Читать книгу Enemy of the Tzar: A Murderess in One Country, A Tycoon in Another - Lester S. Taube - Страница 15

CHAPTER 9

The stab of pain struck Motlie just at dawn. She came awake with a gasp of fear, then horror flooded through her. It is the cancer, her mind shrieked! Cancer! Cancer! It is in the pit of my stomach and it is eating me, tearing me apart. Oh God, dear glorious God, please make it stop.

The pain struck again. From her clenched lips came a low, tortured groan. She turned to one side and tried to stifle the next cry in the pillow, but Israel woke.

“Motlie,” he said, peering at her dim form. “What is the matter?”

She shook her head, her face still buried in the pillow. He took her by the arm and tried to turn her. She let out a strangled cry. Before he could roll out of bed for help, Hanna was by their side.

“It’s Mama,” he said desperately.

Hanna sped to the kitchen, quickly lit the lamp, then took out a bottle of clear liquid that Doctor Lepke of Slabodka had given her. Back in the bedroom, she poured out a spoonful.

“Here, Mama, take this. It will help.”

After sucking it in, Motlie lay back, gasping for breath, unable to find a second of ease. Hanna thought how the cool water had comforted the cow, so back to the kitchen she went for a bowl of water and a cloth. When she returned, Israel was sitting on the edge of the bed holding Motlie’s hand, his eyes flooded by tears. He looked up at Hanna beseechingly, as if his daughter had a magical power to relieve her mother.

“Here, Papa,” she said, handing over the bowl. “Wipe Mama’s face. Maybe it will help.”

It was coming, she knew deep inside, what Doctor Lepke had predicted would happen. She was overwhelmed by a terrible hopelessness and frustration. She loved her mother so, yet could not intervene to stop this horrible malady. Now she had to face the fact that her mother would not be with them much longer. Mama was the center of her world, and she could not conceive of a life without her.

But Hanna realized that she had to be prepared to take over the management of the house and the family. Although she had been the only wage earner for years, there was always Mama to suggest what should be done, to set the values and actions of the family, and to inspire all of them when conditions were at their worst. However, she would not give up Mama without a fight. Doctor Lepke was a good physician, but he was still just a family practitioner who knew only about the usual illnesses of his country patients. What Mama needed was a specialist, someone who knew everything about her specific ailment. Her Uncle Samuel, Israel’s brother from Slabodka, had mentioned a Doctor Skiptonas in Kaunas, a cancer specialist. There was no longer time to hope. Now she must act.

Quickly she dressed, climbed the stairs to Hershel’s room, and tapped on his door. He opened it, hair mussed, eyes still foggy.

“Hershel,” she said. “Mama is sick. I must go to Kaunas. I hate to ask, but may I use your horse?”

There was a small sound, and she turned to see Jakob standing at his doorway. The whispers must have attracted him. He had on his head and arm phylacteries to say his morning prayers, for as Torah had commanded, “And it shall be for a sign unto thee upon thine hand, and for a memorial between thine eyes, that the Lord’s law may be in thy mouth.”

“Mama’s sick,” she said to him. “I am going to Kaunas for a doctor.”

“Would you like me to sit with her?”

For a moment Hanna was surprised at his offer, and then suddenly she understood that in spite of the long, skinny frame, the jaw-length curls, his dancing and singing, Jakob was first and last a man of God.

“Thank you. Please help,” she said simply.

Jakob immediately went back into his room to begin the ritual for removing his tefillin.

“Hanna,” said Hershel. She turned back to him. “Of course, take the horse. Would you rather I go?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I must speak to him.”

In minutes, she had the animal saddled and was trotting down the dirt road towards Slabodka. For a while it seemed that the village would never come into view. She considered for a moment stopping to see Doctor Lepke first, then accepted the fact that he had done all he could, so she started over the bridge to the capital of Russian Lithuania. She became lost a number of times before locating Doctor Skiptonas’ office in a large, Victorian style house. She tied the horse to a hitching rail, went up the stone steps, and pulled the door-bell. A white garbed nurse with a large, heavily starched hat, answered after a number of rings, and, seeing the peasant attire that Hanna was wearing, curtly asked what she wanted.

“My mother is dying of cancer. I would like Doctor Skiptonas to see her. We live in Gremai, about ten versts from Slabodka.”

The nurse stood more stiffly. “You are a Jew?”

“Yes.”

The nurse was only moderately concerned about the faith of the young woman standing so desperately in front of her, for many of the Jews in the city were rich and, therefore, clients, in a left-handed fashion, but the combination of being Jewish and poor was another matter.

“The doctor’s fee is forty rubles a visit,” she said.

She was accustomed to some form of reaction at the mention of his fee, but the sight of Hanna’s face going white with shock startled her.

Hanna leaned against the doorpost until she could get her breath. Her mind whirled with the thought of how she could raise the money.

“Very well,” she managed to say in a small voice. “I will get it for you.”

“It must be paid in advance,” said the nurse, a bit more gently.

“All right.” Hanna descended the steps in a daze, untied the horse, and stiffly mounted it. Once over the bridge, she kicked the animal into a trot. Forty rubles! It kept pounding in her head. It was more than three months of work. Not that she cared how long it took to earn the money, but forty rubles were her earnings, not her savings. If she found someone to lend her the money, the most she could pay back was one ruble a month, and that only at the sacrifice of food or clothing.

Mrs. Merkys was her first stop. Before leaving for Kaunas, she had told Gitel to inform her employer that she would be late. She knew that Mrs. Merkys would be upset, for a wedding dress that Hanna had been working on was just on schedule, and any delay could cause complications.

Face still white, even from the exertion of having ridden over twenty versts in just the morning hours, Hanna explained to the dressmaker how desperately she needed the money. Mrs. Merkys was under no illusions as to what the specialist from Kaunas could do for Motlie. He certainly would not operate, since the family could not afford it, and the only thing left was the usual comments that a doctor mumbles when he knows he is wasting his time. The sole hope was the God of the Jews. Only He could help now. Better that Hanna and her family, and everyone else in the village who loved Motlie, and that would include all who knew her, should pray for her. But who could refuse Hanna’s urgent request.

“I have only twenty rubles,” she said sadly. She had more, but she was convinced that whatever she gave Hanna would never be seen again. Had either of her other two girls asked for a loan, except perhaps for a ruble or so, she would have been discharged on the spot.

Holding tight to the money in a pocket, Hanna led the horse back to the stable and tied it in a stall. She went inside to find Israel still sitting by the side of the bed. He motioned her to silence, then signaled that Motlie had fallen asleep. Painfully, he rose and followed her into the kitchen.

“The drug helped,” he explained. “She dozed off half an hour ago.” He eyed her hopefully. “When will the doctor come?”

She decided not to tell him what the visit would cost, for this doctor represented their last chance to save Motlie’s life. Israel had a great respect for doctors. He had mentioned more than once that the physician in Prussia who had worked on his crushed body after his boat accident there had saved his life, and had he been in Lithuania at another hospital, his fate might have been different.

“He will come as soon as he can.”

Israel nodded. “Jakob was very helpful. He sat by Mama for over an hour, praying. It seemed to help her as much as the drug.”

“Where is he?”

“He went to shul.”

Hanna called in Gitel and Reba from working in the garden, pulling weeds and watering the plants, and the three of them prepared a lunch of boiled potatoes and slices of pickled herring with slabs of pumpernickel bread. Hershel and Jakob came in as the food was placed on the table, Hershel carrying an easel and frame, on which he was sketching a scene of the river, and Jakob holding his prayer book. He said a brief prayer when they assembled at the table, and then they fell to.

Hanna ate quickly and left the cleaning to the girls so she could get to work. She had lost half a day already, but did not expect that Mrs. Merkys would deduct it from her salary, since there were many occasions when she had worked overtime. At the shop, she forced herself to concentrate only on the dress and not on the money she needed for the doctor. She accomplished a lot by quitting time, straightened up her work area, then left. On her ride back from Kaunas, she had gone over in her mind the people she dared approach for a loan. Her Uncle Samuel was out of the question, since he was little better off than themselves. But then, Mrs. Merkys had contributed more than she expected, and that was a relief. There were two other prospects, and quickly she walked to Mr. Feldman’s store. She had dealt with him for years, and they had struck up a form of friendship. He was a small, thin, wizened man, married to a mouse of a woman, who had given him two children with almost every ailment that youngsters could have.

Like everyone in the village, Feldman knew that Motlie was very ill, and suspected, like everyone else, that she had cancer. He also was aware that the family was impoverished, but he remembered that Israel always paid his debts to the kopek. There was more. He was a pious man, and he believed as surely as there is a living God that an act of charity would be returned threefold to his unfortunate children.

“Hanna,” he said, as soon as the request, delivered with a discomfort that only desperation could overcome, was made. “I have ten rubles for you. It is not a loan. It is a gift. I only ask that you pass on this gift someday when you are able to.”

Tears came to her eyes. How little she had actually known this man. He was not rich by any means, and the ten rubles represented a good part of his savings. She did not insist that she would accept the money only as a loan, for it was his mitzvah, his thanks to the Lord, and this must never be taken from a person. The Lord smiles at mitzvahs. She thanked him with a lump in her throat, and then she was back on the street, with ten rubles still to go.

The next one to see was George Wilson, a most unusual person to be living in the district. An American from a town called Morrisville in Pennsylvania, he had been a sailor on a freighter which had made port at Riga in Latvia over seventy years before, when wind and sails were the main form of sea locomotion. Wanderlust had brought him to Lithuania, and a Jewish girl from a neighboring village had captured his heart. For over sixty years, he had transported goods up and down the Nemunas, like her father. He had converted to Judaism directly before his marriage, and had become as orthodox as the Gaon of Vilnius, the head of the Jewish community throughout Eastern Europe. Never having been blessed with children, he and Ida, his wife, had adopted the world at large, and Jews in particular. Being a bright sort of person, before his marriage, while still legally a gentile, he had obtained permission to buy a large farm of unusually fertile land, and this had posed a problem after conversion, since Jews were prohibited from owning land. They could buy buildings, but not the ground upon which they sat. Actually, the Russians had also excluded Catholics from owning land, which took in almost all of the Lithuanians. After a few years of filling out forms and holding hearings, the Russian authorities decided to do nothing, so Wilson plied the river while Ida hired Jewish neighbors to till the farm, and in time they had become financially secure. Ida had fallen victim to a palsy eight years ago, and up to her death two or three years later, Motlie had frequently walked the four versts out of Gremai to their trim, sawn lumber home to bring dishes that Ida loved, especially her kugel, noodles baked with cheese. She had continued doing the same for Wilson himself up to the time of Israel’s accident, when food for just the family became a problem.

Over the years, though, small amounts of money and baskets of food had found their way to Israel’s door from an unknown donor, who, Israel and Motlie both knew was a transplanted American. And as often as Israel and Wilson met in the synagogue, not one word passed between them about the gifts, for this was the second most mitzvah-like deed–that is, to give charity without being identified. The premier gift, in Jewish custom, was that from a person who concealed his identity to one who would never be known to him.

The ninety-two-year-old man was delighted to have Hanna pay him a visit. His health and mental capabilities were still first class, and since the death of his beloved Ida, matchmakers from versts about had attempted to pair him off with hopeful, vigorous widows. To no avail. Wilson still took each meal with Ida, setting a place for her at the table, putting a token bit of food on her plate, and holding a two way conversation in which Ida’s comments came from a knowledge so deep and aware of the woman he loved that he knew exactly what she would have said during a talk. It was not difficult for Hanna to explain the purpose of her visit to Wilson, for he was the type to inspire confidence, and like Feldman, he did not hesitate to give her the remaining ten rubles, but with a different stipulation–that it be a gift without strings attached.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” she said, relief flooding over her that the awesome sum had been collected. “One day I will give your gift to another person.”

He raised his hands to stop her, the etched lines in his wind tanned face growing deeper with the thought that the Lord might attach such a gesture to his offer. “Please, please, my child. Do as your heart dictates. I only hope that God will be merciful to Motlie. I will pray for her.”

Motlie was worse by the time Hanna got home, and after a quick supper of bread and tea, Hanna told Israel that she would leave at once for Kaunas to see the doctor. Hershel, aware of what was going on, was ready to offer his horse, but since it was too late for her to ride alone, he borrowed a wagon from a neighbor and drove her to the city.

The nurse was not on duty when Hanna arrived, and the doctor himself answered the pull bell. She told him in a rush of words what she was there for, and that she had the money, holding it out towards him, the bills crumpled from the tightness with which she had clasped them. He looked into her drawn face, the anxiety mirrored by the sharp glare of the electric lights of his vestibule, and he said, “I will be there tomorrow afternoon.”

Hanna nodded in relief. “Please, doctor, do not say anything to my mother or father which will give them additional worry. Just tell me.”

His eyes suddenly grew cold. He was not in the habit of discussing cases with a mere child when the father still lived. “We will see,” he said brusquely, regretting that he had answered the bell instead of waiting until his manservant returned from an errand.

As Hershel and Hanna were driving home, breezes from the Nemunas bringing relief from the heat of the sun’s harsh rays only hours before, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“When will he come?” he asked.

“He said tomorrow afternoon.”

Hershel was also under no delusions about the seriousness of Motlie’s condition. As a university graduate, a chemical engineer, who had taken a number of additional courses in sciences that contained several medical students, he had discussed cancer occasionally with them. They had rolled their eyes and raised their hands in helplessness when the disease was mentioned.

“We don’t have the least idea what causes it,” they echoed each other. “We are not even sure whether or not it is contagious.” One thing they did know, though, was that anyone with cancer was doomed, especially after having looked inside cadavers during autopsies and seen the widespread damage.

Hershel had remarked that two or three thousand years ago Egyptian surgeons had opened skulls and removed cysts as large as lemons. A couple of the cynics had laughed and said that all of the patients had quickly died, except for one who became a vegetable. When Hershel wanted to know more about the survivor, the students had cried out in unison, “Our ass-hole professor!”

Hershel smiled at the recollection. “About the doctor,” he said to Hanna. “He’s a specialist, isn’t he?”

“Yes. My Uncle Samuel said he is the best.”

He wanted to ask where she had gotten the money for such a physician, but her late arrival home, the speed with which she ate and prepared to start off for Kaunas, indicated that she had been out raising the funds. He wondered if they had come from Stephen. It was evident that he was captivated by her, and he came from a family of means. And as little as Hershel knew Hanna, he was certain she would not hesitate taking money from the Devil himself for one of the family.

It was late when they arrived at the house. Hershel waved Hanna inside, then drove the wagon the three blocks to the neighbor from whom he had borrowed it, unhitched the horse, and led it back to its stable. It was getting fat from the small amount of effort that Hershel required, so he threw into the stall only a small forkful of hay and went into the kitchen. Israel and Hanna were seated at the table. Israel had prepared glasses of tea for them both, and they were waiting for him to come in.

“Some tea, Hershel?” asked Israel softly. “It’s made.”

“Thanks,” he replied in a low voice, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and taking a chair. “How’s Mrs. Barlak?”

Israel’s mouth tightened despondently, and he shook his head. “The drug wore off just after you left. I gave her another spoonful, but it took forever to work. I think she’s asleep now.” He poured a glass of tea for Hershel and offered Hanna a refill of her own. She signaled no. “That Jakob,” he went on, resuming his seat. “He sat with her for more than an hour again, talking and praying so beautifully that I think he did better than the medicine.” He passed over a sugar cube to Hershel. “It’s not hard to see a young man like him becoming a rabbi. He has…” he shrugged his shoulders, “…a quality that gives confidence. You can believe what he says. When he told Motlie that the Lord is watching over her every minute, she actually looked around. I felt the same, like He is watching everyone out of the corner of His eye, but keeping His main look just for Motlie.”

“He’ll inherit his father’s congregation, you know,” said Hershel.

“What do you mean, inherit?” asked Israel, laughing. “Like the Tzar?”

“Exactly like that,” said Hershel, grinning back. “With the Hasidim, it passes from father to son. I’ll wager you that if he walked up to a group from his congregation, they would split apart like the waters of the Red Sea and bow like he was the Tzar.”

Hanna looked at Hershel in disbelief. She regarded Jakob only as an unusual young man, one that she was learning to feel comfortable with. Actually, she liked him a bit, in the young woman and young man scheme of things. But he piqued her now and then by the way he often deliberately ignored her. She sensed at times that he was more aware of her than he acted, as if his detached air had been drilled into him, and she guessed that his reserve was due to his Hasidic upbringing, and that a woman was barely one level higher than a servant. “How do you know so much about the Hasidim?” she asked.

“I read a little about them some years ago.” He suddenly found himself yawning, and muffled it with a hand. He realized why he was getting tired. The strain of his work was catching up. Once he had the operation working smoothly, he was determined to be off on a long vacation–perhaps a full month. There would be snow in the mountains by then. It would be a toss-up between Switzerland, with its sterile cleanliness and neatness and barely edible food, and northern Italy with its disorder and excellent cuisine. He would ask Katrine to come along. She would blend in with either world.

Motlie had another bad night, and both Israel and Hanna were up with her constantly. Her pain was so great that Hanna moved Zelek from her parents’ room into her own bed with his sisters and used his cot herself. At each of her mother’s moans, her heart would tear apart. In desperation, she gave Motlie two spoonfuls of the drug, but they did little to ease her misery. Hanna was tempted to waken Jakob now and then for the magic that his voice and words seemed to have, but Motlie would not hear of it. It was only when Nicholas Aleksandrovich Romanov began to crow that she finally fell into a restless slumber, and Hanna could prevail upon her father to lay down in Zelek’s bed. He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, but even in his exhausted dream world he twitched and mumbled as if it was he who suffered.

When Jakob came down from his room, she served him hot cereal and milk, then explained about Motlie.

“You should have called me,” he said sharply. “I am able to help her.”

“She would not let me,” said Hanna weakly. “She did not want to be a bother.”

He rose at once and stood at the door of the bedroom, eyeing Motlie’s face, then resumed his seat. “I will stay with her while you are at work.” He spooned a portion of the cereal into his mouth and studied Hanna. He saw the red-rimmed eyes, the paleness of her cheeks, the way her shoulders were struggling to remain erect, and a gush of compassion filled his chest, mingled with admiration for the woman. She was like none he had ever met. He had to admit to himself that he knew very little about women. All of the girls in the congregation, and those in nearby congregations, had made no effort to attract him. That was quite understandable, since his father had betrothed him to the daughter of a neighboring Hasidic rebbe at the age of thirteen, directly after his bar mitzvah. Jakob had seen her occasionally while they were growing up, and he had been pleased with her attractive appearance. Beauty in a woman was an asset, for it contributed to a good sex relationship, and sex was a significant part of marriage. It was to be enjoyed to the full, especially on the Sabbath, and having a mate who enjoyed it equally well was good fortune.

She was five years younger than Jakob, and when she was sixteen, after a sudden fever, she commenced having epileptic attacks. Jakob’s father had voided the contract at once, and gone on a new search for a wife for his son. A year later, Jakob began losing weight and started having pains in his chest. It was diagnosed as pulmonary tuberculosis, and it took two years of diligent home care before he was pronounced cured. When, after an additional year of recuperation, he did not recover his weight loss, the doctor recommended a long stay in the countryside.

Jakob kept eating in silence, his eyes flicking up from the bowl to Hanna serving the children, still sleepy but with a healthy appetite. She would make a fine wife, he reasoned. She was strong, capable, and had a quick mind. The fact that Hanna was beautiful made her more desirable to him. But a wife must be for the long haul. A man could not expend his energies on training a woman to act and think like a Hasid, of expecting her to accept their customs without question, of being prepared to become, what was, for others, foreign in the eyes of orthodox Jews. Hasidim allowed no compromise with other Jews. For example, speaking Hebrew in the home or on the street! What an abomination! Hebrew is the language of the Lord; it should be spoken only in the synagogue. Jews should speak Yiddish in their daily lives. In truth, though, Jakob realized that the main battleground was the situation with the rebbes. Hasidic rebbes were the direct link with God. To diminish their power over their congregations was the crux of the controversy. The Talmid Chachem–am-haaretz dispute was simply a front-line skirmish weapon.

He broke off his reflections when he heard Motlie call out, and Hanna sped at once to her side. She was nauseated, groggy, and depressed, but at least her pain was bearable again. Motlie kissed her daughter and told her to get to work, so Hanna slipped on her leather shoes and started down the street to Mrs. Merkys’.

Stephen was waiting at the corner, and fell in step with her. “Hello,” he said softly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked terribly tired. “I love you.”

Hanna’s pale, weary face cleared. “And I love you, my darling.”

“Your mother, she is worse?”

“Yes. She had a very bad night.”

He nodded his head in understanding. “I was going to ask you to meet me tonight, but we’ll wait for another time.”

Her shoulder brushed him lightly, and he gave her a small, adoring smile. “I cannot say now. The doctor is coming today. If Mama is all right, I will meet you at the boat. After supper.”

His face broke into a quick, bright smile. “I’ll wait until dark,” he told her, then veered off to a side alley so the passing villagers would not see them walking together too long.

At Mrs. Merkys’, Hanna worked at top speed, and by noon had finished the bodice of the wedding gown. Mrs. Merkys checked the work carefully.

“It’s beautiful, Hanna,” she said, pleased. “I don’t think anyone could have done a better piece of work, even with a machine.”

Hanna rose from her chair and stretched, feeling the tired muscles ease their tension. “Do you want me to accompany you to her house for the fitting?” she asked.

“No. I think it will be just right. If not, I can take care of the odds and ends.” She folded the dress carefully and wrapped it inside a sheet. “How about some lunch now?”

“I think I will go home to check on Mama. She had a bad night.”

“Stay there an extra hour. There are some alterations on the table. You can begin on them when you return.”

As Hanna ran into the house, she was startled to hear Motlie laughing. Jakob was seated on a kitchen chair by the door of the bedroom, and he had obviously said something that amused her. Israel, also chuckling, was seated at the table. Hanna called out hellos to the men, and then went into the bedroom. Her mother’s face was pale, but she seemed to have the pain under control.

“What is so funny?” she asked.

Motlie began laughing again. “Jakob was telling about one of the men of his congregation getting married, and the groom’s father bought him a Shtreimel, one of those large, fox fur hats that Hasids are married in. But he had mistakenly gotten him one that was two or three sizes too large. And every time he nodded yes, it fell off, even when he was standing under the chuppa.” She looked up more closely at her daughter. “Have you eaten lunch?”

“Not yet. I will get something before going back to work.”

“The doctor,” said Israel. “He’s here.”

A trim carriage driven by the doctor’s servant was pulling up to the house. Israel limped to the door, bowed stiffly, and then ushered the physician into the kitchen. Without a word, the doctor walked into the bedroom and looked down at Motlie.

“I will need a lamp or two,” he said.

Hanna lit the one by the bed, and then brought another from the kitchen. The doctor motioned her out, then closed the door behind her. Jakob carried his chair to the table and sat there with Israel and Hanna, listening to the muffled voices of the two in the bedroom.

“There is some soup,” said Israel to Hanna, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “Do you want a bowl?”

She shook her head. “No, I will wait.”

They lapsed into silence, Hanna sitting stiffly in her chair, Jakob leaning forward with his elbows on the table, looking fixedly out of the window. Hanna glanced at him. He is praying, she said to herself. He is praying for Mama. She felt a surge of tenderness for the tall, skinny man, and then a sense of peace swept over her. God will listen to Jakob, she decided. She felt like placing her hand over his, but she knew that touching the Hasid would be a serious breach of his customs.

The doctor was in the room only fifteen minutes or so, and then he stepped out, closing the door behind him. He motioned to Israel to come outside. Hanna rose from her chair to go with them, but a stern look from the doctor stopped her. She sat again, fear about her mother’s condition dampening her anger at the physician’s disregard of her concerns. In a short while, the doctor’s carriage started off, and after a minute or two, when her father did not come back in, she stepped outside.

Israel was leaning against the wall of the house, tears streaming down his face. She touched him gently on the arm, and he turned to her. He placed his arms around her and laid his head on her shoulder and his heartbreak flooded from his throat with sobs so full of pain that Hanna was terrified.

“She’s dying,” he choked out. “He said a week, maybe two.”

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, tears filling her own eyes. “Is there nothing he can do for her?”

Israel shook his head. “He says there is nothing.”

“Maybe an operation?”

Israel moved away and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, and then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He was breathing heavily, panting for air. He swallowed a time or two, and then said, “I asked about an operation. He said it is too late.”

Hanna flung the tears from her eyes. “I will find another doctor,” she muttered desperately.

Israel shook his head again, hopelessly. “There is nothing to be done. It is all in the hands of God.” He began limping towards the door, and then stopped and turned. “No more tears, Hanna. Whatever time your mother has left, we will give it to her with our love.” Then trying with all his might to straighten his shoulders, he walked into the house.