The women are crowded into the second carriage: Magda Golińska, formerly Jezierzańska, Eva Frank’s friend, older by several years, tall, selfconfident, as tender and devoted to her as a mother would be; in her passport, it says she is a maid. Also traveling as maids are Anusia Paw?owska, daughter of Pawe? Paw?owski, once Hayim of Busk, brother of Nahman Jakubowski. Anusia has grown into a lovely girl. Going as washerwomen are Ró?a Micha?owska and Teresa, ?ab?cki’s widow. With them are Jan, Janek, Ignac, and Jacob, who have not yet earned last names, so the scrupulous officer writes in the corresponding boxes “Forisch” and “Fuhrmann.” Jacob always gets their first names mixed up, and when he forgets, he calls both of the boys Hershel.
Already beginning in Ostrava you can see that this is a different country, orderly and clean. The roads are paved, and despite the mud, they can be traveled with surprising ease. Along the highways there are guesthouses, but not the Jewish kind, which they avoided as they went through Poland. Is Moravia not, after all, the land of the true believers? They are in every little town here, although they are different, more reserved; they think what they please, but on the outside, they look like real Christians. Yeruhim Dembowski, whom Jacob now calls “J?dru?,” a funny-sounding Polish diminutive, looking curiously out the window, quotes the words of a Kabbalist according to whom Psalm 14:3—“All have turned away, all have become corrupt; there is no one who does good, not even one”—has the same numerical value as the name of Moravia—Mehrin.
“We had better watch out for these Krauts,” he warns.
Eva is disappointed—she very much wanted for her brothers to come with them, but they, childish and shy, tenuous as the little shoots that grow down in the cellar, are afraid of their father, who seems to have more sternness than love for them—it seems that they are a constant irritation to him. It is true that both of them are awkward and insecure. Roch, a freckled redhead, starts to blubber when rebuked, and then his watery greenish eyes fill with tears, and even those tears are the color of pond water. Joseph, quiet and secretive, with avian features and nice black eyes, is always turned inward, focused on picking up sticks, or stones, or snippets of ribbons, empty spools—the incomprehensible activity of the magpie. This brother Eva loves like she would her own child.
When the officer finally returns their passports, and the transport sets off again, Eva leans out, looks back on the road, and understands that she is leaving Poland once and for all, that she will never again return. To her, Poland will always be the prison of Jasna Góra. She was eight years old when she saw the officer’s chamber for the first time, eternally underheated, cold. Of Poland she will also remember the trips to Warsaw, to the Wo?owskis’, where she hurriedly learned to play the piano, her teacher hitting her hands with a wooden ruler. She will also remember the unexpected death of her mother, like a punch in the chest. She knows she will never go back down this road. The high road with its poplars in the uncertain March sun shifts already into memory.
“Miss Eva must be mourning the officer’s chamber, and missing Roch . . . ,” Matuszewski says ironically, seeing her sad face.
Everyone in the carriage chuckles, all except her father. From his facial expression there is no way to tell what he is thinking. He puts his arm around her and hides her head under his coat, like he might a puppy. There Eva manages to conceal the tears that pour forth.
They reach Brünn on the evening of March 23, 1773, and they rent rooms at the Zum blauen Loewen, but there are only two rooms available, so they are cramped. The Forisches and the Fuhrmanns sleep side by side on the ground scattered with hay in the stable. Dembowski keeps the box with their money and documents under his head. But—as they learn the next morning—in order to stay in the city for longer, they will need a special safe passage issued them. This is the reason Jacob and Eva ask to be taken to Prossnitz, to their cousins, the Dobrushkas.
Of the Dobrushka family in Prossnitz
Eyes wide, Eva takes in the garments of the local women, gaping at their little dogs and their carriages. She sees the even rows of vineyards—bare at this time of year—and the little gardens tidied up for Easter. Meanwhile, passersby stop at the sight of their carriage, her father’s high hat, and her cloak lined with wolf fur. The bony, powerful hand of her father, who knows no opposition, holds her firmly by the wrist, stretching out her brand-new goatskin glove. The pressure hurts her, but she does not complain. There is little that Eva can’t bear.
The Dobrushkas’ home is known to all in the city, and everyone is happy to point them in the right direction. It stands on the market square, two stories tall, the first being a shop with a big window. The facade has just been renovated—even now some workers are laying the pavement in front of it. As they cannot get any closer, the carriage stops, and the driver runs up to announce their arrival. A moment later, the curtains are parted on the second floor and the curious eyes of the older and younger residents gaze down upon the new arrivals.
The Dobrushkas come out to greet them. Eva curtsies before her aunt Sheyndel, who holds her tight, feeling overcome, and Eva breathes in the scent of her dress—light, floral, like powder and vanilla. Solomon, or Zalman, has tears in his eyes. He has aged considerably, now he can barely walk. He wraps his long arms around Jacob and claps him on the back. Yes, yes, Zalman is weak and sick, he’s gotten very skinny. His big belly has shrunk, and deep wrinkles line his face. Twenty-one years ago, at the wedding in Rohatyn, he seemed twice this size. His wife, Sheyndel, on the other hand, has bloomed like an apple tree in spring. No one would guess she had given birth to twelve children—her figure is still good, full, round. The only thing is that her hair is slightly gray now, but it is still luxurious, and she has combed it up, fastening it with black lace clasps that hold her tiny bonnet in place.