her neck. He in white shirt, cravat and grey tweed. Borrowed clothes, borrowed light. Two lost children grasping.

i To Kielce they return. i To Kielce they return.

They seek slivers of their lives. They room at 7 Planty Street in a boardinghouse. ii July 4, 1946. Kalman strolls to the barbershop at the end of the street, passes dozens running. He races to No. iii They barricade doors while police shout, Out! Men first! They open the door, file past police with rifles cocked. iv Kalman kisses his bride goodbye, leaves Leah wrapped in a robe of pink. iv Kalman kisses his bride goodbye, leaves Leah wrapped in a robe of pink.

Steps from the street he hears killing sounds and darts to the attic where two men hide. v The baker enters her room. Leah quakes. She squeezes scant dollars in hands pocket-burrowed. He goes. vi Two climb higher near the attic door.

Come out, they taunt. Come out. vii Leah leans on Kalmans arm as they walk down Planty Street, its cobblestones ruby, floating in the half-light of dusk.

They are students a few short years, he in Kielce, she in Bodzentyn, then apprentice in family business before the Germans come. Both start other training slaving in work camps, begging bread. Their skin grows calloused to the sting of blood raining about them.

They stumble out of the barracks into each others arms and together scavenge. Canada calls for tailors and he passes the test. They graduate to the New World.

i Carried on the Samaria over the ashen waters we emigrate to an unknown home, distant from the Polish village where I grew and lost family and dreams. ii I yearn for Palestine, our sun-baked land, to midwife oranges from that mother-soil. iv Thoughts of my village-home recede with the shoreline and I weep in bitter loneliness. v The endless ocean huge with swelling waves rocks me seasick, a girl-woman pregnant with my first a child to be born strong in the shelter of golden streets. Some call her Lily, thinking Leah sounds Old World. Some call her Lily, thinking Leah sounds Old World.

Their immigrant ears spurn the breathy softness of an L followed by a sigh. Lily, brilliantly orange standing upright on her thick stalk. She was given the name of Leah, first wife of a deceived Jacob, now renamed, drowning out mothers calls, sisters voices singing her home, sighing at trickster Leah. Leahla, little Leah lost.

Weekend visitors cluster in the kitchen elbows resting on the round table. Lined faces press forward debating, sharing allusions to that other life, that Polish birthplace.

They turn to Leah, pliant as a melody. Sing for us, Leah, of that Shtetl Beltz, of that Mama dear. Ghosts of the shtetl float fragrant from Leahs lips. She reaches deeper, tears away musical scraps until her voice soars, breaks light, sound into prisms. They listen, skin goosefleshed, and their minds move inward to contented childhood days, a simple life vanquished with the final notes of song.

She slips into open-toed pumps, clear plastic with rows of rhinestones on three inch heels.

When she walks the shoes disappear, only the twinkles of those stones linger. They are magical like Cinderellas glass slippers. She clicks her heels three times but remains rooted in this Canadian soil.

Crystal earrings dangle free from curls pulled high. Swirls of chiffon swish on her hips as silver feet tap in time with the big band. Couples waltz on mirrored walls, gowns chiseled jewels under chandelier light.

The ballroom wears a scent of carnations and roast beef. She spins on sound with her Gene Kelly pumping her arms to the polka beat. Her skin sings electric.

i Roasting smells of the Sabbath meal warm the night, wet our mouths as we wait dressed in finery. You crown black waves with creamy lace then, like a bride, approach the linen cloth, near the brilliance of the silver candelabra. You flame the wicks of stocky white candles, circle silvery branches thrice, beckon the Sabbath Queen.

Eyes finger-veiled, you drift in a moment golden and eternal intone the blessing, your prayer spilling hope. ii On the counter, translucent bowls cream edged in gold washed peach at dusk. Mother stirs a pot of chicken soup and I bounce at her side, eyes level with the burners. She ladles bountiful servings and into broth plops triangular kreplach. Plump with beef and liver, pungent with garlic and onions. We ease the bowls onto the dining room table pristine in crocheted lace.