“And what of the facts? Figures? Names of towns? Names of victims?” He tries to catch Wolf’s eye but the man looks away. Felix plows on. “Political implications? Political steps taken?”

There are stories here, Wolf. All this stuff about the “Storm in the East.” Well, don’t you think that people deserve to know what it is? What happened? What’s going on?

Wolf raises his eyebrows. “It’s a question.”

“What’s the question? You have a newspaper. You report the news. This is news.”

“Ah, how naïve the young.”

“Meaning?” Felix bristles. He stands up and places the teapot onto the old paraffin stove. He stands, waiting, until it begins to whistle. Felix puts on the blue and white-flowered quilted glove — a cast-off, no doubt, from his wife who talks too much — to remove it from the flame. The whistle continues for a second, and they both silently defer to it.

Wolf hands him two water-stained metal mugs, the type that soldiers hang from their sackpacks when they go out to war. Felix blinks.

Still, he pours the water onto the coffee grounds, hands one cup to Wolf, and takes the other between his hands. It burns and he puts it down on the desk. Wolf, he notices, continues cradling his own metal mug between his fingers.

Wolf looks pensive. “How can I explain? It’s like when your neighbor comes home every night and beats his wife and children. Everyone knows it, they hear the shrieks, see the bruises. But who would say anything? What would happen next?

“Label him a monster and he’ll only take off his gloves. Treat him as a monster instead of a gentleman and his wife won’t just have bruises, she’ll have a broken arm. Her teeth will be knocked out of her mouth.”

Felix nods, but is filled with silent horror. Speak truth to those who are near and who are far, Shneur wrote to him, when he told him of his thoughts to go into publishing. He has taken it as a statement of intent.

“In this business, you have to think strategically,” Wolf says, taking a sip.

He’s still holding his mug, Felix notices. Put it down, put it down, is it not scalding your skin? He sips. “Ah, that’s good. Geshmak.”

He pins watery blue eyes on Felix. “It’s not that we are afraid, although that would be justified. It’s that if we take off our gloves and call the Czar and his officials by their true names, who will be at the receiving end of their anger? Not us, we will not bear the brunt of their rage. It will be the millions of Jews who still live in the Pale, and those who are hiding out illegally in the cities. The anger of the Czar will pour down on our fellow Yidden.”

“So we call it the storm in the East?”

“Ah. So there is a little intelligence in this philosophy student, after all.”

Felix stifles a groan.

“Felix, son, you have to know when and you have to know where. Running a newspaper is not just about reporting the news, no, no, no. It’s about strategy. It’s our own little game of politics.”

He sets down his mug and rubs his hands together in glee. His eyes suddenly sparkle. “Which is what makes it quite enjoyable.”

Felix bites his lip. He walks over to his desk and sits on the edge.

“But these stories. These people who have come over from Russia. House burned. Daughter taken. Child injured. Horse let loose. They’re not politics. They’re people.”

Wolf leans over the printing press. Felix follows him. “Listen, if you can do it as a human interest story, maybe. Not certainly. Maybe. But steer away from politics.”

Felix wants to whoop. “No politics. Of course. Just human interest. Yes, sir.”

He throws on his overcoat.

“Where are you going?”

“Save me a quarter of page five,” he calls as he leaves the printing shop.

“Don’t be late with the children’s pages,” Wolf calls after him.

Not 20 minutes later, he arrives at the door which he visited only once with his mother. He knocks, sharply.

It takes a minute until he hears rustling and the door opens. The woman is there, pale face, kerchiefed head, the little boy by her side. When he sees Felix, Leib’le walks right up to him.

“Do you have another pencil for me?” Felix blinks, then checks in his pockets. There is a stub there, and he presents it to Leib’le with a flourish.

She looks at him, gaze steady. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Felix nods eagerly. “Yes, actually.”

*****

Becca knocks on the first door. A thin woman allows her in. Inside, she can barely breathe. It must be the smell of spices, but since when did spices smell so rank? They tickle the back of her throat, making her want to retch.

The woman disappears into the kitchen, and Becca changes from breathing through her nose — which feels cleaner, safer — to breathing through her mouth. Doing so diminishes the smell somewhat.

She looks around. There do not seem to be any children here.

A mistake. Relief floods through her.

She is not in the right place, after all. She will simply apologize and leave.

She stands, but then she sees a tiny girl walking toward her, earthenware mug in hand.

No. No no no.

A moral lesson for you, my dear. Her mind takes on the voice of Madame Zeitung, whose greatest pleasure was to extract lessons from life. In Paris, they mimicked her endlessly. Here you turned up your nose at Fortuna’s hospitality. Seems that you have been put up in luxurious quarters, indeed. Count your blessings for there will always be someone more unfortunate than you.

The woman sits down opposite her and urges her to drink. The cup is filthy. The liquid inside is unidentifiable. Never refuse hospitality. She grasps the cup. Lifts it to her tightly sealed lips. Sets it down. Swallows.

“What a sweet little daughter you have,” she begins. And then she begins the carefully rehearsed speech in Ladino.

After all, this is why she is setting up a school. For people like this. Never mind letters and numbers, she will start off by teaching them some personal hygiene.

When she is finished, the woman has one question. “Moneda?”

Coin. Money. Will it cost her anything?

She shakes her head. No. No cost.

The woman gives a large smile, gums showing all the places where teeth should be.

She reaches over and grasps Becca’s hands. “Giulan.”

Thank you. Thank you.

Becca stands and bows her head. She emerges into the sunlight, dizzy slightly, throat parched and wanting a drink, feeling vaguely itchy, but triumphant. She has her first student.

Excellent. One down, four to go. Her school will be opening any day. She could manage another few calls today — after she has eaten, for her stomach is growling and Fortuna serves a hot meal only at lunch time: miss that and she will dine on nothing but bread and yogurt all day.

Back at Fortuna’s she washes her hands carefully and thinks about combing her hair. There is a slight itch. Surely it is just her imagination. And there is not really time to unpin her long braid and then pin it all up again before the meal. Instead, in sudden good humor, she walks into the kitchen — the smells of cinnamon and baking bread — and asks Fortuna if she can help.

Fortuna begrudgingly hands her a knife and a cucumber to chop.

“I have a student,” she offers.

Fortuna leans over her pot, stirring the stew. Becca’s stomach rumbles.

“Who?”

She has forgotten their name. “The family that lives at the end of the alley near the beit knesset.”

Fortuna shakes her head. “Again you won’t listen to me.”

Becca concentrates on the cucumber. Long slice, then dice. She can do no right in this woman’s eyes.

“They’re… they’re…”

Their eyes meet, in a sudden exchange of understanding. Squalid.

“If you take her, no one else will send you their daughters.”

Of course. Why didn’t she think of that? The way that Mama had never wanted her to play with certain families. How could she have thought that one dark home, smelling of spices, was exactly the same as another?

As Fortuna stares at her, her anger rises, at Fortuna, at the poor, lice-infested girl, at herself. “I came here because I believe that everyone deserves an education. And that little girl needs it more than others.”

She is digging herself in deeper, she knows.

Fortuna shrugs. “Have it your way. Allegra was going to stay home with me, anyway.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 692)