The Last Vogels

Before the creation of the world, the letters of the Hebrew alphabet flew in every direction with no goal or purpose. There was only chaos and darkness until, in the midst of infinity, the letters were organized to create things like beasts and universes.

Thousands of years after letters turned to words and words turned into creation, in a stone house outside of a Jewish Shtetl in Lithuania, seventeen-year-old Neshama Vogel stood at the window of her living room and watched the road next to the woods, waiting for her mother to come home.

She knew that further down the road in the Shtetl of Zal, past the lake, the fields, and the bridge over the river, families were welcoming in the Sabbath. Women with kerchiefs over their hair lit candles, their children illuminated by the golden light. Men walked down cobblestone streets on their way to synagogue and met other men on the way, all carrying identical prayer shawls hidden in bags tucked underneath arms.

One day, they would be buried in the same shawls they carried, their lives and deaths connected by white and blue thread.

Children rushed out of the communal bath house smelling of birch bark, moisture still sticking to their skin from the steam. Bath house attendants chased after them with bags of forgotten clothes, items lost in the excitement of the meal to come.

Neshama tapped her fingers on the windowsill. Outside, a layer of snow covered the ground. The sun was almost gone, and if she didn’t light candles soon, they’d be eating dinner in the dark. She took a match and quickly lit the Shabbat candles, reciting the prayer to herself that was usually reserved for her mother, Chaya.

The light of the candles was different when Neshama lit them, it felt less vibrant, less all encompassing. The flames felt smaller, as if they didn’t want to outshine the Friday evenings when Chaya was home.

Neshama had baked Challah, but the braids were malformed, and she’d forgotten the dough in the oven. The bread was black, charred from her neglect.

Neshama was wearing one of her mother’s old dresses. A pile of her own clothes sat unwashed on her floor, and she liked to use that as an excuse to explore Chaya’s closet. The hips were too tight and she could feel the fabric on her shoulders stretching. She took a deep breath, sucking in air and hoping the dress wouldn’t tear.

Neshama moved to the kitchen and checked the matzoh ball soup. Dinner was ready but her older brother, Menashe, wasn’t home yet. He’d been out chopping wood all day in the Dermonnen Forest, preparing for the peak of the cold season, when they’d take the logs into their house to keep them warm through the worst of the Winter months.

He was always late for Shabbat.

Relax, Neshama said to herself. It had been over forty years since the last Pogrom on their village, but the threat of violence still hung in the air like a damp fog.

She looked toward the bookshelf, her brother’s chair was set in front of it, like it too was waiting for him to arrive. Like everything else in Chaya’s house, the books were neatly shelved. They stood perfectly straight against the edges of the wood. There was no leaning or slouching allowed in the Vogel’s home, despite anything the Shtetl said to the contrary. It was easy to come up with stories from afar.

A rush of wind hit Neshama’s legs, blowing the bottom of her skirt. She turned to the entrance of the house, expecting to see her mother there. Instead, it was Menashe, still smelling of the forest. She crossed her arms. She knew he felt her disappointment by the way he lowered his head.

“You’re late. The Sabbath has already arrived,” she said. Menashe nodded and ran to his room to put on a white button down shirt. “You’re going to smell like sweat all night. I’m not sitting next to you if you stink," she called up to him. “I’ll sit next to mamme," she said to herself, looking over at Chaya’s empty chair at the head of the table.

Neshama’s mother had placed a pillow on the chair. She’d embroidered golden leaves into it. No one ever dared take Chaya’s seat or touch the embroidered pillow.

Just as the bookshelf felt incomplete without Menashe sitting by it, so too was their home without Chaya. Their mother was as much a part of the landscape of their house as the clocks, chairs, and Shabbat table. Without her, the windows looked dusty, the kitchen messy. The walls shifted to a dark, sad grey color.

The matzoh ball soup bubbled over in its pot, little bits of broth and dill spilling over onto the floor.

Menashe came downstairs and took the bubbling pot in his hands.

“Careful—you’ll burn yourself,” Neshama said. As usual, her brother ignored her.

Thunder pierced through the sky and rain pounded against the stone roof above. It wet the snow outside, turning it to slush.

“Are the goats inside the barn?” she asked, but before Menashe could move to check, she was at the window, squinting out into the darkness. The goats, chickens and sheep cawed and bleated inside. She didn’t want to worry Menashe, so she didn’t tell him what she was really looking for—their mother, somewhere in the rain and slush.

She could picture the houses in the village, see the outlines of their candlelit homes further down the road. The cobblestone streets would be dark with droplets, the outlines of men rushing home from the synagogue in their long jackets, holding onto their fur hats atop their heads in the rain. The women would be at home in their nicest Shabbat clothes, waiting for their husbands to come back for dinner. Their children would be getting restless, peeking at the Challah to steal a piece before the family was reunited.

Neshama sighed. Those who lived in the village had perfect houses and perfect families. Neshama had a mother who was missing somewhere in the rain, and a brother who never spoke.

The rain fell harder and the dark pine forest bordering the house was swallowed by fog, the same fog that descended upon it each night when the stars first appeared in the sky.

“What’s the time?” she asked, although the clock was right above her. Chaya had always come home before the fog.

Menashe didn’t answer.

She turned around and met his eyes. He clutched his stomach, ready to eat, and turned his head toward the front door.

“I’ve noticed,” Neshama said.

Silence fell over the barn, as if the family’s goats, chickens and sheep prepared for their own Sabbath meal. From above Neshama came the sound of glass clinking. She looked up. A strong gust of wind opened a window and the picture frames on the walls swung back and forth.

Neshama’s head pounded. She took the pin out of her bun, letting her long, tangled mane of red hair loose. She’d never felt right with it up, as if caging her curls meant caging herself.

She brought the Challah and crackers to the table but wanted to wait to begin the weekly ritual. She couldn’t start Shabbat without Chaya.

She dropped her hair pins onto the table. Chaya would hate to see them anywhere near the food. Neshama’s mother usually wore her light brown locks tied up neatly in a bun. Neshama and her brother used to take turns guessing how many pins it took to keep their mother’s hair so neat. The real number remained a mystery to both of them.

Chaya’s bun used to remind Neshama of the rye rolls she made at the beginning of the week. The Vogels had them every morning for breakfast until Saturday morning when the rolls ran out and Chaya put out special sweet cakes she’d prepared early Friday morning for the Sabbath. Neshama checked the kitchen. There were no sweet cakes prepared for Saturday.

Neshama grabbed her Yiddish prayer book from the Shabbat table. Menashe raised his eyebrows. It was a rare occasion to see his sister open that book. She hadn’t touched its yellow pages all week. It normally took coaxing from her mother to consider removing it from its usual space on the table, where Chaya would leave it in the hope that Neshama would open it, but most weeks it just sat there, on the table, untouched.

Neshama opened the prayer book. On the inside cover, Chaya had written a note to her daughter from the day she gave her the prayer book on her twelfth birthday half a decade ago.

5th of Tishrei, 5615 27th of September, 1854

To my Neshamale, you are my soul,

May you find the answer in these pages when I cannot give you any. May the words inside reveal secrets to you which I do not know.

Your mamme, Chaya

Neshama ran her fingers along the leather cover.

Unlike the siddurim of most of the women in the Shtetl, the gold lettering on the white leather book looked brand new—not out of respect, but out of neglect.

Chaya always found time to open her own prayer book, but for Neshama the prayers were alienating. They only reminded her that somewhere in the synagogue of Zal, villagers were getting together to pray in unison, and she was not there. Neshama never found the answers her mother claimed the book held. She only found loneliness, the echo of her own voice in prayer when she’d rather sing with a crowd. She hated her own voice. Like most things, her mother had a better one.

Neshama looked out the window. She scanned the forest. The fog had thickened and the rain had strengthened, turning the slush outside into puddles.

No Chaya. She checked the clock again.

By now, Neshama imagined, the streets in the village had mostly cleared out, leaving slick cobblestones where the rain had washed away the snow and dirt. Somewhere, a young drunk Yeshiva student was probably tripping over jagged stones, feeling light and happy after shots with his friends at synagogue. He probably had an invitation for dinner at a family’s house in the Shtetl, but couldn’t find their home in his stupor. He wouldn’t get there in time.

It was a mitzvah, a good deed, to host Yeshiva students, but the Vogels never had anyone over at their house. They kept to themselves. Neshama at least left to the Shtetl for market day. Chaya and Menashe never left the grounds of their home and the forest.

Menashe groaned in the corner and finally closed his book. He looked at her, his eyes saying all she needed to know.

Can we start? I’m starving, they said.

Neshama was hungry too. Her mouth watered at the thought of her mother’s rugelach cookies, spiraling chocolate and cinnamon that Chaya only made for Shabbat. They were always gone, reduced to a pile of crumbs before the week began. Chaya usually baked them Thursday evenings. They were waiting on a tray by the soup.

In the kitchen, Neshama’s hips gravitated toward the family’s most fragile bowls—they’d often fall to the floor and crash. Her red hair grew in volume and frizz among the steam of the cooking process, its strands falling recklessly into any dish she created. Menashe always made a big scene out of pulling a red strand from a bowl of soup. It couldn’t have been anyone else’s but his sister’s.

Menashe reopened his book, wet his finger and turned its pages. He must have realized that Neshama wouldn’t give in and dinner would be delayed further. He pushed back the curls on his forehead and returned to his own world.

“Mamme, where are you?” Neshama said to herself.

The minutes wore on and more stars appeared in the sky. Dinner in the Shtetl was probably over.

Two young Yeshiva students passed by the window, their arms and voices engaged in an argument. They wore white button down shirts and long black jackets, black velvet skullcaps and short beards. The Vogels lived far, but not far enough that a long evening walk after services wouldn’t send people to their doorstep. There was something that drew people to their house, despite the way her family hid.

“Shabbat walks,” Neshama said, a reference to the young men from the Yeshiva who would get drunk during dinner at their host’s home and then walk from Zal to the icy lake, hoping for some privacy, to discuss things they wouldn’t remember in the morning. Sometimes, they dared each other to walk across the surface of the water. Neshama and Menashe used to look out the window after dinner, waiting for one of the boys to fall through the ice while Chaya sipped her tea. Luckily, they’d never witnessed any Yeshiva student’s misfortune at the hands of the water’s depths. It usually happened after the siblings had gone to sleep, when they’d forgotten the game but the risk remained for its unknowing players.

In secret, Neshama envied the students. They had no family to take care of, they could come and go from the Shtetl whenever they wanted. No one watched over their shoulders to make sure they weren’t leaving prayer books on the dining room table.

Menashe got up from his chair, carrying the book he usually read before Shabbat, The Tree of Life. He joined Neshama at the window. She moved slightly over to allow room for him and adjusted her dress one more time. Other families in the village were probably clearing up the plates from their meal, saving their gefilte fish and cooked goose for the next day. Others were probably still eating dessert, a dairy free chocolate cake or a fruit plate of apples, pears and raspberries. When Neshama had her own house, she’d always go with cake.

Thunder erupted in the distance. Neshama wanted to close the shutters, but she needed to keep a lookout for Chaya. The firs and poplars rustled in the wind, spindly demons in the darkness. A fog spread over the frosted windows and Neshama breathed on the glass, then wiped away the mist with her sleeve.

The Shabbat candles went out, their flames carried away by an invisible wind. Menashe hit the windowsill with his fist. He wanted to read his book after dinner, and now they’d be without light until sunrise. They couldn’t light candles on the Sabbath.

A knock came from the door. Menashe turned toward the sound. It couldn’t be Chaya. She would have just walked in. It was her house.

Another knock.

“Did we invite anyone?” Neshama asked, even though she knew they hadn’t. She left the window and took a step toward the door.

Menashe shook his head.

Another knock.

The lingering sweet scent of burnt candlewick and smoke still swept the room, but inside, Neshama’s heart was racing. Menashe joined Neshama and stood behind her.

Another knock.

She took a deep breath, placing her body in front of her brother, holding her arms out wide as if to protect him, even though he towered over her.

The front door swung open, letting in a gust of wind that turned the food in the kitchen cold. Raindrops moistened the pages of Menashe’s books and landed on Neshama’s skin. In the doorway, illuminated only by the silver moonlight, stood a slender middle-aged woman, eyes covered by long, wet curls.

She was completely naked. Her bare skin dripping wet, and she shook with cold.

“Who—,” Neshama said. Menashe held his giant book in front of his face. Neshama, fear filling her stomach, started singing the prayer Jews sing before death, the Shema.

“Here, O Israel…”

She stopped mid prayer when she realized who it was. She took a step forward.

Neshama held out her shaking hand.

“Mamme?” she said. Menashe dropped his book. “Bring me a blanket,” Neshama said to Menashe, not turning away from her mother. Menashe ran upstairs. Chaya looked at Neshama. Neshama squinted. Something was different about her mother. These were not the bright, intelligent eyes of the woman that ran the household and taught her kids how to read Hebrew. These eyes were dull, as if the light had been blown out from within them. These were the eyes of a stranger. They darted around in confusion and fear, with no recognition of anything or anyone around them. Chaya wobbled in place.

Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor.