A Song for Chaya

Chapter 1 — When the Time Comes

The rooster crowed as the first light of dawn touched the thatched rooftops of the shtetl. Chaya stirred beneath her quilt, the chill of early spring nipping at her nose. She sighed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before rising to begin her day. The stove needed stoking, the dough needed kneading, and there was never enough time before Reb Yitzchak’s daughters arrived for their lessons.

She wrapped a shawl over her shift and stepped outside to fetch water from the well. The streets of the shtetl were quiet, save for the occasional murmur of a milkman’s cart or the soft prayers of an early riser. She passed the butcher’s shop, where a group of men gathered, voices low but urgent.

“Another pogrom,” one of them muttered, shaking his head. “Somewhere near Kyiv.”

Chaya swallowed hard. The words were as familiar as they were terrible. It was always somewhere near Kyiv, or near Minsk, or near Warsaw. Never far enough away. She thought of the last time—of blood on snow, of screams swallowed by the wind. She willed her hands to stay steady as she carried the water home.

Back in her small home, the samovar hissed as she set out tea and black bread. Soon, Reb Yitzchak’s daughters would arrive for their lessons. She straightened her skirt, adjusted her headscarf. She had made a life for herself here, quiet and steady. A woman among women. That was enough, wasn’t it?

But sometimes, in the stillness of the morning, she remembered.

She remembered her father’s heavy sighs, her mother’s eyes—red-rimmed, searching. She remembered the way the boys in cheder had looked at her, wary, as if they sensed something askew. She remembered the first time an old woman in the market called her moyd, girl, without hesitation, without question. The warmth of it had settled into her bones.

Now, no one questioned. The women gossiped with her over baskets of onions, the rebbetzin clucked her tongue when she prayed too fervently in shul, and the children she taught tugged at her sleeves, calling, Rebbetzin Chaya, rebbetzin, look!

She was what she had always been. Only now, the world believed it too.

Later, when the lessons were done and the children had scattered, she turned her attention to the pages hidden beneath her mattress. She smoothed the paper, her heart quickening as she traced the printed words. Der fraynd, Der arbeter-shtime —smuggled in from Vilna, from Warsaw, from places where Yiddish socialists wrote of a world that could be different.

She read of workers striking, of comrades meeting in secret, of Jewish men and women—even women!—standing against the Tsar and his Cossacks. A flame stirred in her belly. It was not unlike the one she felt when she stood in the women’s section of the shul on Shabbos, whispering the brachos with all her heart.

Was it a sin to want more than this? More than a life of kneading dough, darning socks, and waiting for the next time the wind turned against the Jews?

She thought of Yaakov, the son of the fishmonger, whose hands were calloused from scaling herring, whose laughter rang through the marketplace like bells. Yaakov, who sometimes met her eyes and smiled in a way that made Chaya’s stomach twist.

She thought of her brother Chaim, who still called her by a name she no longer answered to, who had whispered to their mother, Es iz nit normal , as if she were not standing right there.

She thought of the men by the butcher’s shop, speaking of pogroms as if they were the weather.

Chaya closed her eyes.

One day, she promised herself. One day, when the time came, she would not knead dough. She would not wait.

One day, she would take up a rifle, as the men did.

For now, she smoothed her skirt, tucked away her papers, and prepared for the evening prayers.

Chapter 2 — The Shadkhn

The synagogue was quiet in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the small, dusty windows. Chaya stood at the wooden table in the women’s section, stacking prayer books with practiced hands. The rebbetzin, a stout woman with a face like a well-worn map of kindness and worry, approached her. Her footsteps were soft but deliberate, and Chaya could feel her presence before she spoke.

“Chaya, neshama , come sit with me a moment,” the rebbetzin said, her voice low and warm, like the hum of a samovar on a cold morning.

Chaya turned, brushing a strand of hair back under her headscarf. “Of course, Rebbetzin,” she said, following her to a bench near the ark. The rebbetzin sat heavily, her hands resting on her knees, and gestured for Chaya to join her.

“The shadkhn was here yesterday,” the rebbetzin began, her tone careful but not unkind. “She mentioned a man—a good man—who is looking for a wife. A widower, with a young daughter. His name is Avraham, a bookbinder from the other side of the shtetl. He’s quiet, devout, and kind. And he’s interested in meeting you.”

Chaya’s hands, which had been clasped tightly in her lap, twitched. She felt a strange mix of emotions—hope, fear, and something deeper, something she couldn’t quite name. At 28, she had long since stopped expecting a match. The women in the shtetl whispered about her behind their hands— such a shame, such a pretty girl, but no husband, no children —but Chaya had learned to tune them out. She had made a life for herself, teaching the children, tending her home, and finding solace in the smuggled newspapers that spoke of a world beyond the shtetl. But now, the rebbetzin’s words stirred something deep within her—a longing she had tried to bury.

“Avraham,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “What… what does he know of me?”

The rebbetzin smiled gently, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Only what I’ve told him. That you are a good woman, a teacher, a devoted daughter. That you would make a fine wife and mother.”

Chaya’s heart raced. Wife. Mother. The words were like a melody she had not allowed herself to hear in years. But beneath the hope, fear coiled like a serpent. What would Avraham think if he knew the truth? What would anyone think?

That evening, Chaya sat by the stove in her small home, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Rivka sat across from her, her hands busy with a pile of mending, but her eyes were fixed on Chaya.

“A widower with a daughter?” Rivka said, her voice rising with excitement. “Chaya, this could be a blessing! A man like that—he’s not some young boy like Yaakov, chasing after pretty girls. He’s mature. He’s known loss. Maybe he’ll understand…” Rivka trailed off, her voice softening. “Maybe he’ll see you for who you are.”

Chaya shook her head, her fingers tightening around the cup. “And if he doesn’t? If he finds out? Rivka, you know what could happen. I could lose everything.”

Rivka set down the sock she was darning and reached across the table, taking Chaya’s hand in hers. Her touch was warm, grounding. “You deserve to be loved, Chaya. You deserve a life. Don’t let fear steal that from you.”

Chaya looked down at their joined hands, her throat tight. Rivka had always been her closest friend, the one person in the shtetl who knew her truth and loved her anyway. But even Rivka couldn’t fully understand the weight of Chaya’s fear—the fear of being discovered, of being cast out, of losing the fragile acceptance she had worked so hard to build.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Chaya whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough.”

Rivka squeezed her hand. “You’re the bravest person I know, Chaya. And you don’t have to do this alone. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

The meeting was arranged for the following week, in the rebbetzin’s home. Chaya wore her best dress, the one she saved for Shabbos, and tied her headscarf with trembling hands. She smoothed the fabric over her hips, her reflection in the small mirror by her bedside showing a woman who looked calm, even if she didn’t feel it.

Avraham arrived shortly after she did, his tall frame filling the doorway. He was older than she had imagined, with a beard streaked with gray and eyes that held a quiet sadness. But when he smiled at her, it was warm and genuine.

“Shalom, Chaya,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The rebbetzin has told me much about you.”

“Shalom, Avraham,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And she has told me a little of you as well.”

They sat across from each other, the rebbetzin bustling in the background with tea and honey cake. Avraham spoke of his work as a bookbinder, of the beauty he found in repairing torn pages and broken spines. “There’s something sacred about it,” he said, his hands moving as he spoke. “Taking something that’s been damaged and making it whole again.”

Chaya nodded, her eyes drawn to his hands—strong and calloused, but gentle in their movements. She thought of the children she taught, of the way they tugged at her sleeves and called her Rebbetzin Chaya . She thought of the life she could have—a home, a family, a place where she truly belonged.

Avraham spoke of his daughter, Malka, who was six years old and loved to sing. “She needs a mother,” he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “And I… I need a partner. Someone kind, someone strong.”

Chaya felt a pang in her chest. She wanted to tell him everything—about her past, about the person she had been and the woman she had become. But the words stuck in her throat, and she could only nod.

After the meeting, Chaya walked home alone, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders against the evening chill. The shtetl was quiet, the streets empty save for the occasional figure hurrying home before nightfall. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, and the faint sound of a child’s laughter drifted from an open window.

As she passed the butcher’s shop, she noticed a group of men gathered outside, their voices low but animated. She caught snippets of their conversation—talk of taxes, of the Tsar’s latest decrees, of the price of grain. One of the men, a burly fellow with a thick beard, shook his head and muttered, “It’s getting harder every year. Soon there’ll be nothing left for us but the clothes on our backs.”

Chaya quickened her pace, her heart heavy. The men’s worries were familiar, a constant undercurrent in the life of the shtetl. But tonight, their words felt sharper, more personal. She thought of Avraham, of his quiet strength and the life he had offered her. Could she really risk everything for the chance at love? And if she did, would it be enough to shield her from the hardships of the world?

When she reached her small home, she lit the candle by her bedside and sat on the edge of her mattress, her hands trembling. The room was cold, the fire in the stove long since burned out, but she barely noticed. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—of Avraham’s gentle eyes, of Malka’s laughter, of the life she could have if only she were brave enough to reach for it.

She knelt by her mattress and pulled out the smuggled newspapers, smoothing the pages with trembling hands. The words spoke of revolution, of comrades standing together against oppression. They spoke of a world that could be different, a world where people like her could live openly and without fear. But they also spoke of danger, of sacrifice, of the cost of fighting for a better future.

Chaya traced the printed words with her finger, her heart heavy but her resolve firm. She thought of the women in the stories—women who had taken up arms, who had fought for their beliefs, who had refused to be silenced. She thought of the life she had built here in the shtetl, quiet and steady, but always shadowed by fear.

“No,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “I will not live in fear. Not anymore.”

She blew out the candle and lay down, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Outside, the wind rustled through the thatched rooftops, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter from a nearby home. Chaya closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her, a reminder of the life she longed for—a life of love, of family, of belonging.

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope.

Chapter 3 — Chaya's Soul Laid Bare

Chaya had spent years telling herself that a life alone was not a tragedy. That it was safer not to hope.

And yet, as she moved through the next day, her hands steady in their work but her mind elsewhere, she could not ignore the quiet ember that had taken root in her chest.

Avraham had spoken with kindness. He had listened.

And for the first time in years, she wanted.

She turned the thought over in her mind as she kneaded dough, as she set out tea, as she straightened the books stacked neatly on the shelf.

By afternoon, Rivka arrived, letting herself in without knocking, as always. She took one look at Chaya’s face and sighed. “Well?”

Chaya wiped her hands on her apron. “I want to write to the shadkhn.”

Rivka stilled.

“You’re certain?”

Chaya hesitated. “I think I am.”

Rivka lowered herself onto a stool, studying her. “Then you have to tell him.”

“I know.”

“And how will you do that?”

Chaya exhaled sharply. “I will ask for another meeting. But I need a shomer who already knows.” She looked at Rivka, meaning clear.

Rivka’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“Who else?”

Rivka’s expression softened. “Chaya…” She took her hands, squeezing them gently. “Are you ready for this?”

“No.” Chaya swallowed hard. “But I think I want to be.”

That night, she sat by candlelight and wrote her letter.

Shadkhn,

If Avraham still wishes to marry me, I would like to accept. But before we continue, I must meet with him once more, with a shomer. There is something he must know. If, after that, he still wishes it, I will be honored to be his wife.

She folded the letter carefully.

The meeting was set for two days later, in Rivka’s home.

When Avraham arrived, he greeted Rivka politely before turning to Chaya. His face was unreadable, but his presence, as always, was steady.

Rivka settled in the corner, far enough to give them space but close enough to intervene if needed.

Chaya forced herself to meet his gaze.

“You asked for another meeting,” Avraham said gently. “Tell me what you need to say.”

Chaya clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

She had thought of a thousand ways to say it. None of them felt like enough.

She took a breath.
“Yes.” She folded her hands to keep them from shaking. “Because before we go forward, there is something you must know.”

Avraham nodded. “Go on.”

She had thought of a thousand ways to say it. None of them felt enough. So she simply said:

“The world sees me as a woman now. But there was a time when it did not.”

Avraham was very still.

Chaya forced herself to continue. “When I was born, they called me a son. But I was never a son. I was always this—I was always Chaya.” She swallowed hard. “I have lived as a woman for many years. If you choose to walk away, I will understand.”

The silence stretched.

Finally, Avraham spoke. “I do not understand.”

Chaya’s heart pounded. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Avraham ran a hand over his beard. His brow furrowed. “You were raised as a boy?”

She nodded. “Until I could no longer bear it.”

His eyes searched hers. “And the community—?”

“They accept me as I am.”

Avraham exhaled. “And… this is what you truly are? Not a deception?”

Chaya straightened her back. “It is the truest thing about me.”

Avraham considered this. Then, finally, he nodded.

“I won’t pretend I understand everything,” he said. “But I believe you.”

Chaya’s breath caught.

“I don’t…” He shook his head, searching for the right words. “I don’t know if I have ever thought about such a thing before. But I do know what I see.” His voice softened. “And I see a woman of kindness, of learning, of strength.”

Chaya pressed a hand to her chest, as if to hold herself together.

Avraham hesitated. “I need to think. Not because I doubt you, but because I must be certain of my own heart.”

Chaya nodded, her throat tight. “I understand.”

He rose, adjusting his coat. Then he met her gaze again. “But know this—I do not see you as something broken.”

And then he left.

The moment the door closed, Chaya’s hands flew to her face.

Rivka was beside her in an instant, arms wrapping around her shoulders.

“You did it,” Rivka whispered.

Chaya let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know if I feel relieved or terrified.”

Rivka squeezed her hand. “Both. That’s how you know it matters.”

A full week passed.

Every day, Chaya woke expecting word. Every day, nothing came.

She told herself that no answer was an answer. That Avraham had chosen silence over cruelty. That she should be grateful for that.

And yet, she still held her breath each time a messenger boy ran past her window.

Then, one afternoon, as she was setting out tea, there came a soft knock at the door. Chaya wiped her hands on her apron and opened it to find the rebbetzin standing there, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders against the chill of early spring.

“Chaya,” the rebbetzin said, her voice warm but firm, “you should go see the shadkhn. There is something you must discuss.”

Chaya’s heart leapt into her throat. She nodded, unable to speak, and the rebbetzin gave her a knowing smile before turning to leave.

That evening, as the sun dipped low and the shtetl’s streets glowed with the golden light of dusk, Chaya made her way to the shadkhn’s house. The air smelled of woodsmoke and the faint promise of thawing earth, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt.

When she arrived, the shadkhn greeted her at the door, ushering her inside with a quiet nod. The room was warm, lit by the flickering light of an oil lamp. And there, standing by the window, was Avraham ben Meir.

Chaya froze, her breath catching in her chest. Avraham turned to face her, his expression serious but kind. He stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Chaya,” he said, his voice steady, “I have thought carefully about this match. I wanted to tell you myself, in person, that I wish to proceed. If you will have me, I would be honored to marry you.”

Chaya’s hands trembled, and she pressed them to her sides to still them. She looked at Avraham, at the sincerity in his eyes, and felt a warmth spread through her chest.

The shadkhn, standing quietly by the door, cleared her throat. “Chaya,” she said gently, “do you still wish to proceed?”

Chaya straightened her back, her resolve firming. She looked at Avraham and nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “I do.”