IBS

Books by Isaac Bashevis Singer

Novels

THE FAMILY MOSKAT

THE MAGICIAN OF LUBLIN

THE MANOR

SATAN IN GORAY

THE SLAVE

Stories

GIMPEL THE FOOL

SHORT FRIDAY

THE S E ANCE
THE SPINOZA OF MARKET STREET

Memoirs
'
IN MY FATHER S COURT

For Children
THE FEARSOME INN

MAZEL AND SHLIMAZEL

or The Milk of a Lioness

WHEN SHLEMIEL WENT TO WARSAW

ZLATEH THE GOAT

 The
Seance
and
Other
Stories

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Isaac

Bashevis

Singer

Farrar, Straus & Giroux

New York
Copyright © 1964, 1965,
1966, 1967, 1968 by Isaac
Bashevis Singer
All rights reserved
Library of Congreu catalog
card number: 68-23742
Publi.rhed simultaneously in
Canada
"The Dead Fiddler," "The
Letter 117riter," and "The
Slaughterer" appeared orig­
inally in The New Yorker;
"Zeit/ and Rickel" appeared
originally in The Hudson
Review and "Hemu Fire"
and "The Lecture" in Play­
boy, The other stories in this
volume have appeared in
Harper's Magazine, Commen·
tary, Encounter, Chicago Re­
view, Hadassah Magazine,
Cosmopolitan, Cavalier, and
American Judaism
Printed in the United Stales
of America
First printing, 1968
D�ugn: Marshall Lee
In memory of my beloved sister
MINDA ESTHER
 AUTHOR'S NOTE
Most of these stories were written in recent years-The Dead
Fiddler, for example, was written only last year. However, one
story, Two Corpses Go Dancing, was published in Yiddish in 1943. I
am glad that three of the stories-the title story, The Lecture, and
The Letter Writer-deal with events in the United States or Canada.
I am grateful to the following translators: Mirra Ginsburg, Cecil
Hemley, Ellen Kantarov, Roger Klein, J. M. Lask, Elizabeth Pollet,
Alizah Shevrin, Elizabeth Shub, Joseph Singer, Dorothea Straus, Ruth
Whitman, Alma Singer. As the reader will see, I was often the co­
translator of the stories, all of which were edited by Robert Giroux
and some of them by Cecil Hemley, Rachel MacKenzie, and Elizabeth
Shub, to all of whom I wish to express my gratitude.
/.B.S.
 Contents

The Seance � 3
The Sla11ghterer � I7
The Dead Fiddler � 31
The Lecture � 65
Cockadoodledoo � 85
The Plagiarist � 95
Zeit/ and Rickel � I II
The Warehortse 1(� 125
Henne Fire � I35
Getzel the Monkey � I49
Yanda ns:- I 6 r
The Needle 1/P- 175
Two Corpses Go Dancing 1(p r87
The Parrot 1(p 203
The Brooch � 223
The Letter Writer J/P 239
 The Seance

and Other Stories

 The
Seance

It was during the summer of 1946, in the living room of Mrs.

Kopitzky on Central Park \Y/est. A single red bulb burned behind
a shade adorned with one of Mrs. Kopitzky's automatic drawings
-circles with eyes, flowers with mouths, goblets with fingers.
The walls were all hung with Lotte Kopitzky's paintings, which
she did in a state of trance and at the direction of her control­
Bhaghavar Krishna, a Hindu sage supposed to have lived in the
fourth century. It was he, Bhaghavar Krishna, who had painted
the peacock with the golden tail, in the middle of which appeared
the image of Buddha; the otherworldly trees hung with elflocks
and fantastic fruits; the young women of the planet Venus with
their branch-like arms and their ears from which stretched silver

3
 4 � I SAA C BAS H E V IS S I N G E R

nets-organs of telepathy. Over the pictures, the old furniture, the

shelves with books, there hovered reddish shadows. The windows
were covered with heavy drapes.
At the round table on which lay a Ouija board, a trumpet, and
a withered rose, sat Dr. Zorach Kalisher, small, broad-shoul­
dered, bald in front and with sparse tufts of hair in the back, half
yellow, half gray. From behind his yellow bushy brows peered a
pair of small, piercing eyes. Dr. Kalisher had almost no neck­
his head sat directly on his broad shoulders, making him look
like a primitive African statue. His nose was crooked, flat at the
top, the tip split in two. On his chin sprouted a tiny growth. It
was hard to tell whether this was a remnant of a beard or just a
hairy wart. The face was wrinkled, badly shaven, and grimy. He
wore a black corduroy jacket, a white shirt covered with ash and
coffee stains, and a crooked bow tie.
When conversing with Mrs. Kopitzky, he spoke an odd mix­
ture of Yiddish and German. "What's keeping our friend Bhag­
havar Krishna? Did he lose his way in the spheres of heaven?"
"Dr. Kalisher, don't rush me," Mrs. Kopitzky answered.
"We cannot give them orders . . . they have their motives and
their moods. Have a little patience."
"Well, if one must, one must."
Dr. Kalisher drummed his fingers on the table. From each
finger sprouted a little red beard. Mrs. Kopitzky leaned her head
on the back of the upholstered chair and prepared to fall into a
trance. Against the dark glow of the red bulb, one could discern
her freshly dyed hair, black without luster, waved into tiny
ringlets; her rouged face, the broad nose, high cheekbones, and
eyes spread far apart and heavily lined with mascara. Dr. Ka­
lisher often joked that she looked like a painted bulldog. Her
husband, Leon Kopitzky, a dentist, had died eighteen years
before, leaving no children. The widow supported herself on an
annuity from an insurance company. In 1929 she had lost her
 5 JiPo The Seance

fortune in the Wall Street crash, but had recently begun to buy
securities again on the advice of her Ouija board, planchette, and
crystal ball. Mrs. Kopitzky even asked Bhaghavar Krishna for
tips on the races. In a few cases, he had divulged in dreams the
names of winning horses.
Dr. Kalisher bowed his head and covered his eyes with his
hands, muttering to himself as solitary people often do. "Well,
I've played the fool enough. This is the last night. Even from
kreplach one has enough."
"Did you say something, Doctor?"
"What? Nothing."
"When you rush me, I can ' t fall into the trance."
"Trance-shmance," Dr. Kalisher grumbled to himself. "The
ghost is late, that's all. Who does she think she's fooling? Just
crazy-meshugga."
Aloud, he said: ''I'm not rushing you, I've plenty of time. If
what the Americans say about time is right, I'm a second
Rockefeller."
As Mrs. Kopitzky opened her mouth to answer, her double
chin, with all its warts, trembled, revealing a set of huge false
teeth. Suddenly she threw back her head and sighed. She closed
her eyes, and snorted once. Dr. Kalisher gaped at her question­
ingly, sadly. He had not yet heard the sound of the outside door
opening, but Mrs. Kopitzky, who probably had the acute hearing
of an animal, might have. Dr. Kalisher began to rub his temples
and his nose, and then clutched at his tiny beard.
There was a time when he had tried to understand all things
through his reason, but that period of rationalism had long
passed. Since then, he had constructed an anti-rationalistic philos­
ophy, a kind of extreme hedonism which saw in eroticism the
Ding an sich, and in reason the very lowest stage of being, the
entropy which led to absolute death. His position had been a
curious compound of Hartmann's idea of the Unconscious with
 6 � I S A A C B A S H EV I S S I N G E R

the Cabala of Rabbi Isaac Luria, according to which all things,

from the smallest grain of sand to the very Godhead itself, are
Copulation and Union. It was because of this system that Dr.
Kalisher had come from Paris to New York in 1939, leaving
behind in Poland his father, a rabbi, a wife who refused to
divorce him, and a lover, Nella, with whom he had lived for
years in Berlin and later in Paris. It so happened that when Dr.
Kalisher left for America, Nella went to visit her parents in
Warsaw. He had planned to bring her over to the United States
as soon as he found a translator, a publisher, and a chair at one of
the American universities.
In those days Dr. Kalisher had still been hopeful. He had
been offered a cathedra in the Hebrew University in Jerusalem; a
publisher in Palestine was about to issue one of his books; his
essays had been printed in Zurich and Paris. But with the out­
break of the Second World War, his life began to deteriorate.
His literary agent suddenly died, his translator was inept and, to
make matters worse, absconded with a good part of the manu­
script, of which there was no copy. In the Yiddish press, for some
strange reason, the reviewers turned hostile and hinted that he
was a charlatan. The Jewish organizations which arranged lec­
tures for him cancelled his tour. According to his own philoso­
phy, he had believed that all suffering was nothing more than
negative expressions of universal eroticism : Hitler, Stalin, the
Nazis who sang the Horst Wessel song and made the Jews wear
yellow armbands, were actually searching for new forms and
variations of sexual salvation. But Dr. Kalisher began to doubt
his own system and fell into despair. He had to leave his hotel
and move into a cheap furnished room. He wandered about i n
shabby clothes, sat all day in cafeterias, drank endless cups o f
coffee, smoked bad cigars, and barely managed t o survive o n the
few dollars that a relief organization gave him each month. The
 7 ::tP- The Seance

refugees whom he met spread all sorts of rumors about visas for
those left behind in Europe, packages of food and medicines that
could be sent them through various agencies, ways of bringing
over relatives from Poland through Honduras, Cuba, Brazil. But
he, Zorach Kalisher, could save no one from the Nazis. He had
received only a single letter from Nella.
Only in New York had Dr. Kalisher realized how attached
he was to his mistress. Without her, he became impotent.

2.

Everything was exactly as it had been yesterday and the day

before. Bhaghavar Krishna began to speak in English with his
foreign voice that was half male and half female, duplicating
Mrs. Kopitzky's errors in pronunciation and grammar. Lotte
Kopitzky came from a village in the Carpathian Mountains. Dr.
Kalisher could never discover her nationality-Hungarian, Ru­
manian, Galician? She knew no Polish or German, and little
English; even her Yiddish had been corrupted through her long
years in America. Actually she had been left languageless and
Bhaghavar Krishna spoke her various j argons. At first Dr. Ka­
lisher had asked Bhaghavar Krishna the details of his earthly
existence but had been told by Bhaghavar Krishna that he had
forgotten everything in the heavenly mansions in which he dwelt.
All he could recall was that he had lived in the suburbs of
Madras. Bhaghavar Krishna did not even know that in that part
of India Tamil was spoken. When Dr. Kalisher tried to con­
verse with him about Sanskrit, the Mahabharata, the Ramayana,
the Sakuntala, Bhaghavar Krishna replied that he was no longer
interested in terrestrial literature. Bhaghavar Krishna knew noth­
ing but a few theosophic and spiritualistic brochures and maga­
zines which Mrs. Kopitzky subscribed to.
 8 ,P. I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

For Dr. Kalisher it was all one big joke; but i f one lived in a
bug-ridden room and had a stomach spoiled by cafeteria food, if
one was in one's s ixties and completely without family, one
became tolerant of all kinds of crackpots. He had been intro­
duced to Mrs. Kopitzky in 1942, took part in scores of her
seances, read her automatic writings, admired her automatic
paintings, listened to her automatic symphonies. A few times he
had borrowed money from her which he had been unable to
return. He ate at her house-vegetarian suppers, since Mrs.
Kopitzky touched neither meat, fish, milk, nor eggs, but only
fruit and vegetables which mother earth produces. She specialized
in preparing salads with nuts, almonds, pomegranates, avocados.
In the beginning, Lotte Kopitzky had wanted to draw him into
a romance. The spirits were all of the opinion that Lotte
Kopitzky and Zorach Kalisher derived from the same spiritual
origin : The Great White Lodge. Even Bhaghavar Krishna had a
taste for matchmaking. Lotte Kopitzky constantly conveyed to
Dr. Kalisher regards from the Masters, who had connections
with Tibet, Atlantis, the Heavenly Hierarchy, the Shambala, the
Fourth Kingdom of Nature and the Council of Sanat Kumara. In
heaven as on the earth, in the early forties, all kinds of crises
were brewing. The Powers having realigned themselves, the
members of the Ashrams were preparing a war on Cosmic Evil.
The Hierarchy sent out projectors to light up the planet Earth,
and to find esoteric men and women to serve special purposes.
Mrs. Kopitzky assured Dr. Kalisher that he was ordained to
play a huge part in the Universal Rebirth. But he had neglected
his mission, disappointed the Masters, He had promised to tele­
phone, but didn't. He spent months in Philadelphia without
dropping her a postcard . He returned without informing her.
Mrs. Kopitzky ran into him in an automat on Sixth Avenue and
found him in a torn coat, a dirty shirt, and shoes worn so thin
they no longer had heels. He had not even applied for Uni ted
 9 � The Seance

States citizenship, though refugees were entitled to citizenship

without going abroad to get a visa.
Now, in 1946, everything that Lotte Kopitzky had prophesied
had come true. All had passed over to the other side-his father,
his brothers, his sisters, Nella. Bhaghavar Krishna brought mes­
sages from them. The Masters still remembered Dr. Kalisher,
and still had plans for him in connection with the Centennial
Conference of the Hierarchy. Even the fact that his family had
perished in Treblinka, Maidanek, Stutthof was closely connected
with the Powers of Light, the Development of Karma, the New
Cycle after Lemuria, and with the aim of leading humanity to a
new ascent in Love and a new Aquatic Epoch.
During the last few weeks, Mrs. Kopitzky had become dis­
satisfied with summoning Nella's spirit in the usual way. Dr.
Kalisher was given the rare opportunity of coming into contact
with Nella's materialized form. It happened in this way: Bhag­
havar Krishna would give a sign to Dr. Kalisher that he
should walk down the dark corridor to Mrs. Kopitzky's bed­
room. There in the darkness, near Mrs. Kopitzky's bureau, an
apparition hovered which was supposed to be Nella. She mur­
mured to Dr. Kalisher in Polish, spoke caressing words into his
ear, brought him messages from friends and relatives. Bhaghavar
Krishna had admonished Dr. Kalisher time and again not to try
to touch the phantom, because contact could cause severe injury to
both, to him and Mrs. Kopitzky. The few times that he sought to
approach her, she deftly eluded him. But confused though Dr.
Kalisher was by these episodes, he was aware that they were
contrived. This was not Nella, neither her voice nor her manner.
The messages he received proved nothing. He had mentioned all
these names to Mrs. Kopitzky and had been questioned by her.
But Dr. Kalisher remained curious: Who was the apparition?
Why did she act the part? Probably for money. But the fact that
Lotte Kopitzky was capable of hiring a ghost proved that she was
 IO :iP I SAA C BAS HEV I S S I N G E R

not only a self-deceiver but a swindler of others as well. Every

time Dr. Kalisher walked down the dark corridor, he mur­
mured, "Crazy, meshugga, a ridiculous woman."
Tonight Dr. Kalisher could hardly wait for Bhaghavar
Krishna's signal. He was tired of these absurdities. For years he
had suffered from a prostate condition and now had to urinate
every half hour. A Warsaw doctor who was not allowed to
practice in America, but did so clandestinely nonetheless, had
warned Dr. Kalisher not to postpone an operation, because
complications might arise. But Kalisher had neither the money
for the hospital nor the will to go there. He sought to cure
himself with baths, hot-water bottles, and with pills he had
brought with him from France. He even tried to massage his
prostate gland himself. As a rule, he went to the bathroom the
moment he arrived at Mrs. Kopitzky' s, but this evening he had
neglected to do so. He felt a pressure on his bladder. The raw
vegetables which Mrs. Kopitzky had given him to eat made his
intestines twist. "Well, I'm too old for such pleasures," he
murmured. As Bhaghavar Krishna spoke, Dr. Kalisher could
scarcely listen. "What is she babbling, the idiot? She's not even a
decent ventriloquist. ' '
The instant Bhaghavar Krishna gave his usual sign, Dr. Ka­
lisher got up. His legs had been troubling him greatly but had
never been as shaky as tonight. "Well, I'll go to the bathroom
first," he decided. To reach the bathroom in the dark was not
easy. Dr. Kalisher walked hesitantly, his hands outstretched,
trying to feel his way. When he had reached the bathroom and
opened the door, someone inside pulled the knob back. It is she,
the girl, Dr. Kalisher realized. So shaken was he that he forgot
why he was there. "She most probably came here to undress." He
was embarrassed both for himself and for Mrs. Kopitzky. "What
does she need it for, for whom is she playing this comedy?" His
eyes had become accustomed to the dark. He had seen the girl's
 n � The Seance

silhouette. The bathroom had a window giving on to the street,

and the shimmer of the street lamp had fallen on to it. She was
small, broadish, with a high bosom. She appeared to have been i n
her underwear. Dr. Kalisher stood there hypnotized. H e wanted
to cry out, "Enough, it's all so obvious," but his tongue was
numb. His heart pounded and he could hear his own breathing.
After a while he began to retrace his steps, but he was dazed
with blindness. He bumped into a clothes tree and hit a wall,
striking his head. He stepped backwards. Something fell and
broke. Perhaps one of Mrs. Kopitzky's otherworldly sculptures!
At that moment the telephone began to ring, the sound unusually
loud and menacing. Dr. Kalisher shivered. He suddenly felt a
warmth in his underwear. He had wet himself like a child.

3.

"Well, I've reached the bottom," Dr. Kalisher muttered to

himself. ' 'I'm ready for the junkyard." He walked toward the
bedroom. Not only his underwear, his pants also had become
wet. He expected Mrs. Kopitzky to answer the telephone; it
happened more than once that she awakened from her trance to
discuss stocks, bonds, and dividends. But the telephone kept on
ringing. Only now he realized what he had done-he had closed
the living-room door, shutting out the red glow which helped
him find his way. ''I'm going home," he resolved. He turned
toward the street door but found he had lost all sense of direction
in that labyrinth of an apartment. He touched a knob and turned
it. He heard a muffled scream. He had wandered into the
bathroom again. There seemed to be no hook or chain inside.
Again he saw the woman in a corset, but this time with her face
half in the light. In that split second he knew she was middle­
aged.
"Forgive, please." And he moved back.
 12 1iP- I S A A C B A S H EV I S S I N G ER

The telephone stopped ringing, then began anew. Suddenly

Dr. Kalisher glimpsed a shaft of red light and heard Mrs.
Kopitzky walking toward the telephone. He stopped and said,
half statement, half question : "Mrs. Kopitzky!"
Mrs. Kopitzky started. "Already finished?"
' 'I'm not well, I must go home."
"Not well? Where do you want to go? What's the matter?
Your heart?"
"Everything."
"Wait a second."
Mrs. Kopitzky, having approached him, took his arm and led
him back to the living room. The telephone continued to ring and
then finally fell silent. "Did you get a pressure in your heart,
huh?" Mrs. Kopitzky asked. "Lie down on the sofa, I'll get a
doctor."
"No, no, not necessary."
'Til massage you."
"My bladder is not in order, my prostate gland."
"What? I'll put on the light."
He wanted to ask her not to do so, but she had already turned
on a number of lamps. The light glared in his eyes. She stood
looking at him and at his wet pants. Her head shook from
side to side. Then she said, "This is what comes from living
alone."
"Really, I'm ashamed of myself."
"What's the shame? We all get older. Nobody gets younger.
Were you in the bathroom?"
Dr. Kalisher didn't answer.
"Wait a moment, I still have his clothes. I had a premonition I
would need them someday."
Mrs. Kopitzky left the room. Dr. Kalisher sat down on the
edge of a chair, placing his handkerchief beneath him. He sat
 13 � The Seance

there stiff, wet, childishly guilty and helpless, and yet with that
inner quiet that comes from illness. For years he had been afraid
of doctors, hospitals, and especially nurses, who deny their
feminine shyness and treat grownup men like babies. Now he
was prepared for the last degradations of the body. "Well, I'm
finished, kaput." . . . He made a swift summation of his exist­
ence . "Philosophy? what philosophy? Eroticism? whose eroti­
cism? " He had played with phrases for years, had come to no
conclusions. What had happened to him, in him, all that had
taken place in Poland , in Russia, on the planets, on the far-away
galaxies, could not be reduced either to Schopenhauer's blind will
or to his, Kalisher's, eroticism. It was explained neither by
Spinoza's substance, Leibnitz's monads, Hegel's dialectic, or
Heckel's monism. "They all just juggle words like Mrs. Ko­
pitzky. It's better that I didn' t publish all that scribbling of mine.
What's the good of all these preposterous hypotheses? They don't
help at all. . . . " He looked up at Mrs. Kopitzky's pictures on
the wall, and in the blazing light they resembled the smearings of
school children. From the street came the honking of cars, the
screams of boys, the thundering echo of the subway as a train
passed. The door opened and Mrs. Kopitzky entered with a
bundle of clothes : a jacket, pants, and shirt, and underwear. The
clothes smelled of mothballs and dust. She said to him, "Have
you been in the bedroom?"
"What? No."
"Nella didn't materialize?"
"No, she didn't materialize."
"Well, change your clothes. Don't let me embarrass you."
She put the bundle on the sofa and bent over Dr. Kalisher
with the devotion of a relative. She said, "You'll stay here.
Tomorrow I'll send for your things."
"No, that's senseless."
 I4 �? I S A AC B A SHEV I S S I N G E R

"I knew that this would happen the moment we were intro­
duced on Second Avenue."
"How so? Well, it's all the same."
"They tell me things in advance. I look at someone, and I
know what will happen to him."
"So? When am I going to go?"
"You still have to live many years. You're needed here. You
have to finish your work."
"My work has the same value as your ghosts. "
"There are ghosts, there are! Don't b e s o cynical. They watch
over us from above, they lead us by the hand, they measure our
steps. We are much more important to the Cyclic Revival of the
Universe than you imagine."
He wanted to ask her: "Why then, did you have to hire a
woman to deceive me? " but he remained silent. Mrs. Kopitzky
went out again. Dr. Kalisher took off his pants and his under­
wear and dried himself with his handkerchief. For a while he
stood with his upper part fully dressed and his pants off like
some mad jester. Then he stepped into a pair of loose drawers
that were as cool as shrouds. He pulled on a pair of striped pants
that were too wide and too long for him. He had to draw the
pants up until the hem reached his knees. He gasped and snorted,
had to stop every few seconds to rest. Suddenly he remembered!
This was exactly how as a boy he had dressed himself in his
father's clothes when his father napped after the Sabbath pud­
ding: the old man's white trousers, his satin robe, his fringed
garment, his fur hat. Now his father had become a pile of ashes
somewhere in Poland, and he, Zorach, put on the musty clothes
of a dentist. He walked to the mirror and looked at himself, even
stuck out his tongue like a child. Then he lay down on the sofa.
The telephone rang again, and Mrs. Kopitzky apparently an­
swered it, because this time the ringing stopped immediately. Dr.
 15 � The Seance

Kalisher closed his eyes and lay quietly. He had nothing to

hope for. There was not even anything to think about.

He dozed off and found himself in the cafeteria on Forty-second

Street, near the Public Library. He was breaking off pieces of an
egg cookie. A refugee was telling him how to save relatives in
Poland by dressing them up in Nazi uniforms. Later they would
be led by ship to the North Pole, the South Pole, and across the
Pacific. Agents were prepared to take charge of them in Tierra
del Fuego, in Honolulu and Yokohama. . . . How strange, but
that smuggling had something to do with his, Zorach Ka­
lisher's, philosophic system, not with his former version but with
a new one, which blended eroticism with memory. While he was
combining all these images, he asked himself in astonishment :
"What kind of relationship can there be between sex, memory,
and the redemption of the ego? And how will it work in infinite
time? It's nothing but casuistry, casuistry. It's a way of explaining
my own impotence. And how can I bring over Nella when she
has already perished? Unless death itself is nothing but a sexual
amnesia." He awoke and saw Mrs. Kopitzky bending over him
with a pillow which she was about to put behind his head.
"How do you feel?"
"Has Nella left?" he asked, amazed at his own words. He
must still be half asleep.
Mrs. Kopitzky winced. Her double chin shook and trembled.
Her dark eyes were filled with motherly reproach.
"You're laughing, huh? There is no death, there isn't any. We
live for�:ver, and we love forever. This is the pure truth."
Tramlated by Roger H. Klein and Cecil Hemley
 The
Slaughterer

Yoineh Meir should have become the Kolomir rabbi. His father
and his grandfather had both sat in the rabbinical chair in
Kolomir. However, the followers of the Kuzmir court had set up
a stubborn opposition : this time they would not allow a Hassid
from Trisk to become the town's rabbi. They bribed the district
official and sent a petition to the governor. After long wrangling,
the Kuzmir Hassidim finally had their way and installed a rabbi
of their own. In order not to leave Yoineh Meir without a source
of earnings, they appointed him the town's ritual slaughterer.
\Vhen Yoineh Meir heard of this, he turned even paler than
usual. He protested that slaughtering was not for him. He was
softhearted; he could not bear the sight of blood. 'But everybody

17
 1 8 s.;p. I S A A C B A S HEV I S S I N G ER

banded together to persuade him-the leaders of the community;

the members of the Trisk synagogue; his father-in-law, Reb Getz
Frampoler; and Reitze Doshe, his wife. The new rabbi, Reb
Sholem Levi Halberstam, also pressed him to accept. Reb Sholem
Levi, a grandson of the Sondz rabbi, was troubled about the sin
of taking away another's livelihood; he did not want the younger
man to be without bread. The Trisk rabbi, Reb Yakov Leibele,
wrote a letter to Yoineh Meir saying that man may not be more
compassionate than the Almighty, the Source of all compassion.
When you slaughter an animal with a pure knife and with piety,
you liberate the soul that resides in it. For it is well known that
the souls of saints often transmigrate into the bodies of cows,
fowl, and fish to do penance for some offense.
After the rabbi's letter, Yoineh Meir gave in. He had been
ordained a long time ago. Now he set himself to studying the
laws of slaughter as expounded in the Grain of the Ox, the
Sh11lchan Amch, and the Commentaries. The first paragraph of
the Grain of the Ox says that the ritual slaughterer must be a God­
fearing man, and Yoineh Meir devoted himself to the Law with
more zeal than ever.
Yoineh Meir-small, thin, with a pale face, a tiny yellow
beard on the tip of his chin, a crooked nose, a sunken mouth, and
yellow frightened eyes set too close together-was renowned for
his piety. \X1hen he prayed, he put on three pairs of phylacteries :
those of Rashi, those of Rabbi Tam, and those of Rabbi Sherira
Gaon. Soon after he had completed his term of board at the home
of his father-in-law, he began to keep all fast days and to get up
for midnight service.
His wife, Reitze Doshe, already lamented that Yoineh Meir
was not of this world. She complained to her mother that he
never spoke a word to her and paid her no attention, even on her
clean days. He came to her only on the nights after she had
 19 1/P The Slaughterer

visited the ritual bath, once a month. She said that he did not
remember the names of his own daughters.
After he agreed to become the ritual slaughterer, Yoineh Meir
imposed new rigors upon himself. He ate less and less. He
almost stopped speaking. When a beggar came to the door,
Yoineh Meir ran to welcome him and gave him his last groschen.
The truth is that becoming a slaughterer plunged Yoineh Meir
into melancholy, but he did not dare to oppose the rabbi's will. It
was meant to be, Yoineh Meir said to himself; it was his destiny
to cause torment and to suffer torment. And only heaven knew
how much Yoineh Meir suffered.
Yoineh Meir was afraid that he might faint as he slaughtered
his first fowl, or that his hand might not be steady. At the same
time, somewhere in his heart, he hoped that he would commit an
error. This would release him from the rabbi's command. How­
ever, everything went according to rule.
Many times a day, Yoineh Meir repeated to himself the rabbi's
words: "A man may not be more compassionate than the Source
of all compassion." The Torah says, "Thou shalt kill of thy
herd and thy flock as I have commanded thee." Moses was in­
structed on Mount Sinai in the ways of slaughtering and of
opening the animal in search of impurities. It is all a mystery of
mysteries-life, death, man, beast. Those that are not slaughtered
die anyway of various diseases, often ailing for weeks or months.
In the forest, the beasts devour one another. In the seas, fish
swallow fish. The Kolomir poorhouse is full of cripples and
paralytics who lie there for years, befouling themselves. No man
can escape the sorrows of this world.
And yet Yoineh Meir could find no consolation. Every tremor
of the slaughtered fowl was answered by a tremor in Yoineh
Meir' s own bowels. The killing of every beast, great or small,
caused him as much pain as though he were cutting his own
 20 1$'o I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

throat. Of all the punishments that could have been visited upon
him, slaughtering was the worst.

Barely three months had passed since Yoineh Meir had become a
slaughterer, but the time seemed to stretch endlessly. He felt as
though he were irrunersed in blood and lymph. His ears were
beset by the squawking of hens, the crowing of roosters, the
gobbling of geese, the lowing of oxen, the mooing and bleating
of calves and goats; wings fluttered, claws tapped on the floor.
The bodies refused to know any justification or excuse-every
body resisted in its own fashion, tried to escape, and seemed to
argue with the Creator to its last breath.
And Yoineh Meir's own mind raged with questions. Verily, in
order to create the world, the Infinite One had had to shrink His
light; there could be no free choice without pain. But since the
beasts were not endowed with free choice, why should they have
to suffer? Yoineh Meir watched, trembling, as the butchers
chopped the cows with their axes and skinned them before they
had heaved their last breath. The women plucked the feathers
from the chickens while they were still alive.
It is the custom that the slaughterer receives the spleen and
tripe of every cow. Yoineh Meir's house overflowed with meat.
Reitze Doshe boiled soups in pots as huge as cauldrons. In the
large kitchen there was a constant frenzy of cooking, roasting,
frying, baking, stirring, and skimming. Reitze Doshe was preg­
nant again, and her stomach protruded into a point. Big and
stout, she had five sisters, all as bulky as herself. Her sisters came
with their children. Every day, his mother-in-law, Reitze Doshe's
mother, brought new pastries and delicacies of her own baking.
A woman must not let her voice be heard, but Reitze Doshe's
maidservant, the daughter of a water carrier, sang songs, pattered
around barefoot, with her hair down, and laughed so loudly that
the noise resounded in every room.
 2 1 141'- The Slaughterer

Yoineh Meir wanted to escape from the material world, but

the material world pursued him. The smell of the slaughterhouse
would not leave his nostrils. He tried to forget himself in the
Torah, but he found that the Torah itself was full of earthly
matters. He took to the Cabala, though he knew that no man may
delve into the mysteries until he reaches the age of forty. Never­
theless, he continued to leaf through the Treatise of the HaJJidim,
The Orchard, the Book of Creation, and The Tree of Life.
There, in the higher spheres, there was no death, no slaughtering,
no pain, no stomachs and intestines, no hearts or lungs or livers,
no membranes, and no impurities.
This particular night, Yoineh Meir went to the window and
looked up into the sky. The moon spread a radiance around it.
The stars flashed and twinkled, each with its own heavenly secret.
Somewhere above the World of Deeds, above the constellations,
Angels were flying, and Seraphim, and Holy Wheels, and Holy
Beasts. In Paradise, the mysteries of the Torah were revealed to
souls. Every holy zaddik inherited three hundred and ten worlds
and wove crowns for the Divine Presence. The nearer to the
Throne of Glory, the brighter the light, the purer the radiance,
the fewer the unholy host.
Yoineh Meir knew that man may not ask for death, but deep
within himself he longed for the end. He had developed a
repugnance for everything that had to do with the body. He could
not even bring himself to go to the ritual bath with the other
men. Under every skin he saw blood. Every neck reminded
Yoineh Meir of the knife. Human beings, like beasts, had loins,
veins, guts, buttocks. One slash of the knife and those solid
householders would drop like oxen. As the Talmud says, all that
is meant to be burned is already as good as burned. If the end of
man was corruption, worms, and stench, then he was nothing but
a piece of putrid flesh to start with.
Yoineh Meir understood now why the sages of old had likened
 22 � I SAA C B AS H E V IS S I N G E R

the body to a cage-a prison where the soul sits captive, longing
for the day of its release. It was only now that he truly grasped
the meaning of the words of the Talmud: "Very good, this is
death. " Yet man was forbidden to break out of his prison. He
must wait for the jailer to remove the chains, to open the gate.
Yoinch Meir returned to his bed . All his life he had slept on a
feather bed, under a feather quilt, resting his head on a pillow;
now he was suddenly aware that he was lying on feathers and
down plucked from fowl. In the other bed, next to Yoineh
Meir's, Reitze Doshe was snoring. From time to time a whistle
came from her nostrils and a bubble formed on her lips. Yoineh
Meir's daughters kept going to the slop pail, their bare feet
pattering on the floor. They slept together, and sometimes they
whispered and giggled half the night.
Yoineh Meir had longed for sons who would study the Torah,
but Reitze Doshe bore girl after girl. While they were small,
Yoineh Meir occasionally gave them a pinch on the cheek.
Whenever he attended a circumcision, he would bring them a
piece of cake. Sometimes he would even kiss one of the little ones
on the head. But now they were grown. They seemed to have
taken after their mother. They had spread out in width. Reitze
Doshe complained that they ate too much and were getting too
fat. They stole tidbits from the pots. The eldest, Bashe, was
already sought in marriage. At one moment, the girls quarreled
and insulted each other, at the next they combed each other's hair
and plaited it into braids. They were forever babbling about
dresses, shoes, stockings, jackets, panties. They cried and they
laughed. They looked for lice, they fought, they washed, they
kissed.
When Yoineh Meir tried to chide them, Reitze Doshe cried,
"Don't butt in! Let the children alone! " Or she would scold,
"You had better see to it that your daughters shouldn't have to go
around barefoot and naked! "
 23 1/P- The Slaughterer

Why did they need so many things? Why was it necessary to

clothe and adorn the body so much, Yoineh Meir would wonder
to himself.
Before he had become a slaughterer, he was seldom at home
and hardly knew what went on there. But now he began to stay at
home, and he saw what they were doing. The girls would run off
to pick berries and mushrooms; they associated with the daugh­
ters of common homes. They brought home baskets of dry twigs.
Reitze Doshe made jam. Tailors came for fittings. Shoemakers
measured the women's feet. Reitze Doshe and her mother argued
about Bashe's dowry. Yoineh Meir heard talk about a silk dress, a
velvet dress, all sorts of skirts, cloaks, fur coats.
Now that he lay awake, all those words reechoed in his ears.
They were rolling in luxury because he, Yoineh Meir, had begun
to earn money. Somewhere b Reitze Doshe's womb a new child
was growing, but Yoineh Meir sensed clearly that it would be
another girl. "Well, one must welcome whatever heaven sends,"
he warned himself.
He had covered himself, but now he felt too hot. The pillow
under his head became strangely hard, as though there were a
stone among the feathers. He, Yoineh Meir, was himself a body:
feet, a belly, a chest, elbows. There was a stabbing in his entrails.
His palate felt dry.
Yoineh Meir sat up. "Father in heaven, I cannot breathe!"

2.

Elul is a month of repentance. In former years, Elul would bring

with it a sense of exalted serenity. Yoineh Meir loved the cool
breezes that came from the woods and the harvested fields. He
could gaze for a long time at the pale-blue sky with its scattered
clouds that reminded him of the flax in which the citrons for the
Feast of Tabernacles were wrapped . Gossamer floated in the air.
 24 :,.p. I SAA C B AS H E V IS S I N G E R

On the trees the leaves turned saffron yellow. In the twittering of

the birds he heard the melancholy of the Solemn Days, when
man takes an accounting of his soul.
But to a slaughterer Elul is quite another matter. A great many
beasts are slaughtered for the New Year. Before the Day of
Atonement, everybody offers a sacrificial fowl. In every court­
yard, cocks crowed and hens cackled, and all of them had to be
put to death. Then comes the Feast of Booths, the Day of the
\'{fillow Twigs, the Feast of Azereth, the Day of Rejoicing in the
Law, the Sabbath of Genesis. Each holiday brings its own
slaughter. Millions of fowl and cattle now alive were doomed to
be killed.
Yoineh Meir no longer slept at night. If he dozed off, he was
immediately beset by nightmares. Cows assumed human shape,
with beards and side locks, and skullcaps over their horns.
Yoineh Meir would be slaughtering a calf, but it would turn into
a girl. Her neck throbbed, and she pleaded to be saved. She ran to
the study house and spattered the courtyard with her blood. He
even dreamed that he had slaughtered Reitze Doshe instead of a
sheep.
In one of his nightmares, he heard a human voice come from a
slaughtered goat. The goat, with his throat slit, j umped on
Yoineh Meir and tried to butt him, cursing in Hebrew and
Aramaic, spitting and foaming at him. Yoineh Meir awakened in
a sweat. A cock crowed like a bell. Others answered, like a
congregation answering the cantor. It seemed to Yoineh Meir
that the fowl were crying out questions, protesting, lamenting in
chorus the misfortune that loomed over them.
Yoineh Meir could not rest. He sat up, grasped his side locks
with both hands, and rocked.
Reitze Doshe woke up. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"What are you rocking for?"
 2 5 1iP' The Slaughterer

"Let me be."
"You frighten me ! "
After a while Reitze Doshe began t o snore again. Yoineh Meir
got out of bed, washed his hands, and dressed. He wanted to put
ash on his forehead and recite the midnight prayer, but his lips
refused to utter the holy words. How could he mourn the destruc­
tion of the Temple when a carnage was being readied here in
Kolomir, and he, Yoineh Meir, was the Titus, the Nebuchad­
nezzar!
The air in the house was stifling. It smelled of sweat, fat, dirty
underwear, urine. One of his daughters muttered something in
her sleep, another one moaned. The beds creaked. A rustling
came from the closets. In the coop under the stove were the
sacrificial fowls that Reitze Doshe had locked up for the Day of
Atonement. Yoineh Meir heard the scratching of a mouse, the
chirping of a cricket. It seemed to him that he could hear the
worms burrowing through the ceiling and the floor. Innumerable
creatures surrounded man, each with its own nature, its own
claims on the Creator.
Yoineh Meir went out into the yard. Here everything was cool
and fresh. The dew had formed. In the sky, the midnight stars
were glittering. Yoineh Meir inhaled deeply. He walked on the
wet grass, among the leaves and shrubs. His socks grew damp
above his slippers. He came to a tree and stopped. In the branches
there seemed to be some nests. He heard the twittering of
awakened fledglings. Frogs croaked in the swamp beyond the hill.
"Don't they sleep at all, those frogs?" Yoineh Meir asked him­
self. "They have the voices of men."
Since Yoineh Meir had begun to slaughter, his thoughts were
obsessed with living creatures. He grappled with all sorts of
questions. Where did flies come from? Were they born out of
their mother's womb, or did they hatch from eggs? If all the flies
died out in winter, where did the new ones come from in sum-
 26 JiP I SA A C B ASH E V IS SI N G E R

mer? And the owl that nested under the synagogue roof-what
did it do when the frosts came? Did it remain there? Did it fly
away to warm countries? And how could anything live in the
burning frost, when it was scarcely possible to keep warm under
the quilt?
An unfamiliar love welled up in Yoineh Meir for all that
crawls and flies, breeds and swarms. Even the mice-was it their
fault that they were mice? What wrong does a mouse do? All it
wants is a crumb of bread or a bit of cheese. Then why is the cat
such an enemy to it?
Yoineh Meir rocked back and forth in the dark. The rabbi may
be right. Man cannot and must not have more compassion than
the Master of the universe. Yet he, Yoineh Meir, was sick with
pity. How could one pray for life for the coming year, or for a
favorable writ in Heaven, when one was robbing others of the
breath of life?
Yoineh Meir thought that the Messiah Himself could not
redeem the world as long as injustice was done to beasts. By
rights, everything should rise from the dead : every calf, fish,
'
gnat, butterfly. Even in the worm that crawls in the earth there
glows a divine spark. When you slaughter a creature, you slaugh·
ter God . ...
"Woe is me, I am losing my mind ! " Yoineh Meir muttered.
A week before the New Year, there was a rush of slaughter­
ing. All day long, Yoineh Meir stood near a pit, slaughtering
hens, roosters, geese, ducks. Women pushed, argued, tried to get
to the slaughterer first. Others joked, laughed, bantered. Feathers
flew, the yard was full of quacking, gabbling, the screaming of
roosters. Now and then a fowl cried out like a human being.
Yoineh Meir was filled with a gripping pain. Until this day he
had still hoped that he would get accustomed to slaughtering. But
now he knew that if he continued for a hundred years his
suffering would not cease. His knees shook. His belly felt
 27 � The Slaughterer

distended. His mouth was flooded with bitter fluids. Reitze Doshe
and her sisters were also in the yard, talking with the women,
wishing each a blessed New Year, and voicing the pious hope
that they would meet again next year.
Yoineh Meir feared that he was no longer s laughtering accord­
ing to the Law. At one moment, a blackness swam before his
eyes; at the next, everything turned golden green. He constantly
tested the knife blade on the nail of his forefinger to make sure it
was not nicked. Every fifteen minutes he had to go to urinate.
Mosquitoes bit him. Crows cawed at him from among the
branches.
He stood there until sundown, and the pit became filled with
blood.
After the evening prayers, Reitze Doshe served Yoineh Meir
buckwheat soup with pot roast. But though he had not tasted
any food since morning, he could not eat. His throat felt con­
stricted, there was a lump in his gullet, and he could scarcely
swallow the first bite. He recited the Shema of Rabbi Isaac Luria,
made his confession, and beat his breast like a man who was
mortally sick.
Yoineh Meir thought that he would be unable to sleep that
night, but his eyes closed as soon as his head was on the pillow
and he had recited the last benediction before sleep. It seemed to
him that he was examining a slaughtered cow for impurities,
slitting open its belly, tearing out the lungs and blowing them
up. What did it mean? For this was usually the butcher's task.
The lungs grew larger and larger; they covered the whole table
and swelled upward toward the ceiling. Yoineh Meir ceased
blowing, but the lobes continued to expand by themselves. The
smaller lobe, the one that is called "the thief," shook and
fluttered, as if trying to break away. Suddenly a whistling, a
coughing, a growling lamentation broke from the windpipe. A
dybbuk began to speak, shout, sing, pour out a stream of verses,
 28 S.? I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

quotations from the Talmud, passages from the Zohar. The lungs
rose up and flew, flapping like wings. Yoineh Meir wanted to
escape, but the door was barred by a black bull with red eyes and
pointed horns. The bull wheezed and opened a maw full of long
teeth.
Yoineh Meir shuddered and woke up. His body was bathed in
sweat. His skull felt swollen and filled with sand. His feet lay on
the straw pallet, inert as logs. He made an effort and sat up. He
put on his robe and went out. The night hung heavy and
impenetrable, thick with the darkness of the hour before sunrise.
From time to time a gust of air came from somewhere, like a sigh
of someone unseen.
A tingling ran down Yoineh Meir's spine, as though someone
brushed it with a feather. Something in him wept and mocked.
"Well, and what if the rabbi said so?" he spoke to himself.
"And even if God Almighty had commanded, what of that? I'll
do without rewards in the world to come! I want no Paradise, no
Leviathan, no Wild Ox! Let them stretch me on a bed of nails.
Let them throw me into the Hollow of the Sling. I'll have none
of your favors, God ! I am no longer afraid of your Judgment! I
am a betrayer of Israel, a willful transgressor! " Yoineh Meir
cried. "I have more compassion than God Almighty-more,
more! He is a cruel God, a Man of War, a God of Vengeance. I
will not serve Him. It is an abandoned world ! " Yoineh Meir
laughed, but tears ran down his cheeks in scalding drops.
Yoineh Meir went to the pantry where he kept his knives, his
whetstone, the circumcision knife. He gathered them all and
dropped them into the pit of the outhouse. He knew that he was
blaspheming, that he was desecrating the holy instruments, that
he was mad, but he no longer wished to be sane.
He went outside and began to walk toward the river, the
bridge, the wood. His prayer shawl and phylacteries? He needed
none! The parchment was taken from the hide of a cow. The
 29 :IP- The Slaughterer

cases of the phylacteries were made of calf's leather. The Torah

itself was made of animal skin. "Father in Heaven, Thou art a
slaughtered" a voice cried in Yoineh Meir. "Thou art a slaugh­
terer and the Angel of Death ! The whole world is a slaughter­
house!"
A slipper fell off Yoineh Meir's foot, but he let it lie, striding
on in one slipper and one sock. He began to call, shout, sing. I
am driving myself out of my mind, he thought. But this is itself a
mark of madness. . . .

He had opened a door to his brain, and madness flowed in,

flooding everything. From moment to moment, Yoineh Meir
grew more rebellious. He threw away his skullcap, grasped his
prayer fringes and ripped them off, tore off pieces of his vest. A
strength possessed him, the recklessness of one who had cast
away all burdens.
Dogs chased him, barking, but he drove them off. Doors were
flung open. Men ran out barefoot, with feathers clinging to their
skullcaps. Women came out in their petticoats and nightcaps. All
of them shouted, tried to bar his way, but Yoineh Meir evaded
them.
The sky turned red as blood, and a round skull pushed up out
of the bloody sea as out of the womb of a woman in childbirth.
Someone had gone to tell the butchers that Yoineh Meir had
lost his mind. They came running with sticks and rope, but
Yoineh Meir was already over the bridge and was hurrying across
the harvested fields. He ran and vomited . He fell and rose,
bruised by the stubble. Shepherds who take the horses out to
graze at night mocked him and threw horse dung at him. The
cows at pasture ran after him. Bells tolled as for a fire.
Yoineh Meir heard shouts, screams, the stamping of running
feet. The earth began to slope and Yoineh Meir rolled downhilL
He reached the wood, leaped over tufts of moss, rocks, running
brooks. Yoineh Meir knew the truth: this was not the river before:
 30 J!P- ISA A C B ASH E V IS SI N G E R

him; it was a bloody swamp. Blood ran from the sun, staining
the tree trunks. From the branches hung intestines, livers, kid­
neys. The forequarters of beasts rose to their feet and sprayed
him with gall and slime. Yoineh Meir could not escape. Myriads
of cows and fowls encircled him, ready to take revenge for every
cut, every wound, every slit gullet, every plucked feather. With
bleeding throats, they all chanted, "Everyone may kill, and every
killing is permitted."
Yoineh Meir broke into a wail that echoed through the wood
in many voices. He raised his fist to heaven: "Fiend ! Murderer!
Devouring beast! "

For two days the butchers searched for him, but they d i d not find
him. Then Zeinvel, who owned the watermill, arrived in town
with the news that Yoineh Meir's body had turned up in the river
by the darn. He had drowned .
The members of the burial society immediately went to bring
the corpse. There were many witnesses to testify that Yoineh
Meir had behaved like a madman, and the rabbi ruled that the
deceased was not a suicide. The body of the dead man was
cleansed and given burial near the graves of his father and his
grandfather. The rabbi himself delivered the eulogy.
Because it was the holiday season and there was danger that
Kolomir might remain without meat, the community hastily
dispatched two messengers to bring a new slaughterer.
Tramlated by Mirra Ginsburg
 The
Dead
Fiddler

In the town of Shidlovtse, which lies between Radom and Kielce,

not far from the Mountains of the Holy Cross, there lived a man
by the name of Reb Sheftel Vengrover. This Reb Sheftel was
supposedly a grain merchant, but all the buying and selling was
done by his wife, Zise Feige. She bought wheat, corn, barley, and
buckwheat from the landowners and the peasants and sent it to
Warsaw. She also had some of the grain milled and sold the flour
to stores and bakeries. Zise Feige owned a granary and had an
assistant, Zalkind, who helped her in the business and did all the
work that required a man's hand; he carried sacks, looked after
the horses, and served as coachman whenever Zisc Feige drove
out to a fair or went to visit a landowner.
 32 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Reb Sheftel held to the belief that the Torah is the worthiest
merchandise of all. He rose at dawn and went to the study house
to pore over the Gemara, the Annotations and Commentaries, the
Midrash, and the Zohar. In the evenings, he would read a lesson
from the Mishnah with the Mishnah Society. Reb Sheftel also
devoted himself to community affairs and was an ardent Radzy­
min Hassid.
Reb Sheftel was not much taller than a midget, but he had the
longest beard in Shidlovtse and the surrounding district. His
beard reached down to his knees and seemed to contain every
color : red, yellow, even the color of hay. At Tishah b'Av, when
the m ischiefmakers pelted everyone with burs, Reb Sheftel's
beard would be full of them. At first Zise Feige had tried to pull
them out, but Reb Sheftel would not allow it, for she pulled out
the hairs of the beard too, and a man's beard is a mark of his
Jewishness and a reminder that he was created in the image of
God. The burs remained in his beard until they dropped out by
themselves. Reb Sheftel did not curl his sidelocks, considering
this a frivolous custom. They hung down to his shoulders. A tuft
of hair grew on his nose. As he studied, he smoked a long
p1pe.
When Reb Sheftel stood at the lectern in the synagogue in his
prayer shawl and phylacteries, he looked like one of the ancients.
He had a high forehead, and under shaggy eyebrows, eyes
that combined the sharp glance of a scholar with the humility of
a God-fearing man. Reb Sheftel imposed a variety of penances
upon himself. He drank no milk unless he had been present at the
milking. He ate no meat except on the Sabbath and on holidays
and only if he had examined the slaughtering knife in advance. It
was told of him that on the eve of Passover he ordered that the cat
wear socklets on its feet, lest it bring into the house the smallest
crumb of unleavened bread. Every night, he faithfully performed
 33 nt- The Dead Fiddler

the midnight prayers. People said that although he had inherited

his grain business from his father and grandfather he still could
not distinguish between rye and wheat.
Zise Feige was a head taller than her husband and in her
younger days had been famous for her good looks. The landlords
who sold her grain showered her with compliments, but a good
Jewish woman pays no attention to idle talk. Zise Feige loved her
husband and considered it an honor to help him serve the
Almighty.
She had borne nine children, but only three remained : a
married son, Jedidiah, who took board with his father-in-law in
Wlodowa; a boy Tsadock Meyer, who was still in heder; and a
grown daughter, Liebe Yentl. Liebe Yentl had been engaged and
about to be married, but her fiance, Ozer, caught a cold and died.
This Ozer had a reputation as a prodigy and a scholar. His father
was the president of the community in Opola. Although Liebe
Yentl had seen Ozer only during the signing of the betrothal
papers, she wept bitterly when she heard the bad news. Almost at
once she was besieged with marriage offers, for she was already a
ripe girl of seventeen, but Zise Feige felt that it was best to wait
until she got over her misfortune.
Liebe Yentl's betrothed, Ozer, departed this world just after
Passover. Now it was already the month of Heshvan. Succoth is
usually followed by rains and snow, but this fall was a mild one.
The sun shone. The sky was blue, as after Pentecost. The peasants
in the villages complained that the winter crops were beginning
to sprout in the .fields, which could lead to crop failure. People
feared that the warm weather might bring epidemics. In the
meantime, grain prices rose by three groschen on the pood, and
Zise Feige had higher profits. As was the custom between man
and wife, she gave Reb Sheftel an accounting of the week's
earnings every Sabbath evening, and he immediately deducted a
 34 � I SA A C B ASH E V IS SI N G E R

share-for the study house, the prayer house, the mending of

sacred books, for the inmates of the poorhouse, and for itinerant
beggars. There was no lack of need for charity.
Since Zise Feige had a servant girl, Dunya, and was herself a
.fine housekeeper, Liebe Yentl paid little attention to household
matters. She had her own room, where she would often sit,
reading storybooks. She copied letters from the letter book.
When she had read through all the storybooks, she secretly took
to borrowing from her father's bookcase. She was also good at
sewing and embroidery. She was fond of fine clothes. Liebe
Yentl inherited her mother's beauty, but her red hair came from
her father's side. Like her father's beard, her hair was u ncom­
monly long-down to her loins. Since the mishap with Ozer, her
face, always pale, had grown paler still and more delicate. Her
eyes were green.
Reb Sheftel paid little attention to his daughter. He merely
prayed to the Lord to send her the right husband. But Zise Feige
saw that the girl was growing up as wild as a weed. Her head was
full of whims and fancies. She did not allow herring or radishes
to be mentioned in her presence. She averted her eyes from
slaughtered fowl and from meat on the salting board or in the
soaking dish. If she found a fly in her groats, she would eat
nothing for the rest of the day. She had no friends in Shidlovtse.
She complained that the girls of the town were common and
backward ; as soon as they were married, they became careless and
slovenly. Whenever she had to go among people, she fasted the
day before, for fear that she might vomit. Although she was
beautiful, clever, and learned, it always seemed to her that people
were laughing and pointing at her.
Zise Feige wanted many times to talk to her husband about the
troubles she was having with their daughter, but she was reluc­
tant to divert him from his studies. Besides, he might not
understand a woman's problems. He had a rule for everything.
 35 � The Dead Fiddler

On the few occasions when Zise Feige had tried to tell him of her
fears, his only reply was, "When, God willing, she gets married,
she will forget all this foolishness."
After the calamity with Ozer, Liebe Yentl fell ill from griev­
ing. She did not sleep nights. Her mother heard her sobbing in
the dark. She was constantly going for a drink of water. She
drank whole dippers full, and Zise Feige could not imagine how
her stomach could hold so much water. As though, God forbid, a
tire were raging inside her, consuming everything.
Sometimes, Liebe Yentl spoke to her mother like one who was
altogether unsettled. Zise Feige thought to herself that it was
fortunate the girl avoided people . But how long can anything
remain a secret? It was already whispered in town that Liebe
Yentl was not all there. She p layed with the cat. She took solitary
walks down the Gentile street that led to the cemetery. \'V'hen
anyone addressed her, she turned pale and her answers were quite
beside the point. Some people thought that she was deaf. Others
hinted that Liebe Yentl might be dabbling in magic. She had
been seen on a moonlit night walking in the pasture across the
bridge and bending down every now and then to pick flowers or
herbs. Women spat to ward off evil when they spoke of her.
"Poor thing, unlucky and sick besides."

2.

Liebe Yentl was about to become betrothed again, this time to a

young man from Zawiercia. Reb Sheftel had sent an examiner to
the prospective bridegroom, and he came back with the report
that Shmelke Mot! was a scholar. The betrothel contract was
drawn up, ready to be signed.
The examiner's wife, Traine, who had visited Zawiercia with
her husband ( they had a daughter there ) , told Zise Feige that
Shmelke Mot! was small and dark. He did not look like much,
 36 St'P' ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

but he had the head of a genius. Because he was an orphan, the

householders provided his meals; he ate at a different home every
day of the week. Liebe Yentl listened without a word.
When Traine had gone, Zise Feige brought in her daughter's
'Supper-buckwheat and pot roast with gravy. But Liebe Yentl
did not touch the food . She rocked over the plate as though it
were a prayer book. Soon afterwards, she retired to her room.
Zise Feige sighed and also went to bed. Reb Sheftel had gone to
sleep early, for he had to rise for midnight prayers. The house
was quiet. Only the cricket sang its night song behind the oven.
Suddenly Zise Feige was wide awake. From Liebe Yentl's
room carne a muffied gasping, as though someone were choking
there. Zise Feige ran into her daughter's room. In the bright
moonlight she saw the girl sitting on her bed, her hair dishev­
eled, her face chalk-white, struggling to keep down her sobs. Zise
Feige cried out, "My daughter, what is wrong? Woe is me!" She
ran to the kitchen, lit a candle, and returned to Liebe Yentl,
bringing a cup of water to splash at her if, God forbid, the girl
should faint.
But at this moment a man's voice broke from Liebe Yentl's
lips. "No need to revive me, Zise Feige," the voice called out.
' ' I ' m not in the habit of fainting. You'd better fetch me a drop of
vodka. "
Zise Feige stood petrified with horror. The water spilled over
from the cup.
Reb Sheftel had also wakened. He washed his hands hastily,
put on his bathrobe and slippers, and came into his daughter's
room.
The man's voice greeted him. "A good awakening to you, Reb
Sheftel. Let me have a schnapps-my throat's parched. Or Slivo­
vitz-anything will do, so long as I wet my whistle."
Man and wife knew at once what had happened : a dybbuk had
 37 � The Dead Fiddler

entered Liebe Yentl. Reb Sheftel asked with a shudder: "Who

are you? What do you want?"
"Who I am you wouldn't know," the dybbuk answered.
"You're a scholar in Shidlovtse, and I'm a fiddler from Pinchev.
You squeeze the bench, and I squeezed the wenches. You're still
around in the Imaginary World, and I'm past everything. I've
kicked the bucket and have already had my taste of what comes
after. I've had it cold and hot, and now I'm back on the sinful
earth-there's no place for me either in heaven or in hell. To­
night I started out flying to Pinchev, but I lost my way and got to
Shidlovtse instead-I'm a musician, not a coachman. One thing I
do know, though-my throat's itchy."
Zise Feige was seized by a fit of trembling. The candle in her
hand shook so badly it singed Reb Sheftel's beard. She wanted to
scream, to call for help, but her voice stuck in her throat. Her
knees buckled, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from
falling.
Reb Sheftel pulled at his sidelock as he addressed the dybbuk.
"What is your name?"
"Getsl."
"Why did you choose to enter my daughter?" he asked in
desperation.
"Why not? She's a good-looking girl. I hate the ugly ones­
always have, always will." With that, the dybbuk began to shout
ribaldries and obscenities, both in ordinary Yiddish and in
musician's slang. "Don't make me wait, Feige dear," he called
out finally. "Bring me a cup of cheer. I'm dry as a bone. I've got
an itching in my gullet, a twitching in my gut."
"Good people, help ! " Zise Feige wailed. She dropped the
candle and Reb Sheftel picked it up, for it could easily have set
the wooden house on fire.
Though it was late, the townsfolk came running. There are
 38 � I S A A C B AS H E V IS 5 1 N G E R

people everywhere with something bothering them; they cannot

sleep nights. Tevye the night watchman thought a fire had
broken out and ran through the street, knocking at the shutters
with his stick. It was not long before Reb Sheftel's house was
packed.
Liebe Yentl' s eyes goggled, her mouth twisted like an epilep­
tic's, and a voice boomed out of her that could not have come
from a woman's throat. "Will you bring me a glass of liquor or
won't you? What the devil are you waiting for?"
"And what if we don't?" asked Zeinvl the butcher, who was
on his way home from the slaughterhouse.
"If you don't, I'll lay you all wide open, you pious hypocrites.
And the secrets of your wives--m ay they burn up with hives."
"Get him liquor! Give him a drink ! " voices cried on every
side.
Reb Sheftel's son, Tsadock Meyer, a boy of eleven, had also
been awakened by the commotion. He knew where his father
kept the brandy that he drank on the Sabbath, after the fish. He
opened the cupboard, poured out a glass, and brought it to his
sister. Reb Sheftel leaned against the chest of drawers, for his
legs were giving way. Zise Feige fell into a chair. Neighbors
sprinkled her with vinegar against fainting.
Liebe Yentl stretched out her hand, took the glass, and tossed
it down. Those who stood nearby could not believe their eyes.
The girl didn't even twitch a muscle.
The dybbuk said, "You call that l iquor? Water, that's what it
is-hey, fellow, bring me the bottle!"
"Don't let her have it! Don't let her have it!" Zise Feige cried.
"She'll poison herself, God help us!"
The dybbuk gave a laugh and a snort. "Don't worry, Zise
Feige, nothing can kill me again. So far as I'm concerned, your
brandy is weaker than candy."
 39 � The Dead Fiddler

"You won't get a drink until you tell us who you are and how
you got i n here," Zeinvl the butcher said. Since no one else dared
to address the spirit, Zeinvl took it upon himself to be the
spokesman.
"What does the meatman want here?" the dybbuk asked. "Go
on back to your gizzards and guts! "
"Tell u s who you are!"
"Do I have to repeat it? I am Gets! the fiddler from Pinchev. I
was fond of things nobody else hates, and when I cashed in, the
imps went to work on me. I couldn't get into paradise, and hell
was too hot for my taste. The devils were the death of me. So at
night, when the watchman dropped off, I made myself scarce. I
meant to go to my wife, may she rot alive, but it was dark on the
way and I got to Shidlovtse instead. I looked through the wall
and saw this girl. My heart j umped in my chest and I crawled
into her breast."
" How long do you intend to stay?"
" Forever and a day."
Reb Sheftel was almost speechless with terror, but he remem­
bered God and recovered. He called out, "Evil spirit, I command
you to leave the body of my innocent daughter and go where men
do not walk and beasts do not tread. If you don't, you shall be
driven out by Holy Names, by excommunication, by the blowing
of the Ram's Horn."
"In another minute you'll have me scared!" the dybbuk
taunted. "You think you're so strong because your beard's long?"
"Impudent wretch, betrayer of Israel !" Reb Sheftel cried in
.anger.
"Better an open rake than a sanctimonious fake," the dybbuk
.answered. "You may have the Shidlovtse schlemiels fooled, but
Gets! the fiddler of Pinchev has been around. I'm telling you.
Bring me the bottle or I'll make you crawl."
 40 1cP- ISAAC BASH EVIS SINGER

There was an uproar at the door. Someone had wakened the

rabbi, and he came with Bendit the beadle. Bendit carried a stick,
a Ram's Horn, and the Book of the Angel Raziel.

3.

Once in the bedroom, the rabbi, Reb Yeruchim, ordered the

Ram's Horn to be blown. He had the beadle pile hot coals into a
brazier, then he poured i ncense on the coals. As the smoke of the
herbs filled the room, he commanded the evil one with Holy
Oaths from the Zohar, the Book of Creation, and other books of
the Cabala to leave the body of the woman Liebe Yentl, daughter
of Zise Feige. But the unholy spirit defied everyone. Instead of
leaving, he played out a succession of dances, marches, hops­
just with the lips. He boomed like a bass viol, he j ingled like a
cymbal, he whistled like a flute, and drummed like a drum.
The page is too short for a recital of all that the dybbuk did
and said that night and the nights that followed-his brazen
tricks, his blasphemies against the Lord, the insults he hurled at
the townsfolk, the boasts of all the lecheries he had committed,
the mockery, the outbursts of laughing and of crying, the stream
of quotations from the Torah and wedding jester's jokes, and all
of it in singsong and in rhyme.
The dybbuk made himself heard only after dark. During the
day, Liebe Yentl lay exhausted in bed and evidently did not
remember what went on at night. She thought that she was sick
and occasionally begged her mother to call the doctor or to give
her some medicine. Most of the time she dozed, with her eyes and
her lips shut tight.
Since the incantations and the amulets of the Shidlovtse rabbi
were of no avail, Reb Sheftel went to seek the advice of the
Radzymin rabbi. On the \'ery morning he left, the mild weather
gave way to wind and snow. The roads were snowed in and it
 41 � The Dead Fiddler

was difficult to reach Radzymin, even in a sleigh. Weeks went by,

and no news came from Reb Sheftel. Zise Feige was so hard hit
by the calamity that she fell ill, and her assistant Zalkind had to
take over the whole business.
Winter nights are long, and idlers look for ways to while away
the time. Soon after twilight, they would gather at Zise Feige's
house to hear the dybbuk's talk and to marvel at his antics. Zise
Feige forbade them to annoy her daughter, but the curiosity of
the townspeople was so great that they would break the door
open and enter.
.
"""

The dybbuk knew everyone and had words for each man
according to his position and conduct. Most of the time he
heaped mud and ashes upon the respected leaders of the com­
munity and their wives. He told each one exactly what he was : a
miser or a swindler, a sycophant or a beggar, a slattern or a snob,
an idler or a grabber. With the horse traders he talked about
horses, and with the butchers about oxen. He reminded Chaim
the miller that he had hung a weight under the scale on which he
weighed the flour milled for the peasants. He questioned Yukele
the thief about his latest theft. His jests and his jibes provoked
both astonishment and laughter. Even the older folks could not
keep from smiling. The dybbuk knew things that no stranger
could have known, and it became clear to the visitors that they
were dealing with a soul from which nothing could be hidden,
for it saw through all their secrets. Although the evil spirit put
everyone to shame, each man was willing to suffer his own
humiliation for the sake of seeing others humbled.
When the dybbuk tired of exposing the sins of the townsfolk,
he would turn to recitals of his own misdeeds. Not an evening
passed without revelations of new vices. The dybbuk called every­
thing by its name, denying nothing. When he was asked whether
he regretted his abominations, he said with a laugh : "And if I
did, could anything be changed? Everything is recorded up above.
 42 1/P- I S A A C B ASH EV IS SI NGER

For eating a single wormy plum, you get six hundred and eighty­
nine lashes. For a single moment of lust, you're rolled for a week
on a bed of nails." Between one jest and another, he would sing
and bleat and play out tunes so skillfully that no one living could
vie with him.
One evening the teacher's wife came running to the rabbi and
reported that people were dancing to the dybbuk's music. The
rabbi put on his robe and his hat and hurried to the house. Yes,
the men and women danced together in Zise Feige's kitchen. The
rabbi berated them and warned that they were committing a
sacrilege. He sternly forbade Zise Feige to allow the rabble into
her house. But Zise Feige lay sick in bed, and her boy, Tsadock
Meyer, was staying with relatives . As soon as the rabbi left, the
idlers resumed their dancing-a Scissors Dance, a Quarrel
Dance, a Cossack, a Water Dance. It went on till midnight, when
the dybbuk gave out a snore, and Liebe Yentl fell asleep.
A few days later there was a new rumor in town : a second
dybbuk had entered Liebe Yentl, this time a female one. Once
more an avid crowd packed the house. And, indeed, a woman's
voice now came from Liebe Yentl-not her own gentle voice but
the hoarse croaking of a shrew. People asked the new dybbuk
who she was, and she told them that her name was Beyle Tslove
and that she came from the town of Plock, where she had been a
barmaid in a tavern and had later become a whore.
Beyle Tslove spoke differently from Gets! the fiddler, with the
flat accents of her region and a mixture of Germanized words
unknown in Shidlovtse. Beyle Tslove's language made even the
butchers and the combers of pigs' bristles blush. She sang ribald
songs and soldiers' ditties. She said she had wandered for eighty
years in waste places. She had been reincarnated as a cat, a turkey,
a snake, and a locust. For a long time her soul resided in a turtle.
When someone mentioned Gets} the fiddler and asked whether
she knew him and whether she knew that he was also lodged in
 43 � The Dead Fiddler

the same woman, she answered, "I neither know him nor want to
know him."
"Why not? Have you turned virtuous all of a sudden?" Zeinvl
the butcher asked her.
"Who wants a dead fiddler?"
The people began to call to Gets! the fiddler, urging him to
speak up. They wanted to hear the two dybbuks talk to each
other. But Gets! the fiddler was silent.
Beyle Tslove said, "I see no Gets! here."
"Maybe he's hiding?" someone said.
"Where? I can smell a man a mile away."
In the midst of this excitement, Reb Sheftel returned. He
looked older and even smaller than before. His beard was
streaked with gray. He had brought talismans and amulets from
Radzymin, to hang in the corners of the room and around his
daughter's neck.
People expected the dybbuk to resist and fight the amulets, as
evil spirits do when touched by a sacred object. But Beyle Tslove
was silent while the amulets were hung around Liebe Yentl' s
neck. Then she asked, "What's this? Sacred toilet paper?"
"These are Holy Names from the Radzymin rabbi!" Reb
Sheftel cried out. "If you do not leave my daughter at once, not a
spur shall be left of you !"
"Tell the Radzymin rabbi that I spit at his amulets," the
woman said brazenly.
"Harlot! Fiend! Harridan!" Reb Sheftel screamed.
"What's he bellowing for, that Short Friday? Some man-noth·
ing but bone and beard !"
Reb Sheftel had brought with him blessed six-groschen coins, a
piece of charmed amber, and several other magical objects that
the Evil Host is known to shun. But Beyle Tslove, it seemed, was
afraid of nothing. She mocked Reb Sheftel and told him she
would come at night and tie an el.flock in his beard.
 44 1/P- I SA AC BASHEVIS SINGER

That night Reb Sheftel recited the Shema of the Holy Isaac
Luria. He slept in his fringed garment with the Book of Creation
and a knife under his pillow-like a woman in childbirth. But i n
the middle o f the night h e woke and felt invisible fingers o n his
face. An unseen hand was burrowing in his beard. Reb Sheftel
wanted to scream, but the hand covered his mouth. In the
morning Reb Sheftel got up with his whole beard full of tangled
braids, gummy as if stuck together with glue.
Although it was a fearful matter, the Worka Hassidim, who
were bitter opponents of the Radzymin rabbi, celebrated that day
with honey cake and brandy in their study house. Now they had
proof that the Radzymin rabbi did not know the Cabala. The
followers of the Worka rabbi had advised Reb Sheftel to make a
j ourney to Worka, but he ignored them, and now they had their
revenge.

4 .

One evening, as Beyle Tslove was boasting of her former beauty

and of all the men who had run after her, the fiddler of Pinchev
suddenly raised his voice. "What were they so steamed up
about?" he asked her mockingly. "Were you the only female in
Plock?"
For a while all was quiet. It looked as though Beyle Tslove
had lost her tongue. Then she gave a hoarse laugh. "So he's
here-the scraper! Where were you hiding? In the gall?"
"If you're blind, I can be dumb. Go on, Grandma, keep
jabbering. Your story had a gray beard when I was still in my
diapers. In your place, I'd take such tall tales to the fools of
Chelm . In Shidlovtse there are two or three clever men, too."
" A wise guy, eh?" Beyle Tslove said. "Let me tell you some­
thing. A live fiddle-scraper's no prize-and when it comes to a
dead one! Go back, if you forgive me, to your resting place. They
 45 n'- The Dead Fiddler

miss you in the Pinchev cemetery. The corpses who pray at night
need another skeleton to make up their quorum."
The people who heard the two dybbuks quarrel were so
stunned that they forgot to laugh . Now a man's voice came from
Liebe Yentl, now a woman's. The Pinchev fiddler's "r"s were
soft, the Plock harlot's hard.
Liebe Yentl herself rested against two pillows, her face pale,
her hair down, her eyes closed . No one rightly saw her move her
lips, though the room was full of people watching. Zise Feige
was unable to keep them out, and there was no one to help her.
Reb Sheftel no longer came home at night; he slept in the study
house. Dunya the servant girl had left her job in the middle of
the year. Zalkind, Zise Feige's assistant, went home in the
evenings to his wife and children. People wandered in and out of
the house as if it did not belong to anyone. Whenever one of the
respectable members of the community came to upbraid the
merry gang for ridiculing a stricken girl, the two dybbuks hurled
curses and insults at him. The dybbuks gave the townspeople new
nicknames : Reitse the busybody, Mindl glutton, Yekl tough,
Dvoshe the strumpet. On several occasions, Gentiles and mem­
bers of the local gentry came to see the wonder, and the dybbuks
bantered with them in Polish. A landowner said in a tavern
afterward that the best theater in Warsaw could not compete with
the scenes played out by the two dead rascals in Shidlovtse.
After a while, Reb Sheftel, who had been unbending in his
loyalty to the Radzymin rabbi, gave in and went to see the rabbi
of Worka; perhaps he might help.
The two dybbuks were meanwhile carrying on their word duel.
It is generally thought that women will get the better of men
where the tongue is concerned, but the Pinchev fiddler was a
match for the Plock whore. The fiddler cried repeatedly that it
was beneath his dignity to wrangle with a harlot-a maid with a
certificate of rape-but the hoodlums egged him on. "Answer
 46 1t'P- I SAA C BASH E V I S S I N G E R

her! Don't let her have the last word !" They whistled, hooted,
clapped their hands, stamped their feet.
The battle of wits gradually turned into storytelling. Beyle
Tslove related that her mother, a pious and virtuous woman, had
borne her husband, a Hassid and a loafer, eight children, all of
them girls. When Beyle Tslove made her appearance in the
world, her father was so chagrined that he left home. By trickery,
he collected the signatures of a hundred rabbis, permitting him to
remarry, and her mother became an abandoned wife. To support
the family, she went to market every morning to sell hot beans to
the yeshiva students. A wicked tutor, with a goat's beard and
sidelocks down to his shoulders, came to teach Beyle Tslove to
pray, but he raped her. She was not yet eight years old. When
Beyle Tslove went on to tell how she had become a barmaid, how
the peasants had pinched and cursed her and pulled her hair, and
how a bawd, pretending to be a pious woman, had lured her to a
distant city and brought her into a brothel, the girls who were
listening burst into tears. The young men, too, dabbed their eyes.
Gets! the fiddler questioned her. Who were the guests? How
much did they pay? How much did she have to give the p rocurers
and what was left for her to live on? Had she ever gone to bed
with a Turk or a blackamoor?
Beyle Tslove answered all the questions. The young rakes had
tormented her in their ways, and the old lechers had wearied her
with their demands. The bawd took away her last groschen and
locked the bread in the cupboard. The pimp whipped her with a
wet strap and stuck needles into her buttocks. From fasting and
homesickness she contracted consumption and ended by spitting
out her lungs at the poorhouse. And because she had been buried
behind the fence, without Kaddish, she was immediately seized
by multitudes of demons, imps, mockers, and Babuks. The Angel
Dumah asked her the verse that went with her name, and when
she could not answer he split her grave with a fiery rod. She
 47 SIP The Dead Fiddler

begged to be allowed into hell, for there the punishment lasts

only twelve months, but the Unholy Ones dragged her off to
waste places and deserts. She said that in the desert she had come
upon a pit that was the door to Gehenna. Day and night, the
screams of sinners who were being punished there came from the
pit. She was carried to the Congealed Sea, where sailing ships,
wrecked by storms, were held immobile, with dead crews and
captains turned to stone. Bcyle Tslove had also flown to a land
inhabited by giants with two heads and single eyes in their fore­
heads. Few females were born there, and every woman had six
husbands.
Gets! the fiddler also began to talk about the events of his life.
He told of incidents at the weddings and balls of the gentry
where he had played, and of what happened later, in the here­
after. He said that evildoers did not repent, even in the Nether
Regions. Although they had already learned the truth of things,
their souls still pursued their lusts. Gamblers played with invisi­
ble cards, thieves stole, swindlers swindled, and fornicators in­
dulged in their abominations.
The townsfolk who heard the two were amazed, and Zeinvl
the butcher asked, "How can anyone sin when he is rotting in the
earth?"
Gets! explained that it was, anyway, the soul and not the body
that enjoyed sin. This was why the soul was punished. Besides,
there were bodies of all kinds-of smoke, of spiderwebs, of
shadow-and they could be used for a while, until the Angels of
Destruction tore them to pieces. There were castles, inns, and
ruins in the deserts and abysses, which provided hiding places
from Judgment, and also Avenging Angels who could be bribed
with promises or even with the kind of money that has no sub­
stance but is used in the taverns and brothels of the Nether
World.
When one of the idlers cried out that this was unbelievable,
 48 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Gets! called on Beyle Tslove to attest to the truth of his words.

"Tell us, Beyle Tslove, what did you really do all these years?
Did you recite Psalms, or did you wander through swamps and
wastes, consorting with demons, Zmoras, and Malachais?"
Instead of replying, Beyle Tslove giggled and coughed. "I
can't speak-my mouth's dry."
"Yes, let's have a drop," Gets! chimed in, and when somebody
brought over a tumbler of brandy, Liebe Yentl downed it like
water. She did not open her eyes or even wince. It was clear to
everybody that she was entirely in the sway of the dybbuks within
her.
When Zeinvl the butcher realized that the two dybbuks had
made peace, he asked, "Why don't you two become man and
wife? You'd make a good pair."
"And what are we to do after the wedding?" Beyle Tslove
answered. "Pray from the same prayer book?"
"You'll do what all married couples do."
"With what? \Y!e're past all doing. Anyway, there's no time­
we won't be staying here much longer."
"Why not? Liebe Yentl is still young."
"The Worka rabbi is not the Radzymin schlemiel," Beyle
Tslove said. "Asmodeus himself is afraid of his talismans."
"The Worka rabbi can kiss me you know where," Gets!
boasted. "But I'm not about to become a bridegroom."
"The match isn't good enough for you?" Beyle Tslove cried.
"If you knew who wanted to marry me, you'd croak a second
time."
"If she's cursing me now, what can I expect later? " Gets!
joked. "Besides, she's old enough to be .my great-grandmother­
seventy years older than I am, anyway you figure it."
"Numbskull. I was twenty-seven years old when I kicked in,
and I can't get any older. And how old are you, bottle-bum?
Close to sixty, if you're a day."
 49 � The Dead Fiddler

"May you get as many carbuncles on your bloated flesh as the

years I was short of fifty."
"Just give me the flesh, I won't argue over the carbuncles."
The two kept up their wrangling and the crowd kept up its
urging until finally the dybbuks consented. Those who have not
heard the dead bride and groom haggle about the dowry, the
trousseau, the presents, will never know what unholy spirits are
capable of.
Beyle Tslove said that she had long since paid for all her
transgressions and was therefore as pure as a virgin. "Is there
such a thing as a virgin, anyway? " she argued. "Every soul has
lodged countless times both in men and in women. There are no
more new souls in heaven. A soul is cleansed in a cauldron, like
dishes before Passover. It is purified and sent back to earth.
Yesterday's beggar is today's magnate. A rabbi's wife becomes a
coachman. A horse thief returns as a Community Elder. A
slaughterer comes back as an ox. So what's all the fuss about?
Everything is kneaded of the same dough--cat and mouse, bear
hunter and bear, old man and infant." Beyle Tslove herself had
in previous incarnations been a grain merchant, a dairymaid, a
rabbi's wife, a teacher of the Talmud.
"Do you remember any Talmud?" Getsl asked.
"If the Angel of Forgetfulness had not tweaked me on the
nose, I would surely remember."
"What do you say to my bride?" Gets! bantered . "A whittled
tongue. She could convince a stone. If my wife in Pinchev knew
what I was exchanging her for, she'd drown herself in a bucket
of slops."
"Your wife filled her bed before you were cold . . . . "
The strange news spread throughout the town : tomorrow there
would be a wedding at Reb Sheftel's house; Gets! the fiddler and
Beyle Tslove would become man and wife.
 50 SIP. I S A A C B ASH EVI S SINGER

5 .

When the rabbi heard of the goings on, he issued a proscription

forbidding anyone to attend the black wedding. He sent Bendit
the beadle to stand guard at the door of Reb Sheftel' s house and
allow no one to enter. That night, however, there was a heavy
snowfall, and by morning it turned bitterly cold . The wind had
blown up great drifts and whistled in all the chimneys. Bendit
was shrouded in white from head to foot and looked like a
snowman made by children. His wife came after him and took
him home, half frozen. As soon as dusk began to fall, the rabble
gathered at Reb Sheftel's house. Some brought bottles of vodka
or brandy; others, dried mutton and honey cake.
As usual, Liebe Yentl had slept all day and did not waken
even when the ailing Zise Feige poured a few spoonfuls of broth
into her mouth. But once darkness came, the girl sat up. There
was such a crush in the house that people could not move.
Zeinvl the butcher took charge. "Bride, did you fast on your
wedding day?"
"The way the dead eat, that's how they look," Beyle Tslove
replied with a proverb.
"And you, bridegroom, are you ready?"
"Let her first deliver the dowry."
"You can take all I have-a pinch of dust, a moldy crust.
Getsl proved that evening that he was not only an expert
musician _ but could also serve as rabbi, cantor, and wedding
j ester. First he played a sad tune and recited "God Is Full of
Mercy" for the bride and groom. Then he played a merry tune,
accompanying it with appropriate jests. He admonished the bride
to be a faithful wife, to dress and adorn herself, and to take good
care of her household. He warned the couple to be mindful of the
day of death, and sang to them:
 51 :.;p. The Dead Fiddler

"Weep, bride, weep and moan,

Dead men fear to be alone.
In the Sling, beneath the tide,
A groom is waiting for his bride.
Corpse and corpse, wraith and wraith,
Every demon seeks a mate.
Angel Dwnah, devil, Shed,
A coffin is a bridal bed."

Although it was a mock wedding, many a tear fell from the

women's eyes. The men sighed. Everything proceeded according
to custom. Getsl preached, sang, played. The guests could actually
hear the weeping of a fiddle, the piping of a clarinet, the bleating
of a trumpet, the wailing of a bagpipe. Getsl pretended to cover
the bride with the veil and played a melody appropriate to the
veiling ceremony. After the wedding march he recited the words
of "Thou Art Sanctified," which accompany the giving of the
ring. He delivered the bridegroom's oration, and announced the
wedding presents : a shrouded mirror, a little sack of earth from
the Holy Land, a burial cleansing spoon, a stopped clock. When
the spirits of the guests seemed to droop, Getsl struck up a
kozotsky. They tried to dance, but there was scarcely room to take
a step. They swayed and gesticulated.
Beyle Tslove suddenly began to wail. "Oi, Getsl!"
"What, my dove ! "
"Why couldn't this b e real? We weren't born dead!"
"Pooh ! Reality itself hangs by a thread."
"It's not a game to me, you fool."
"Whatever it is, let's drink and keep cool. May we rejoice and
do well until all the fires are extinguished in hell. "
A glass o f wine was brought, and Liebe Yentl emptied it to
the last d rop. Then she dashed it against the wall, and Getsl
began to recite in the singsong of the cheder boys :
 5 2 SIP- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Such is Noah's way,

Wash your tears away.
Take a drink instead,
The living and the dead.
Wine will make you strong,
Eternity is long."

Zise Feige could not endure any more. She rose from her
sickbed, wrapped herself in a shawl, and shuffied into her
daughter's room in her slippers. She tried to push through the
crowd. "Beasts," she cried. "You are torturing my child!"
Beyle Tslove screamed at her, "Don't you worry, old sourpuss!
Better a rotten fiddler than a creep from Zawiercia!"

6.

In the middle of the night there were sounds of steps and

shouts outside the door. Reb Sheftel had come home from
Worka, bringing a bagful of new amulets, charms, and talis­
mans. The Hassidim of the Worka rabbi entered with him, ready
to drive out the rabble. They swung their sashes, crying, "Get
out, you scum !"
Several young fellows tried to fight off the Worka Hassidim,
but the Shidlovtse crowd was tired from standing so long, and
they soon began to file out the door. Getsl called after them,
"Brothers, don't let the holy schlemiels get you ! Give them a taste
of your fists! Hey, you, big shot!"
" Cowards! Bastards! Mice ! " Beyle Tslove screeched.
A few of the Worka Hassidim got a punch or two, but after a
while the riffraff slunk off. The Hassidim burst into the room,
panting and threatening the dybbuks with excommunication.
The warden of the Worka synagogue, Reb Avigdor Yavrover,
ran up to Liebe Yentl's bed and tried to hang a charm around her
neck, but the girl pulled off his hat and skullcap with her right
 5 3 n'- The Dead Fiddler

hand, and with her left she seized h im by the beard. The other
Hassidim tried to pull him away, but Liebe Yentl thrashed out in
all directions. She kicked, bit, and scratched. One man got a slap
on the cheek, another had his sidelock pulled, a third got a
mouthful of spittle on his face, a fourth a punch in the ribs. In
order to frighten off the pious, she cried that she was in her
unclean days. Then she tore off her shift and exhibited her
shame. Those who did not avert their eyes remarked that her
belly was distended like a drum. On the right and the left were
two bumps as big as heads, and it was clear that the spirits were
there. Getsl roared like a lion, howled like a wolf, hissed like a
snake. He called the Worka rabbi a eunuch, a clown, a baboon,
insulted all the holy sages, and blasphemed against God.
Reb Sheftel sank to the floor and sat there like a mourner. He
covered his eyes with both hands and rocked himself as over a
corpse. Zise Feige snatched a broom and tried to drive away the
men who swarmed around her daughter, but she was dragged
aside and fell to the ground. Two neighboring women helped her
to get up. Her bonnet fell off, exposing her shaven head with its
gray stubble. She raised two fists and screamed, sobbing, "Tor­
turers, you're killing my child! Lord in heaven, send Pharaoh's
curses upon them ! "
Finally, several of the younger Hassidim caught Liebe Yentl's
hands and feet and tied her to the bed with their sashes. Then
they slipped the Worka rabbi's amulets around her neck.
Getsl, who had fallen silent during the struggle, spoke up.
"Tell your miracle worker his charms are tripe."
"Wretch, you're in Hell, and you still deny?" Reb Avigdor
Yavrover thundered.
"Hell's full of your kind."
"Dog, rascal, degenerate!"
"Why are you cursing, you louses?" Beyle Tslove yelled. "Is it
our fault that your holy idiot hands out phony talismans? You'd
 54 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

better leave the girl alone. We aren't doing her any harm. Her
good is our good. We're also Jews, remember-not Tatars. Our
souls have stood on Mount Sinai, too. If we erred in life, we've
paid our debt, with interest."
"Strumpet, hussy, slut, out with you ! " one of the Hassidim
cried.
' Til go when I feel like it."
"Todres, blow the Ram's Horn-a long blast !"
The Ram's Horn filled the night with its eerie wail.
Beyle Tslove laughed and jeered. "Blow hot, blow cold, who
cares !"
"A broken trill now ! "
"Don't you have enough breaks under your rupture bands?"
Gets! jeered.
"Satan, Amalekite, apostate! "
Hours went by, but the dybbuks remained obdurate. Some of
the \Xforka Hassidim went home. Others leaned against the wall,
ready to do battle until the end of their strength. The hoodlums
who had run away returned with sticks and knives. The Hassidim
of the Radzymin rabbi had heard the news that the Worka
talismans had failed, and they came to gloat.
Reb Sheftel rose from the floor and in his anguish began to
plead with the dybbuks. "If you are Jews, you should have
Jewish hearts. Look what has become of my innocent daughter,
lying bound like a sheep prepared for slaughter. My wife is sick.
I myself am ready to drop. My business is falling apart. How long
will you torture us? Even a murderer has a spark of pity."
"Nobody pities us."
' T il see to it that you get forgiveness. It says in the Bible, 'His
banished be not expelled from Him.' No Jewish soul is rejected
forever.''
"What will you do for us?" asked Gets!. "Help us moan?"
 55 � The Dead Fiddler

"I will recite Psalms and read the Mishnah for you. I will give
alms. I will say Kaddish for you for a full twelve months. "
' Tm not one o f your peasants. You can't fool me."
"I have never fooled anyone."
"Swear that you will keep your word ! " Getsl commanded.
"What's the matter, Getsl? You anxious to leave me already?"
Beyle Tslove asked with a laugh.
Getsl yawned. ' 'I'm sorry for the old folks."
"You want to leave me a deserted wife the very first night?"
"Come along if you can."
"Where to? Behind the Mountains of Darkness?"
"Wherever our eyes take us."
"You mean sockets, comedian!"
"Swear, Reb Sheftel, that you will keep all your promises,"
Getsl the fiddler repeated. "Make a holy vow. If you break your
word, I'll be back with the whole Evil Host and scatter your
bones to the four winds."
"Don't swear, Reb Sheftel, don't swear!" the Hassidim cried.
"Such a vow is a desecration of the Name! "
"Swear, my husband, swear. If you don't, w e shall all perish."
Reb Sheftel put his hand on his beard. "Dead souls, I swear
that I will faithfully fulfill all that I take upon myself. I will
study the Mishnah for you. I will say Kaddish for twelve months.
Tell me when you died, and I will burn memorial candles for
you. If there are no headstones on your graves, I will journey to
the cemeteries and have them erected."
"Our graves have been leveled long since. Come, Beyle Tslove,
let's go. Dawn is rising over Pinchev."
"Imp, you made a fool of a Jewish daughter all for nothing! "
Beyle Tslove reproached him.
"Hey, men, move aside!" Getsl cried. "Or I shall enter one of
you!"
 56 ,P. I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

There was such a crush that, though the door stood open, no
one could get out. Hats and skullcaps fell off. Caftans caught on
nails and ripped. A muffled cry rose from the crowd. Several
Hassidim fell, and others trampled them. Liebe Yentl's mouth
opened wide and there was a shot as from a pistol. Her eyes
rolled and she fell back on the pillow, white as death. A stench
swept across the room-a foul breath of the grave. Zise Feige
stumbled on weak legs toward her daughter and untied her. The
girl's belly was now flat and shrunken like the belly of a woman
after childbirth.
Reb Sheftel attested afterward that two balls of fire came out
of Liebe Yentl's nostrils and flew to the window. A pane split
open, and the two sinful souls returned through the crack to the
Wodd of Delusion.

7 .

For weeks after the dybbuks had left her, Liebe Yentl lay sick.
The doctor applied cups and leeches; he bled her, but Liebe Yentl
never opened her eyes. The woman from the Society of Tenders
of the Sick who sat with the girl at night related that she heard
sad melodies outside the window, and Getsl's voice begging her
to remove the amulets from the girl's neck and let him in. The
woman also heard Beyle Tslove's giggling.
Gradually Liebe Yentl began to recover, but she had almost
stopped speaking. She sat in bed and stared at the window.
Winter was over. Swallows returned from the warm countries
and were building a nest under the eaves. From her bed Liebe
Yentl could see the roof of the synagogue, where a pair of storks
were repairing last year's nest.
Reb Sheftel and Zise Feige feared that Liebe Yentl would no
longer be accepted in marriage, but Shmelke Motl wrote from
Zawiercia that he would keep to his agreement if the dowry were
 57 � The Dead Fiddler

raised by one third. Reb Sheftel and Zise Feige consented at once.
After Pentecost, Shmelke Motl made his appearance at the
Shidlovtse prayer house-no taller than a cheder boy but with a
large head on a thin neck and tightly twisted sidelocks that stood
up like a pair of horns. He had thick eyebrows and dark eyes that
looked down at the tip of his nose. As soon as he entered the
study house, he took out a Gemara and sat down to study. He sat
there, swaying and mumbling, until he was taken to the ceremony
of betrothal.
Reb Sheftel invited only a selected few to the engagement
meal, for during the time that his daughter had been possessed by
the dybbuks he had made many enemies both among the Radzy­
min Hassi dim and among those of W orka. According to custom,
the men sat at one table, the women at another. The bridegroom
delivered an impromptu sermon on the subject of the Stoned Ox.
Such sermons usually last half an hour, but two hours went by
and the groom still talked on in his high, grating voice, accom­
panying his words with wild gestures. He grimaced as though
gripped with pain, pulled at a sidelock, scratched his chin, which
was just beginning to sprout a beard, grasped the lobe of his ear.
From time to time his lips stretched in a smile, revealing
blackened teeth, pointed as nails.
Liebe Yentl never once took her eyes from him. The women
tried to talk to her; they urged her to taste the cookies, the j am,
the mead. But Liebe Yentl bit her lips and stared.
The guests began to cough and fidget, h inting in various ways
that it was time to bring the oration to an end, and finally the
bridegroom broke off his sermon. The betrothal contract was
brought to him, but he did not sign it at once. First he read the
page from beginning to end. He was evidently nearsighted, for
he brought the paper right up to his nose. Then he began to
bargain. "The prayer shawl should h ave silver braid."
"It will h ave any braid you wish," Reb Sheftel agreed.
 58 � ISA A C B ASH E V I S S I N G E R

"Write it in."
It was written in on the margin. The groom read on, and
demanded, "I want a Talmud printed in Slovita."
"Very well, it will be from Slovita."
"Write it in."
After much haggling and writing in, the groom signed the
contract: Shmelke Motl son of the late Catriel Godl. The letters
of the signature were as tiny as flyspecks.
When Reb Sheftel brought the contract over to Liebe Yentl
and handed her the pen, she said in a clear voice, "I will not
sign."
"Daughter, you shame me!"
"I will not live with him."
Zise Feige began to pinch her wrinkled cheeks. "People, go
home ! " she called out. She snuffed the candles in the candlesticks.
Some of the women wept with the disgraced mother; others
berated the bride. But the girl answered no one. Before long, the
house was dark and empty. The servant went out to close the
shutters.
Reb Sheftel usually prayed at the synagogue with the first
quorum, but that morning he did not show himself at the holy
place. Zise Feige did not go out to do her shopping. The door of
Reb Sheftel's house stood locked ; the windows were shuttered.
Shmelke Motl returned at once to Zawiercia.
After a time Reb Sheftel went back to praying at the syna­
gogue, and Zise Feige went again to market with her basket. But
Liebe Yentl no longer came out into the street. People thought
that her parents had sent her away somewhere, but Liebe Yentl
was at home. She kept to her room and refused to speak to
anyone. When her mother brought her a plate of soup, she first
knocked at the door as though they were gentry. Liebe Yentl
scarcely touched the food, and Zise Feige sent it to the poorhouse.
For some months the matchmakers still came with offers, but
 59 :tP- The Dead Fiddler

since a dybbuk had spoken from her and she had shamed a
bridegroom Liebe Yentl could no longer make a proper match.
Reb Sheftel tried to obtain a pardon from the young man in
Zawiercia, but he had gone away to some yeshiva in Lithuania.
There was a rumor that he had hanged himself with his sash.
Then it became clear that Liebe Yentl would remain an old maid.
Her younger brother, Tsadock Meyer, had in the meantime
grown up and got married to a girl from Bendin.
Reb Sheftel was the first to die. This happened on a Thursday
night in winter. Reb Sheftel had risen for midnight prayers. He
stood at the reading desk, with ash on his head, reciting a lament
on the Destruction of the Temple. A beggar was spending that
night at the prayer house. About three o'clock in the morning, the
man awakened and put some potatoes into the stove to bake. Sud­
denly he heard a thud. He stood up and saw Reb Sheftel on the
floor. He sprinkled him with water from the pitcher, but the soul
had already departed .
The townspeople mourned Reb Sheftel. The body was not
taken home but lay in the prayer house with candles at its head
until the time of burial. The rabbi and some of the town's
scholars delivered eulogies. On Friday, Liebe Yentl escorted the
coffin with her mother. Liebe Yentl was wrapped in a black shawl
from head to toe; only a part of her face showed, white as the
snow in the cemetery. The two sons lived far from Shidlovtse,
and the funeral could not be postponed till after the Sabbath ; it is
a dishonor for a corpse to wait too long for burial. Reb Sheftel
was put to rest near the grave of the old rabbi. It is known that
those who are buried on Friday after noon do not suffer the
pressure of the grave, for the Angel Dumah puts away his fiery
rod on the eve of the Sabbath.
Zise Feige lingered a few years more, but she was fading day
by day. Her body bent like a candle. In her last year she no longer
attended to the business, relying entirely on her assistant, Zal-
 6o 1tP ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

kind. She began to rise at dawn to pray at the women's syna­

gogue, and she often went to the cemetery and prostrated herself
on Reb Sheftel's grave. She died as suddenly as her husband. It
h appened during evening prayer on Yom Kippur. Zise Feige had
stood all day, weeping, at the railing that divided the women's
section from the men's in the prayer house. Her neighbors, seeing
her waxen-yellow face, urged her to break her fast, for human
life takes precedence over all laws, but Zise Feige refused. When
the cantor intoned, "The gates of Heaven open," Zise Feige took
from her bosom a vial of aromatic drops, which are a remedy
against faintness. But the vial slipped from her hand and she fell
forward onto the reading desk. There was an outcry and women
ran for the dotor, but Zise Feige had already passed into the
True World. Her last words were: "My daughter . . . . "

This time the funeral was delayed until the arrival of the two
sons. They sat in mourning with their sister. But Liebe Yentl
avoided all strangers. Those who came to pray with the mourners
and to comfort them found only Jedidiah and Tsadock Meyer.
Liebe Yentl would lock herself away in her room.
Nothing was left of Reb Sheftel's wealth. People muttered
that the assistant had pocketed the money, but it could not be
proved. Reb Sheftel and Zise Feige had kept no books. All the
accounting had been done with a piece of chalk on the wall of a
wardrobe. After the seven days of mourning, the sons called
Zalkind to the rabbi's court, but he offered to swear before the
Holy Scrolls and black candles that he had not touched a
groschen of his employers' money. The rabbi forbade such an
oath. He said that a man who could break the commandment
"Thou Shalt Not Steal" could also violate the commandment
"Thou Shalt Not Take the Name of Thy God the Lord in Vain."
After the judgment, the two sons went home. Liebe Yentl
remained with the servant. Zalkind took over the business and
merely sent Liebe Yentl two gulden a week for food. Soon he
 61 ;IP The Dead Fiddler

refused to give even that and sent only a few groschen. The
servant woman left and went to work elsewhere.
Now that Liebe Yentl no longer had a servant, she was com­
pelled to show herself in the street, but she never came out
during the day. She would leave the house only after dark,
waiting until the streets were empty and the stores without other
customers. She would appear suddenly, as though from nowhere.
The storekeepers were afraid of her. Dogs barked at her from
Christian yards.
Summer and winter she was wrapped from head to toe in a
long shawl. She would enter the store and forget what she
wanted to buy. She often gave more money than was asked, as
though she no longer remembered how to count. A few times she
was seen entering the Gentile tavern to buy vodka. Tevye the
night watchman had heard Liebe Yentl pacing the house at night,
talking to herself.
Zise Feige's good friends tried repeatedly to see the girl, but
the door was always bolted. Liebe Yentl never came to the
synagogue on holidays to pray for the souls of the deceased.
During the months of Nissan and Elul, she never went to visit
the graves of her parents. She did not bake Sabbath bread on
Fridays, did not set roasts overnight in the oven, and probably
did not bless the candles. She did not come to the women's
synagogue even on the High Holy Days.
People began to forget Liebe Yentl-as if she were dead-but
she lived on. At times, smoke rose from her chimney. Late at
night, she was sometimes seen going to the well for a pail of
water. Those who caught sight of her swore that she did not look
a day older. Her face was becoming even more pale, her hair
redder and longer. It was said that Liebe Yentl played with cats.
Some whispered that she had dealings with a demon . Others
thought that the dybbuk had returned to her. Zalkind still
delivered a measure of flour to the house every Thursday, leaving
 62 1/P- I SAA C BASH EVIS SINGER

it in the larder in the entrance hall. He also provided Liebe Yentl

with firewood.
There had formerly been several other Jewish households on
the street, but gradually the owners had sold to Gentiles. A hog
butcher had moved into one house and built a high fence around
it. Another house was occupied by a deaf old widow who spent
her days spinning flax, guarded by a blind dog at her feet.
Years went by. One early morning in Elul, when the rabbi was
sitting in his study writing commentary and drinking tea from a
samovar, Tevye the night watchman knocked at his door. He told
the rabbi that he had seen Liebe Yentl on the road leading to
Radom. The girl wore a long white dress; she had no kerchief on
her head and walked barefoot. She was accompanied by a man
with long hair, carrying a violin case. The full moon shone
brightly. Tevye wanted to call out, but since the figures cast no
shadow he was seized with fear. When he looked again, the pair
had vanished.
The rabbi ordered Tevye to wait until the worshippers as­
sembled for morning prayer in the synagogue. Then Tevye told
the people of the apparition, and two men-a driver and a
butcher-went to Reb Sheftel's house. They knocked, but no one
answered. They broke open the door and found Liebe Yentl
dead. She lay in the middle of the room among piles of garbage,
in a long shift, barefoot, her red hair loose. It was obvious that
she had not been among the living for many days-perhaps a
week or even more. The women of the burial society hastily
carried off the corpse to the hut for the cleansing of the dead.
When the shroud-makers opened the wardrobe, a cloud of moths
flew out, filling the house like a swarm of locusts. All the clothes
were eaten, all the linens moldy and decayed.
Since Liebe Yentl had not taken her own life and since she had
exhibited all the signs of madness, the rabbi permitted her to be
buried next to her parents. Half the town followed the body to
 63 1/P. The Dead Fiddler

the cemetery. The brothers were notified and came later to sell
the house and order a stone for their sister's grave.
It was clear to everyone that the man who had appeared with
Liebe Yentl on the road to Radom was the dead fiddler of
Pinchev. Dunya, Zise Feige's former servant, told the women
that Liebe Yentl had not been able to forget her dead bridegroom
Ozer and that Ozer had become a dybbuk in order to prevent the
marriage to Shmelke Motl. But where would Ozer, a scholar and
the son of a rich man, have learned to play music and to per­
form like a wedding jester? And why would he appear on the
Radom road in the guise of a fiddler? And where was he going
with the dead Liebe Yentl that night? And what had become of
Beyle Tslove? Heaven and earth have sworn that the truth shall
remain forever hidden.

More years went by, but the dead fiddler was not forgotten. He
was heard playing at night in the cold synagogue. His fiddle sang
faintly in the bathhouse, the poorhouse, the cemetery. It was said
in town that he came to weddings. Sometimes, at the end of a
wedding after the Shidlovtse band had stopped playing, people
still heard a few lingering notes, and they knew that it was the
dead fiddler.
In autumn, when leaves fell and winds blew from the Moun­
tains of the Holy Cross, a low melody was often heard in the
chimneys, thin as a hair and mournful as the world. Even
children would hear it, and they would ask, "Mamma, who is
playing?" And the mother would answer, "Sleep, child. It's the
dead fiddler."
Translated by Mirra Ginsburg
 The
Lecture

I was on my way to Montreal to deliver a lecture. It was mid­

winter and I had been warned that the temperature there was ten
degrees lower than in New York. Newspapers reported that
trains had been stalled by the snow and fishing villages cut off, so
that food and medical supplies had to be dropped to them by
plane.
I prepared for the journey as though it were an expedition to
the North Pole. I put on a heavy coat over two sweaters and
packed warm underwear and a bottle of cognac in case the train
should be halted somewhere in the fields. In my breast pocket I
had the manuscript that I intended to read-an optimistic report
on the future of the Yiddish language.
 66 J.� ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

In the beginning, everything went smoothly. As usual, I

arrived at the station an hour before train departure and therefore
could find no porter. The station teemed with travelers and I
watched them, trying to guess who they were, where they were
going, and why.
None of the men was dressed as heavily as I. Some even wore
spring coats. The ladies looked bright and elegant in their minks
and beavers, nylon stockings and stylish hats. They carried color­
ful bags and illustrated magazines, smoked cigarettes and chat·
tered and laughed with a carefree air that has never ceased to
amaze me. It was as though they knew nothing of the existence of
world problems or eternal questions, as though they had never
heard of death, sickness, war, poverty, betrayal, or even of such
troubles as missing a train, losing a ticket, or being robbed. They
flirted like young girls, exhibiting their blood-red nails. The
station was chilly that morning, but no one except myself
seemed to feel it. I wondered whether these people knew there
had been a Hitler. Had they heard of Stalin's murder machine?
They probably had, but what does one body care when another is
tortured?
I was itchy from the woolen underwear. Now I began to feel
hot. But from time to time a shiver ran through my body. The
lecture, in which I predicted a brilliant future for Yiddish,
troubled me. What had made me so optimistic all of a sudden?
Wasn't Yiddish going under before my very eyes?
The prompt arrival of American trains and the ease in board­
ing them have always seemed like miracles to me. I remember
journeys in Poland when Jewish passengers were not allowed
into the cars and I had to hang on to the handrails. I remember
railway strikes when trains were halted midway for many hours
and it was impossible in the dense crowd to push through to the
washroom.
But here I was, sitting on a soft seat, right by the window. The
 67 � The Lecture

car was heated. There were no bundles, no high fur hats, no

sheepskin coats, no boxes, and no gendarmes. Nobody was eating
bread and lard . Nobody drank vodka from a bottle. Nobody was
berating Jews for state treason. In fact, nobody discussed politics
at all. As soon as the train started, a huge Negro in a white apron
came in and announced lunch. The train was not rattling, it
glided smoothly on its rails along the frozen Hudson. Outside,
the landscape gleamed with snow and light. Birds that remained
here for the winter flew busily over the icy river.
The farther we went, the wintrier the landscape. The weather
seemed to change every few miles. Now we went through dense
fog, and now the air cleared and the sun was shining again over
silvery distances.
A heavy snowfall began. It suddenly turned dark. The day was
flickering out. The express no longer ran but crept slowly and
cautiously, as though feeling its way. The heating system in the
train seemed to have broken down. It became chilly and I had to
put on my coat. The other passengers pretended for a while that
they did not notice anything, as though reluctant to admit too
quickly that they were cold. But soon they began to tap their feet,
grumble, grin sheepishly, and rummage in their valises for
sweaters, scarves, boots, or whatever else they had brought along.
Collars were turned up, hands stuffed into sleeves. The makeup
on women's faces dried up and began to peel like plaster.
The American dream gradually dissolves and harsh Polish
reality returns. Someone is drinking whiskey from a bottle.
Someone is eating bread and sausage to warm his stomach. There
is also a rush to the toilets. It is difficult to understand how it
happened, but the floor of the car becomes wet and muddy. The
windowpanes become crusted with ice and bloom with frost
patterns.
Suddenly the train stops. I look out and see a sparse wood. The
trees are thin and bent, and though they are covered with snow,
 68 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

they look bare and charred, as after a fire. The sun has already
set, but purple stains still glow in the west. The snow on the
ground is no longer white, but violet. Crows walk on it, flap their
wings, and I can hear their cawing. The snow falls in gray,
heavy lumps, as though the guardians of the Treasury of Snow up
above had been too lazy to flake it more finely. Passengers walk
from car to car, leaving the doors open. Conductors and other
train employees run past; when they are asked questions, they do
not stop, but mumble something rudely.
We are not far from the Canadian border, and Uncle Sam's
domain is virtually at an end. Some passengers begin to take
down their luggage; they may h ave to show it soon to the customs
officials. A naturalized American citizen gets out his citizenship
papers and studies his own photograph, as if trying to convince
himself that the document is not a false one.
One or two passengers venture to step out of the train, but they
sink up to their knees into the snow. It is not long before they
clamber back into the car. The twilight lingers for a while, then
night falls.
I see people using the weather as a pretext for striking up
acquaintance. Women begin to talk among themselves and there
is sudden intimacy. The men have also formed a group. Everyone
picks up bits of information. People offer each other advice. But
nobody pays any attention to me. I sit alone, a victim of my own
isolation, shyness, and alienation from the world. I begin to read
a book, and this provokes hostility, for reading a book at such a
time seems like a challenge and an insult to the other passengers.
I exclude myself from society, and all the faces say to me silently:
You don't need us and we don't need you. Never mind, you will
still have to turn to us, but we won't have to turn to you. . . .
I open my large, heavy valise, take out the bottle of cognac,
and take a stealthy sip now and then. After that, I lean my face
against the cold windowpane and try to look out. But all I see is
 69 � The Lecture

the reflection of the interior of the car. The world outside seems
to have disappeared. The solipsistic philosophy of Bishop
Berkeley has won over all the other systems. Nothing remains but
to wait patiently until God's idea of a train halted in its tracks by
snowdrifts will give way to God's ideas of movement and arrival.
Alas for my lecture! If I arrive in the middle of the night,
there will not even be anyone waiting for me. I shall have to look
for a hotel. If only I had a return ticket. However, was Captain
Scott, lost in the polar ice fields, in a better position after
Amundsen had discovered the South Pole? How much would
Captain Scott have given to be able to sit in a brightly lit railway
car? No, one must not sin by complaining.
The cognac had made me warm. Drunken fumes rise from an
empty stomach to the brain. I am awake and dozing at the same
time. Whole minutes drift away, leaving only a blur. I hear talk,
but I don't quite know what it means. I sink into blissful in­
difference. For my part, the train can stand here for three days
and three nights. I have a box of crackers in my valise. I will not
die of hunger. Various themes float through my mind. Something
within me mutters dreamlike words and phrases.
The diesel engine must be straining forward. I am aware of
dragging, knocking, growling sounds, as of a monstrous ox, a
legendary steel bull. Most of the passengers have gone to the bar
or the restaurant car, but I am too lazy to get up. I seem to have
grown into the seat. A childish obstinacy takes possession of m e :
I'll show them all that I a m not affected by any o f this commotion;
I am above the trivial happenings of the day.
Everyone who passes by-from the rear cars to the front, or
the other way-glances at me; and it seems to me that each one
forms some judgment of his own about the sort of person I am.
But does anyone guess that I am a Yiddish writer late for his
lecture? This, I am sure, occurs to no one. This is known only to
the higher powers.
 70 � I S AA C BAS H E V I S SINGER

I take another sip, and another. I have never understood the

passion for drinking, but now I see what power there is in
alcohol. This liquid holds within itself the secrets of nirvana. I
no longer look at my wristwatch. I no longer worry about a place
to sleep. I mock in my mind the lecture I had prepared . What if
it is not delivered? People will hear fewer lies! If I could open
the window, I would throw the manuscript out into the woods.
Let the paper and ink return to the cosmos, where there can be no
errors and no lies. Atoms and molecules are guiltless; they are a
part of the divine truth. . . .

2.

The train arrived exactly at half past two. No one was waiting
for me. I left the station and was caught in a blast of icy night
wind that no coat or sweaters could keep out. All taxis were
immediately taken. I returned to the station, prepared to spend
the night sitting on a bench.
Suddenly I noticed a lame woman and a young girl looking at
me and pointing with their fingers. I stopped and looked back.
The lame woman leaned on two thick, short canes. She was
wrinkled, disheveled, like an old woman in Poland, but her black
eyes suggested that she was more sick and broken than old. Her
clothes also reminded me of Poland. She wore a sort of sleeveless
fur j acket. Her shoes had toes and heels I had not seen in years.
On her shoulders she wore a fringed woolen shawl, like one of
my mother's. The young woman, on the other hand, was stylishly
dressed, but also rather slovenly.
After a moment's hesitation, I approached them.
The girl said : "Are you Mr. N.?"
I answered, "Yes, I am."
The lame woman made a sudden movement, as though to drop
 71 � The Lectm·e

her canes and clap her hands. She immediately broke into a
wailing cry so familiar to me.
"Dear Father in heaven!" she sang out. "I was telling my
daughter it's he, and she said no. I recognized you! Where were
you going with the valise? It's a wonder you came back. I'd never
have forgiven myself! Well, Binele, what do you say now? Your
mother still has some sense. I am only a woman, but I am a
rabbi's daughter, and a scholar has an eye for people. I took one
look and I thought to myself-it's h e ! But nowadays the eggs are
cleverer than the chickens. She says to me: 'No, it can't be.' And
in the meantime you disappear. I was already beginning to think,
myself : Who knows, one's no more than human, anybody can
make a mistake. But when I saw you come back, I knew it was
you. My dear man, we've been waiting here since half past seven
in the evening. We weren't alone; there was a whole group of
teachers, educators, a few writers too. But then it grew later and
later and people went home. They have wives, children. Some
have to get up in the morning to go to work. But I said to my
daughter, 'I won't go. I won't allow my favorite writer, whose
every word I treasure as a pearl, to come here and find no one
waiting for him. If you want, my child,' I said to her, 'you can go
home and go to bed.' What's a night's sleep? When I was young,
I used to think that if you missed a night's sleep the world would
go under. But Hitler taught us a lesson. He taught us a lesson I
won't forget until I lie with shards over my eyes. You look at me
and you see an old, sick woman, a cripple, but I did hard labor in
Hitler's camps. I dug ditches and loaded railway cars. Was there
anything I didn't do? It was there that I caught my rheumatism.
At night we slept on plank shelves not fit for dogs, and we were
so hungry that-"
"You'll have enough time to talk later, Momma. It's the
middle of the night, " her daughter interrupted.
 72 ,P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

It was only then that I took a closer look at the daughter. Her
figure and general appearance were those of a young girl, but she
was obviously in her late twenties, or even early thirties. She was
small, narrow, with yellowish hair combed back and tied into a
bun. Her face was of a sickly pallor, covered with freckles. She
had yellow eyes, a round forehead, a crooked nose, thin lips, and
a long chin. Around her neck she wore a mannish scarf. She
reminded me of a Hassidic boy.
The few words she spoke were marked by a p rovincial Polish
accent I had forgotten during my years in America. She made me
think of rye bread, caraway seeds, cottage cheese, and the water
brought by water carriers from the well in pails slung on a
wooden yoke over their shoulders.
"Thank you, but I have patience to listen," I said.
"When my mother begins to talk about those years, she can
talk for a week and a day-"
"Hush, hush, your mother isn't as crazy as you think. It's true,
our nerves were shattered out there. It is a wonder we are not
running around stark mad in the streets. But what about her? As
you see her, she too was in Auschwitz waiting for the ovens. I did
not even know she was alive. I was sure she was lost, and you can
imagine a mother's feelings ! I thought she had gone the way of
her three brothers ; but after the liberation we found each other.
What did they want from us, the beasts? My husband was a holy
man, a scribe. My sons worked hard to earn a piece of bread,
because inscribing mezuzahs doesn't bring much of an income.
My husband, himself, fasted more often than he ate. The glory
of God rested on his face. My sons were killed by the mur­
derers-"
"Momma, will you please stop?"
' 'I ' ll stop, I'll stop. How much longer will I last, anyway? But
she is right. First of all, my dear man, we must take care of you.
The president gave me the name of a hotel-they made all the
 73 � The Lecture

reservations for you-but my daughter didn't hear what he said,

and I forgot it. This forgetting is my misfortune. I put something
down and I don't know where. I keep looking for things, and
that's how my whole days go by. So maybe, my dear writer, you'll
spend the night with us? We don't have such a fine apartment.
It's cold, it's shabby. Still, it's better than no place at all. I'd
telephone the president, but I'm afraid to wake him up at night.
He has such a temper, may he forgive me; he keeps shouting that
we aren't civilized. So I say to him : 'The Germans are civilized,
go to them . . . . ' "

"Come with us, the night is three quarters gone, anyway," the
daughter said to me. "He should have written it down instead of
just saying it; and if he said it, he should have said it to me, not
to my mother. She forgets everything. She puts on her glasses and
cries, 'Where are my glasses? ' Sometimes I have to laugh. Let me
have your valise."
"What are you saying? I can carry it myself, it isn't heavy."
"You are not used to carrying things, but I have learned out
there to carry heavy loads. If you would see the rocks I used to
lift, you wouldn't believe your eyes. I don't even believe it
myself anymore. Sometimes it seems to me it was all an evil
dream. . . .''

"Heaven forbid, you will not carry my valise. That's a l l I

need . . . . "
"He is a gentleman, he is a fine and gentle man. I knew it at
once as soon as I read him for the first time," the mother said.
"You wouldn't believe me, but we read your stories even in the
camps. A fter the war, they began to send us books, and I came
across one of your stories. I don't remember what it was called,
but I read it and a darkness lifted off my heart. 'Bincle,' I said­
she was already with me then-Tve found a treasure.' Those
were my words . . . . ' '

"Thank you, thank you very much . ' '

 74 1iP' ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Don't thank me, don't thank me. It's we who have to thank
you. All the troubles come from people being deaf and blind.
They don't see the next man and so they torture him. We are
wandering among blind evildoers . . . . Binele, don't let this
dear man carry the valise. . . ,"

"Yes, please give it to me!"

I had to plead with Binele to let me carry it. She almost tried
to pull it out of my hands.
We went outside and a taxi drove up. It was not easy to get
the mother into it. I still cannot understand how she had managed
to come to the station. I had to lift her up and put her in. In the
process, she dropped one of her canes, and Binele and I had to
look for it in the snow. The driver had already begun to grumble
and scold in his Canadian French. Afterward, the car began to
pitch and roll over dimly lit streets covered with snow and over­
grown with mountains of ice. The tires had chains on them, but
the taxi skidded backward several times.
We finally drove into a street that was reminiscent of a small
town in Poland: murky, narrow, with wooden houses. The sick
woman hastily opened her purse, but I paid before she had time
to take out her money. Both women chided me, and the driver
demanded that we get out as quickly as possible. I virtually had
to carry the crippled woman out of the taxi. Again, we had to
look for her cane in the deep snow . Afterward, her daughter and
I half led, half dragged her up a flight of steps. They opened the
door and I was suddenly enveloped in odors I had long for­
gotten : moldy potatoes, rotting onions, chicory, and something
else I could not even name. In some mysterious way the mother
and daughter had managed to bring with them the whole atmos­
phere of wretched poverty from their old horne in Poland.
They lit a kerosene lamp and I saw an apartment with tattered
wallpaper, a rough wooden floor, and spider webs in every corner.
The kerosene stove was out and the rooms were drafty. On a
 75 � The Lecture

bench stood cracked pots, chipped plates, cups without handles. I

even caught sight of a besom on a pile of sweepings. No stage
director, I thought, could have done a better job of reproducing
such a scene of old-country misery.
Binele began to apologize. "What a mess, no? We were in
such a hurry to get to the station, we didn't even have time to
wash the dishes. And what's the good of washing or cleaning
here, anyway? It's an old, run·down shanty. The landlady knows
only one thing: to come for the rent every month. If you're late
one day, she's ready to cut your throat. Still, after everything we
went through over there, this is a palace. . . ."

And Binele laughed, exposing a mouthful of widely spaced

teeth with gold fillings that must have been made when she was
still across the ocean.

3.

They made my bed on a folding cot in a tiny room with barred

windows. Binele covered me with two blankets and spread my
coat on top of them. But it was still as cold as outside. I lay under
all the coverings and could not warm up.
Suddenly I remembered my manuscript. Where was the manu·
script of my lecture? I had had it in the breast pocket of my coat.
Afraid to sit up, lest the cot should collapse, I tried to find it. But
the manuscript was not there. I looked in my jacket, which hung
on a chair nearby, but it was not there either. I was certain that I
had not put it into the valise, for I had opened the valise only to
get the cognac. I had intended to open it for the customs officers,
but they had only waved me on, to indicate it was not necessary.
It was clear to me that I had lost the manuscript. But how?
The mother and daughter had told me that the lecture was post·
poned to the next day, but what would I read? There was only
one hope : perhaps it had dropped on the floor when Binele was
 76 1/Po ISAAC BASH E VIS SINGER

covering me with the coat. I felt the floor, trying not to make a
sound, but the cot creaked at the slightest movement. It even
seemed to me that it began to creak in advance, when I only
thought of moving. Inanimate things are not really inani­
mate. . . .
The mother and daughter were evidently not asleep. I heard a
whispering, a mumbling from the next room. They were arguing
about something quietly, but about what?
The loss of the manuscript, I thought, was a Freudian accident.
I was not pleased with the essay from the very first. The tone I
took in it was too grandiloquent. Still, what was I to talk about
that evening? I might get confused from the very first sentences,
like that speaker who had started his lecture with, "Peretz
was a peculiar man," and could not utter another word.
If only I could sleep! I had not slept the previous night either.
When I have to make a public appearance, I don't sleep for
nights. The loss of the manuscript was a real catastrophe ! I tried
to close my eyes, but they kept opening by themselves. Something
bit me; but as soon as I wanted to scratch, the cot shook and
screamed like a sick man in pain.
I lay there, silent, stiff, wide-awake. A mouse scratched some­
where in a hole, and then I heard a sound, as of some beast with
saw and fangs trying to saw through the floorboards. A mouse
could not have raised such noise. It was some monster trying to
cut down the foundations of the building. . . .
"Well, this adventure will be the end of me!" I said to myself.
"I won't come out of here alive."
I lay benumbed, without stirring a limb. My nose was stuffed
and I was breathing the icy air of the room through my mouth.
My throat felt constricted. I had to cough, but I did not want to
disturb the mother and daughter. A cough might also bring down
the ramshackle cot. . . . Well, let me imagine that I had re-
 77 1f'- The Lecture

mained under Hitler in wartime. Let me get some taste of that,

too. . . .
I imagined myself somewhere in Treblinka or Maidanek. I had
done hard labor all day long. Now I was lying on a plank shelf.
Tomorrow there would probably be a "selection," and since I was
no longer well, I would be sent to the ovens. . . . I mentally
began to say goodbye to the few people close to me. I must have
dozed off, for I was awakened by loud cries. Binele was shouting :
"Momma ! Momma! Momma! . . ." The door flew open and
Binele called me: "Help me! Mother is dead !"
I wanted to jump off the cot but it collapsed under me, and
instead of jumping, I had to raise myself. I cried : "What
happened?"
Binele screamed : "She is cold! Where are the matches? Call a
doctor! Call a doctor! Put on the light! Oh, Momma! . . .
Momma ! Momma! "
I never carry matches with me, since I do not smoke. I went i n
my pajamas to the bedroom. I n the dark I collided with Binele. I
asked her : "How can I call a doctor?"
She did not answer, but opened the door into the hallway and
shouted, "Help, people, help! My mother is dead! " She cried
with all her strength, as women cry in the Jewish small towns in
Poland, but nobody responded. I tried to look for matches,
knowing in advance that I would not find them in this strange
house. Binele returned and we collided again in the dark. She
clung to me with unexpected force and wailed : "Help! Help! I
have nobody else in the world! She was all I had !"
And she broke into a wild lament, leaving me stunned and
speechless.
"Find a match ! Light the lamp ! " I finally cried out, although I
knew that my words were wasted.
"Call a doctor ! Call a doctor!" she screamed, undoubtedly
realizing herself the senselessness of her demand.
 78 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

She half led, half pulled me to the bed where her mother lay. I
put out my hand and touched her body. I began to look for her
hand, found it, and tried to feel her pulse, but there was no
pulse. The hand hung heavy and limp. It was cold as only a dead
thing is cold. Binele seemed to understand what I was doing and
kept silent for a while.
"Well, well? She's dead? • . . She's dead! . . . She had a
sick heart! . . . Help me! Help me!"
"What can I do? I can't see anything ! " I said to her, and my
words seemed to have double meaning.
"Help me ! . . . Help me! . . . Momma!"
"Are there no neighbors in the house?" I asked.
"There is a drunkard over us. . . ."
"Perhaps we can get matches from him?"
Binele did not answer. I suddenly became aware of how cold I
felt. I had to put something on or I would catch pneumonia. I
shivered and my teeth chattered. I started out for the room where
I had slept but found myself in the kitchen. I returned and nearly
threw Binele over. She was, herself, half naked. Unwittingly I
touched her breast.
"Put something on !" I told her. "You'll catch a cold !"
"I do not want to live! I do not want to live! . . . She had no
right to go to the station! . . . I begged her, but she is so
stubborn. . . . She had nothing to eat. She would not even take
a glass of tea . . . . What shall I do now? Where shall I go? Oh,
Momma, Momma !"
Then, suddenly, it was quiet. Binele must have gone upstairs to
knock on the drunkard's door. I remained alone with a corpse in
the dark. A long-forgotten terror possessed me. I had the eerie
feeling that the dead woman was trying to approach me, to seize
me with her cold hands, to clutch at me and drag me off to where
she was now. After all, I was responsible for her death. The
strain of coming out to meet me had killed her. I started toward
 79 � The Lectu1·e

the outside door, as though ready to run out into the street. I
stumbled on a chair and struck my knee. Bony fingers stretched
after me. Strange beings screamed at me silently. There was a
ringing in my ears and saliva filled my mouth as though I were
about to faint.
Strangely, instead of coming to the outside door, I found
myself back in my room. My feet stumbled on the flattened cot. I
bent down to pick up my overcoat and put it on. It was only then
that I realized how cold I was and how cold it was in that house.
The coat was like an ice bag against my body. I trembled as with
ague. My teeth clicked, my legs shook. I was ready to fight off the
dead woman, to wrestle with her in mortal combat. I felt my
heart hammering frighteningly loud and fast. No heart could
long endure such violent knocking . I thought that Binele would
find two corpses when she returned, instead of one.
I heard talk and steps and saw a light. Binele had brought
down the upstairs neighbor. She had a man's coat over her
shoulders. The neighbor carried a burning candle. He was a huge
man, dark, with thick black hair and a long nose. He was bare­
foot and wore a bathrobe over his pajamas. What struck me most
in my panic was the enormous size of his feet. He went to the bed
with his candle and shadows danced after him and wavered
across the dim ceiling.
One glance at the woman told me that she was dead. Her face
had altered completely. Her mouth had become strangely thin
and sunken ; it was no longer a mouth, but a hole. The face was
yellow, rigid, and claylike. Only the gray hair looked alive. The
neighbor muttered something in French . He bent over the
woman and felt her forehead. He uttered a single word and
Binele began to scream and wail again. He tried to speak to her,
to tell her something else, but she evidently did not understand
his language. He shrugged his shoulders, gave me the candle, and
started back. My hand trembled so uncontrollably that the small
 So :cp. I SA A C BASHEVIS SINGER

flame tossed in all directions and almost went out. I let some
tallow drip on the wardrobe and set the candle in it.
Binele began to tear her hair and let out such a wild lament
that I cried angrily at her : "Stop screaming! "
She gave m e a sidelong glance, full of hate and astonishment,
and answered quietly and sensibly : "She was all I had in the
world . . . . "
"I know, I understand . . . . But screaming won't help."
My words appeared to have restored her to her senses. She
stood silently by the bed, looking down at her mother. I stood on
the opposite side. I clearly remembered that the woman had had a
short nose; now it had grown long and hooked, as though death
had made manifest a hereditary trait that had been hidden during
her lifetime. Her forehead and eyebrows had acquired a new and
masculine quality. Binele's sorrow seemed for a while to have
given way to stupor. She stared, wide·eyed, as if she did not
recognize her own mother.
I glanced at the window. How long could a night last, even a
winter night? Would the sun never rise? Could this be the
moment of that cosmic catastrophe that David Hume had en­
visaged as a theoretical possibility? But the panes were just
beginning to turn gray.
I went to the window and wiped the misty pane. The night
outside was already intermingled with blurs of daylight. The
contours of the street were becoming faintly visible; piles of
snow, small houses, roofs. A street lamp glimmered in the
distance, but it cast no light. I raised my eyes to the sky. One half
was still full of stars; the other was already flushed with morning.
For a few seconds I seemed to have forgotten all that had
happened and gave myself up entirely to the birth of the new
day. I saw the stars go out one by one. Streaks of red and rose and
yellow stretched across the sky, as in a child's painting.
"What shall I do now? What shall I do now?" Binele began
 8r � The Lecture

to cry again. "Whom shall I call ? Where shall I go? Call a doctor!
Call a doctor!" And she broke into sobs.
I turned to her. "What can a doctor do now?"
"But someone should be called."
"You have no relatives?"
"None. I've no one in the world."
"What about the members of your lecture club? "
"They don't live in this neighborhood. . . ."

I went t o m y room and began t o dress. My clothes were icy.

My suit, which had been pressed before my journey, was crum­
pled. My shoes looked like misshapen clodhoppers. I caught
sight of my face in a mirror, and it shocked me. It was hollow,
dirty, paper-gray, covered with stubble. Outside, the snow began
to fall again.
"What can I do for you ?" I asked Binele. 'Tm a stranger here.
I don't know where to go."
"Woe is me! What am I doing to you? You are the victim of
our misfortune. I shall go out and telephone the police, but I
cannot leave my mother alone."
'Til stay here."
"You will? She loved you. She never stopped talking about
you . . . . All day yesterday. . . . "

I sat down on a chair and kept my eyes away from the dead
woman. Binele dressed herself. Ordinarily I would be afraid to
remain alone with a corpse. But I was half frozen, half asleep. I
was exhausted after the miserable night. A deep despair came
over me. It was a long, long time since I had seen sud1 wretched­
ness and so much tragedy. My years in America seemed to have
been swept away by that one night and I was taken back, as
though by magic, to my worst days in Poland, to the bitterest
crisis of my life. I heard the outside door close. Binele was gone.
I could no longer remain sitting in the room with the dead
woman. I ran out to the kitchen. I opened the door leading to the
 82 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

stairs. I stood by the open door as though ready to escape as soon

as the corpse began to do those tricks that I had dreaded since
childhood . . . . I said to myself that it was foolish to be afraid
of this gentle woman, this cripple who had loved me while alive
and who surely did not hate me now, if the dead felt anything.
But all the boyhood fears were back upon me. My ribs felt
chilled, as if some icy fingers moved over them. My heart
thumped and fluttered like the spring in a broken clock. . . .
Everything within me was strained . The slightest rustle and I
would have dashed down the stairs in terror. The door to the
street downstairs had glass panes, but they were half frosted over,
half misty. A pale glow filtered through them as at dusk. An icy
cold came from below. Suddenly I heard steps. The corpse? I
wanted to run, but I realized that the steps came from the upper
floor. I saw someone coming down. It was the upstairs neighbor
on his way to work, a huge man in rubber boots and a coat with a
kind of cowl, a metal lunch box in his hands. He glanced at me
curiously and began to speak to me in Canadian French. It was
good to be with another human being for a moment. I nodded,
gestured with my hands, and answered him in English. He tried
again and again to say something in his unfamiliar language, as
though he believed that if I listened more carefully I would
finally understand him. In the end he mumbled something and
threw up his arms. He went out and slammed the door. Now I
was all alone in the whole house.
What if Binele should not return? I began to toy with the
fantasy that she might run away. Perhaps I'd be suspected of
murder? Everything was possible in this world. I stood with my
eyes fixed on the outside door. I wanted only one thing now-to
return as quickly as possible to New York. My home, my job
seemed totally remote and insubstantial, like memories of a
previous incarnation. Who knows? Perhaps my whole life in
New York had been no more than a hallucination? I began to
 83 � The Lecture

search in my breast pocket. . . . Did I Jose my citizenship

papers, together with the text of my lecture? I felt a stiff paper.
Thank God, the citizenship papers are here. I could have lost
them, too. This document was now testimony that my years in
America had not been an invention.
Here is my photograph. And my signature. Here is the govern­
ment stamp. True, these were also inanimate, without life, but
they symbolized order, a sense of belonging, law. I stood in the
doorway and for the first time really read the paper that made me
a citizen of the United States. I became so absorbed that I had
almost forgotten the dead woman. Then the outside door
opened and I saw Binele, covered with snow. She wore the same
shawl that her mother had worn yesterday.
"I cannot find a telephone ! "
She broke out crying. I went down t o meet her, slipping the
citizenship papers back into my pocket. Life had returned. The
long nightmare was over. I put my arms around Binele and she
did not try to break away. I became wet from the melting snow.
We stood there midway up the stairs and rocked back and
forth-a lost Yiddish writer, and a victim of Hitler and of my ill­
starred lecture. I saw a number tattooed above her wrist and
heard myself saying : "Binele, I won't abandon you. I swear by
the soul of your mother. . . . "

Binele's body became limp in my arms. She raised her eyes and
whispered : "Why did she do it? She just waited for your
coming . . . . "
 Cockadoodledoo

Cockadoodledoo ! In your language this means good morning,

time to get up, day is breaking in Pinchev. What a lot of words
you people use! For us chickens, cockadoodledoo says everything.
And how much it can mean! It all depends on the melody, the
accent, the tone.
I am a great-grandson of the rooster who perched on King
.
Solomon's chair and I know languages. Therefore I tell you that
one cockadoodledoo is worth more than a hundred words. It's not
so much a matter of voice as it is of the flap of the wings, the way
the comb quivers, the eye tilts, the neck feathers ruffle.
We even have what you call dialects. A Litvak rooster crows
cookerikoo, a Polish rooster crows cookerikee, and there are some
 86 � I SAAC BASHEVIS S INGER

who can even manage cockerikko. Each has a style inherited

from generations of roosters. Even the same chicken will never
crow the same way twice. But for such distinctions you need a
good ear.
On my mother's side I have blood of the Ancient Prophetic
Woodcock. If you put me in a dark cage, I can tell by the pitch of
the roosters' crowing and the hens' clucking whether it is day­
break or twilight, clear or cloudy, whether it is mild or a frost
is coming, if it's raining, snowing, or hailing. My ear tells me that
the moon is full, half full, or new. I even can tell an eclipse of
the sun. I know a thousand things that don't even occur to you.
You talk too much, you drown in your own words. All truth lies
hidden in one word : cockadoodledoo.
I wasn't born yesterday. A world of hens and roosters has
passed before my eyes. I have seen a rooster castrated and force­
fed. I know the end all too well : death. Whether they'll make a
sacrifice of me for Yom Kippur, whether they'll put me aside
until Passover, Succoth or for the Sabbath of Moses' Song of the
Red Sea, the slaughterer waits, the knife is sharp, everything is
prepared : the tub for soaking, the salting board, the gravy bowl,
the stew pot, or maybe the roasting oven.
The garbage dump is crammed with our heads and entrails.
Every good-for-nothing housewife carries around one of our
wings for a whisk broom. Even if by some chance I should miss
the slaughterer's knife, I still can't last indefinitely. I might get a
nail in my gizzard . I might catch the pip. I might have-may it
not happen to you-pox in my bowels. I might gulp down a
wire, a pebble, a needle, a little snake. Every fowl ends up in the
bowl.
So then what? Cockadoodledoo resolves all questions, solves
all riddles. The rooster may die but not the cockadoodledoo. We
were crowing long before Adam and, God willing, we'll go on
crowing long after all slaughterers and chicken-gluttons have
 87 ;iP- Cockadoodledoo

been laid low. What is rooster, then, and what is hen? Nothing
more than a nesting place for the cockadoodledoo. No butcher in
the world can destroy that.
There exists a heavenly rooster-his image is our own; and
there is a heavenly Cockadoodledoo. The Rooster on High crows
through our windpipes, he performs the midnight services
through us, gets up with us for prayers when the morning stars
sing together. You people pore over the Cabala and rack your
brains. But for us the Cabala is in the marrow of our bones.
What is cockadoodledoo? A magical name.
Maybe I 'm betraying secrets. But to whom am I talking? To
deaf ears. Your ancestors were never able to find out the secret of
the cockadoodledoo; it is certain that you won't either. It is said
that in distant countries there are machines where they hatch out
hens by the millions and pull them out by the shelfful. The
slaughterhouse is as big as our marketplace. One butcher boy ties,
one cuts, one plucks. Tubs fill up with blood. Feathers fly. Every
moment a thousand fowl give up their souls. And yet, can they
really finish us this way?
Right now, while I'm talking, the under side of my wing
begins to itch. I want to hold myself back, but I can't. My throat
tickles, my tongue trembles, my beak itches, my comb burns. The
quill of every feather tingles. It must come out! Cockadoodledoo!

2 .

Apropos of what you say about hens : you mustn't take them
too lightly. When I was a young rooster, a hen was less than
nothing to me. What is a hen? No comb, no spurs, no color in
her tail, no strength in her claws. She cackles her few years away,
lays eggs, hatches them, rubs her what-do-you-call-it in the dirt,
puts on pious airs.
At an early age I began to see the hypocrisy of hens. They bow
 88 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

down to every big shot. Among themselves, in their own yard,

whoever is stronger picks on the others. I have a hatred of gossip
and a hen just can't hold her tongue. Cluck-cluck and cluck-cluck.
My rule is: don't talk too much with a chicken. It is true that you
can't get along without them. Everybody has a mother. But what
of it? You can't stay stuck in the eggshell forever.
But that's the conceit of young roosters. With age I found that
it must be this way. In all lands and in all the heavens there is
male and female. Everything is paired, from the fly to the
elephant, from the Rooster on High to the ordinary cock. It is
true that cluck-duck is just not the same as cockadoodledoo, but a
hen, too, is not to be sneezed at.
Your so-called philosophers love to ask: which came first, the
chicken or the egg? Garrulous chickens argue endlessly: which
came first, the cockadoodledoo or the cluck-cluck? But all this is
empty chatter. My opinion is that there was no first egg and
there's not going to be any last egg. First is last and last is first.
You don't understand? The answer is: cockadoodledoo.
I have five wives and each one is a tale in herself. Kara is a
princess. Where she got her pedigree, I couldn't say. She is fat,
easygoing, has golden eyes and a tranquil heart. She does not
hobnob with the other hens. When the mistress scatters a handful
of millet, the rabble run to grab it, but Kara has both patience
and faith. The kernel destined for her will reach her. She keeps
herself clean, doesn't look at other cocks, avoids bickering. She
has the right to peck at all her competitors but considers it
beneath her dignity to start up with every silly hen. She clucks
less than the others and the eggs that she lays are big and
white.
I have no great passion for her nor she for me, but I have more
chicks by her than by any of the others. Every year she hatches
two dozen eggs and without complaint she does everything that a
hen should. When she's through with her laying, they'll put her
 89 � Cockadoodledoo

away and she'll make a rich soup. I suspect that she doesn't even
know that there's such a thing as death, because she likes to play
around with the guts of her sisters. That's Kara.
Tsip is the exact opposite : red, thin, bony, a screecher, a
glutton, and jealous-fire and flame. She picks on all the hens,
but loves me terribly. Just let her see me coming and down she
plops and spreads her wings. In your language you would say she
is oversexed, but I forgive her everything. She twitches, every
limb quivers. Her eggs are tiny, with bloody specks. In all the
time I've known her she's never stopped screaming. She runs
around the yard as though she were possessed. She complains and
complains. This one pecked her, that one bit her, the third one
pulled some down from her breast, the fourth grabbed a crumb
from under her beak. Lays eggs and doesn't remember where.
Tries to fly and almost breaks a leg. Suddenly she's in a tree and
then on a roof. At night in the coop she doesn't close an eye.
Fidgets, cackles, can't find any place for herself. A witch with an
itch. They would have slaughtered her long ago if she were not
so skinny, eating herself up alive-and for what? That's Tsip.
Chip is completely white, a hen without any meanness in her,
as good as a sunny day, quiet as a dove. She runs from quarrels as
from fire. At the least hubbub she stops laying. She loves me
with a chaste love, considers me a hen-chaser, but keeps every­
thing to herself. She clucks with a soft-tongued duck and gets
fatter every day.
If she feels like sitting on eggs and there are none to sit on, she
might sit on a little white stone; she isn't very bright. The other
day she hatched out three duck eggs. As long as the ducklings
didn't crawl into the water, Chip thought they were chicks; but as
soon as they began to swim in the pond, she almost dropped
dead. Chip stood by the bank, her mother's heart close to
bursting. I tried to explain to her what a bastard is, but try to talk
to a frightened mother.
 90 ,P. I SAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

For some strange reason, Chip loves Tsip and does everything
to please her. But Tsip is her blood enemy. Anyone else in Chip's
place would have scratched her eyes out long ago; but Chip is
good and asks for no reward. She's full of the mercy which
comes from the Heavenly Chicken. That's Chip.
Pre-pre is the lowest hen I've ever met. Has all the vices a hen
can have: black as coal, thin as a stick, a thief, a tattletale, a
scrapper, and blind in one eye from a fight with her first
husband, may the dunghill rest lightly on him. She carries on
with strange roosters, slips into other people's yards, rummages
in all kinds of garbage. She has the comb of a rooster and the
voice of a rooster. When the moon is full, she starts to crow as
though possessed by a dybbuk.
She lays an egg and devours it herself or cracks it open from
sheer meanness. I hate her, that Black Daughter of a Black
Mother. How many times I've sworn to have no dealings with the
slut, but when she wants what's coming to her, she begins to
fawn, flatter, gaze into my eyes like a beggar.
I'm no fighter by nature, but Pre-pre has a bad effect on me. I
grab her by the head feathers and chase her all over the yard. My
other wives avoid her like the plague. Many times our mistress
wanted to catch her and send her to the slaughterer, but just
when she's wanted she's not at horne, that gadabout, that dog of
a hen. That's Pre-pre.
Cluckele is my own little daughter, Kara is her mother, and a
father doesn't gossip about his daughter even when she's his
wife. I look at her and I don't believe my own eyes : when did she
grow up? Only yesterday, it seems, this was a tiny little chick, just
out of the eggshell, hardly covered with down. But she's already
coquettish, already knows hennish wiles and lays eggs, although
they're small. Very soon I'll be the father of my own grand­
children.
I love her, but I suspect that her little heart belongs to another
 9 1 � Cockadoodledoo

rooster, that cross-eyed idiot on the other side of the fence. What
she sees in that sloppy tramp, I have no idea. But how can a
rooster know what a hen sees in another rooster? Her head could
be turned by a feather in the tail, a tooth in the comb, a side spur,
or even the way he shuffles his feet in the sand and stirs up the
dust.
I'm good to her, but she doesn't appreciate it. I give her advice,
but she doesn't listen. I guard her like the apple of my eye, but
she's always looking for excitement . . . . The new generation is
completely spoiled, but what can I do? One thing I want: as long
as I live, may she live too. What happens afterward is not up
to me.

3.

Your experts in the Cabala know that cockadoodledoo is based

on sheer faith. What else, logic? But faith itself has different
degrees. A rooster's little faith may give out and he will become
crestfallen. His wings droop, his comb turns white, his eyes glaze
over and his crow sticks in his gullet. Why crow? For whom and
for how long? Roosters have been crowing since ancient times
and for what? When one begins to think about time, it's no
good. Occasionally a rooster will even weep. Yes, roosters are
capable of weeping. Listen sometime to the roosters crowing the
night before Yom Kippur when you people are reciting the mid­
night prayers . If your human ears could hear our weeping, you
would throw away all your slaughtering knives.
But let me tell you something that happened.
The night was dark. The chickens dozed or pretended to doze.
It was during the Ten Days of Repentance before the Yom
Kippur sacrifice of fowls. All day long it was oppressively hot.
At night the sky clouded over, hiding a sliver of moon. The air
was warm and humid like the mud in the duck pond. There was
 92 :-;p. I SA A C B A S H E V IS S I N G E R

lightning, but no thunder, no rain. People closed their shutters

and snored under their feather comforters. The grass stood
motionless; the leaves on the apple trees were still; even the
grasshoppers fell asleep. The frogs in the swamp were voiceless.
The moles rested in their molehills.
Everything was silent, everything held its breath. It seemed as
if the world had asked the ultimate question and was waiting for
an answer : yes or no, one way or another. Things cannot go on
like this. If a clear answer does not come, creation will return to
primeval chaos. I did not move. My heart didn't beat, my blood
didn't flow, nothing stirred. It was midnight, but I had no urge to
crow. Had the end come?
Suddenly a flap of wings and from somewhere close at hand :
cockadoodledoo ! I trembled. I became all ears. It was the old
cockadoodledoo, but with a new meaning. No, not the old one,
but a brand-new one: a new style, another approach, a different
melody. I didn't know what it was saying, but suddenly every­
thing was light, I felt rejuvenated. Is it possible? I asked myself.
Millions of generations of roosters had crowed, but no one
before had ever crowed like that. It opened doors in my brain, it
cheered my heart. It spilled over with hope and happiness. Could
it really be? I asked. And I, fool that I was, had doubted! I felt
both shame and joy. I, too, wanted to crow, but I was shy. What
could I say after him? Tsip woke up and asked, "What's that?"
"A new voice, a new word," I said. "Chickens, let us join in a
blessing. We have not lived in vain."
"Who is he, where is he?" asked Chip.
"What difference does it make who he is? The power lies in
the crowing, not in the rooster."
"Still-"
I didn't answer her. I closed my eyes. The crowing had
stopped, but its sound still echoed in the silence from trees, roofs,
 93 n'- Cockadoodledoo

chimneys, birdhouses . It sang like a fiddle, rang like a bell, re­

sounded like a ram's horn. It sang and didn't stop singing.
The dog in the kennel awoke and barked once. The pig in his
sty uttered a grunt; the horse in the stable thumped the ground
with his hoof. The clouds parted in the sky and a moon appeared,
white as chalk. For a while I thought: who knows, perhaps I only
imagined it. True, the hens heard it too, but perhaps it was a
dream, perhaps it was only the wind. Perhaps it was a wolf howl­
ing, the sound of a trumpet, a hunter's call, a drunkard's shout.
Even though fowl wait all their lives for a miracle, still, when
it happens, they can't believe it. I expected the other roosters to
answer him as usual, but I didn't hear a sound. Had all the
roosters been slaughtered, with only this one left? Perhaps I
myself was already slaughtered and the voice I heard was only the
dream of a chopped-off head? The stillness was not of this world.
I stuck my beak in my feathers and pinched my own skin to see if
it hurt. Suddenly : cockadoodledoo ! It was the same rooster and
the same crow. No, not the same, already different : a song which
rent the soul and then revived it; a melody lifting a rooster's
heart into heights where no eagle ever flew, above all towers, all
clouds, into a brightness that made the stars seem dark.
Everything I know I learned that n ight. I can't reveal secrets­
my tongue is tied-but there is a cockadoodledoo which rights
every wrong, forgives every sin, straightens all crookedness.
Everything is cockadoodledoo : butcher and fowl; knife and
throat; feathers and plucker; the blood in the veins and the
blood in the ditch. Crow, rooster, and ask no questions! We must
accept all : the crow of the rooster, the cluck of the hen, the egg
which is hatched, the egg which is eaten, the egg which is stepped
upon, and the egg with the splotch of blood in it.
Sing, rooster, praise God, love your hens, don't fight with
other roosters unless they attack you. Eat your grain, drink your
 94 $P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

water, stand on the rooftop and crow as if the whole world-all

four corners of it-were waiting for your crowing. It is really
waiting. Without your crowing, something would be missing.
You don't understand? God willing, you will understand. You
have eternity behind you and eternity before you. You will go
through many lives. If you knew what awaits you, you would die
of joy. But that wouldn't do. As long as you live, you must
live . . . .
All night long that rooster crowed and not a single rooster
dared answer him. He was a cantor without a choir. Just at day­
break, when it began to redden in the East, he Jet out his last
crow-the loudest, the loveliest, the most divine.
The next day there was a furor among the neighboring
roosters. Some swore by their comb and spurs that they had heard
nothing. Others admitted they had heard something, but it wasn't
a rooster. As for the hens, every one of them had forgotten. What
will chickens not do to avoid the truth? They fear the truth more
than the knife, and this is in itself a mystery.
But since that rooster crowed--exalted be his name-and I
had the privilege to hear and to remember, I have wanted to
spread the word, especially since tomorrow is the day before Yom
Kippur. Happy is he who believes. A time will come when all
will see and hear, and the cockadoodledoo of the Rooster on
High will ring throughout heaven and earth.
Cockadoodledoo!
Translated by Ruth Whitman
 The
Plagiarist

The rabbi of Machlev, Reb Kasriel Dan Kinsker, paced back and
forth in his study. From time to time he would stop, grasp his
white beard with his left hand, and let go, spreading all five
fingers, a typical gesture when he was faced with a problem. He
was talking to himself: "How could h e ever do such a thing?
He's actually copied word for word ! "
The rabbi was alluding t o one o f his disciples, Shabsai Getsel.
During the several years that Shabsai Getsel had studied with the
rabbi, he had often made use of the latter's manuscripts. As a
matter of fact, the rabbi had even asked him to copy out several
of his responsa.
Reb Kasriel Dan had for the last forty years been writing

95
 96 � ISAA C BASHEV IS SI NGER

homilies and commentaries on Talmudic texts, but he had never

yet been able to bring himself to permit the publication of even
one of his works. He had heeded the verse in Ecclesiastes : "And
further, by these, my son, be admonished : of making many
books there is no end."
Authors streamed to Machlev to sell prepublication subscrip­
tions or to raise money to pay for getting their works printed.
Some asked Reb Kasriel Dan for approbatory prefaces. There
were those whose disquisitions totally missed the point of the
Talmud text. Instead, they piled sophistry on sophistry and read
into the words of the ancients meanings that had never been
intended.
The rabbi hesitated before refusing to write such a preface lest
his unwillingness be interpreted as an offense against the author.
On the other hand, to praise work he could not approve was
equally wrong. It also took a lot of time and good eyesight to
read these manuscripts. Some of the handwriting was difficult to
decipher, with afterthoughts frequently scribbled in the margins.
Whenever the matter of why Reb Kasriel Dan did not bring out a
book of his own came up, he would say: "There are quite enough
books, thank the Lord, without mine. Let Jews abide by what has
been written until now."
One of his grandfather's pithy Bible interpretations occurred
to the rabbi. "It is written in Psalms that when the Messiah
comes, 'Then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice.' The ques­
tion that arises is : Why should the trees rejoice? What concern
is it of theirs? The answer is that by the time the Messiah arrives,
authors will have written so many volumes that books will supply
the necessary fuel for stoves. Thus there will no longer be any
need to burn wood, and the trees will rejoice at having been
spared . "
That was all very well, but what Shabsai Getsel had done was
so heinous that the rabbi for weeks on end was like a man
 97 ,P. The Plagiarist

obsessed. The young fellow had copied whole sections of the

rabbi's manuscripts and had them printed under his own name.
That was theft plain and simple. The rabbi could not believe that
Shabsai Getsel was capable of such behavior, and he was still
trying to think up some excuse on Getsel's behalf.
Yet the more the rabbi compared his own manuscripts with
Shabsai Getsel's printed book, the more astounded he became.
The rabbi realized that Shabsai Getsel knew himself to be safe
against exposure. He could be sure that the rabbi would not stoop
to shaming another man even though that man had sinned.
Besides, Shabsai Getsel was also the son-in-law of Reb Tevia, the
warden of the congregation, who had many relatives in Machlev.
To bring the matter into the open would c:�.use a scandal and
profanation of the Holy Name.
But what had Shabsai Get�el been thinking as he sat copying
out dozens of pages of Reb Kasriel Dan's manuscripts? Had he
imagined some kind of heavenly dispensation for himself? Or
was he, God forbid, a heretic who did not believe either in the
Creator or in his judgment?
The more Reb Kasriel Dan pondered the matter, the more
confounded he became. He grasped at his beard over and over
again. It was not his habit to talk to himself, but the words
forced themselves from his lips. He wrinkled his lofty forehead
under his skullcap, knitted his brows, grimaced as if he were in
physical pain. He paused in front of his bookcase, as though
seeking an answer in the spines of the ancient volumes.
There was, of course, the fact that no man sinned unless a
touch of madness entered his soul. On the other hand, that was
true only of sins committed on impulse in a fit of rage, even if
one went so far as to steal, or, God forbid, to commit adultery.
But to sit day in, day out, week in, week out, plagiarizing
another's works was sheer wantonness. Moreover, how did
Shabsai Getsel still dare to look Reb Kasriel Dan in the face?
 98 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

The whole thing was a riddle. Reb Kasriel Dan called out to
himself and to the world at l arge : "The End of the Days is at
hand !" Was not this event similar to those described in the Sotah
tractate when it speaks of the omens preceding the coming of the
Messiah : "In the Messiah's footsteps brazenness will grow, prices
will soar, the vine will bear fruit, but wine will be dear. Idolatry
will become heresy practiced with impunity . . . And the wis­
dom of the scribes will be dulled, while those who fear sin will
be held in contempt; the truth will be absent. Boys will mock
their elders, and the aged will rise before youth. . . ."
"Have things really gone so far?" the rabbi asked himself.
The rabbi knew he ought not to be wasting so much time on
this matter. His duty was to pray, study, and serve the Lord. This
brooding over Shabsai Getsel led only to vexation. It robbed the
rabbi of his sleep, so that he had difficulty in concentrating on his
predawn studies. He had even vented his bitterness on his wife.
He must keep the whole business hushed up. Certainly now he
would have to give up any idea of publishing his own writings,
for that would set tongues wagging and result in gossip and
accusations.
"Who knows?" thought the rabbi. "Perhaps this is heaven' s
way of preventing the publication of my works. But was this
reconcilable with the free will which is granted to all men?"
The door opened and in came Shabsai Getsel.
Outwardly there was nothing unusual in this. Shabsai Getsel
had been coming to see the rabbi for years and still acted the part
of pupil. Indeed, it was Reb Kasriel Dan who had ordained him
the year before. But now the sight of Shabsai Getsel alarmed the
rabbi.
' Til not utter a cross word, heaven forbid, nor make any
insinuations," :ft.eb Kasriel resolved. He forced himself to say,
''Welcome, Shabsai Getsel! ''
Shabsai Getsel, short, swarthy, with pitch-black eyes, black
 99 SIP The Plagiarist

eyebrows, and a little black beard, was wearing a fox coat, with
foxtails dangling from the hem; a sable hat was perched on his
head. He trod softly in his fur-lined top-boots. He applied two
fingers to the mezuzah on the doorpost and kissed it. Carefully
he removed his fur coat and woolen scarf, remaining in his
caftan.
The rabbi indicated a chair at the table for Shabsai Getsel and
seated himself in his armchair.
Reb Kasriel Dan was taller than Shabsai Getsel. From under
his white bristly eyebrows, a pair of gray eyes peered forth. He
was wearing a satin robe, breeches, half-shoes, and white knee­
length stockings. The rabbi was barely sixty years old but looked
closer to eighty. Only his gait was still firm and his gaze piercing.
Whereas Shabsai Getsel did everything with deliberation, the
rabbi moved with haste. He opened a book and promptly closed
it again. He shifted pen and ink forward and drew them back.
"Well, Shabsai Getsel, what's the news?" he inquired.
' 'I've received several letters."
"Aha!"
"Would you like to see them?"
"Yes, let's have them."
Reb Kasriel Dan knew in advance what letters these were.
Shabsai Getsel had sent copies of his book out to various rabbis,
who had written back praising his work. He was already being
addressed as "The Great Luminary," "The Living Library,"
"The Uprooter of Mountains."
The rabbis were eloquent in expressing their pleasure in his
exegeses, describing them as "deep as the sea," "sweet as honey,"
"precious as pearls and jewels."
As the rabbi read the ornate scripts, he prilyed to God to
preserve him from evil thoughts. "Well, that's fine. 'A good
name is better than precious ointment,' " he declared.
Suddenly the rabbi saw it all. He was being tempted. Heaven
 1 00 :If;'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

was testing him to see how much he could stand. One false move
and he would fall into the trap laid for him by Satan. He would
sink into hatred, sorrow, fury, and who knows what other
transgressions. There was only one thing to do : keep his lips
sealed and his brain pure. Most assuredly, Shabsai Getsel had
erred ; but he, Reb Kasriel Dan, was not the Lord of the Universe.
It was not for him to pass judgment on a fellow man. Who could
tell what went on in another's heart? Who could measure the
forces which drove flesh and blood to vanity, covetousness, folly?
Reb Kasriel Dan had long since come to understand that many
people were made half mad by their passions.
The rabbi took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped his
forehead. "What good errand brings you here?"
' 'I'd like to take a look at the responsum you wrote to the
Rabbi of Sochatchov."
Reb Kasriel Dan was about to ask whether Shabsai Getsel was
preparing another book. But he stopped himself and said : "It's in
the drawer of the commode. Wait, I'll fetch it."
And the rabbi went into the next room, where he kept his
manuscripts. He soon returned and handed Shabsai Getsel a copy
of the responsum.

2 .

Shabsai Getsel remained with the rabbi for several hours. No

sooner had he left than the rabbi's wife came in.
Reb Kasriel Dan saw at once that she was angry. She swept
into the room, the hem of her dress swishing over the floor. The
tassel on her bonnet shook. Her narrow, deeply wrinkled face
was paler than usual. Even before she reached the table at which
her husband sat, she began shrieking : "What does he want here,
that worm? Why does he spend entire days here? He is your
enemy, not a friend! Your worst enemy . . . !"
 I O I n"- The Plagiarist

Reb Kasriel Dan pushed his book away. "Why are you scream­
ing? I can't show people the door."
"He comes here to spy, the hypocrite! He wants to sit in your
chair! May he never live that long, dear Father in heaven! He's
inciting everybody against you. He's in league with all your
enemies . . . .I "
a

Reb Kasriel Dan pounded his fist on the table. "How do you
know?"
The old woman's narrow chin, sprouting a few white hairs,
began to tremble. Her bloodshot eyes, embedded in pouches,
flashed angrily. "Everybody knows, except simpletons like you!
Apart from that Talmud of yours, you're blind, you don't know
your hands from your feet. He's determined to be rabbi here.
He's produced a book and sent it out to everyone. You scribble a
whole lifetime and nothing comes of it. But he, a young man, is
already famous. Wait until they throw you out and appoint him
in your place."
"Let them! I must get on with my studies."
' Til not let you study! What comes of all your learning? You
get paid eighteen guldens a week. Other rabbis live in comfort,
while we starve. I have to knead the dough with my own crippled
hands . Your daughter does the washing, because we cannot
afford a washerwoman. Your robe is worn through. If I didn't
patch and mend every night, you'd go about in rags. And what's
to become of your son? They promised to make him your
assistant. It's two years since they promised, and not a penny has
he seen."
"Is it my fault i f they don't keep their word?"
"A proper father would do something for his child. He
wouldn't allow the matter to drag on and on. You know the
communal busybodies, you know they can' t be counted on. Let
me tell you something." The rabbi's wife changed her tone.
"They're going to appoint Shabsai Getsel as your assistant. And
 102 1/P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

when your time comes-a hundred years from now-it will be he

who steps into your shoes. As for Pessachia, he'll be left without
bread."
She uttered the last words in a hoarse shriek and clenched her
hands into tiny fists. Everything about her was aquiver: her
bonnet, her earrings, her sunken mouth, in which not a single
tooth remained, her empty double chin.
Reb Kasriel Dan watched her with grief. He pitied his son,
who for these past twenty years had not been able to find himself
a living and had to be supported by his father. Reb Kasriel Dan
was afraid that his wife was about to suffer an attack of gall­
stones-inevitably they came when she got overly excited. In­
deed, the moans that presaged the first spasms had already begun.
Reb Kasriel Dan knew full well that the town worthies had no
use for Pessachia. Pessachia did not know how to flatter the
elders. He held himself aloof. His appointment as assistant rabbi
was constantly being deferred on all manner of pretexts. But,
after all, could a man be foisted on a community against their
will?
This was, however, the first time Reb Kasriel Dan had heard
any mention of appointing Shabsai Getsel in Pessachia's place.
"Still waters run deep," he thought. "Shabsai Getsel, my pupil,
has become my deadly enemy. He wants to take everything from
me."
Involuntarily something within Reb Kasriel Dan cried out,
"He'll not live to see the day!" But he immediately remembered
that it is forbidden to curse anyone, even in thought. Aloud he
said to his wife, "Stop fuming ! We don't know whether it's true
or not. People concoct all kinds of lies."
"It's true. The whole town knows it. One hears about it
wherever one goes. Beginning next Sabbath, Shabsai Getsel is to
preach in the House of Study. He's to receive twenty guldens a
 103 ,P. The Plagiarist

week, two more than you do, just to show who's the real master
here."
Reb Kasriel Dan felt a void around his heart. "Like Absalom
rising against David," flitted through his mind. "May he share
Absalom's fate."
Reb Kasriel Dan could no longer contain his ire. He lowered
his head, his eyelids dropped. After a while he roused himself.
"Heaven's will be done!"
"Ay, while you sit with folded hands doing nothing, others are
busy. In heaven, too, you're of no importance."
"I have not deserved better."
"Old fool!"
Never had Reb Kasriel Dan heard such language from his
wife. He was sure that she would soon be sorry for what she had
said. Suddenly he heard her gulp and suppress a wail. She began
to sway as though she were about to fall. Reb Kasriel Dan
jumped up and caught her by the arms. She trembled and
moaned. He half walked, half carried her to a bench. In his
alarm he called for help.
The door opened, and in ran Teltsa Mindel, the rabbi's
divorced daughter. Teltsa Mindel's husband had turned Hassid
and gone to live at the court of the Wonder Rebbe of Belz, from
where he had sent her a bill of divorcement. When Shabsai
Getsel, as a yeshiva student and orphan, first came to board and
study with Reb Kasriel Dan, the townsfolk assumed he would
marry Teltsa Mindel, despite the fact that she was several years
his elder. Reb Kasriel Dan himself had favored the match.
But Shabsai Getsel had instead become betrothed to the daugh­
ter of Reb Tevia, a rich man and leader in the community. Reb
Kasriel Dan had borne his pupil no grudge. He had officiated at
the wedding. When the rabbi's wife had railed against Shabsai
Getsel, calling him a hypocrite and a wolf in sheep's clothing, the
 1 04 � I S A A C B A S HE V I S S I N GE R

rabbi had scolded her and reminded her that matches were made
in heaven.
The incident of the book and now Shabsai Getsel' s attempt to
take Pessachia's place as assistant rabbi could not be forgiven so
easily. Reb Kasriel Dan shot a quick glance at his daughter and
ordered : "Put your mother to bed. Heat up a warming pan. Call
Feitel the leech."
"Don't drag me! I'm not dead yet!" cried his wife. "Woe is
me! Alas and woe for all that has come upon me!"
Reb Kasriel Dan again looked toward his daughter. It seemed
such a short time since she had been a little girl, since Reb Kasriel
Dan played with her, seated her on his knees and rocked her up
and down on an imaginary "coach ride . " Now there stood before
him a woman with a grubby kerchief on her head, misshapen
slippers on her feet, and a soiled apron. She was short like her
mother, had yellow eyebrows and freckles. There was a silent
dejection in her pale blue eyes, the misery of an abandoned
woman. She was getting fat. She looked older than her age.
Reb Kasriel Dan had had little joy in his children. Several had
d ied in infancy. He had lost a grown son and a daughter.
Pessachia had been a boy prodigy, but after his marriage he had
grown taciturn. It was impossible to get a word out of him. He
slept by day and stayed awake at night. Pessachia had immersed
himself in the Cabala.
Was it any wonder that the community rejected him? Now­
adays a rabbi needed to be businesslike, to know how to keep
accounts and even speak a little Russian. Reports had reached Reb
Kasriel Dan that rabbis in the big towns themselves dealt with
the authorities and went to Lublin to see the governor. They
enjoyed the hospitality of the wealthy. One rabbi had actually
published an appeal to Jews calling on them to settle in colonies
in the Land of Israel, where they would speak Hebrew every day,
not just on the Sabbath. Conferences were being called, news-
 1 0 5 � The Plagiarist

papers were being read. Machlev was a blind alley, cut off from
the world.
Just the same, why should Shabsai Getsel, who had a rich
father-in-law, take away a poor man's living?
Mother and daughter, taking tiny steps, made their way out of
the room. Reb Kasriel Dan began to pace back and forth. "The
wicked haven't taken over yet," he murmured to himself. "There
is a Creator. There is Providence. The Torah is still the
Torah . . . . "
Reb Kasriel Dan's thoughts reverted to Shabsai Getsel's book.
As a result of his plagiarism, the only thing for the rabbi to do
with his own works was put them out of reach once and for all.
Otherwise they would be found after his death and Shabsai
Getsel would be discovered and shamed, or it could even happen
that Reb Kasriel Dan would be suspected of plagiarizing from
the younger man. But where could he hide the manuscripts so
that they would not be found? The only thing to do was to burn
them.
Reb Kasriel Dan glanced at the stove. After all, what differ­
ence did it make who the author was? The main thing was that
the commentaries were published and would be studied. In
heaven the truth was known.

3.

The rabbi lay in bed all night without closing an eye. He recited
"Hear, 0_ Israel" and then pronounced the blessing "Causing
sleep to descend," after which one is not supposed to utter a
word. But sleep would not come.
Reb Kasriel Dan knew what his duty was. The Biblical
injunction stated, "Thou shalt rebuke thy neighbor and not suf­
fer sin upon him." He should summon Shabsai Getsel and bring
his grievances out into the open. What would be the use? Reb
 106 � ISAAC BASHEVJS SINGER

Kasriel Dan could already hear the other's slippery excuses. He

would play the innocent, shrug his shoulders, insist he was being
pressed by the congregation to accept the office. As for the manu­
scripts, the rabbi no longer possessed them. They had all gone up
in smoke. Reb Kasriel Dan tossed from side to side. He either
froze under the eiderdown or became flushed with heat. When he
was not thirsty, he felt the need to urinate. He had put on fresh
underwear, yet he itched. His pillow and mattress, although
made of down, were as hard to his head and back as though
someone had placed stones in the bedding.
Frenzied thoughts came to him of the sort that jeopardized his
chances in the hereafter. Who knows? Perhaps the heretics were
right, perhaps neither Judge nor Judgment existed . . . Maybe
heaven, too, sided with the strong. Was it not written in the
Talmud that "he who is stronger, to him shall victory go . . . "
Maybe that was why the Jews suffered exile, because they were
the feeblest among the nations. Maybe the slaughter of beasts
was permitted simply because man was clever enough to wield a
knife. It might even be that the strong sat in paradise while the
weak fried in hell . . . "

''I'm headed for perdition," Reb Kasriel warned himself. He

placed his hand on his forehead. " Father in heaven, save me
. . . I'm sinking, God forbid, into the infernal depths . . . "
The rabbi sat up so abruptly that the boards under his mattress
creaked. "Why do I lie here allowing the evil spirits to tear me to
pieces? There's only one remedy-the Torah! "
The rabbi dressed hastily. He l i t a lamp and entered h i s study.
Shadows wavered on the wall, on the cross-beams. Though the
stove was stoked up, Reb Kasriel Dan's teeth chattered with cold.
Normally, on rising before dawn, he would light the samovar
and brew tea; but now he did not have the energy to fill it with
coals and pour water into it. He opened a book, but the letters
 107 1tP The Plagiarist

danced giddily before his eyes. They darted about, played leap­
frog with one another, changed color.
"Am I going blind, heaven forbid?" Reb Kasriel Dan asked
himself. "Or perhaps the end has come. Well, so much the
better. It seems that I have lost the power to control my
will . . . "
Reb Kasriel Dan's head slowly dropped down on his book and
he drowsed off. He apparently slept several hours, for when he
awoke, the gray of daylight lined the cracks in the shutters. Snow
was falling outside.
"What have I been dreaming?" the rabbi asked himself.
"Shouting and yelling and the ringing of bells. A fire, a funeral,
slaughter, all at one and the same time . . . . " The cold ran
along his spine. His legs had grown stiff. He wanted to wash his
hands and say the morning prayers, but he was unable to rise to
his feet.
The door opened slowly and Pessachia came in, a little fellow
with a gray face, wide-set eyes almost devoid of eyebrows, a
roundish l ittle beard that was usually yellow but on this wintry
morning looked like gray cotton wool. Pessachia did not walk but
shuffled in his slippers. His caftan was unbuttoned, revealing the
long, ritual fringes and shabby trousers tied with tape. His shirt
was wide open at the neck, and his skullcap was covered with bits
of feather down.
"What do you want?" the rabbi asked.
Pessachia did not reply immediately. His yellow eyes blinked
and his lips twitched like those of a stutterer. "Father!"
"What's the matter?"
"Shabsai Getsel is ill . . . very ill . . . Collapsed . . . He
needs mercy . . ."

Reb Kasriel Dan felt a pang all the way from his throat to his
intestines. "What's wrong with him?"
 108 � I SA A C BASHEVIS SINGER

"They called the doctor . . . They don't know . His wife

has come to ask you to pray for him . . . "

"What value have my prayers? Well, leave me!"

"Father, his mother's name was Fruma Zlata . . "
"Very well . . . "
Pessachia went out. The rabbi noticed that his son was limp­
ing. "What's happened to him," Reb Kasriel Dan wondered.
"He doesn't look well, either."
Reb Kasriel Dan closed his eyes. The reason for Shabsai
Getsel's sickness was clear enough. The rabbi's involuntary curse
was to blame. A verse from the Book of Proverbs came to his
mind : "Also to punish the just is not good." According to the
commentaries the real meaning of it i s : "Nor is it proper for the
righteous to mete out punishment." Even calling himself right­
eous in his thoughts made the rabbi feel ashamed. "I, a right­
eous man? A man with evil power like Balaam the Wicked!"
The rabbi began praying for Shabsai Getsel : "Lord of the
Universe, send him perfect healing . . . I have done much
harm, but I do not wish to be a murderer . . . I forgive him
everything, absolutely and forever."
The rabbi rose and took a Psalter from the bookcase. He
located the Psalm of intercession for the sick : "Happy is he who
comprehends the feeble . . . " It was time for the morning
prayers but the rabbi continued his argument with Providence : " I
h ave no strength left for all these upsets. If I cannot have peace
in my old age, then better take me . . . "
For several days Shabsai Getsel contended with the Angel of
Death. At times it looked as though he were improving but then
he would have another relapse. A doctor came from Zamosc. The
sick man was treated with cups and leeches. He was rubbed with
alcohol and turpentine. His mother-in-law and his wife visited
the graveyard to invoke the aid of dead ancestors. Candles were
 1 09 � The Plagiarist

lit in the House of Study. The doors of the Holy Ark were flung
wide open. Schoolchildren were made to recite the Psalms.
Reb Kasriel Dan went to visit his sick disciple. He passed
through a corridor and a drawing room, entered a carpeted
bedroom with curtained windows. On a chair stood bottles of
medicine. The rabbi saw an orange, cookies, and sweets. Shabsai
Getsel's face was livid. He murmured something, and his little
beard moved up and down as though he were chewing. A pointed
Adam's apple protruded from his throat. His brow was knotted as
though he were considering a difficult problem.
Reb Kasriel Dan bowed his head low. This is what happens to
flesh and blood. Aloud he said : "Shabsai Getsel, get we1 1 ! You
are needed here, you are needed . . . "
Shabsai Getsel opened one eye. "Rabbi ! "
"Yes, Shabsai Getsel . I pray for you day and night."
It seemed as though Shabsai Getsel wished to say something,
but nothing came out except a gurgling sound. After a while he
closed his eyes again. The rabbi murmured : "Be healed! In the
name of the Torah . . . " Yet all the time he knew, with a
certainty that was beyond his understanding, that Shabsai Getsel
would never rise from his sickbed.
He died that same night and the funeral was held in the
morning. In the House of Study the rabbi spoke the eulogy. Reb
Kasriel Dan had never wept when delivering a funeral oration,
but this time he covered his face with his handkerchief. He
choked over his words. Shabsai Getsel's father-in-law demanded
that a copy of his son-in-law's book be placed on the bier; and
thus they bore him away to the cemetery. Shabsai Getsel had left
no children; the rabbi recited the first Kaddish for him.
A few days later the congregation appointed Pessachia as­
sistant rabbi. They drank brandy, ate honey cake. Pessachia wore
a new caftan, new shoes, a skullcap without feather down on it.
 I I O ;ip. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

He promised to fulfill all his rabbinical duties and to help his

father lead the congregation. The elders wished him luck.
A few weeks went by. The rabbi remained secluded during the
day, delegating the handling of all ritual questions and law cases
to his son. He even stopped going to the House of Study to pray.
As a rule, he ate one meal a day, gruel, bread, meat. Now he left
his food almost untouched. On the Sabbath he sang no hymns.
He no longer prepared the samovar at night. The household
would hear the rabbi striding about in the dark, sighing and
talking to himself. His face grew yellow and his beard shriveled.
All at once Reb Kasriel Dan announced that he was giving up
his position as rabbi. He requested the community to appoint Reb
Pessachia in his place. He stated that he had sinned and must go
into exile to do penance.
The weeping of his wife was of no avail. Reb Kasriel Dan
took off his satin robe and round rabbinical fur hat. He put on a
shaggy long coat and peaked cap of cloth. He said farewell to his
wife, to Teltsa Mindel, to Reb Pessachia, to the townfolk. A
wagoner gave him a lift to Lublin.
As the rabbi sat in the wagon, a young man noted for his
insolence dared to ask him what sin he had committed. And the
rabbi answered : "The Commandment 'Thou shalt not kill' in­
cludes all sins."
Traniiated by J. M. Lask and Elizabeth Shub
 Zeitl
and
Rickel

I often hear people say, "This cannot happen, that cannot be,
nobody has ever heard of such a thing, impossible." Nonsense!
If something is destined to happen, it does. My grandmother
used to say : "If the devil wants to, he can make two walls come
together. If it is written that a rabbi will fall off a roof, he will
become a chimney sweep. " The Gentiles have a proverb : "He
who must hang will not drown."
Take this thing that happened in our own town. If anybody
told me about it, I'd say he was a liar. But I knew them both, may
they intercede for us in heaven. They've surely served their
punishment by now. The older one was called Zeitl; the younger
one, Rickel.

III
 I I2 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Zeitl's father, Reb Yisroel Bendiner, was already an old man

of eighty when I knew him. He had buried three wives, and Zeit!
was the daughter of the third. I don't know whether he had any
children with the others. He was in his late fi fties when he came
to live in our town. He married a young girl, who died, may God
preserve us, in childbirth. Zeitl was taken out of her with pincers.
Reb Yisroel's father-in-law had left his daughter a large brick
building in the marketplace, with thirteen stores, and Reb
Yisroel inherited it.
Strange stories were told in town about Reb Yisroel. There had
once lived in Poland a false Messiah, Jacob Frank ; he had con­
verted many Jews. After he died, a sect remained. He had a
daughter somewhere, and barrels full of gold were sent to her.
These people pretended to live like other Jews, but at night they
would gather in secret and read forbidden parchments.
Reb Yisrocl dressed like a rabbi, in a velvet caftan, a round
rabbinical hat, slippers, and white socks. He was forever writing
something, standing before a high desk, and people said that
Zeit! copied all his manuscripts. He had a wide beard, white as
snow, and a high forehead. When he looked at anyone, it seemed
as though he saw right through him. Zeit! taught the daughters
of rich families to read and write. I was one of her pupils.
It was said of the members of the sect that they liked loose
women and secretly practiced all sorts of abominations. But with
whom could Reb Yisroel have sinned in our town?
Zeit! got married, but six months later she was divorced. Her
husband had come from Galicia, and people whispered that he
was one of "the clan " ; that was how our townsmen called the
sect. Nobody knew why the marriage had come to such a quick
end. Everything in Reb Yisroel's house was veiled in secrecy. He
had trunks hung with double locks. He had large cases full of
books. He came to prayer only on the Sabbath, at the cold
synagogue. He seldom exchanged a word with anyone. When the
 I I 3 :IP. Zeitl and Rickel

storekeepers came to pay their rent, h e would put the money into
his pocket without counting it.
In those years it was unheard of that groceries should be
delivered to anyone at home. The richest women went to market
with baskets to do their own shopping . But Zeit! had everything
sent to her from the stores : bread, rolls, butter, eggs, cheese,
meat. Once a month she received a bill, as though she were living
in Warsaw. She had aristocratic ways.
I remember her as if it were yesterday : tall, dark, with a
narrow face and black hair braided like a round Sabbath
bread. Imagine, in those years-and she did not shave her hair.
When she went out, she wore a kerchief. But when was she seen
in the street? Reb Yisroel had a balcony upstairs, looking out
upon the church garden, and Zeit! would sit there on summer
evenings, getting fresh air.
She would give us girls dictation twice a week, not from a
lettc:r book but from her head : "My most esteemed betrothed!
To start with, I wish to let you know that I am in good health,
pray God that I may hear the same from you. Secondly . . . . "
Zeit! also knew Polish and German. Her eyes were wild, huge as
a calf's, and filled with melancholy. But suddenly she would
burst into such loud laughter that all the rooms would echo with
it. In the middle of the year she might take a fancy to bake matzo
pancakes. She was fond of asking us riddles and of telling tales
that made our hair stand on end.
And now about Rickel. Rickel's father was the town·s ritual
slaughterer, Reb Todie. All sl aughterers are pious men, but Reb
Todie had the reputation of a saint. Yet he had bad luck. His son
had gone one day to the ritual bath and was found drowned. He
must have gotten a cramp. One of his daughters died in an
epidemic. A few years later strange noises began to be heard in
his house. Something knocked, and no one knew what or where.
Something would give a bang so that the walls would shake. The
 II4 � I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

whole town came running, even the Gentiles. They searched the
attic, the cellar, every corner.
A regiment of soldiers was stationed in our town. The colo­
nel's name was Semiatitsky. He was supposed to have descended
from converted Jews. He had a red beard and cracked jokes till
your sides would split with laughter. When Semiatitsky heard
that a demon was banging in Todie's house, he brought a platoon
of soldiers and commanded them to look into every crack and
every hole. He did not believe in devils; he called them nothing
but old wives' tales. He ordered everybody out and Cossacks stood
guard with whips, allowing nobody to come near. But suddenly
there was a crash that nearly brought the roof down.
I was not there, but people said that Semiatitsky called to the
unholy one to tell his name and what he wanted and that the
spirit gave one knock for yes, and two knocks for no.
Every man has enemies, especially if he has a job with the
community, and people began to say that Todie should be dis­
missed as a slaughterer. It was whispered that he had slaughtered
an ox with a blemished knife. Reb Todie's wife took it so hard
that she died.
Rickel was small, thin, with red hair and freckles. When her
father slaughtered fowl, she would pluck the feathers and do
other small chores. When the knocking began, suspicion fell on
Rickel. Some people said that she was doing it. But how could
she? And why? It was said that when she went away for the night
the knocking stopped. There's no limit to what evil tongues can
invent. One night there was such a loud bang that three windows
were shattered. Before that, the devil had not touched the win­
dows. This was the last time. From then on, it was quiet again.
But Reb Todie was already without his job, and he became a
teacher of beginners. The family had gone through Rickel's
dowry and she was now affianced to a yeshiva student from
 I I 5 � Zeit! and Rickel

Krashnik, a lame young man. He was a Hassid, and soon after

the wedding he went on a pilgrimage to his rabbi. At first he
would come home for Passover and the High Holy Days. After­
wards he disappeared altogether. Rickel became an abandoned
wife. Her father had died in the meantime and all she had left
was the old house-little more than a ruin.
What could a husbandless wife do? She went around, teaching
girls how to pray. She took in sewing and mending. On Purim
she carried presents of holiday delicacies for wealthy families. On
Passover she would become a sort of women's beadle and deliver
gifts of herbs. When a woman was sick and someone was needed
to watch at the bedside, Rickel was called. She learned how to
cup and bleed the sick. She did not shave her head but wore a
kerchief. She read many storybooks and loved to invent wild and
improbable tales.
Old maids, you know, also end up half crazy. But when a
woman who has had a man is left alone, it goes to her head.
Rickel might have found her husband if she had had the money
to send a messenger to look for him, but Todie left her without a
groschen. Why did her husband forsake her? Who can tell?
There are such men. They get married and then they tire of it.
They wander away and nobody knows where their bones have
come to rest.

2 .

I do not know exactly how Zeit! and Rickel got together. It seems
that Reb Yisroel fell ill and Rickel came to rub him down with
turpentine. People said he had cast an eye on her, but I don't
believe it. He was already more dead than alive. He died soon
afterwards, and both girls, Zeit! and Rickel, were left alone in
the world. At .first people thought that Rickel had stayed on with
 u6 1/P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Zeitl as a servant. But if Zeitl had never had a servant before,

why would she need one now?
While Reb Yisroel was alive, few matchmakers came to Zeitl
with offers. They knew that Reb Yisroel wanted his daughter for
himself. There are such fathers, even among Jews. She waited on
him hand and foot. If his pipe went out, she would bring him an
ember to relight it. I don't know why, but he never went to the
bath, and it was whispered that Zeitl bathed him in a wooden
bathtub. I've never seen it, but those false believers are capable of
anything. To them, a sin is a virtue.
Anyway, Reb Yisroel gave the matchmakers such a reception
that they forswore repeating their visits to the tenth generation.
But as soon as Zeitl was alone, they were back at her doorstep.
She sent them off with all sorts of excuses : later, tomorrow, it's
not yet time. She had a habit, whenever she spoke to anyone, of
looking over his head. Rickel had moved in with her, and now
whenever anyone knocked, she would answer from behind the
door chain : Zeitl is out, she is asleep, she is reading.
How long could the matchmakers keep coming? Nobody is
dragged to the wedding canopy by force. But in a small town
people have time, and they talk. No matter how you may try to
keep away from strangers' eyes, you can't hide everything.
It was said that Zeitl and Rickel ate together, drank together,
slept together. Rickel wore Zeitl's dresses, shortened and made
smaller to fit her. Rickel became the cashier, and she paid the
bills sent by the storekeepers. She also collected the rents. In the
daytime the two girls seldom went out together, but on summer
evenings they went strolling down Church Street, along the
avenues leading to the woods. Zeitl's arm would be around
Rickel's shoulders, and Rickel's around Zeitl's waist. They were
absorbed in their talk. When people said good evening, they did
not hear. Where did two women find so much to talk about? Some
people tried to follow them and listen in, but they were whisper-
 I I 7 1<P Zeit/ and Rickel

ing, as though they had secrets between them. They would walk
all the way to the mill or the woods.
Rumors were brought to Reb Eisele, our rabbi, but he said :
"There is no law to keep two women from walking to the mill."
Reb Eisele was a Misnagid, a Lithuanian, and they have a law
for everything : either it is permitted or it's a sin.
But the talk would not die down. Naftali, the night watch­
man, had seen Zeit! and Rickel kissing each other on the mouth.
They had stopped by the sawmill, near the log pile, and em­
braced like a loving couple. Zeit! called Rickel dove, and Rickel
called her kitten. At first nobody believed Naftali; he was fond
of a drop and could bring you tales of a fair up in heaven. Still,
where there's smoke, there must be fire. My dear folks, the two
girls seemed so much in love that all the tongues in town started
wagging. The Tempter can make anybody crazy in his own way.
Something flips in your head, and everything turns upside down.
I heard talk of a lady in Krasnostaw who made love with a
stallion. At the time of the Flood, even beasts paired themselves
with other kinds. I read about it in the Women's Bible.
People went to Reb Eisele, but he insisted : "There is nothing
in the Torah to forbid it. The ban applies only to men. Besides,
since there are no witnesses, it is forbidden to spread rumors."
Nevertheless, he sent the beadle for them. Rickel came alone and
denied everything. She had a whittled tongue, that girl. Reb
Eisele said to her : "Go home and don't worry about it. It is the
slanderers who will be punished, not you. It is better to burn in a
lime pit than to put another to shame."
I forgot to mention that Zeitl had stopped teaching the girls
how to write.
I was still very young at that time, but something of all that
talk had reached me too. You can't keep everything from a
child's ears. Zeit! and Rickel, it was said, were studying Reb
Yisroel's books together. Their lamp burned until late at night.
 II8 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Those who passed their bedroom window saw shadows moving

this way and that behind the drapes, and corning together as in a
dance. Who knows what went on there?

Now listen to a story.

One summer it turned terribly hot. I've lived through many a
swnrner, but I don't remember such heat. Right in the morning
the sun began to burn like fire. Not only men but even girls and
older women would go down to the river to bathe. When the sun
blazes, the water gets warm. My mother, may she plead for us,
took me along.
This was the first time I bathed in the river. Men went into the
water naked, but the girls wore their shifts. The roughnecks carne
running to peep at them, and it was impossible to drive them off.
Each time there'd be a squealing and a panic. One woman started
drowning. Another screamed that a frog had bitten her. I bathed
and even tried to swim until I was so tired that I lay down among
the bushes near the bank to rest. I thought I'd cool off in the
shade and go horne, but a strange sleep carne over me. Not just
sleep; may heaven preserve us, it was more like death. I put my
head down and remained there like a rock. A darkness seemed to
fall over me and I sank into it. I must have slept for many
hours.
When I awakened, it was night. There was no moon. The sky
was cloudy. I lay there and did not know where I was or who I
was. I felt the grass around me, moist with dew, but I did not
remember that I was on the outskirts of town. I touched myself; I
had nothing on but my shift. I wanted to cry, to call for help,
when suddenly I heard voices. I thought of demons and was
terror-stricken, yet I tried to hear what they were saying. Two
women were speaking, and their voices seemed familiar.
I heard one ask : "Must we go through hell?"
The other answered : "Yes, my soul, but even going through
 I I 9 1/P Zeit/ and Rickel

hell together with you will be a delight. God is merciful. The

punishment never lasts more than twelve months. We shall be
purified and enter paradise. Since we have no husbands, we shall
be no one's footstools. We shall bathe in balsam and eat of the
leviathan. We shall have wings and fly like birds . . . . "

I cannot recall all their talk. I gasped. I knew who they were
now : the questioner was Rickel, and Zeit! gave the answers. I
heard Zeit! say: "We shall meet our fathers and mothers there,
and our grandparents, and all the generations : Abraham and
Isaac, Jacob and Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, Zilpah, Abigail, Bath·
sheba. . . . " She spoke as though she had just come from there,
and every word was like a pearl. I forgot that I was half naked
and alone out late at night.
Zeit! went on : "Father is waiting for us. He comes to me i n
dreams. H e is together with your mother." Rickel asked : "Did
they get married there?" And Zeit! answered : "Yes. We shall get
married up there too. In heaven there is no difference between
men and women. . . . "

It must have been past midnight. There was a flash of light·

ning, and I saw my clothing, shoes, and stockings on the grass
nearby. I caught a glimpse of them too. They sat by the river i n
nothing but their shifts, their hair down, pale as death. If I did
not die of fright that night, I'll never die.
"And then? "
Wait a minute. I came home in t h e middle of the night, but
my mother had left earlier in the evening for the fair; she was a
storekeeper. My father was spending the night at the study house.
I slipped into bed, and when I woke next morning, the whole
thing seemed like a dream. I was ashamed to tell anyone about it.
However, as the saying goes, heaven and earth conspired that
there should be no secrets.
People began to say that Zeit! and Rickel were fasting. They
would eat nothing all day and merely take a bite at night. We
 1 20 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

had pious women in town who would climb up the stairs into the
women's section of the synagogue at dawn to pray. Every Mon­
day and Thursday they went to visit graves in the cemetery.
Suddenly we heard that Zeitl and Rickel had joined the pious
company in lamentations and penitential prayers. They had
shaved their heads and put on bonnets, as though they had just
gotten married. They omitted no line or word, and wept as on the
Day of the Destruction of the Temple. They also visited the
cemetery, prostrating themselves on Reb Yisroel's grave and
wailing.
People ran to Reb Eisele again, but the rabbi sent them off
with a scolding. If Jewish daughters wanted to do penance, he
said, was that wrong too? He was fond of poring over his books,
but the affairs of the town meant little to him. He was later
dismissed, but that's another story.
There are busybodies everywhere, and they took the matter to
the colonel. But he said, "Leave me out of your Jewish squabbles.
I have trouble enough with my soldiers." Cossacks are good
soldiers, but sometimes they got letters from home that their
wives were carrying on with other men and they went wild. More
than one Cossack would go galloping off on his horse, slashing
away with his sword right and left. After they had served their
five-year terms, they would come into the stores to buy presents
for their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, the whole
family. The shopkeeper would ask, "And what will you get for
your wife, Nikita?" "A horsewhip," he would say. They'd go
back to their steppes on the Don and find bastards at home.
They'd chop off the wife's head and be sent to Siberia for hard
labor . . . .
Where was I ? Oh, yes, penance. Zeit! and Rickel clung to each
other and spoke only of the next world. They bought up all the
books from every peddler passing through town. Whenever a
preacher came, they questioned him : How long was the punish-
 1 2 1 ne- Zeit! and Rickel

ment inflicted on transgressors after death? How many hells were

there? Who meted out the penalties? Who did the whipping?
With what kind of rods? Iron? Copper? The wags had plenty to
joke about.
We had many visiting preachers, but one, Reb Yuzel, was
famous. Whenever he went up to the lectern, it was like the Day
of Atonement all over again. When he painted a picture of hell,
everybody shuddered. People said that it was dangerous for
pregnant women to hear him; several had had miscarriages after
his sermons. But that's how it is : when you must not do a thing,
you're sure to do it. When Reb Yuzel preached, the synagogue
was full. The railing closing off the women's section was almost
bursting with the crush. He had a voice that reached i nto every
corner. Every word cut like a knife.
The last time he came, I also ran to hear him. There was not
one hell, he said, but seven, and the flames in each were sixty
times hotter than in the last. There was a man in our town, Alterl
Kozlover. He had a screw loose, and he figured out that the
seventh hell was myriads of times hotter than the first. Men cried
like babies. Women screamed and wailed.
Zeitl and Rickel were also there. They had entered among the
men and stood on a bench, wrapped in their shawls. Ordinar­
ily, women are admitted in the men's section only on the Festival
of Rejoicing in the Law. But when the women's section was too
crowded, some women were allowed into the antechamber, and
from there they'd move inside.
Reb Yuzel handed out punishment to everybody, but the worst
of his wrath was reserved for the women. He described how they
were hung by the breasts and by the hair; how the imps laid them
out on boards of nails and tore pieces from them. From fiery
coals they were thrown into snow, and from the snow back onto
heaps of coals. Before they were admitted to hell, they were first
tortured in the Sling, by devils, imps and evil spirits. It made your
 1 2 2 ns- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

hair stand on end to hear him. I was still a young girl, but I
began to sob and choke. I glanced at Zeit! and Rickel : they did
not cry, but their eyes were twice as big as usual, and their faces
were like chalk. A madness seemed to stare out of them, and I
had a feeling that they would come to a terrible end.
On the next day Reb Yuzel preached again, but I had had
enough. Someone said later that Zeit! had come up to him after
the sermon and invited him to be her guest. Many people asked
him to their homes, but he went with Zeit!. Nobody knows what
they spoke about. I don't remember whether he had stayed there
for the night. Probably not; how could a man remain with two
women? Although it's true the Lithuanians have an argument for
everything. They interpret the Law as they like. That's why they
are nicknamed "heathens. " My grandfather, may he intercede for
us, used to tell of a Lithuanian Jew from Belaya Tserkov who
had married a Gentile woman and had gone on studying the
Talmud.
After Reb Yuzel left, the town was quiet again. By then the
summer was over.
One winter night, long after all the shutters had been closed,
we heard a wild outcry. People ran out in panic. They thought the
peasants had attacked. The moon was bright, and we saw a
strange sight-Five! the butcher carrying Rickel in his arms. She
screamed and struggled and tried to scratch his eyes out. He was a
giant of a man and he brought her straight into the rabbi's
j udgment chamber. Reb Eisele sat up late, studying and drinking
tea from a samovar. Everybody shouted, and Rickel kept fighting
to break away and run out. It took two men to hold her. The
rabbi began to question her.
I was there myself. Ordinarily I went to bed early, but that
night we had been chopping cabbage and all the girls had
gathered at our house. This was the custom in our town. We
chopped cabbage for pickling in barrels, and everybody ate bread
 123 � Zeit/ and Rickel

with cracklings and told stories. One day the girls would gather
in one house, the next in another. Sometimes they'd break into a
dance in pairs. I had a sister-in-law who could play all the dances
on a comb : a Scissor Dance, a Quarrel Dance, a Good Day.
When we heard the uproar, we all ran out.
At first Rickel would not say anything. She merely screamed to
be allowed to go. But Fivel testified that she had wanted to throw
herself into the well. He had caught her when she had already
flung her leg over the edge.
"How did it come into your head to do such a thing?" the
rabbi asked, and Rickel answered : "I am sick of this world. I
want to know what goes on in the next." The rabbi argued :
"Those who lay their hands upon themselves do not share the
rewards of the next world." But Rickel said : "Hell is also for
people, not for goats." She screamed : "I want to go to my mother
and my father, my grandmother and grandfather. I don't want to
keep wandering in this vale of tears." Those were her words. It
was clear at once that she had learned all this from Zeitl, because
the other knew the texts printed in small letters too. Somebody
a�ked : "Where is Zeitl? " And Rickel answered : "She is all right,
she is already up there. . . . " My dear folks, Zeitl had thrown
herself into the well a moment earlier. She had gone first.
Half the town came running. Torches were lit, and we went to
the well. Zeitl lay with her head in the water, her feet up. A
ladder was lowered, and she was dragged up, dead.
Rickel had to be watched, and the men of the burial society
took her to the poorhouse. She was turned over to the caretaker,
who was told to keep an eye on her. Zeitl was later buried outside
the fence. Rickel pretended that she had come to her senses and
regretted her deed. But the next day at dawn, when everybody
was asleep, she rose from the bundle of straw and went to the
river. It was frozen, but she must have broken the ice with a
stone. It was only in the afternoon that people realized she was
 1 24 ,P. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

gone. They found her footprints in the snow and ran down to the
river. Rickel had followed Zeit!. She was buried near the other
one, without a mound, without as much as a board to mark the
place.
The burgomaster locked and sealed Zeitl's house, but later on,
a letter she had written was discovered. She explained why she
was leaving the world : she wanted to know what went on in the
hereafter.
Who can tell what goes on in another's head? A person gets
hold of some melancholy notion and it grows like a mushroom.
Zeit! was the leader, and Rickel drank in every word she said.
Forty years have gone by since their deaths, and they have
probably suffered their allotted share.
As long as I was in the town, Reb Yisroel's house was boarded
up and nobody moved into it. People saw lights flickering in the
windows. A man said that he was passing by at night and heard
Zeit! speak and Rickel answer. They kissed, laughed, cried. Lost
souls remain on earth and do not even know they don't be­
long. . . .
I was told that an officer had later moved into the house. One
morning he was found hanged.
A house is not simply a pile of logs and boards. Whoever lives
there leaves something behind. A few years later the whole
marketplace burned down. Thank God for fires. If it were not
for them, the stench that would accumulate would reach high
heaven . . . .
Translated by Mirra Ginsburg
 The
Warehouse

In a warehouse in heaven, a number of naked souls stood around

waiting for the issuance of their new bodies. Bagdial, the angel
in charge of such goods, was a trifle late that morning. To be
precise, Bagdial handed out a card entitling the spirit to receive a
body but did not hand out the body itself. In heaven there is as
much red tape as on earth, the dignitaries finding it necessary to
make work to keep unemployed angels busy. But angels who
have got used to an easy life resent having to do anything too
strenuous.
It was now ten o'clock in the morning. The angelic choirs had
long since finished chanting their lauds. The righteous in para­
dise had already had their second helping of leviathan. The

125
 126 � I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

wicked, lying on their fiery beds in hell, had just been turned
onto their other side. But in the commissariat not a single card
had been issued. Finally Bagdial, a corpulent angel whose wings
were not sufficiently large to conceal either his massive legs or
his navel, entered and, without even bothering to say good
morning, shouted, "Cut out that shoving. There are enough
bodies for all. The day's still young. When your number is called,
step forward. In the meantime, shut up." Bagdial headed for his
private office. 'Til be back in a minute."
"The morning's almost over, but he must see to his private
business," an impatient soul muttered. "According to regula­
tions, work is supposed to begin promptly with the cock's crow."
"Stop that grumbling. If you don't like what goes on here,
report me to the Lord Malbushial. You keep your right of appeal
until your departure."
"No, Bagdial, we're more than satisfied," a number of humble
souls called out.
"I will return soon."
As Bagdial shut the door of his office, one of the souls
remarked, "An absolutely worthless caterpillar. In the old days
that sort of angel was kicked out of heaven and exiled to earth to
consort with the daughters of Adam. Some were changed into
devils and imps. Now, since they have organized, they do as they
please. It almost seems that God Himself is afraid of them."
"How can God be afraid of one of His own creations?"
The soul of one who had once been a philosopher tugged at its
spiritual beard. "That's one of the ancient problems. My opinion
is that though God is very powerful, He is not omnipotent. He
can destroy a world or two if He has a tantrum, but not the
entire cosmos. Omnipotence would mean He could destroy Him­
self and leave the universe godless, an obvious contradiction.
Although I've roasted in Gehenna for a full year, it's made me
no wiser. I still concur with Aristotle that the world had no
 1 27 14:"- The Warehouse

beginning. The notion that the world was created from nothing
is repugnant to reason."
"I am no scholar, just an ordinary woman," another soul said,
"but it's obvious to me that there's no order here. Thirty-one
years ago I was exiled to earth from the Throne of Glory, where I
used to polish one of the legs, and imprisoned in a beautiful
body. Why they sent me to earth I did not understand until
today. People say it's men who are the lecherous ones; my lust
was more powerful than that of any ten men. My mother baked
delicious pretzels with caraway seeds which the yeshiva boys
loved, but they liked me even better. She warned me against men,
but already when I was nine I could think of nothing else. I saw
two dogs coupling once and after that. . . ."
"All right, we catch on. You became a whore."
"Not right away."
"How long did you fry in Gehenna?"
"An entire year."
"Well, you got off easy. There are lots of whores that they
sling into the desert. When they get to Gehenna, they think it's
paradise. What did they do to you?"
' 'The usual. I was hung by my breasts, hurled from fire into
ice, and from ice into fire, and so on, except, of course, Sabbaths
and holidays."
"You were lucky not to have to remain in the vale of tears
longer," another soul remarked. "I lived there for eighty-nine
years three months five days two hours and eight minutes."
"Were you also a whore?"
"No, a man."
"That's what I'd like to be. If I have to be dressed in blood
and flesh, let it be male."
"What's so wonderful about being a man?"
"You are not a female."
"So I became a miser. A woman of pleasure has at least some
 1 28 ;lp ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

pleasure. My sack of bones could do nothing but gather money. I

got married but never gave my wife enough for the household
and accused her of being a spendthrift. You don't need me to tell
you that women hate a tightwad. All females are wasteful. My
wife was always cooking twice the porridge we could eat. There
was always a pot of spoiling food in our larder. We had so much
schmaltz it turned rancid. Our flour became moldy. The Angel of
Good pleaded with me: 'Let her have her will. She enjoys it. Why
quarrel?' But my bag of money obsessed me."
"Was she any good in bed?"
"Even there I was stingy. Those who hoard money hoard
everything. The upshot of it was that she ran off with a
shoemaker."
"I would have done it, too."
"After that happened, I was afraid to take another wife. For
all I knew, the woman I got would be crazy about marzipan. It
got so bad I broke my teeth on stale bread because it cost a half
cent a loaf less than the fresh. The moment I entered my house, I
took off my gaberdine and, forgive my expression, even my
underwear to keep them from wearing. I even saved snuff."
"How did you do that?"
"I would stretch out my hand when I saw someone taking a
pinch and ask him for some. Instead of using it, I hid it in a
bag. "
"Did you save much?"
"Two sacks full."
"How long did it take you to do that?"
"More than forty years."
"If I become a man, I won't stint my wife. I'll give her any­
thing she wants. If you ever become a woman, you'll find out
what pleases women. "
"If you become a man, you'll forget all this feminine
nonsense."
 1 29 � The Warehouse

"What do you want to be?" the whore asked.

"I don't want to be anyone," the miser answered.
"Perhaps they will make you a woman."
"For all I care, they can make me a flea."
"It could be that you'll be stillborn. "
"The stiller the better."
"I don't care what you say, I would like the taste of being a
man."
"You won't be consulted. You'll be handed a body whether it
fits or not. I know. I've been here now for more than thirty years .
For ten years I worked sorting bodies. The whole thing's just one
enormous mess. A woman's torso is given a man's head. Just a
short time ago, a man's body turned up with a pair of breasts of a
wet nurse. They even get mixed up on who gets what genitals.
You know about hermaphrodites, don't you? That Bagdial is
both lazy and incompetent. If he weren't Malbushial's second
cousin, he would have been scrapped long ago."
"What about God?"
"Does anyone believe in God here? Here in the lowest heaven
we have only atheists. He is supposed to dwell in the seventh
heaven, which is an infinity away. One thing we can be sure of,
He's not here."
"Be quiet. Here comes Bagdial."

2 .

Bagdial scratched his left buttock with his right wing. ''I'm not
deaf, miser. If Malbushial knew of your barkings, he'd give you
the body of a dog. No, we're not atheists here. But when you've
hung around here some 689,000 years and been continually told
about a boss who never shows up, you begin to have your doubts .
Why does He sit there forever in His seventh heaven? Oughtn't
He to come down here occasionally and see what's going on?
 1 30 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Souls are shipped in this direction and that, wearing this or that
body.
"You think that we warehouse people are negligent, but can we
do anything if the manufacturers and the cutters send us poor
products? We almost never receive a well-lathed nose. The noses
we get are almost all either long as a ram's horn or short as a
bean. Our suppliers have been in the nose business since the time
of Methuselah, but they don't know their trade. The lips we're
sent are either too thin or too thick. Almost none of the ears has
decent proportions. The angel in charge of procreation is sup·
posed to adjust the genitals of the sexes to fit correctly, and he's
the worst bungler of all. He is capable of mating an elephant to a
mouse.
"All of you clamor for beautiful bodies, but if you get one,
what use do you make of it? It's destroyed, either by drinking or
by lechery or by sloth. A short time ago we did a splendid job;
soul and body fitted perfectly. Once a millennium we do such a
good job. But that pampered little body started eating as if it had
been given a bottomless stomach. It ate for forty years and
returned round as a barrel, a mere heap of repulsive flesh. Miser,
if you continue your blasphemies, I will. . . . "
"I didn't blaspheme. Honest, I didn't. What style body am I to
get?"
"A eunuch."
"Why a eunuch? I was just saying that for all I cared I could
be turned into a flea."
"I heard you. We have one eunuch-style body on hand which
will fit you perfectly. You'll never be in a position to support a
wife. And you certainly don't deserve to have someone else
support you."
"What sort of temptations does a eunuch have?"
"Money."
"Will I be rich?"
 1 3 1 WI' The Warehouse

"The wealthiest inmate in the poorhouse of Pinchev."

"What do I have to correct?"
"You'll return all the tobacco you stole to its rightful owners.
The snuff was given to you to use, not to hoard."
"Where will I get so much snuff?"
"That's your problem. Hey there, whore."
"What style have I been given? "
"A woman."
"Again?"
"Exactly."
"Why not a man this time?"
"Don't bargain with me. I distribute the cards, not the bodies.
We don't have our full quota of males in this batch. Eighty male
bodies were ruined in the factory yesterday. This year we've over­
produced women. But we'll get rid of them all because Rabbi
Gershom's edict against polygamy is about to be repealed. Every
schlemiel dreams of having a harem. Even tailor's assistants want
to become King Solomons. If you ask me, it's better to be a mortar
than a pestle."
"I would like to be a man just once."
"We all have unfulfilled desires. I would have preferred to
have been a seraph and sit in paradise between Bathsheba and
Abigail. Instead, I have to come here six days a week and hand
out cards for defective bodies. Everyone haggles with me as
though I had the power of Metatron. I don't know what it's like
in the other heavens; here in the warehouse it's chaos. At times I
even envy the miserable creatures who are sent down to earth. At
least there are temptations in the lower world. If you try hard you
can achieve sainthood and receive your reward in paradise. What
do I have? Nothing. No one tempts me and I'm fed with sour
moon milk. I'm slandered disgracefully. I'm begrudged even a
little stardust. Evil tongues make me feel that if I weren't
Malbushial's second cousin I'd be nowhere."
 1 3 2 ,P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Maybe you could do me a small favor?"

"What sort of a favor, whore? Take your card and leave. You
were a wanton for eighteen years; you'll be chaste now for exactly
the same amount of time. If not, you'll return again, a double
hunchback, one in the front and one in the rear. "
"Have you already had a look at my body?"
"I caught a glimpse of it."
"What does it look like?"
"What's the use of telling you? Once you get to earth, you'll
forget that the body is only a garment. Down there they think the
body is everything. All around you, people will be saying that
there isn't a soul."
"What will I look like?"
"Since you must correct the errors you made in your former
existence, you will not be exactly a beauty. The body you receive
will make your task easier."
"Ugly, eh? "
"Men will not care for you, nor will you care for men. You
have been given nine measures of shyness, which is exactly what
is required to create a spinster."
"You dirty scoundrel."
Another soul flew over.
"Who are you?" Bagdial asked. "I don't recognize you."
"Leibke the thief."
"Well, no more stealing for you. You'll be robbed by others.
Everything will be taken from you-your money, your wife, even
the pillow you rest your head on. You'll hide your money in your
boot tops, go to the steam bath, and leave your boots behind you.
You'll swear never to hide anything in your boots again and yet
not be able to resist the urge to do so. Every body is made with its
own particular obsession.
"Once we had a gambler here. Do you know what he'd done?
He was playing draw poker and threw his wife into the pot. Can
 1 3 3 n'- The Warehouse

you imagine what he had? A pair of jacks. He wa5 a big bluffer,

only you can't bluff a man who has four aces. When his wife
came back to him three months later, she was pregnant. He
swallowed a ladle in an attempt to kill himself!"
"Did he get it down?"
"It stuck in his throat. Was there any sense to it? But you
know how people are. The angels are no wiser. Who are you?"
"Hayim the coachman."
"Since you had a beautiful wife and in addition fornicated
with a Gentile, what did you need the mare for?"
"I don't know."
"Hadn't you ever heard that horses kick?"
"It just slipped my mind."
"Those down below are always forgetting. Is it their fault?
The most defective of all the organs is the portion of the brain
containing the memory. They put on two pairs of underwear in
the winter and only take off one when they go to the outhouse.
The only things they never forget are the injuries done them.
Two sisters in Frampol quarreled over the tail of a herring for
sixty years. When the older died, the younger urinated on her
grave. You, Hayim, will be the horse this time. You'll pull
freight from Izbitza to Krasnistaw."
"Has that road been fixed?"
"It's as muddy as it was, but a little bumpier."
"If that's so, there is no God."
"And suppose there isn't. Will that make pulling the wagon
any easier? Anyway, you'll only last three years. Zelig the Red
will whip you to death."
"Is that murderer still around ?"
"He has a score to settle. He hasn't forgotten that you sold him
a lame stallion."
"That happened thirty years ago. I was swindled myself. I got
the horse from a gypsy."
 134 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"We know that. It's all on record here. The gypsy is now a
stallion, and the stallion a gypsy. But the whip remains what it
was and still has seven knots. Hey, who are you?"
"Shiffra the cook."
"You're not supposed to spit into your employer's porridge,
even though he did spit in your face."
"What will I become? "
"Your employer's spittoon."
"Will I feel his spit?"
"Everything knows and feels. Your employer suffers from con­
sumption and will spit out his last piece of lung into you. Both of
you will be back in three quarters of a year."
"Together?"
"You will be married. You will be his footstool m the
antechamber of paradise."
''I'd rather be a pisspot in Gehenna."
"Little fool, that amorous ass loved you. That's how men are.
What they can't have, they spit at."
Bagdial scratched the nape of his neck with one of his lower
wings and brooded in silence. " Is it much better in heaven?" he
finally asked. "I stay here all day surrounded by rabble and listen
to their needling. Other angels sing hymns three times a day and
that's the end of it. Some can't even sing, only bellow. The
higher your position, the less work you do. He created the world
in six short winter days and has been resting ever since. There are
those who are of the opinion that He didn't even work that
hard."
"Do you mean by that that He wasn't the First Cause?" the
philosopher demanded.
"Who else is the First Cause? He is a jealous God. He would
never delegate such power. But being the cause and keeping order
are different things altogether."
 Henne
Fire

Yes, there are people who are demons. God preserve us! Mothers
see things when they give birth, but they never tell what they
see!
Henne Fire, as she was called, was not a human being but a
fire from Gehenna. I know one should not speak evil of the dead
and she suffered greatly for her sins. Was it her fault that there
was always a blaze within her? One could see it in her eyes : two
coals. It was frightening to look at them. She was black as a
gypsy, with a narrow face, sunken cheeks, emaciated-skin and
bone. Once I saw her bathing in the river. Her ribs protruded like
hoops. How could someone like Henne put on fat? Whatever one
said to her, no matter how innocently, she immediately took

1 35
 136 ,P. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

offense. She would begin to scream, shake her fists, and spin
around like a crazy person. Her face would turn white with anger.
If you tried to defend yourself, she was ready to swallow you
alive and she'd start smashing dishes. Every few weeks her
husband, Berl Chazkeles, had to buy a new set.
She suspected everybody. The whole town was out to get her.
When she flew into a rage, she said things that would not even
occur to an insane person. Swear words poured from her mouth
like worm-eaten peas. She knew every curse in the holy book by
heart. She was not beyond throwing rocks. Once, in the middle of
winter, she broke a neighbor's windowpane and the neighbor
never learned why.
Henne had children, four girls, but as soon as they grew up
they ran away from home. One became a servant in Lublin ;
one left for America; the most beautiful, Malkeleh, died of
scarlet fever; and the fourth married an old man. Anything was
better than living with Henne.
Her husband, Berl, must have been a saint. Only a saint could
have stood such a shrew for twenty years. He was a sieve-maker.
In those days, in the wintertime, work started when it was still
dark. The sieve-maker had to supply his own candle. He earned
only a pittance. Of course, they were poor, but they were not the
only ones. A wagonload of chalk would not suffice to write down
the complaints she hurled at him. I lived next door to her and
once, when he left for work at dawn, I heard her call after him :
"Come back feet first!" I can't imagine what she blamed him for.
He gave her his last penny, and he loved her too. How could one
love such a fiend? Only God knows. In any case, who can under·
stand what goes on in the heart of a man?
My dear people, even he finally ran away from her. One
s umm er morning, a Friday, he left to go to the ritual bath and
disappeared like a stone in the water. When Henne heard he was
seen leaving the village, she fell down in an epileptic fit right i n
 137 1/P- Henne Fire

the gutter. She knocked her head on the stones, hissed like a
snake, and foamed at the mouth. Someone pushed a key into her
left hand, but it didn't help. Her kerchief fell off and revealed
the fact that she did not shave her head. She was carried home.
I've never seen such a face, as green as grass, her eyes rolled up.
The moment she came to, she began to curse and I think from
then on never stopped. It was said that she even swore in her
sleep. At Yom Kippur she stood in the women's section of the
synagogue and, as the rabbi's wife recited the prayers for those
who could not read, Henne berated the rabbi, the cantor, the
elders. On her husband she called forth a black judgment, wished
him smallpox and gangrene. She also blasphemed against God.
After Berl forsook her, she went completely wild. As a rule,
an abandoned woman made a living by kneading dough in other
people's houses or by becoming a servant. But who would let a
malicious creature like Henne into the house? She tried to sell
fish on Thursdays, but when a woman asked the price, Henne
would reply, "You are not going to buy anyhow, so why do you
come here just to tease me? You'll poke around and buy
elsewhere."
One housewife picked up a fish and lifted its gills to see if it
was fresh. Henne tore it from her hands, screaming, "Why do
you smell it? Is i t beneath your dignity to eat rotten fish?" And
she sang out a list of sins alledgedly committed by the woman's
parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents back to the tenth
generation. The other fishmongers sold their wares and Henne re­
mained with a tubful. Every few weeks Henne washed her
clothes. Don't ask me how she carried on. She quarreled about
everything: the washtubs, the clotheslines, the water pump. If she
found a speck of dust on a shirt hanging up to dry, she blamed it
on her neighbors. She herself tore down the lines of others. One
heard her yelling o:ver half the town. People were afraid of her
and gave in, but that was no good either. If you answered her she
 1 38 J!P- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

raised a rumpus, and if you kept silent she would scream, "Is it a
disgrace to talk to me?" There was no dealing with her without
being i nsulted.
At first her daughters would come home from the big towns
for the holidays. They were good girls, and they all took after
their father. One moment mother and daughter would kiss and
embrace and before you knew it there would be a cat fight i n
Butcher Alley, where w e lived. Plates crashed, windows were
broken. The girl would run out of the house as though poisoned
and Henne would be after her with a stick, screaming, "Bitch,
slut, whore, you should have dissolved in your mother's belly!"
After Berl deserted her, Henne suspected that her daughters
knew his whereabouts. Although they swore holy oaths that they
didn't, Henne would rave, "Your mouths will grow out the back
of your heads for swearing falsely!"
What could the poor girls do? They avoided her like the
plague. And Henne went to the village teacher and made him
write letters for her saying that she disowned them. She was no
longer their mother and they were no longer her daughters.
Still, in a small town one is not allowed to starve. Good people
took pity on Henne. They brought her soup, garlic borscht, a loaf
of bread, potatoes, or whatever they had to offer, and left it on
the threshold. Entering her house was like walking into a lion's
den. Henne seldom tasted these gifts. She threw them into the
garbage ditch. Such people thrive on fighting.
Since the grownups ignored her, Henne began to quarrel with
the children. A boy passed by and Henne snatched his cap
because she imagined he had stolen pears from her tree. The
pears were as hard as wood and tasted the same; a pig wouldn't
eat them. She just needed an excuse. She was always lying and
she called everybody else a liar. She went to the chief of police
and denounced half the town, accusing this one of being a forger
and that one of smuggling contraband from Galicia. She reported
 139 SiP Henne Fire

that the Hassidim were disrespectful of the Tsar. In the fall,

when the recruits were being drafted, Henne announced in the
marketplace that the rich boys were being deferred and the poor
ones taken. It was true, too. But if they had all been taken, would
it have been better? Somebody had to serve. But Henne, good sort
that she was, could not suffer injustice. The Russian officials were
afraid that she would cause trouble and had her sent to the insane
asylum.
I was there when a soldier and a policeman came to get her.
She turned on them with a hatchet. She made such a commotion
that the whole town came running. But how strong is a female?
As she was bound and loaded into a cart, she cursed in Russian,
Polish, and Yiddish. She sounded like a pig being slaughtered.
She was taken to Lublin and put in a strait j acket.
I don't know how it happened, but she must have been on her
good behavior, because in less than half a year she was back in
town. A family had moved into her hut, but she drove the whole
lot out in the middle of a cold night. The next day Henne an­
nounced that she had been robbed. She went to all the neighbors
to look for her belongings and humiliated everybody. She was no
longer allowed into the women's synagogue and was even refused
� hen she wanted to buy a seat for the Days of Awe. Things came

to such a pass that when she went to the well to get water every­
one ran away. It was simply dangerous to come near her.
She did not even respect the dead. A hearse passed by and
Henne spat at it, screaming that she hoped the dead man's soul
would wander in the wastelands forever. The better type of
people turned a deaf ear to her, but when the mourners were of
the common kind she got beaten up. She liked to be beaten; that
is the truth. She would run around showing off a bump given her
by this one, a black eye by that one. She ran to the druggist for
leeches and salves. She kept summoning everybody to the rabbi,
but the beadle would no longer list::n to her and the rabbi had
 140 :lP I SA A C BASHEVIS SINGER

issued an order forbidding her to enter his study. She also tried
her luck with the Gentiles, but they only laughed at her. Nothing
remained to her but God. And according to Henne she and the
Almighty were on the best of terms.
Now listen to what happened. There was a coachman called
Kopel Klotz who lived near Henne. Once in the middle of the
night he was awakened by screams for help. He looked out the
window and saw that the house of the shoemaker across the street
was on fire. He grabbed a pail of water and went to help put it
out. But the fire was not at the shoemaker's ; it was at Henne's. It
was only the reflection that he had seen in the shoemaker's
window. Kopel ran to her house and found everything burning :
the table, the bench, the cupboard. It wasn't a usual fire. Little
flames flew around like birds. Henne's nightshirt was burning.
Kopel tore it off her and she stood there as naked as the day she
was born.
A fire in Butcher Alley is no small thing. The wood of the
houses is dry even in winter. From one spark the whole alley
could turn into ashes. People came to the rescue, but the flames
danced and turned somersaults. Every moment something else
became ignited. Henne covered her naked body with a shawl and
the fringes began to burn like so many candles. The men fought
the fire until dawn. Some of them were overcome by the smoke.
These were not flames, but goblins from hell.
In the morning there was another outburst. Henne's bed linen
began to burn of itself. That day I visited Henne's hut. Her sheet
was full of holes; the quilt and feather bed, too. The dough in
the trough had been baked into a flat loaf of bread. A fiery broom
had swept the floor, igniting the garbage. Tongues of flame licked
everything. God save us, these were tricks of the Evil Host.
Henne sent everybody to the devil ; and now the devil had turned
on her.
Somehow the fire was put out. The people of Butcher Alley
 141 1IP Henne Fire

warned the rabbi that if Henne could not be induced to leave they
would take matters into their own hands. Everyone was afraid for
his kin and possessions. No one wanted to pay for the sins of
another. Henne went to the rabbi's house and wailed, "Where
am I to go? Murderers, robbers, beasts!"
She became as hoarse as a crow. As she ranted, her kerchief
took fire. Those who weren't there will never know what the
demons can do.
As Henne stood in the rabbi's study, pleading with him to let
her stay, her house went up in flames. A flame burst from the roof
and it had the shape of a man with long hair. It danced and
whistled. The church bells rang an alarm. The firemen tried their
best, but in a few minutes nothing was left but a chimney and a
heap of burning embers.
later, Henne spread the rumor that her neighbors had set her
house on fire. But it was not so. Who would try a thing like that,
especially with the wind blowing? There were scores of witnesses
to the contrary. The fiery image had waved its arms and laughed
madly. Then it had risen into the air and disappeared among the
clouds.
It was then that people began to call her Henne Fire. Up to
then she had been known as Black Henne.

2.

When Henne found herself without a roof over her head, she
tried to move into the poorhouse but the poor and sick would not
let her in. Nobody wants to be burned alive. For the first time she
became silent. A Gentile woodchopper took her into his house.
The moment she crossed the threshold the handle of his ax
caught fire and out she went. She would have frozen to death in
the cold if the rabbi hadn't taken her in.
The rabbi had a booth not far from his house which was used
 J42 1/P- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

during the Succoth holidays. It had a roof which could be opened

and closed by a series of pulleys. The rabbi's son installed a tin
stove so that Henne would not freeze. The rabbi's wife supplied
a bed with a straw mattress and linen. What else could they do?
Jews don't let a person perish. They hoped the demons would
respect a Succoth booth and that it would not catch fire. True, it
had no mezuzah, but the rabbi hung a talisman on the wall in­
stead. Some of the townspeople offered to bring food to Henne,
but the rabbi's wife said, "The little she eats I can provide."
The winter cold began immediately after the Succoth holiday
and it lasted until Purim. Houses were snowed under. In the
morning one had to dig oneself out with a shovel. Henne lay in
bed all day. She was not the same Henne : she was docile as a
sheep. Yet evil looked out of her eyes. The rabbi's son fed her
stove every morning. He reported in the study house that Henne
lay all day tucked into her feather bed and never uttered a word.
The rabbi 's wife suggested that she come into the kitchen and
perhaps help a little with the housework. Henne refused. "I don't
want anything to happen to the rabbi's books," she said. It was
whispered in the town that perhaps the Evil One had left her.
Around Purim it suddenly became warm. The ice thawed and
the river overflowed. Bridge Street was flooded. The poor are
miserable anyway, but when there is a flood at night and the
household goods begin to swim around, life becomes unbearable.
A raft was used to cross Bridge Street. The bakery had begun
preparing matzos for Passover, but water seeped into the sacks
and made the flour unusable.
Suddenly a scream was heard from the rabbi 's house. The
Succoth booth had burst into flame like a paper lantern. It hap­
pened in the middle of the night. Later Henne related how a fiery
hand had reached down from the roof and in a second everything
was consumed. She had grabbed a blanket to cover herself and
had run into the muddy courtyard without clothes on. Did the
 143 � Henne Fire

rabbi have a choice? He had to take her in. His wife stopped
sleeping at night. Henne said to the rabbi, "I shouldn't be
allowed to do this to you." Even before the booth had burned
down, the rabbi's married daughter, Taube, had packed her
trousseau into a sheet so she could save it at a moment's notice in
case of fire.
Next day the community elders called a meeting. There was
much talk and haggling, but they couldn't come to a decision.
Someone proposed that Henne be sent to another town. Henne
burst into the rabbi's study, her dress in tatters, a living scare­
crow. "Rabbi, I've lived here all my life, and here I want to die.
Let them dig me a grave and bury me. The cemetery will not
catch fire." She had found her tongue again and everybody was
surprised.
Present at the meeting was Reb Zelig, the plumber, a decent
man, and he finally made a suggestion. "Rabbi, I will build her a
little house of brick. Bricks don't burn."
He asked no pay for his work, just his costs. Then a roofer
promised to make the roof. Henne owned the lot in Butcher
Alley, and the chimney had remained standing.
To put up a house takes months, but this little building was
erected between Purim and Passover, everyone lending a hand.
Boys from the study house dumped the ashes. Schoolchildren
carried bricks. Yeshiva students mixed mortar. Yudel, the glazier,
contributed windowpanes. As the proverb goes : a community is
never poor. A rich man, Reb Palik, donated tin for the roof. One
day there was a ruin and the next day there was the house. Ac­
tually it was a shack without a floor, but how much does a single
person need? Henne was provided with an iron bed, a pillow, a
straw mattress, a feather bed. She didn't even watch the builders.
She sat in the rabbi's kitchen on the lookout for fires.
The house wa� finished just a day before Passover. From the
poor fund, Henne was stocked with matzos, potatoes, eggs,
 144 Wo ISAAC BASHEVIS SI NGER

horseradish, all that was necessary. She was even presented with a
new set of dishes. There was only one thing everybody refused to
do, and that was to have her at the Seder. In the evening they
looked in at her window: no holiday, no Seder, no candles. She
was sitting on a bench, munching a carrot.
One never knows how things will turn out. In the beginning
nothing was heard from Henne's daughter, Mindel, who had
gone to America. How does the saying go? Across the sea is
another world. They go to America and forget father, mother,
Jewishness, God. Years passed and there was not a single word
from her. But Mindel proved herself a devoted child after all.
She got married and her husband became immensely rich.
Our local post office had a letter carrier who was just a simple
peasant. One day a strange letter carrier appeared. He had a long
mustache, his jacket had gilded buttons, and he wore insignia on
his cap. He brought a letter for which the recipient had to sign.
For whom do you think it was? For Henne. She could no more
sign her name than I can dance a quadrille. She daubed three
marks on the receipt and somebody was a witness. To make it
short, it was a letter containing money. Lippe, the teacher, came
to read it and half the town listened.
"My dear mother, your worries are over. My husband has
become rich. New York is a large city where white bread is eaten
in the middle of the week. Everybody speaks English, the Jews
too. At night it is as bright as day. Trains travel on tracks high up
near the roofs. Make peace with Father and I will send you both
passage to America."
The townspeople didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Henne
listened but didn't say a word. She neither cursed nor blessed.
A month later another letter arrived, and two months after
that, another. An American dollar was worth two rubles. There
was an agent in town, and when he heard that Henne was getting
money from America, he proposed all kinds of deals to her.
 145 1lP Henne Fire

Would she like to buy a house, or become a partner in a store?

There was a man in our town called Leizer the messenger, al­
though nobody ever sent him anywhere. He came to Henne and
offered to go in search of her husband. If he was alive, Leizer was
sure he would find him and either bring him home or make him
send her a bill of divorcement. Henne's reply was : "If you bring
him back, bring him back dead, and you should walk on crutches !"
Henne remained Henne, but the neighbors began to make a
fuss over her. That is how people are. When they smell a
groschen, they get excited. Now they were quick to greet her,
called her Hcnnely, and waited on her. Henne just glowered at
them, muttering curses. She went straight to Zrule's tavern,
bought a big bottle of vodka, and took it home. To make a long
story short, Henne began to drink. That a woman should drink is
rare, even among the Gentiles, but that a Jewish woman should
drink was unheard of. Henne lay in bed and gulped down the
liquor. She sang, cried, and made crazy faces. She strolled over to
the marketplace in her undergarments, followed by cat-calling
urchins. It is sacrilegious to behave as Henne did, but what could
the townspeople do? Nobody went to prison for drinking. The
officials themselves were often dead drunk. The neighbors said
that Henne got up in the morning and drank a cup of vodka. This
was her breakfast. Then she went to sleep and when she awoke
she began to drink in earnest. Once in a while, when the whim
seized her, she would open the window and throw out some
coins. The little ones almost killed themselves trying to pick them
up. As they groped on the ground for the money, she would
empty the slops over them. The rabbi sent for her but he might
just as well have saved his breath. Everyone was sure that she
would drink herself to death. Something entirely different
happened.
As a rule, Henne would come out af her house in the morning.
Sometimes she would go to the well for a pail of water. There
 146 :lP' I S A A C B A S H E V I S SINGER

were stray dogs in Butcher Alley and occasionally she would

throw them a bone. There were no outhouses and the villagers
attended to their needs in the open. A few days passed and
nobody saw Henne. The neighbors tried to peer into her window,
but the curtains were drawn . They knocked on her door and no
one opened it. Finally they broke it open and what they saw
should never be seen again. Some time before, Henne had bought
an upholstered chair from a widow. It was an old piece of furni­
ture. She used to sit in it drinking and babbling to herself. When
they got the door open, sitting in the chair was a skeleton as black
as coal.
My dear people, Henne had been burned to a crisp. But how?
The chair itself was almost intact, only the material at the back
was singed. For a person to be so totally consumed, you'd need a
fire bigger than the one in the bathhouse on Fridays. Even to
roast a goose, a lot of wood is needed. But the chair was un­
touched. Nor had the linen on the bed caught fire. She had
bought a chest of drawers, a table, a wardrobe, and everything
was undamaged . Yet Henne was one piece of coal. There was no
body to be laid out, to be cleansed, or dressed in a shroud. The
officials hurried to Henne's house and they could not believe their
own eyes. Nobody had seen a fire, nobody had smelled smoke.
Where could such a hell fire have come from? No ashes were to
be found in the stove or under the tripod. Henne seldom cooked .
The town's doctor, Chapinski, arrived. His eyes popped out of
his head and there he stood like a figure of clay.
"How is it possible?" the chief of police asked.
"It's impossible," the doctor replied. "If someone were to tell
me such a thing, I would call him a filthy liar."
"But it has happened," the chief of police interrupted.
Chapinski shrugged his shoulders and murmured, "I just don't
understand."
 147 :IP- Henne Fire

Someone suggested that it might have been lightning. But

there had been no lightning and thunder for weeks.
The neighboring squires heard of the event and arrived on the
scene. Butcher Alley filled with carriages, britskas, and phaetons.
The crowd stood and gaped. Everyone tried to find an explana­
tion. It was beyond reason. The upholstery of the chair was filled
with flax, dry as pepper.
A rumor spread that the vodka had ignited in Henne's
stomach. But who ever heard of a fire in the guts? The doctor
shook his head. "It's a riddle."
There was no point in preparing Henne for burial. They put
her bones in a sack, carried it to the cemetery, and buried her.
The gravedigger recited the Kaddish. Later her daughters came
from Lublin, but what could they learn? Fires ran after Henne
and a fire had finished her. In her curses she had often used the
word "fire" : fire in the head, fire in the belly. She would say,
"You should burn like a candle." "You should burn in fever."
"You should burn like kindling wood." Words have power. The
proverb says : "A blow passes, but a word remains."
My dear people, Henne continued to cause trouble even after
her death. Kopel the coachman bought her house from her
daughters and turned it into a stable. But the horses sweated in
the night and caught cold. When a horse catches cold that way,
it's the end. Several times the straw caught fire. A neighbor who
had quarreled with Henne about the washing swore that Henne's
ghost tore the sheets from the line and threw them into the mud.
The ghost also overturned a washtub. I wasn't there, but of a
person such as Henne anything can be believed. I see her to this
day, black, lean, with a flat chest like a man and the wild eyes of a
hunted beast. Something was smouldering within her. She must
have suffered. I remember my grandmother saying, "A good life
never made anyone knock his head against the wall." However,
 148 :IP- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

no matter what misfortunes strike I say, "Burst, but keep a good

face on things."
Thank God, not everyone can afford constantly to bewail his
lot. A rabbi in our town once said : "If people did not have to
work for their bread, everyone would spend his time mourning
his own death and life would be one big funeral."
Translated by the author a11d Dorothea Straus
 Getzel
the Monkey

My dear friends, we all know what a mimic is. Once we had such
a man living in our town, and he was given a fitting name. In
that day they gave nicknames to everybody but the rich people.
Still, Getzel was even richer than the one he tried to imitate,
Todrus Broder. Todrus himself lived up to his fancy name. He
was tall, broad-shouldered like a giant, with a black beard as
straight as a squire's and a pair of dark eyes that burned through
you when they looked at you. Now, I know what I'm talking
about. I was still a girl then, and a good-looking one, too. When
he stared at me with those fiery eyes, the marrow in my bones
trembled. If an envious man were to have a look like that, he
could, God preserve us, easily give you the evil eye. Todrus had

149
 I 50 � ISAAC B A SH E VI S SINGER

no cause for envy, though. He was as healthy as an ox, and he

had a beautiful wife and two graceful daughters, real princesses.
He lived like a nobleman. He had a carriage with a coachman,
and a hansom as well. He went driving to the villages and played
around with the peasant women. When he threw coins to them,
they cheered . Sometimes he would go horseback riding through
the town, and he sat up in the saddle as straight as a Cossack.
His surname was Broder, but Todrus came from Great Poland,
not from Brody. He was a great friend of all the nobles. Count
Zamoysky used to come to his table on Friday nights to taste his
gefilte fish. On Purim the count sent him a gift, and what do you
imagine the gift turned out to be? Two peacocks, a male and a
female !
Todrus spoke Polish like a Pole and Russian like a Russian.
He knew German, too, and French as well. What didn't he
know? He could even play the piano. He went hunting with
Zamoysky and he shot a wolf. When the Tsar visited Zamosc and
the finest people went to greet him, who do you think spoke to
him? Todrus Broder. No sooner were the first three words out of
his mouth than the Tsar burst out laughing. They say that later
the two of them played a game of chess and Todrus won. I
wasn't there, but it probably happened. Later Todrus received a
gold medal from Petersburg.
His father-in-law, Falk Posner, was rich, and Falk's daughter
Fogel was a real beauty. She had a dowry of twenty thousand
rubles, and after her father's death she inherited his entire
fortune. But don't think that Todrus married her for her money.
It is said that she was traveling with her mother to the spas
when suddenly Todrus entered the train. He was still a bachelor
then, or perhaps a widower. He took one look at Fogel and
then he told her mother that he wanted her daughter to be
his wife. Imagine, this happened some fifty years ago. . . .
Everyone said that it was love at first sight for Todrus, but later it
 151 � Getzel the Monkey

turned out that love didn't mean a thing to him. I should have as
many blessed years as the nights Fogel didn't sleep because · of
him! They joked, saying that if you were to dress a shovel in a
woman's skirts, he would chase after it. In those days, Jewish
daughters didn't know about love affairs, so he had to run after
Gentile girls and women.
Not far from Zamosc, Todrus had an estate where the greatest
nobles came to admire his horses. But he was a terrible spend­
thrift, and over the years his debts grew. He devoured his father­
in-law's fortune, and that is the plain truth.
Now, Getzel the Monkey, whose name was really Getzel
Bailes, decided to imitate everything about Todrus Broder. He
was a rich man, and stingy to boot. His father had also been
known as a miser. It was said that he had built up his fortune by
starving himself. The son had a mill that poured out not flour but
gold. Getzel had an old miller who was as devoted as a dog to
him. In the fall, when there was a lot of grain to mill, this miller
stayed awake nights. He didn't even have a room for himself; he
slept with the mice in the hayloft. Getzel grew rich because of
him. In those times people were used to serving. If they didn't
serve God, they served the boss.
Getzel was a moneylender, too. Half the town's houses were
mortgaged to him. He had one precious little daughter, Dishke,
and a wife, Risha Leah, who was as sick as she was ugly. Getzel
could as soon become Todrus as I the rabbi of Turisk. But a
rumor spread through the town that Getzel was trying to become
another Todrus. At the beginning it was only the talk of the
peddlers and the seamstresses, and who pays attention to such
gossip? But then Getzel went to Selig the tailor and he ordered a
coat just like Todrus's, with a broad fox collar and a row of tails.
Later he had the shoemaker fit him with a pair of boots exactly
the same as Todrus's, with low uppers and shiny toes. Zamosc
isn't Warsaw. Sooner or later everyone knows what everyone else
 1 5 2 1/P- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

is doing. So why mimic anyone? Still, when the rumors reached

Todrus's ears he merely said, "I don't care. It shows that he has a
high opinion of my taste." Todrus never spoke a bad word about
anyone. If he was going down Lublin Street and a girl of twelve
walked by, he would lift his hat to her just as though she were a
lady. Had a fool done this, they would have made fun of him.
But a clever person can afford to be foolish sometimes. At
weddings Todrus got drunk and cracked such jokes that they
thought he, not Berish Venngrover, was the j ester. When he
danced a kozotsky, the floor trembled.
Well, Getzel Bailes was determined to become a second
Todrus. He was small and thick as a barrel, and a stammerer to
boot. To hear him try to get a word out was enough to make you
faint. The town had something to mock. He bought himself a
carriage, but it was a tiny carriage and the horses were two old
nags. Getzel rode from the marketplace to the mill and from the
mill to the marketplace. He wanted to be gallant, and he tried to
take his hat off to the druggist's wife. Before he could raise his
hand, she had already disappeared. People were barely able to
keep from laughing in his face, and the town rascals immediately
gave him his nickname.
Getzel's wife, Risha Leah, was a shrew, but she had sense
enough to see what was happening. They began to quarrel. There
was no lack in Zamosc of curious people who listened at the
cracks in the shutters and looked through the keyhole. Risha Leah
said to him, "You can as much become Todrus as I can become a
man! You are making a fool of yourself. Todrus is Todrus; you
stay Getzel."
But who knows what goes on in another person's head? It
seemed to be an obsession. Getzel began to pronounce his words
like a person from Great Poland and to use German expressions :
madchen, schml:idchen, grl:idchen. He found out what Todrus ate,
what he drank, and, forgive me for the expression, what drawers
 1 5 3 n'- Getzel the Monkey

he wore. He began to chase women, too. And, my dear friends,

just as Todrus had succeeded in everything, so Getzel failed. He
would crack a joke and get a box on the ear in return. Once, in
the middle of a wedding celebration, he tried to seduce a woman,
and her husband poured chicken soup down the front of his
gaberdine. Dishke cried and implored him, "Daddy, they are
making fun of you!" But it is written somewhere that any fancy
can become a madness.
Getzel met Todrus in the street and said, "I want to see your
furniture."
"With the greatest pleasure," said Todrus and took him into
his living room. What harm would it do Todrus, after all, if
Getzel copied him?
So Getzel kept on mimicking. He tried to imitate Todrus's
voice. He tried to make friends with the squires and their wives.
He had studied everything in detail. Getzel had never smoked,
but suddenly he came out with cigars and the cigars were bigger
than he was. He also started a subscription to a newspaper in
Petersburg. Todrus's daughters went to a Gentile boarding
school, and Getzel wanted to send Dishke there, even though she
was already too old for that. Risha Leah raised an uproar and she
was barely able to prevent him from doing it. If he had been a
pauper, Getzel would have been excommunicated . But he was
loaded with money. For a long time Todrus didn' t pay any atten­
tion to all of this, but at last in the marketplace he walked over to
Getzel and asked : "Do you want to see how I make water?" He
used plain language, and the town had something to laugh about.

2 .

Now, listen to this . One day Risha Leah died. Of what did she
die? Really, I couldn't say. Nowadays people run to the doctor; in
those times a person got sick and it was soon finished. Perhaps it
 1 5 4 ;_;p. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

was Getzel's carryings on that killed her. Anyway, she died and
they buried her. Getzel didn't waste any tears over it. He sat on
the stool during the seven days of mourning and cracked jokes
like Todrus. His daughter Dishke was already engaged . After the
thirty days of bereavement the matchmakers showered him with
offers, but he wasn't in a hurry.
Two months hadn't passed when there was bedlam in the
town. Todrus Broder had gone bankrupt. He had borrowed
money from widows and orphans. Brides had invested their
dowries with him, and he owed money to nobles. One of the
squires came over and tried to shoot him. Todrus's wife wept and
fainted, and the girls hid in the attic. It came out that Todrus
owed Getzel a large sum of money. A mortgage, or God knows
what. Getzel came to Todrus. He was carrying a cane with a
silver tip and an amber handle, just like Todrus's, and he
pounded on the floor with it. Todrus tried to laugh off the whole
business, but you could tell that he didn't feel very good about it.
They wanted to auction off all his possessions, tear him to pieces.
The women called him a murderer, a robber, and a swindler. The
brides howled : "What did you do with our dowries?" and wailed
as if it were Yom Kippur. Todrus had a dog as big as a lion, and
Getzel had gotten one the image of it. He brought the dog with
him, and both animals tried to devour each other. Finally Getzel
whispered something to Todrus; they locked themselves in a
room and stayed there for three hours. During that time the
creditors almost tore the house down. \Vhen Todrus came out, he
was as pale as death; Getzel was perspiring. He called out to the
men : "Don't make such a racket! I'll pay all the debts. I have
taken over the business from Todrus." They didn't believe their
own ears. Who puts a healthy head into a sickbed ? But Getzel
took out his purse, long and deep, just like Todrus's. However,
Todrus's was empty, and this one was full of bank notes. Getzel
began to pay on the spot. To some he paid off the whole debt and
 1 5 5 ;iP Getzel the Monkey

to others an advance, but they all knew that he was solvent.

Todrus looked on silently. Fogel, his wife, came to herself and
smiled. The girls came out of their hiding places. Even the dogs
made peace; they began to sniff each other and wag their tails.
\Vhere had Getzel put together so much cash? As a rule, a
merchant has all his money in his business. But Getzel kept on
paying. He had stopped stammering and he spoke now as if he
really were Todrus. Todrus had a bookkeeper whom they called
the secretary, and he brought out the ledgers. Meanwhile, Todrus
had become his old self again. He told jokes, drank brandy, and
offered a drink to Getzel. They toasted l' chayim.
To make a long story short, Getzel took over everything. Todrus
Broder left for Lublin with his wife and daughters, and it seemed
that he had moved out altogether. Even the maids went with him.
But then why hadn't he taken his feather beds with him? By law,
no creditor is allowed to take these. For three months there was
no word of them. Getzel had already become the boss. He went
here, he went there, he rode in Todrus's carriage with Todrus's
coachman. After three months Fogel came back with her daugh­
ters. It was hard to recognize her. They asked her about her
husband and she answered simply, "I have no more husband."
"Some misfortune, God forbid?" they asked , and she answered
no, that they had been divorced.
There is a saying that the truth will come out like oil on water.
And so it happened here. In the three hours that Getzel and
Todrus had been locked up in the office, Todrus had transferred
everything to Getzel-his house, his estate, all his possessions,
and on top of it all, his wife. Yes, Fogel married Getzel. Getzel
gave her a marriage contract for ten thousand rubles and wrote
up a house-it was actually Todrus's-as estate. For the daugh­
ters he put away large dowries.
The turmoil in the town was something awful. If you weren't
in Zamosc then, you have no idea how excited a town can
 1 5 6 1-P. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

become. A book could be written about it. Not one book, ten
books! Even the Gentiles don't do such things. But that was
Todrus. As long as he could, he acted like a king. He gambled,
he lost, and then it was all over; he disappeared. It seems he had
been about to go to jail. The squires might have murdered him.
And in such a situation, what won't a man do to save his life?
Some people thought that Getzel had known everything in ad­
vance and that he had plotted it all. He had managed a big loan
for Todrus and had lured him into his snare. No one would have
thought that Getzel was so clever. But how does the saying go? If
God wills, a broom will shoot.
Todrus's girls soon got married. Dishke went to live with her
in-laws in Lemberg. Fogel almost never showed her face outside.
Todrus's grounds had a garden with a pavilion, and she sat there
all swnmer. In the winter she hid inside the house. Todrus
Broder had vanished like a stone in the water. Some held that he
was in Krakow; others, that he had gone to Warsaw. Still others
said that he had converted and had married a rich squiress. Who
can understand such a man? If a Jew is capable of selling his
wife i n such a way, he is no longer a Jew. Fogel had loved him
with a great love, and it was clear that she had consented to
everything just to save him. In the years that followed, nobody
could say a word against Todrus to her. On Rosh Hashanah and
Yom Kippur she stood in her pew in the women's section at the
grating and she didn't utter a single word to anybody. She re­
mained proud.
Getzel took over Todrus's language and his manners. He even
became taller, or perhaps he put lifts in his boots. He became a
bosom friend of the squires. It was rwnored that he drank for­
bidden wine with them. After he had stopped stammering, he
had begun to speak Polish like one of them.
Dishke never wrote a word to her father. About Todrus's
daughters I heard that they didn't have a good end. One died in
 1 5 7 1lP- Getzel the Monkey

childbirth. Another was supposed to have hanged herself. But

Getzel became Todrus and I saw it happen with my own eyes,
from beginning to end. Yes, mimicking is forbidden. If you
imitate a person, his fate is passed on to you. Even with a shadow
one is not allowed to play tricks. In Zamosc there was a young
man who used to play with his shadow. He would put his hands
together so that the shadow on the wall would look like a buck
with horns, eating and butting. One night the shadow jumped
from the wall and gored the young man as if with real horns. He
got such a butt that he had two holes in his forehead afterwards.
And so it happened here.
Getzel did not need other people's money. He had enough.
But suddenly he began to borrow from widows and orphans.
Anywhere he could find credit he did, and he paid high interest.
He didn't have to renovate his mill either. The flour was as white
as snow. But he built a new mill and put in new millstones. His
old and devoted miller had died, and Getzel hired a new miller
who had long mustaches, a former bailiff. This one swindled him
right and left. Getzel also bought an estate from a nobleman even
though he already had an estate with a stable and horses. Before
this he had kept to his Jewishness, but now he began to dress like
a fop . He stopped coming to the synagogue except on High Holy
Days. As if this wasn't enough, Getzel started a brewery and he
sowed hops for beer. He didn't need any of this. Above all, it
cost him a fortune. He imported machines, God knows from
where, and they made such a noise at night that the neighbors
couldn't sleep. Every few weeks he made a trip to Warsaw. Who
can guess what really happened to him? Ten enemies don't do as
much harm to a man as he does to himself. One day the news
spread that Getzel was bankrupt. MY dear friends, he didn't have
to go bankrupt; it was all an imitation of Todrus. He had taken
over the other's bad luck. People streamed from every street and
broke up his windowpanes. Getzel had no imitator. No one
 I 58 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SI NGER

wanted his wife; Fogel was older than Getzel by a good many
years. He assured everyone that he wouldn't take anything away
from them . But they beat him up. A squire came and put his
pistol to Getzel's forehead in just the same way as the other had
to Todrus.
To make a long story short, Getzel ran away in the middle of
the night. When he left, the creditors took over and it turned out
that there was more than enough for everybody. Getzel's fortune
was worth God knows how much. So why had he run away? And
where had he gone? Some said that the whole bankruptcy was
nothing but a sham. There was supposed to have been a woman
involved, but what does an old man want with a woman? It was
all to be like Todrus. Had Todrus buried himself alive, Getzel
would have dug his own grave. The whole thing was the work of
demons. What are demons if not imitators? And what does a
mirror do? This is why they cover a mirror when there is a corpse
in the house. It is dangerous to see the reflection of the body.
Every piece of property Getzel had owned was taken away.
The creditors didn't leave as much as a scrap of bread for Fogel.
She went to live in the poorhouse. When this happened I was no
longer in Zamosc. But may my enemies have such an old age as
they say Fogel had. She lay down on a straw mattress and she
never got up again. It was said that before her death she asked to
be inscribed on the tombstone not as the wife of Getzel but as the
wife of Todrus. Nobody even bothered to put up a stone. Over
the years the grave became overgrown and was finally lost.
What happened to Getzel? And what happened to Todrus? No
one knew. Somebody thought they might have met somewhere,
but for what purpose? Todrus must have died. Dishke tried to get
a part of her father's estate, but nothing was left. A man should
stay what he is. The troubles of the world come from m_�<:king.
1'_oday they call it fashion. A charlatan in Paris invents a dress
 I 59 1¢'L Getze/ the Monkey

with a train in front and everybody wears it. They are all apes,
the whole lot of them.
I could also tell you a story about twins, but I wouldn't dare to
talk about it at night. They had no choice. They were two bodies
with one soul. Both sisters died within a single day, one in
Zamosc and the other in Kovle. Who knows? Perhaps one sister
was real and the other was her shadow?
I am afraid of a shadow. A shadow is an enemy. When it has
the chance, it takes revenge.
Translated by the a11thor a11d Ellen Kantarov
 Yanda

The Peacock's Tail stood on a side street not far from the ruins of
a Greek Orthodox church and cemetery. It was a two-story brick
building with a weather vane on its crooked roof and a battered
sign over its entrance depicting a peacock with a faded gold tail.
The front of the inn housed a windowless tavern, dark as dusk on
the sunniest mornings. No peasants were served there even on
market days. The owner, Shalom Pintchever, had no patience
with the peasant rabble, their dances and wild songs. Neither he
nor Shaindel, his wife, had the strength to wait on these ruffians,
or later when they got drunk, to throw them out into the gutter.
The Peacock's Tail was a stopping place for squires, for military
men who were on their way to the Russian-Austrian border, and

161
 162 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

for salesmen who came to town to sell farm implements and

goods from Russia. There was never any lack of guests. Occa­
sionally a group of strolling players stayed the night. Once in a
while the inn was visited by a magician or a bear trainer. Some­
times a preacher stopped there, or one of those travelers of whom
the Lord alone knows what brought them there. The town
coachman understood what kind of customers to bring to The
Peacock's Tail.
When Shalom Pintchever, a stranger, bought the hotel and
with his wife came to live in the town, they brought with them a
peasant woman called Yanda. Yanda would have been a beauty
but for a face as pockmarked as a potato grater. She had black
hair which she wore in a braid, white skin, a short nose, red
cheeks, and eyes as black as cherries. Her bosom was high, her
waist narrow, her hips rounded. She was a woman of great
physical strength. She did all the work in the hotel : made the
beds, washed the linen, cooked , dumped the chamber pots, and,
in addition, visited the male guests when requested. The moment
a visitor registered, Shalom Pintchever would ask slyly, winking
an eye under his bushy brows : "With or without?" The traveler
understood and almost always answered : "With." Shalom added
the price to the bill.
There were guests who invited Yanda to drink with them or
go for a walk, but she never accepted. Shalom Pintchever was not
going to have them taking up her time or turning her into a
drunkard. He had once and for all forbidden her to drink liquor,
and she never touched a drop, not even a glass of beer on a hot
summer day. Shalom had rescued her from a drunkard father and
a stepmother. In return she served him without asking for pay.
Every few months he would give her pocket money. Yanda
would grab Shalom's hand, kiss it, and hide the money in her
stocking without counting it. From time to time she would order
a dress or a pair of high-buttoned shoes or buy herself a shawl, a
kerchief, a comb. Sunday, when she went to church, she invari­
ably threw a coin into the alms box. Sometimes she brought a
present for the priest or a candle to be lit for her patron saint.
The old women objected to her entering a holy place, but she
stood inside the door anyway. There was gossip that the priest
was carrying on with her, even though he had a pretty house­
keeper.
The Jews accused Shalom Pintchever of keeping a bawdy
house. When the women quarreled with Shaindel, they called her
Yanda. But, without Yanda, Shalom would have been out of
business. Three maids could not have done her work. Besides,
most servants stole and had to be watched. Neither Shalom nor
Shaindel could be bothered with that. Husband and wife were
mourning an only daughter who had died in a fire in the town in
which they had previously lived. Shaindel suffered from asthma;
Shalom had sick kidneys. Yanda carried the burden of the hotel.
Summertime she got up at daybreak; in the winter she left her
bed two hours before sunrise. She scrubbed floors, patched quilts
and sheets, carried water from the well, even chopped wood
when a woodchopper was not available. Shaindel was convinced
Yanda would collapse from overwork. Husband and wife also
feared that she might contract a contagious disease. But some
devil or other impure power watched over her. Years passed, and
she did not get sick or even catch a cold. Her employers did not
stint on her food, but she preferred to eat the leftovers : cold
soups, scraps of meat, stale bread. Shalom and Shaindel both
suffered from toothaches, but Yanda had a mouth full of strong
white teeth like a dog. She could crack peach pits with them.
"She is not a human being," Shaindel would say. "She's a
beast."
The women spat when Yanda passed by, cursing her vehe­
mently. Boys called her names and threw stones and mud at her.
Young girls giggled, dropped their eyes, and blushed when they
 1 64 ;iPo ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

met her on the street. More than once the police called her in for
questioning. But years passed and Yanda remained in Shalom
Pintchever's service. With time the clientele of the inn changed.
As long as the town belonged to Russia, its guests were mainly
Russians. Later, when the Austrians took over, they were Ger­
mans, Magyars, Czechs, and Bosnians. Then, when Poland
gained independence, it served the Polish officials who arrived
from Warsaw and Lublin. What didn't the town live through­
epidemics of typhoid and dysentery; the Austrian soldiers
brought cholera with them and six hundred townspeople per­
ished . For a short time, under Bolshevik rule, the inn was taken
over by a Communist County Committee, and some commissar or
other was put in charge. Yanda remained through it all. Some­
body had to work, to wash, scour, serve the guests beer, vodka,
snacks . Whatever their titles, at night the men wanted Yanda in
their beds. There were some who kissed her and some who beat
her. There were those who cursed her and called her names and
those who wept before her and confessed to her as if she were a
priest. One officer placed a glass of cognac on her head and shot
at it with his revolver. Another bit into her shoulder and like a
leech sucked her blood. Still, in the morning she washed, combed
her hair, and everything began anew. There was no end to the
d irty dishes. The floors were full of holes and cracks, the walls
were peeling. No matter how often Yanda poured scalding water
over cockroaches and bedbugs, and used all kinds of poison, the
vermin continued to multiply! Each day the hotel was in danger
of falling apart. It was Yanda who kept it together.
The owners themselves began to resemble the hotel. Shaindel
grew bent and her face became as white and brittle as plaster.
Her speech was unintelligible. She no longer walked, but
shuflle d. She would find a discarded caftan in a trunk and would
try to patch it. Shalom protested that he didn't need the rag, but
half blind as she was, she would sit for days, with her glasses on
the tip of her nose, trying to mend it. Again and again she would
ask Yanda to thread the needle, muttering, "It isn't thread, it's
cobweb. These needles have no eyes."
Shalom Pintchever's face began to grow a kind of mold. His
brows became even shaggier. Under his eyes there were bags and
from them hung other bags. Between his wrinkles there was a
black excrescence which no water could remove. His head shook
from side to side. Nevertheless, when a guest arrived, Shalom
would reach for his hotel register with a trembling hand and ask :
"With or without?"
And the guest would almost invariably reply : "With."

2.

It all happened quickly. First Shaindel lay down and breathed

her last. It occurred on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. The
following day, the oldest woman in the town gave up her own
shroud, since it is forbidden to sew on the Holy Days. The
women of the burial society treated themselves to cake and
brandy at the cemetery. Shalom, confused by grief, forgot the text
of the Kaddish and had to be prompted. Those who attended the
funeral said that his legs were so shaky he almost fell into the
grave. After Shaindel's death Shalom Pintchever became senile.
He took money from the cashbox and didn't remember what he
did with it. He became so deaf that even screaming into his ears
did not help. The Feast of Tabernacles was followed by such a
rain spell that even the oldest townspeople could not recall its
like. The river overflowed. The wheel of the watermill had to be
stopped . The roof of the inn sprang a leak. The guests who had
rooms on the top floor came down in the middle of the night,
complaining that water was pouring_ into their beds. Shalom lay
helpless in his own bedroom. It was Yanda who apologized to
the guests and made up beds for them downstairs. She even
 166 1/P- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

climbed a ladder up to the roof and tried to plug the leaks. But
the shingles crumbled as soon as she touched them. In the
morning the guests left without paying their bills. Early Saturday,
as Shalom Pintchever picked up his prayer shawl and was about
to leave for the synagogue, he began to sway and fell down.
"Yanda, I am finished," he cried out. Yanda ran to get some
brandy, but it was too late. Shalom lay stretched out on the floor,
dead. There was an uproar in the town. Shalom had left no
children. Irreverent people, for whom the sacredness of the
Sabbath had little meaning, began to search for a will and tried
to force his strongbox. Officials from the City Hall made a list of
his belongings and sealed the drawer in which he kept his money.
Yanda had begun to weep the moment Shalom had fallen down
and did not stop until after the funeral. She had worked in the
inn for over twenty years but was left with barely sixty zlotys.
The authorities immediately ordered her to get out. Yanda
packed her belongings in a sack, put on a pair of shoes, which she
usually wore only to church, wrapped herself in a shawl, and
walked the long way to the railroad station. There was nobody to
say goodbye. At the station she approached the ticket window
and said, "Kind sir, please give me a ticket to Skibica."
"There is no such station."
Yanda began to wail : "What am I to do, I am a forsaken
orphan!"
The peasants at the station jeered at her. The women spat o n
her. A Jewish traveling salesman began to question h e r about
Skibica. Is it a village or a town? In what county or district is it?
At first Yanda remembered nothing. But the Jew in his torn coat
and sheepskin hat persisted until Yanda finally remembered that
the village was somewhere near Kielce, between Ch �czyn and
Sobkow. The salesman told Yanda to take out the bank notes that
she kept wrapped in a handkerchief and helped her to count the
money. He talked it over with the ticket seller. There was no
 167 n'- Yanda

direct train to that area. The best way to go was by horse and
buggy to Rozwadow, and from there on to Sandomierz, then to
Opola, where she could either get a ride in another cart or go on
foot to Skibica.
Just hearing the names of these familiar places made Yanda
weep. In Skibica she had once had a father, a mother, a sister,
relatives. Her mother had died and her father, not long before he
died, had married another woman. Yanda had been about to
become engaged to Wojciech, a peasant boy, but the blacksmith's
daughter, a girl called Zocha, had taken him away. During the
years Yanda had worked for Shalom Pintchever she had seldom
thought of the past. It all seemed so far away, at the end of the
earth. But now that her employer was dead there was nothing left
for her but to return home. Who knew, perhaps some of her
close ones were still alive. Perhaps somebody there still remem­
bered her name.
Thank God, good people helped. No sooner had Yanda left
the town where she had lived in shame than people stopped
laughing at her, making grimaces, spitting. The coachmen did
not overcharge her. Jews with beards and sidelocks seemed to
know the whole of Poland as well as they knew the palms of
their hands. They mentioned names of places which Yanda had
already forgotten, and looked for shortcuts. In one tavern some­
one took out a map to find the shortest way home for her. Yanda
marveled at the cleverness of men; how much knowledge they
carried in their heads and how eager they were to help a homeless
woman. But, despite all the good advice, Yanda walked more
than she rode. Rains soaked her; there was snow and hail. She
waded through ditches of water as deep as streams. She had
grown accustomed to sleeping on pillows with clean pillowcases,
between white sheets, under a warm eiderdown, but now she was
forced to stretch out on the floors of granaries and barns. Her
clothes were wet through. Somehow she managed to keep her
 1 68 :$'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

paper money dry. As Yanda walked, she thought about her life.
Once in a while Shalom Pintchever had given her money, but it
had dwindled away. The Russians had counted in rubles and
kopeks. When the Austrians came, the ruble lost its value and
everything was exchanged for kronen and heller. The Bolsheviks
used chervontsi; the Poles, zlotys. How was someone like Yanda,
uneducated as she was, to keep track of such changes? It was a
miracle that she had anything left with which to get home.
God in heaven, men were still chasing her! Wherever she
slept, peasants came to her and had their way with her. In a
wagon, at night, somebody seized her silently. What do they see
in me, Yanda asked herself. It's my bad luck. Yanda remembered
that she had never been able to refuse anyone. Her father had
beaten her for her submissiveness. Her stepmother had torn
Yanda's hair. Even as a child, when she played with the other
children, they had smeared her face with mud, given her a
broom, and made her take the part of Baba Yaga. With the guests
in Shalom's hotel she had had such savage and foolish experi­
ences that she sometimes hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.
But to say no was not in her nature. When she was young, while
still in her father's village, she had twice given birth to babies,
but they had both died. Several times heavy work had caused her
to miscarry. She could never really forget Wojciech, the peasant
boy to whom she had almost been engaged but who at the last
moment had thrown her over. Yanda also had desired Shalom
Pintchever, perhaps because he had always sent her to others and
had never taken her himself. He would say, "Yanda, go to
number three. Yanda, knock at the door of number seven." He
himself had remained faithful to his old wife, Shaindel. Perhaps
he had been disgusted by Yanda, but she had yearned for him.
One kind word from him pleased her more than all the wild
games of the others. Even when he scolded her, she waited for
more. As for the guests, there were so many of them that Yanda
had forgotten all but a few who stuck 10 her memory. One
Russian had demanded that Yanda spit on him, tear at his beard,
and call him names. Another, a schoolboy with red cheeks, had
kissed her and called her mother. He had slept on her breast until
dawn, although guests in other rooms had been waiting for her.
Now Yanda was old. But how old? She did not know her­
self-certainly in her forties, or perhaps fifty? Other women her
age were grandmothers but she was returning to her village
alone, abandoned by God and man. Yanda made a resolution :
once home, she would allow no man to approach her. In a village
there was always gossip and it usually ended in a quarrel. What
did she need it for? The truth was that all this whoring had never
given her any pleasure.

3.

The Jews who showed Yanda the way had not fooled her. She
reached Skibica in the morning, and even though it had changed
considerably, she recognized her home. In a chapel at the out­
skirts of the village God's mother still stood with a halo around
her head and the Christ child in her arms. The figure had become
dingy with the years and a piece of the Holy Mother's shoulder
was chipped off. A wreath of wilted flowers hung around her
neck. Yanda's eyes filled with tears. She knelt in the snow and
crossed herself. She walked into the village, and a smell she had
long forgotten came to her nostrils : an odor of soggy potatoes,
burned feathers, earth, and something else that had no name but
that her nose recognized. The huts were half sunk into the
ground, with tiny windows and low doors. The thatched roofs
were mossy and rotting. Crows were cawing; smoke rose from the
chimneys. Yanda looked for the hut where her parents had lived
but it had disappeared and in its place was a smithy. She put
down the sack she was carrying on her back. Dogs sniffed at her
 170 nt- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

and barked. Women emerged from the dwellings. The younger

ones did not know her but the old ones clapped their hands and
pinched their cheeks, calling, "Oh, Father, Mother, Jesu Maria."
"Yes, it's Yanda, as I love God."
Men, too, came to look at her, some from behind the stoves
where they had been sleeping, others from the tavern. One
peasant woman invited Yanda into her hut. She gave her a piece
of black bread and a cup of milk. On the dirt floor stood bins
filled with potatoes, beets, black radishes, and cranberries.
Chickens were cackling in a coop. The oven had a built-in kettle
for hot water. At a spinning wheel sat an old woman with a
balding head from which hung tufts of hair as white as flax.
Someone screamed into her ear: "Grandma, this is Yanda. Pawel
Kuchma's daughter."
The old woman crossed herself. "Jesu Maria."
The peasant women all spoke together. Pawel Kuchma's home
had burned down. Yanda's brother, Bolek, had gone to war and
never returned. Her sister, Stasia, had married a man from
Biczew and died there in childbirth. They also told Yanda what
had happened to Wojciech, her former bridegroom-to-be. He had
married Zocha and she had borne him fourteen children. Nine of
them were still alive, but their mother had died of typhoid
fever. As for Wojciech, he had been drinking all these years.
Zocha had worked for others to support the family. After her
death three years before, he had become a derelict. Everything
went for drink and he was half crazy. His boys ran around wild.
The girls washed clothes for the Jews of the town. His hut was
practically in ruins. As the women spoke to Yanda, somebody
opened the door and pushed a tall man inside. He was as lean as
a stick, barefoot, with holes in his pants. He wore an open j acket
without a shirt; his hair was long and disheveled-a living scare­
crow. He did not walk, but staggered along as though on stilts.
 1 7 1 � Yanda

He had mad eyes, a dripping nose, and his crooked mouth

showed one long tooth .
Somebody said, "Wojciech, do you recognize this woman?''
"Pockmarked Yanda."
There was laughter and clapping. For the first time in years
Yanda blushed.
"See how you look."
"I heard you are a whore."
There was laughter again.
"Don't listen to him, Yanda. He's drunk."
"What am I drunk on? Nobody gives me a drop of vodka."
Yanda gaped at him. Could this be Wojciech? Some similarity
remained. She wanted to cry. She remembered an expression of
Shaindel' s : "There are some in their graves who look better than
he does." Yanda regretted that she had come back to Skibica.
A woman said, "Why don't you have a look at his children."
Yanda immediately lifted up her sack. She offered to pay for
the bread and milk, but the peasant woman rebuked her, "This is
not the city. Here you don't pay for a piece of bread."
Wojciech's hut was nearby. The roof almost touched the
ground. Elflocks of straw hung from its edges. The windows had
no panes. They were stuffed with rags or boarded up. One
entered it as one would a cave. The floor had rotted away. The
walls were as black as the inside of a chimney. In the semi­
darkness Yanda saw boys, girls. The place stank of dirty linen,
rot, and something rancid. Yanda clutched her nose. Two girls
stood at the tub. Half-naked children smeared with mud crawled
on the floor. One child was pulling the tail of a kitten. A boy
with a blind eye was mending a trap. Yanda blinked. She was not
accustomed to such squalor. At the inn the sheets had been
changed each week. Every third day the guests got fresh towels.
The leftover food had been enough to feed a whole family.
 172 � I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

Well, dirt has to be removed. It won't disappear by itself.

Yanda rolled up her sleeves. She still had a few zlotys and she
sent one of the girls to buy food. A Jew had a store in the village
where one could get bagels, herring, chicory. God in heaven,
how the children devoured those stale bagels! Yanda began to
sweep and scrub. She went to the well for water. At first the girls
ignored her. Then they told her not to meddle in their affairs. But
Yanda said, "I will take nothing from you. Your mother, peace
be with her, was my friend."
Yanda worked until evening. She heated water and washed the
children. She sent an older child to buy soap, a fine comb, and
kerosene, which kills lice. Every few minutes she poured out the
slops. Neighbors came to look and shook their heads. They all
said the same thing : Yanda's work was in vain. The vermin could
not be removed from that hut. In the evening there was no lamp
to light and Yanda bought a small kerosene lamp. The whole
family slept on one wooden platform and there were few
blankets. Yanda covered the children with her own clothes. Late
in the evening the door opened and Wojciech intruded a leg. The
girls began to giggle. Stefan, the boy with the blind eye, had
already made friends with Yanda. He said, "Here he comes-the
stinker."
"You must not talk like that about your father."
Stefan replied with a village proverb: "When your father is a
dog, you say 'git' to him."
Yanda had saved a bagel and a piece of herring for Wojciech,
but he was too drunk to eat. He fell down like a log, muttering
and drooling. The girls stepped over him. Stefan mentioned that
there was a straw mat in the shed behind the hut that Yanda
could use to sleep on. He offered to show her where it was. As
soon as she opened the door of the shed, the boy pushed her and
she fell. He threw himself on her. She tried to tell him that it was
a sin, but he stopped her mouth with his hand. She struggled but
 1 7 3 � Yanda

h e beat her with a heavy fist. As she lay in the dark on wood
shavings, garbage, and rotting rope, the boy satisfied himself.
Yanda closed her eyes. Well, I'm lost anyhow, she thought.
Aloud she muttered, "Woe is me, I might have been your
mother."
Translated by the author and Dorothea Straru
 The
Needle

"My good people, nowadays all marriages are arranged by Mr.

Love. Young folks fall in love and begin to date. They go out
together until they start to quarrel and hate each other. In my
time we relied on father and mother and the matclunaker. I
myself, did not see my Todie until the wedding ceremony, when
he li fted the veil from my face. There he stood with his red beard
and disheveled sidelocks. It was after Pentecost, but he wore a fur
coat as if it were winter. That I didn't faint dead away was a
miracle from heaven. I had fasted through the long summer day.
Still, I wish my best friends no worse life than I had with my
husband, he should intercede for me in the next world. Perhaps I

175
 176 � I S A A C B A S H E V I S S I N G E R

shouldn't say this, but I can't wait until our souls are together
again.
"Yes, love·shmuv. What does a young boy or girl know about
what is good for them? Mothers used to know the signs. In
Krasnostaw there lived a woman called Reitze Leah, and when
she was looking for brides for her sons she made sure to drop in
on her prospective in-laws early in the morning. If she found that
the bed linens were dirty and the girl in question came to the
door with uncombed hair, wearing a sloppy dressing gown, that
was it. Before long everybody in the neighboring villages was
onto her, and when she was seen in the marketplace early in the
morning, all the young girls made sure their doors were bolted.
She had six able sons. None of the matches she made for them
was any good, but that is another story. A girl may be clean and
neat before the wedding, but afterwards she becomes a slattern.
Everything depends on luck.
"But let me tell you a story. In Hrubyeshow there lived a rich
man, Reb Lemel Wagmeister. In those days we didn't use sur­
names, but Reb Lemel was so rich that he was always called
\'V'agmeister. His wife's name was Esther Rosa, and she came
f�om the other side of the Vistula. I see her with my own eyes : a
beautiful woman, with a big-city air. She always wore a black­
lace mantilla over her wig. Her face was as white and smooth as a
girl's. Her eyes were dark. She spoke Russian, Polish, German,
and maybe even French. She played the piano. Even when the
streets were muddy, she wore high-heeled patent-leather shoes.
One autumn I saw her hopping from stone to stone like a bird,
lifting her skirt with both hands, a real lady. They had an only
son, Ben Zion. He was as like his mother as two drops of water.
We were distant relatives, not on her side but on her husband's.
Ben Zion-Benze, he was called-had every virtue : he was hand­
some, clever, learned. He studied the Torah with the rabbi in the
daytime and in the evening a teacher of secular subjects took
 1 7 7 1/P The Needle

over. Benze had black hair and a fair complexion, like his
mother. When he took a walk in the summertime wearing his
elegant gaberdine with a fashionable slit in the back, and his
smart kid boots, all the girls mooned over him through the
windows. Although it is the custom to give dowries only to
daughters, Benze's father set aside for his son a sum of ten
thousand rubles. What difference did it make to him? Benze was
his only heir. They tried to match him with the richest girls in the
province, but Esther Rosa was very choosy. She had nothing to
do, what with three maids, a manservant, and a coachman in
addition. So she spent her time looking for brides for Benze. She
had already inspected the best-looking girls in half of Poland,
but not one had she found without some defect. One wasn't
beautiful enough; another, not sufficiently clever. But what she
was looking for most was nobility of character. 'Because,' she
said, 'if a woman is coarse, it is the husband who suffers. I don't
want any woman to vent her spleen on my Benze. ' I was already
married at the time. I married when I was fifteen. Esther Rosa
had no real friend in Hrubyeshow and I became a frequent
visitor to her house. She taught me how to knit and embroider
and do needlepoint. She had golden hands. When the fancy took
her, she could make herself a dress or even a cape. She once made
me a dress, just for the fun of it. She had a good head for
business as well. Her husband hardly took a step without con­
sulting her. Whenever she told him to buy or sell a property, Reb
Lemel Wagmeister immediately sent for Lippe the agent and
said: 'My wife wants to buy or sell such-and-such.' She never
made a mistake.
"Well, Benze was already nineteen, and not even engaged. In
those days nineteen was considered an old bachelor. Reb Lemel
Wagmeister complained that the boy was being disgraced by his
mother's choosiness. Benze developed pimples on his forehead-
 1 78 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

because he needed a woman, it was said. We called them passion

pimples.
"One day I came to see Esther Rosa to borrow a ball of yarn.
And she said to me: 'Zeldele, would you like to ride to Zamosc
with me?'
" 'What will I do in Zamosc? ' I asked.
" 'What difference does it make,' she replied. 'You'll be my
guest.'
" Esther Rosa had her own carriage, but this time she went
along with someone else who was going to Zamosc. I guessed
that the journey had something to do with looking over a bride,
but Esther Rosa's nature was such that one didn't ask questions.
If she were willing to talk, well and good. If not, you just
waited. To make it short, I went to tell my mother about the trip.
No need to ask my husband. He sat in the study house all day
long. When he came home in the evening, my mother served him
his supper. In those days a young Talmud scholar barely knew he
had a wife. I don't believe that he would have recognized me if
he met me on the street. I packed a dress and a pair of bloomers
-I beg your pardon-and I was ready for the trip. We were
traveling in a nobleman's carriage and he did the driving himself.
Two horses like lions. The road was dry and smooth as a table.
When we arrived in Zamosc, he let us off not at the marketplace
but on a side street where the Gentiles live. Esther Rosa thanked
him and he tipped his hat and waved his whip at us good-na­
turedly. It all looked arranged.
' 'As a rule, when Esther Rosa traveled any place she dressed as
elegantly as a countess. This time she wore a simple cotton dress,
and a kerchief over her wig. It was summer and the days were
long. We walked to the marketplace and she inquired for Berish
Lubliner's dry-goods store. A large store was pointed out to us.
Nowadays in a dry-goods store you can only buy yard goods, but
in those days they sold everything: thread, wool for knitting, and
 179 n'- The Needle

odds and ends. What didn't they sell? It was a store as big as a
forest, filled with merchandise to the ceiling. At a high desk
stand a man sat writing in a ledger, as they do in the big cities. I
don't know what he was, the cashier or a bookkeeper. Behind a
counter stood a girl with black eyes that burned like fire. We
happened to be the only customers in the store, and we ap­
proached her. 'What can I do for you?' she asked. 'You seem to
be strangers.'
" 'Yes, we are strangers,' said Esther Rosa.
" 'What would you like to see?' the girl asked.
" 'A needle,' said Esther Rosa.
"The moment she heard the word 'needle,' the girl's face
changed. Her eyes became angry. 'Two women for one needle,'
she said.
"Merchants believe that a needle is unlucky. Nobody ever
dared to buy a needle at the beginning of the week, because they
knew it meant the whole week would be unlucky. Even in the
middle of the week the storekeepers did not like to sell needles.
One usually bought a spool of thread, some buttons, and the
needle was thrown in without even being mentioned. A needle
costs only half a groshen and it was a nuisance to make such
small change.
" 'Yes,' said Esther Rosa. 'All I need is a needle.'
"The girl frowned but took out a box of needles. Esther Rosa
searched through the box and said : 'Perhaps you have some other
needles?'
" 'What's wrong with these?' the girl asked impatiently.
" 'Their eyes are too small,' Esther Rosa said. 'It will be
difficult to thread them.'
" 'These are all I have,' the girl said angrily. 'If you can't see
well, why don't you buy yourself a pair of eyeglasses.'
"Esther Rosa insisted. 'Are you sure you have no others? I
must have a needle with a larger eye.'
 1 80 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"The girl reluctantly pulled out another box and slammed it

down on the counter. Esther Rosa examined several needles and
said : 'These too have small eyes.'
"The girl snatched away the box and screamed : 'Why don't
you go to Lublin and order yourself a special needle with a big
eye.'
"The man at the stand began to laugh. 'Perhaps you need a
sackcloth needle,' he suggested . 'Some nerve, ' the girl chimed in,
'to bother people over a half-groshen sale.'
"Esther Rosa replied : 'I have no use for sackcloth or for girls
who are as coarse as sackcloth . ' Then she turned to me and said :
'Come, Zeldele, they are not our kind. '
"The gicl turned red in the face and said loudly, 'What yokels!
Good riddance!'
"We went out. The whole business had left a bad taste in my
mouth. A woman passed by and Esther Rosa asked her the way to
Reb Zelig Izbitzer's drygoods store. 'Right across the street,' she
said, pointing. We crossed the marketplace and entered a store
that was only a third of the size of the first one. Here too there
was a young saleswoman. This one wasn' t dark; she had red hair.
She was not ugly but she had freckles. Her eyes were as green as
gooseberries. Esther Rosa asked if she sold needles. And the girl
replied, 'Why not? We sell everything.'
" Tm looking for a needle with a large eye, because I have
trouble threading needles,' Esther Rosa said.
" Til show you every size we have and you can pick the one
that suits you best, ' the girl replied.
"I had already guessed what was going on and my heart began
to beat like a thief's. The girl brought out about ten boxes of
needles. 'Why should you stand? ' she said. 'Here is a stool.
Please be seated.' She also brought a stool for me. It was per­
fectly clear to me that Esther Rosa was going to test her too.
 1 8 1 :P The Needle

" 'Why are the needles all mixed together?' Esther Rosa com·
plained. 'Each size should be in a different box.'
" 'When they come from the factory, they are all sorted out,'
the girl said apologetically. 'But they get mixed up.' I saw Esther
Rosa was doing her best to make the girl lose her temper. 'I don't
see too well,' Esther Rosa said. 'It's dark here.'
" 'Just one moment and I'll move the stools to the door. There
is more light there,' the girl replied.
" 'Does it pay you to make all this effort just to sell a half­
penny needle?' Esther Rosa asked. And the girl answered : 'First
of all, a needle costs only a quarter of a penny, and then as the
Talmud says, the same law applies to a penny as it does to a
hundred guilders. Besides, today you buy a needle and tomorrow
you may be buying satins for a trousseau.'
" 'Is that so? Then how come the store is empty?' Esther Rosa
wanted to know. 'Across the street, Berish Lubliner's store is so
full of customers you can't find room for a pin between them. I
bought my materials there but I decided to come here for the
needle.'
"The girl became serious. I was afraid that Esther Rosa had
overdone it. Even an angel can lose patience. But the girl said,
'Everything according to God's will.' Esther Rosa made a move to
carry her stool to the door, but the girl stopped her. 'Please don't
trouble yourself. I'll do it.' Esther Rosa interrupted. 'Just a
moment. I want to tell you something.'
" 'What do you want to tell me?' the girl said, setting down
the stool.
" 'My daughter, Maze! Tov!' Esther Rosa called out.
"The girl turned as white as chalk. 'I don't understand,' she
said.
" 'You will be my daughter·in·law,' Esther Rosa announced. 'I
am the wife of Reb Lemel Wagmeister of Hrubyeshow. I have
 1 8 2 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

come here to look for a bride for my son. Not to buy a needle.
Reb Berish's daughter is like a straw mat and you are like silk.
You will be my Benze's wife, God willing.'
"That the girl didn't faint dead away was a miracle from
heaven. Everybody in Zamosc had heard of Reb Lemel Wag­
meister. Zamosc is not Lublin. Customers came in and saw what
was happening . Esther Rosa took a string of amber beads out of
her basket. 'Here is your engagement gift. Bend your head.' The
girl lowered her head submissively and Esther Rosa placed the
beads around her neck. Her father and mother came running into
the store. There was kissing, embracing, crying. Someone imme­
diately rushed to tell the story to Reb Berish's daughter. When
she heard what had happened, she burst into tears. Her name was
Itte. She had a large dowry and was known as a shrewd sales­
woman. Zelig Izbitzer barely made a living.
"My good people, it was a match. Esther Rosa wore the pants
in the family. Whatever she said went. And as I said, in those
days young people were never asked. An engagement party was
held and the wedding soon after. Zelig Izbitzer could not afford a
big wedding. He barely could give his daughter a dowry, for he
also had two other daughters and two sons who were studying in
the yeshiva. But, as you know, Reb Lemel Wagmeister had little
need for her dowry. I went to the engagement party and I danced
at the wedding. Esther Rosa dressed the girl like a princess. She
became really beautiful. When good luck shines, it shows on the
face. Whoever did not see that couple standing under the wed­
ding canopy and later dancing the virtue dance will never know
what it means to have joy in children. Afterwards they lived like
doves. Exactly to the year, she bore a son.
"From the day ltte discovered that Esther Rosa had come to
test her, she began to ail. She spoke about the visit constantly. She
stopped attending customers. Day and night she cried. The match­
makers showered her with offers, but first she wouldn't have
 183 1:P The Needle

anyone else and second what had happened had given her a bad
name. You know how people exaggerate. All kinds of lies were
invented about her. She had insulted Esther Rosa in the worst
way, had spat in her face, had even beaten her up. ltte's father
was stuffed with money and in a small town everybody is envious
of his neighbor's crust of bread. Now his enemies had their
revenge. Itte had been the real merchant and without her the
store went to pieces. After a while she married a man from
Lublin. He wasn't even a bachelor. He was divorced. He came to
Zamosc and took over his father-in-law's store. But he was as
much a businessman as I am a musician.
"That is how things are. If luck is with you, it serves you well.
And when it stops serving you, everything goes topsy-turvy. Itte's
mother became so upset she developed gallstones, or maybe it was
jaundice. Her face became as yellow as saffron. ltte no longer
entered the store. She became a stay-at-home. It was hoped that
when she became pregnant and had a child, she would forget.
But twice she miscarried. She became half crazy, went on cursing
Frieda Gittel-that is what Benze's wife was called-and insisted
that the other had connived. against her. Who knows what goes
on in a madwoman's head? ltte also foretold that Frieda Gittel
would die and that she, Itte, would take her place. When ltte
became pregnant for the third time, her father took her to a
miracle-worker. I've forgotten to mention that by this time her
mother was already dead. The miracle-worker gave her potions
and talismans, but she miscarried again. She began to run to
doctors and to imagine all kinds of illnesses.
"Now listen to this. One evening Itte was sitting in her room
sewing. She had finished her length of thread and wanted to
rethread her needle. While getting the spool she placed the
needle between her lips. Suddenly she felt a stab in her throat
and the needle vanished. She searched all over for it, but-what
is the saying,-'who can find a needle in a haystack?' My dear
 1 84 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

people, ltte began to imagine that she had swallowed the needle.
She felt a pricking in her stomach, in her breast, her legs. There
is a saying : 'A needle wanders.' She visited the leech, but what
does a leech know? She went to doctors in Lublin and even in
Warsaw. One doctor said one thing; another, something differ­
ent. They poked her stomach but could find no needle. God
preserve us. ltte lay in bed and screamed that the needle was
pricking her. The town was in a turmoil. Some said that she had
swallowed the needle on purpose to commit suicide. Others, that
it was a punishment from God. But why should she have been
punished? She had already suffered enough for her rudeness.
Finally she went to Vienna to a great doctor. And he found the
way out. He put her to sleep and made a cut in her belly. When
she woke up he showed her the needle that he was supposed to
have removed from her insides. I wasn't there. Perhaps he really
found a needle, but that's not what people said. When she re­
turned from Vienna, she was her former self again. The store
had gone to ruin. Her father was already in the other world. ltte,
however, opened a new store. In the new store she succeeded
again, but she never had any children.
"I've forgotten to mention that after what happened between
Esther Rosa and the two girls, the salesgirls of Zamosc became
the souls of politeness, not only to strangers, but even to their
own townspeople. For how could one know whether a customer
had come to buy or to test? The book peddler did a fine trade in
books on etiquette, and when a woman came to buy a ball of
yarn, she was offered a chair.
"I can't tell you what happened later, because I moved away
from Zamosc. In the big cities one forgets about everything, even
about God. Reb Lemel Wagmeister and Esther Rosa have long
since passed away. I haven't heard from Benze or his wife for a
long time. Yes, a needle. Because of a rooster and a chicken
a whole town was destroyed in the Holy Land, and because of a
 185 � The Needle

needle a match was spoiled. The truth is that everything is fated

from heaven . You can love someone until you burst, but if it's
not destined, it will come to naught. A boy and a girl can be
keeping company for seven years, and a stranger comes along and
breaks everything up. I could tell you a story of a boy who
married his girl's best friend out of spite, and she, to spite him
kept to her bed for twenty years. Tell it? It's too late. If I were to
tell you all the stories I know, we'd be sitting here for seven days
and seven nights."
Tran.s!ated by the a11thor a11d Elizabeth Shttb
 Two
Corpses
Go Dancing

It has always tickled my fancy to amuse myself not only with the
living but with the dead as well. That I do not have the power of
resurrection is a well-known fact This is something only the
Almighty can accomplish. Nevertheless, I, the Evil One, can for a
short time infuse a corpse with the breath of life, with animal
spirits as the philosophers choose to call it, and send it to roam
among the living. Woe unto such a one! one who is neither alive
nor dead, but who exists somewhere on the borderline. \X'hat a
delight it is for me to look in on a corpse as, wholly unaware of
its status, it eats, worries about making a living, marries, sins­
deceiving itself and others. \X'hen the game becomes boring, I
end it. "Back to your sepulcher, Mr. Corpse," I order, "enough
 1 88 1iP' ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

of your tricks." And the corpse crumbles like dust, for while it
has been carousing, it has kept on rotting all the same.
This time I chose a young man named Itche-Godl. He had
been dead more than a year and his widow, Tryna-Rytza, had re­
married. Since he had lived in such a large city as Warsaw, had
left behind no parents, no children, and certainly no estate, he
had been completely forgotten. The truth of the matter is that he
had been a corpse even when alive. You know the old saying : "A
poor man is like a dead man." Well, Itche-Godl had been a
pauper of the first magnitude. His wife had been the bread­
winner, selling in the marketplace, and the couple had made their
home in a cellar that was dark even during daylight hours. Itche­
Godl, in tatters, had moped about the study houses or dozed on a
bench behind the oven. A puny man, stooped, sleepy-eyed, with a
beard like the wattle of a chicken, he wore trousers that drooped
constantly, a ragged gaberdine girdled with a rope, an old cap
lining on his head, and on his feet cracked shoes. So he had
existed until his thirty-sixth year, when he fell prey to some
mysterious illness. For several weeks he lay under a covering of
rags in the rotting straw of his bench bed, with his face turning
always yellower and more haggard. Until finally one morning
while Tryna-Rytza was preparing her wicker basket to take to the
marketplace, she realized her provider, her lord and master whose
footstool she would one day become in paradise, was no longer
alive. Taking a pillow feather, she held it to his nostrils and
waited to see if it would flutter. But it did not. Somehow or other,
she managed to scrape together a few gulden for the funeral, and
Itche-Godl was dispatched to the True World. Since the burial
took place on a Friday, the neighbors were too busy to walk
behind the hearse, and the body was hurriedly disposed of. Not
even a marker was placed over the grave.
Usually after a man dies the Angel Dumah confronts him,
demands his name, and then proceeds to weigh up his good
 1 89 ;�Po Two Corpses Go Dancing

against his evil deeds. But ltche-Godl lay rotting for months
without anyone coming to question him, forgotten not only by
the angels but by the devils as well. It was only by accident that I
learned of this forsaken cadaver, and then it occurred to me why
not have some fun with it.
"Listen here, ltche-Godl," I shouted at him. "What's the use
of rotting underground? Why not get up and go into the city?
There are plenty of corpses roaming around Warsaw. There
might as well be another."
ltche-Godl rose, and since it was very late and the sexton was
fast asleep, I sent him to the mortuary, where he stole the night
watchman's trousers, boots, hat, and gaberdine. Then he set off
walking toward the city.
Although he was dressed like any other pauper, there was
something about him that was frightening. Dogs howled. The
night watch shuddered and clutched their sticks when they saw
him silently approaching . A drunk, staggering across his path,
sobered instantly and dropped back. Since ltche-Godl did not
know that he was dead and that he had not been home in over a
year, he was now on his way to his cellar. Coming into the
narrow street where he lived, he felt his way sightlessly down the
cellar steps, hanging on to the narrow wooden rail.
"How late it is! My, my! Why did I stay so long at the study
house?" he mumbled. "Tryna-Rytza will surely make mincemeat
out of me."
He pushed at the door but to his astonishment found it
fastened by a lock and chain. She must be in a rage, he thought.
He rapped once, then again. Suddenly he heard what sounded
like a man's sigh from the other side. What's going on here, he
asked himself. Is it possible Tryna-Rytza has fallen upon sinful
ways? But that's foolish. I must have imagined it. . . . At that
moment the door was flung open and in the darkness ltche-Godl
made out the figure of a man. It occurred to him that perhaps he
 190 :iP- I SA AC BASHEVIS SINGER

had made a mistake and knocked on the wrong door. "Does

Tryna-Rytza live here?" he blurted out.
"Who are you? " rasped a coarse male voice. "What do you
want?"
"But I am her husband," said ltche-Godl, confused.
"Her husband?" the other bellowed, backing away.
"Who is it?" Tryna-Rytza called, getting up from her bed.
Presently she too was at the door. Itche·Godl recognized her
familiar shape, her stride, the sweet-sour odor of her body.
"It's me, Itche-Godl," he said.
Instead of replying, Tryna-Rytza began to scream. The man
slammed the door. Itche-Godl was shut outside. He trembled.
Tryna-Rytza let out shriek after shriek. Then came a sudden
silence, as if she had fallen into a swoon. A little later he heard
whispers, murmurs, and then Tryna-Rytza and the man began to
intone "Hear, 0 Israel."
"What goes on here?'' Itche-Godl inquired of himself. Rooted
there in the darkness, he pondered, scratched his beard, furrowed
his brow, but the longer he thought about it, the more astounding
the entire incident appeared.
"No doubt about it, the woman has committed adultery," he
told himself.
Though it grieved him sorely to leave his woman and his pallet
and to seek shelter for the night in the poorhouse, what choice
had he? It was not his way to argue and he had never even
learned how to raise his voice properly. He decided to withdraw.
"What can I do?" he thought. "It has been destined so."
And on shaky l egs he climbed back up the stairs and out into
the city.

2 .

At daybreak, as ltche-Godl lay huddled on the floor in a corner of

the poorhouse, believing himself asleep, I appeared before him in
 1 9 1 � Two Corpses Go Dancing

black, with the feet of a goose. "Why dream, Itche-Godl?" I

said. "Man does not live forever. If you don't get your portion in
this world, in the next it will be too late. If your wife is an
adulteress, you must become a lecher!"
"But that is forbidden," Itche-Godl answered. "One is pun­
ished for that in hell ."
"There is no such place as hell," I informed him. "A corpse
knows nothing and feels nothing. There is no Judge and no
Judgment."
"But how could I, ragged and scabby as I am, become a
libertine?" asked ltche-Godl.
"The rich have plenty of money," I said. "Go to the market
and steal some. I'll help you."
"And suppose they catch me and throw me into prison?"
"Don't worry. They won't be able to do a thing to you."
Early that same morning, Itche-Godl went to the marketplace
and walked into a store as if to make a purchase. But although
there were no other customers, the proprietress did not approach
him, nor, when he ambled over to a sack of beans and dipped his
hand in, did she berate him for handling her merchandise.
Presently, when the woman went into the back room, leaving the
store unattended, Itche-Godl sidled over to the counter, opened
the cash drawer, took out a handful of money, and stuffed it into
his pocket. Then he slipped outside and lost himself in the
crowd.
Barely a minute later he heard the hue and cry. The shop­
woman wailed that she had been robbed, and a great commotion
ensued. Everyone was suspicious of everyone else. A beggar was
stopped, searched, and, although nothing was found on him,
severely beaten. But no one suspected Itche-Godl.
"What do I do now?" he asked.
"Aren't you at all hungry?"
"Yes and no. "
 192 1/P- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Well, never mind. Go to a soup kitchen and order a plate of

tripe with calves' feet, egg noodles, a bowl of carrots and fried
potatoes, and a glass of brandy to wash it all down. As you leave,
take a decent fur coat and a sable hat from a book. After that,
we'll see."
Since Itche-Godl was not listed in the Book of Life, the angels
were unaware of his existence and it was easy for me to bend him
to my will. He followed my instructions and an hour later
emerged on the street again, a well-dressed man. His face, to be
sure, was pale and sunken and his eyes looked congealed in bony
sockets, but the fur collar concealed nearly his whole visage. Since
he appeared prosperous, the beggars pestered him for alms, but
he, like any man of property, pretended not to see them.
"What shall I do now?" Itche-Godl asked me again.
"Would you care for a little sport with that harlot, your
wife?" I asked him.
"Yes, why not?"
"Come along then, and do as I tell you. I'll see to it that all
goes well."
I steered Itche-Godl to the marketplace, where Tryna-Rytza
was standing over a basket of half-rotten apples. In contrast to
Itche-Godl, she was a healthy wench with red cheeks and broad
hips. As Itche-Godl was convinced that it was only yesterday she
had deserted him, he could not fathom the changes he saw in her.
Her face appeared more youthful, her voice lustier as she con­
versed with the other marketwomen, at the same time eating with
gusto some fried groats from an earthen pot.
" Apparently sin agrees with her," thought Itcbe-Godl. It was
I, of course, who caused him to think this, his mind being com­
pletely under my domination.
He went nearer. "Excuse me, woman, how much are the
apples?"
Tryna-Rytza looked up and, bewildered at seeing such a distin-
 193 n'- Two Corpses Go Dancing

guished man in a fur coat and sable hat, blurted out : "A penny a
pound. Three pounds for two."
"Too cheap !" said Itche-Godl . "In Danzig, where I come
from, such produce would bring at least three pennies a pound."
"Huh . . . what? That is a price!" Tryna-Rytza exclaimed,
staring in amazement at the stranger. "Here everything is dirt
cheap. "
"Why d o you work in the market? " he asked. "Don't you have
a husband to support you?"
"I have a husband, may he live to a hundred and twenty," she
replied. "But I have to help out."
"What does he do?" Itche-Godl asked, laughing to himself.
He was certain that she was speaking of him, Itche-Godl.
"You might say he's a jack of all trades-porter, secondhand
clothes dealer, sometimes a barrelmaker, sometimes a cobbler.
But you know the saying: 'Trades aplenty, pockets empty! ' "
"Do you have children?" he asked. She said she did not. "And
why not?" he asked slyly.
' 'I'm with my second husband, " Tryna-Rytza explained . "My
first, may he rest in peace, was, begging your pardon, a weakling
and a simpleton. He died a year ago. My second, may God spare
him, has only been with me a few weeks."
Itche-Godl strained to keep from laughter. How could the
woman lie so shamelessly?
"Tell me the truth. Which one do you love best: the second or
the first, blessed be his memory?"
"Why do you ask me such questions?" she demanded. "People
from Danzig must be terribly curious."
"In Danzig, when one is asked a question it's the custom to
answer it, " he said, marveling at his daring . It seemed, he
decided, that with money one acquired a goodly measure of
impudence. Tryna-Rytza also seemed lost in thought as she swal­
lowed the last spoonful of groats.
 194 ;_'f'o ISAAC BASH EVIS SI NGER

"Well, what's the use of lying to you?" she replied after some
hesitation. "May God forgive me, but this one is a man. The
other, may his rest be easy, was, alas, a schlemiel."
Suddenly she looked closely at the man in front of her. Her
blood grew cold, her face paled, and the earthen pot fell from
her hands and shattered into bits.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she screamed in a voice
unlike her own. Before ltche-Godl could manage an answer, she
had fainted. The tradeswomen cried out and scurried about. Itche­
Godl edged away into the crowd.

3.

A t the marketplace of the Old City stood a large dry-goods store

belonging to a widow named Finkle. Widely known for her
wisdom and education, she spoke both Polish and German and
her witticisms and bons mots were repeated and relished among
the merchants. The widow Finkle was olive-skinned and slim,
with sharp eyes and an aquiline nose. She wore a curled wig
topped by a silver comb, wore shoes with high heels and, even on
weekdays, silk dresses and jewelry. She had her clothes custom­
made for her by a tailor who sewed for the nobility.
She had been a widow for over twenty years but had never
remarried. The reason? That was her secret. No one dared to ask.
Her late husband, Reb Joseph Rappaport, had been heir to a
fortune, a Talmud scholar, and learned in worldly matters as
well. Obviously she could not forget him. It was rumored, too,
that she had come to her husband on his deathbed and of her
own volition made a vow never to remarry.
This widow, Finkle Rappaport, fell ill one winter with an
internal ailment, and the most prominent \X'arsaw doctors were
unable to help her. In Vienna at that time lived a doctor said to
have performed miracles, literally bringing the dead to life again.
 195 � Two Corpses Go Dancing

So the widow Finkle traveled to Vienna, leaving the store in the

care of her three clerks, a young man and two girls, all relatives
upon whose trustworthiness she could rely.
\'qhen months passed without word from her, rumors began to
circulate that she was no longer alive. Before her departure she
had drawn up a will, leaving part of her estate to her relatives,
the remainder to charity. Her costly gowns and silk undergar­
ments were, in case of her death, to be distributed among
indigent brides. And a sum of money was set aside to engage ten
pious men to say Kaddish and to study the Mishnah for a full
year after her demise. She had also provided that an eternal light
in her memory be maintained in the prayer house. In short, the
woman had attended to it that she should not arrive empty­
handed at the Celestial Council of Justice.
But in the meantime no one knew what had happened to her
and the Warsaw rabbis forbade that her estate be touched until
there was definite proof of her death. Nine months passed. That
the widow Finkle was no longer alive was clear to everyone, since
in all that time nothing had been heard from her. Her near
relatives had already mourned for her, and when her name came
up, the usual eulogies were i ntoned . Several women had
dreamed that she appeared before them in shrouds, pleading that
her remains be returned to Warsaw so that she might be buried
next to her ancestors and complaining that her soul could find no
place in the impious cemetery of Vienna.
Suddenly the news spread that Finkle had returned. One
evening, as her employees were about to light the oil lamp,
Finkle entered. She was swathed all in black and her form ap­
peared taller and more angular than it had been. The clerks were
so frightened they were unable to speak.
"Apparently you decided you were already rid of me," Finkle
said.
"God forbid," replied the male clerk, recovering himself.
 1 96 :iP, ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Why didn't Aunt write?" asked the older of the girls,

bursting into tears.
"If I didn't write, obviously I was unable to write!" Finkle
snapped in her severe manner.
She related tersely that she had been confined in a Vienna
hospital, had been extremely ill, but was now recovered. It was
clear that she was not disposed to discuss her absence. She seemed
a changed person, her face drawn and spotted, her nose more
crooked, her eyes sharper yet somehow more distant. In the days
that followed, she sat behind the counter gazing into a volume of
The Lamp of Light, although, as the younger of the girls observed,
she never turned the page and the book remained open always at
the same place. Women kept coming in to see her, to question
her, but she received them coldly and unresponsively. She an­
swered everyone in the same way, saying only that she had been
very sick. And when the young matrons interrogated her about
Vienna, how the women dressed, what the latest fashions were,
and whether the city was truly as magnificent as some descrip­
tions would have it, she simply reiterated : "I hardly saw the city.
My mind was on other things."
Finkle was sitting in the store one day staring into The Lamp
of Light, the yardstick on one side of her, the shears on the other,
when Itche-Godl came in to purchase material for an overcoat, as
I had ordered him. Getting into a conversation with Finkle, he
told her that he was a merchant from Danzig, a widower.
"Is it long since your wife passed away?" Finkle asked. And
Itche-Godl told her how long it had been.
"\'V'hat are you doing in Warsaw?" she asked. And he ex­
plained his plans to erect a building on the marketplace four
stories high and with three courtyards.
"Why such a large building?" Finkle asked.
"One does not build for oneself alone but for posterity as
well," he replied.
 197 � Two Corpses Go Dancing

"You have children, then?" asked Finkle.

"My first wife, may she rest in peace, was barren," he an­
swered. "But I am thinking of marrying again."
Finkle asked him how many yards of cloth he required.
"What's the difference?" he answered. "So long as it covers
the body. " And he looked at her with lackluster eyes, and she
looked back, the depths of her eyes blank.
The next morning I bade Itche-Godl send a matchmaker to
Finkle. "But how can I?" he protested . "I have a wife already."
"Do as I tell you," I ordered. "You have nothing." So the mar­
riage broker spoke to Finkle, and she consented. When the clerks
and neighbors heard that Finkle was contemplating marriage,
they were greatly surprised. They came to offer congratulations
but were thanked curtly. When they inquired : "Who is the
groom? Where is he from? What does he do?" she said sharply:
"Who knows? He's erecting a building or something in the
marketplace."
' 'But there isn't an empty lot there, " they pointed out.
"For my part, he can build on the wind," Finkle answered .
But although her mouth smiled, her eyes remained stark. More­
over, the women noticed when they were near her a weird odor
that seemed to emanate from her person. Mostly they stayed at a
distance, however, for Finkle always reapplied herself quickly to
her volume with its yellowed pages. The women, leaving the
store, whispered among themselves. "Somehow it's not the old
Finkle," they said and departed with heavy hearts.
The clerks in the store assumed that Finkle's wedding trous­
seau would be a costly one, but she ordered no new garments
sewn. At home, too, her maid observed that she was behaving
strangely. She barely touched the food placed before her, never
attended to personal needs or washed herself or changed her
clothing. In the morning her bed appeared unslept in, never dis­
arranged, as smooth and cold as the day before. When she
 I 98 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

walked through the house, her footsteps made no sound, and

often when the maid spoke to her there was no reply. The
wedding date was set, yet Finkle made no preparations. One time
the maid asked her: "Where will the master sleep?"
"What master?" Finkle answered.
"I mean . . . after the wedding," stammered the maid .
Finkle shrugged. "He'll sleep in the same place as the first."
On the evening of the wedding Finkle appeared at the ritual
bath and the women, who had not counted on her coming, were
greatly astonished. She looked, in her black clothes, unusually
fleshless and elongated, nor did her figure cast any shadow on the
wall. The bath attendant came to help her undress, but Finkle
pushed past her and sitting down on the edge of the bench began
to remove her clothes herself. Her torn stockings and spotted
undergarments surprised everyone . When she was naked, she
descended the steps promptly and silently lowered herself into
the water. Her body was wasted, one could count every rib.
Though she remained underwater for a long time, not even one
bubble rose to the surface. Finally she poked her skull out, a skull
that was neither trimmed nor shaved as is customary among pious
women, but was overgrown with clumps of disheveled hair.
The next night was the night of the wedding, and the bride,
having dressed herself in a black silk dress with a train, stationed
herself at a window to wait for the groom. Her girls had filled
the candelabra and chandeliers with lighted wax candles. Itche­
Godl hastened in, accompanied by an assistant rabbi and by some
street loungers who were to make up the quorum. The ceremony
went off in the usual way. The marriage contract was filled in by
the assistant rabbi with a goose quill. Itche-Godl slipped the ring
from his bosom pocket and placed it on Finkle's index finger.
When the canopy had been dismantled and the poles stacked
behind the oven, the maid served cakes and brandy to the guests
 1 99 1lP Two Corpses Go Dancing

while they tendered their congratulations to the bride and groom.

When the assistant rabbi said to Finkle : "May we soon celebrate
a circumcision ! " she snickered, revealing a row of blackish teeth,
while Itche-Godl, lowering his head, giggled.
"A good night! A lucky night! " chorused the guests as they
left.
The servant girl, who had been given the night off, had gone
to sleep at her mother's, and the clerks had retired to their
quarters in the basement. Finkle and ltche-Godl were left to
themselves.
"Shall I put out the lights?" asked Finkle.
"As you wish," said Itche-Godl .
"You're mournful. Why?" asked Finkle.
"You're imagining it," answered Itche-Godl.
"Would you prefer to eat or sleep?" whispered Finkle.
"Sleep," said Itche-Godl.
"I, too." Finkle sighed.
She began to walk toward the bedroom, and ltche-Godl trailed
behind, his legs shaky. The corridor was dark.
"How's your house coming?" Finkle asked.
"The lot-it's already there," replied ltche-Godl m an
undertone.
"The lots are always there," said Finkle sternly. Itche-Godl
suddenly felt as if she were moving far away from him. "Where
are you going?" he called. "Come on. Don't be afraid," she
replied.
The bedroom was not only unaccountably wide and dark, but
it didn't seem to have any walls and a wind seemed to be blowing
as if they were outdoors. "Get undressed," Finkle ordered.
'Tm cold," complained Itche-Godl. He was stumbling around
in the dark looking for a chair where he could sit down and take
off his shoes.
 200 ;!p. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"What are you doing? Where are you?" called Finkle.

"Are you in bed already?" asked Itche-Godl, and Finkle
murmured, "I think so."
"I can' t find a chair . . . " said Itche-Godl.
"Truly, you are helpless," sighed Finkle.
Having no other choice, ltche-Godl laid his coat and hat on the
floor. With trembling knees, he started for the bed. Suddenly it
seemed to him that he was looking down into a pit.
"What's the matter? Why don't you come?" Finkle grumbled.
"I think I see a pit," whispered Itche-Godl.
"What kind of pit?" Finkle cried out.
"A pit . . . it looks like a pit . . . what else could it be?"
At these words he fell in and there was the sound of rattling
bones.
"What's happened?" Finkle demanded.
' 'I've fallen in! Save me !" moaned Itche-Godl, whose tongue
was becoming numb. Finkle tried to get up but was unable to
move.
"I don't understand. Where could you have fallen? There
aren' t any pits here!" she screamed. For a long time both were
silent . Then Finkle spoke : "Woe is me . . . . We have made
fools of ourselves."
"What's the matter? Are you sick or something, God forbid?"
asked Itche-Godl in a muffied voice.
And Finkle answered, her voice funereal : "I am worse than
sick ! "
"Good heavens! Hear, 0 Israel : the Lord our God, the Lord is
One," gasped Itche-Godl, and those were his last words. The
God-fearing widow Finkle answered : "Blessed be His Name,
Whose glorious kingdom is forever and ever . . . . "
The following morning the news spread throughout Warsaw
that Finkle and her bridegroom had vanished on their wedding
night. At first it was thought that the couple must have fled to
 201 ,P. Two Corpses Go Dancing

Danzig, but why they should flee or from whom no one could
conceive. Sometime afterward a letter came from Vienna which
stated that Finkle had died three months earlier and been buried
in a local cemetery. Only then did the people realize that the
Finkle who had returned had been nothing but a phantom and
the entire series of events an illusion. They discovered, too, that
over a year ago a pauper named Itche-Godl had died in Warsaw.
This man had returned twice to haunt his wife, who had re­
married. In every household in the neighborhood the mezuzahs
were examined. Ten Jews went to ltchc-Godl's grave to beg his
forgiveness, to pledge him to remain in eternal rest and to
torment the living no more. To appease the corpse, the com­
munity erected a tombstone over his grave. Thus ltche-Godl, who
went unmourned from the world, became famous after death.
And when Tryna-Rytza, ):lis former wife, was, with luck, de­
l ivered of a son, she named him after her first husband : ltche­
Godl.
So much for two of the corpses I sent dancing. But Itche-Godl
and Finkle are not the only ones. I play such tricks often. The
world is full of dead ones in sable capes and fur coats who
carouse among the living. Maybe your neighbor, maybe your
wife, maybe you yourself. . . . Unbutton your shirt. It's possible
that underneath your clothes your body is wrapped in a shroud.
Tramiated by foJeph Singer and Elizabeth Poiiet
 The
Parrot

Outside, the moon was shining, but in the prison cell it was
almost dark. Although the single window was barred and
screened, enough light filtered in to disclose parts of faces. New
snow had fallen and gave a violet glow to the speck of sky which
came through the window as through a sieve. By midnight it had
become as cold as in the street and the prisoners had covered
themselves with all the rags they had : cotton vests, j ackets, over­
coats. They slept in their caps, with rags stuffed in their shoes. In
summer the chamber pot had given off a stench, but now the
winter wind came in and blew away the odor. It had begun to get
dark at half past three in the afternoon, and by six Stach the
watchman put out the kerosene lamp. The prisoners went on

203
 204 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

talking for a little while until they fell asleep. Their snoring kept
up till about one o'clock, when they began to wake.
The first one to awake was Leibele the thief, a married man,
a father of daughters. He yawned like a bell. Mottele Roiskes
woke up with a belch; then Berele Zakelkover sat up and went to
urinate. The three had been there for months and had told one
another all their stories. But this morning there was a new
prisoner, a giant of a man with a snub nose, a straight neck, thick
mustaches the color of beer, dressed in a new jacket, tight high
boots, and a cap lined with fur. He had brought a padded blanket
and an additional pair of new boots which hung over his
shoulders. He seemed like a big shot who had influence with the
police. In the beginning they thought him a Gentile. They even
spoke about him in thieves' jargon. But he proved to be a Jew, a
silent man, a recluse. When they spoke to him, he scarcely
answered. He stretched out on the bench and lay there for hours
without a word. Stach brought him a bowl of kasha and a piece
of black bread, but he was in no hurry to eat. Leibele asked
him, "A word from you is like a gold coin, eh?"
To which he answered, "Two coins."
They couldn't get any more out of him.
"Well, he'll soften up, the snob," Mottele Roiskes said.
If this new inmate had been a weaker fellow, the others would
have known what to do with him, but he had the shoulders and
hands of a fighter. Such a man might have a hidden knife. As
long as there was light, Leibele, Mottele Roiskes, and Berele
Zakelkover played Sixty-six with a pack of marked cards. Then
they went to sleep with heavy hearts. In prison it's not good when
a man thinks too highly of himself. But sooner or later he has to
break down.
Presently all three of them were silent and listened to the
stranger. Since he didn't snore, it was hard to know if he was
asleep or awake. The few words which he had spoken he pro-
 205 � The Parrot

nounced with hard r's, a sign that he was not from around
Lublin. He must have come from Great Poland, on the other side
of the Vistula. Then what was he doing in the prison at Yanev?
They seldom sent anyone from so far away. Mottele Roiskes was
the first to talk. "What time can it be?" Nobody answered.
"What happened to the rooster?" he continued. "He stopped
crowing."
"Maybe it's too cold for him to crow," Berele Zakelkover
answered.
"Too cold? They get warm from crowing. There was a teacher
in our town, Reb Itchele, who said that when a rooster crows he
burns behind his wings. That's the reason he flaps h is wings-to
cool off."
"What nonsense," Leibele growled .
"It's probably written in a holy book."
"A holy book can also say silly things."
"It's probably from the Gemara."
"How does the Gemara know what's happening behind a
rooster's wings? They sit in the study house and they invent
things."
"They know some things. A preacher came to us and he said
that all the philosophers wanted to know how long a snake is
pregnant and nobody knew. But they asked a tanna and h e said
seven years."
"So long?"
They became quiet; conversation petered out. Berele Zakel­
kover began to scratch his foot. He suffered from eczema. He
scratched and hissed softly at the same time. Suddenly the
stranger said in a deep voice, "A snake is not pregnant seven
years, perhaps not even seven months."
AU became tense. AU became cheerful.
"How do you know how long a snake is pregnant?" Leibele
asked. "Do you breed snakes?"
 206 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SI NGER

"No creature is pregnant seven years. How long does a snake

live?"
"There are all kinds of snakes."
"How can the Gemara know? To know you have to keep two
snakes in the house, a he and a she, and let them mate."
" Perhaps God told him."
"Yes."
They became quiet again. The stranger was now sitting up.
One could barely see his silhouette but his eyes reflected the gold
of the moon. After a little while he said, "God says nothing. God
is silent."
"He spoke to Moses."
"I wasn't there."
"An unbeliever, eh? "
"How can you know what God said to Moses?" the stranger
argued. "It's written in the Pentateuch, but who wrote the
Pentateuch? With a pen you can write anything. I come from
Kalisch, where there are two rabbis. When one pronounced a
thing kosher, the other said unkosher. Before Passover the miller
asked one of them to make the mill kosher. So the other one got
angry that he hadn't received ten rubles and he said the Passover
flour was unkosher. Does all this come from God?"
Mottele Roiskes was about to answer, but Leibele inter-
rupted. "If you are from Kalisch, what are you doing here?"
"That's a different matter."
"What do you mean?"
The stranger gave no reply. The stillness became heavy and
tense.
"Do you have a smoke?" the stranger asked.
"We're all out."
" I can do without food, but I have to have a smoke. Can you
get it from the watchman?"
"We have no money."
 207 � The Parrot

" I have some."

"With money you can buy anything. Even in the clink," Lei­
bele answered. "But not now. Wait until morning."
"The winter nights are rough," Berele Zakelkover began to
say. "You go to sleep with the chickens, and by twelve o'clock
you're already slept out. You lie in the dark and all kinds of
thoughts come into your mind. Here you've got to talk or you'll
go crazy."
"What is there to talk about?" the stranger asked. "There's a
proverb : man spouts, God flouts. I'm not an unbeliever, but God
sits in the seventh heaven and snaps his fingers at everything."
"Why did they put you in this cage?" Leibele asked.
"For singing psalms."
"No, I'm serious."
The stranger was silent.
"A big pile, eh?"
"No pile at all. I'm not a thief and I don't like anyone to steal
from me. If somebody tries it, I break him in pieces. That's the
reason I'm here now."
"In what yeshiva did they keep you before?"
"First in Kielc and then in Lublin."
"Did you polish off someone?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I did."

2 .

The stranger stretched out on the bench again. Berele Zakelkover

went to scratching his foot. Mottele Roiskes asked, "Are you
going to stay here?"
"They'll probably send me to Siberia."
Leibele walked over to the window. "A blizzard."
"It's a sin to let out a dog in weather like this," Mottele
Roiskes said.
 208 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

''I'd like to be the dog," Berele joked .

The stranger sat up again. He leaned his back against the wall
and supported his chin on his knees. Broken moon rays reflected
on his shiny boot tops. He said, "So what if they let you out? In
half a year you'd be sitting here again."
"A half a year isn't anything to sneeze at."
"This is the last time for me," Leibele said, both to himself
and to the stranger. ' 'I've eaten enough half-baked bread. I have
a wife and children."
"That's the usual song they all sing," remarked the stranger.
"Where do you all come from? From Piask?"
"You're a thief yourself."
'Tm not a thief, and till now I wasn't a murderer. I could
always swap blows, but for many years I've never touched
anyone, not even a fly."
"So what happened all of a sudden?" Leibele asked.
The stranger hesitated . "It was fated."
"Who did you finish off? A merchant?"
"A woman."
"Your own wife?"
"No. She wasn't my wife."
" Did you catch her red-handed?"
The stranger gave no answer. He seemed to doze off while
sitting there. Suddenly he said, "It all happened because of a
bird."
"A bird? No kidding."
"It's the truth."
"What kind of a bird?"
"A parrot."
"Tell us about it. If you hold it in, you'll lose your mind."
"That wouldn't be so bad, but you can't choose when to lose
your mind. I'm a horse dealer, or, rather, that's what I was. They
knew me in Kalisch as Simon the horse trader. My father also
 209 � The Parrot

dealt in horses; my grandfather too. When the horse thieves in

Kalisch tried to sell me bargains, I sent them packing. I didn't
need stolen goods. Sometimes I used to buy a half-dead nag, but
under my care it recovered . I love animals, all animals. We' re a
family of horse traders. My wife died two years after our mar­
riage and for thirteen years I was alone. I loved her and I
couldn't forget her. We had no child. I had a house, stables; I
kept a Gentile maid-not a young shiksa, an older woman. And
not for what you think either. I lived, as they say, respectably.
The matchmakers proposed all kinds of women, but I didn ' t like
any of them. I'm one of those men who must love, and if I don't
love a woman I can't live with her. It's as simple as that."
"Aha."
"I like animals. For me a horse is not just a horse. When I
sold a horse, I wanted to know to whom I was selling it. There
was a coachman in our town who used to whip the horses, and I
refused to sell to him. For sixteen years I traded in horses and I
never lifted a whip to one. You can get anything out of an
animal with good treatment. It's the same with a horse, a dog, or
a cat. Animals understand what you say to them ; they even guess
your thoughts. Animals see in the dark and have a better
memory than men. Many times I've lost my way and my horses
have led me to the right spot. The snow might be knee-deep, but
my horses would take me to the peasant's hut and stop in front of
it. Sometimes my horse would even turn his head, as though to
say, 'Here it is, boss. '
" I f you're alone, you have time to observe these creatures.
Besides horses, I had dogs, cats, rabbits, a cow, a goat. I lived in
the suburbs because in the city you can't keep a big stable, and
can't take a horse to pasture. Oats and hay are good in winter, but
in summer a horse needs fresh grass, green grass with flowers,
and all the rest. The peasants hobble their horses and leave them
all night in the pasture, but a hobbled animal is like a hobbled
 2!0 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

human being. Is it good to be in prison? I made a fence around

my pasture, and the peasants laughed at me. It doesn't pay to
build a fence around six acres of land, they told me, but I didn't
want to hobble my horses, or let them stray into strange fields
and get beaten. That's how I used to be before I became a
murderer."
"What about the bird?"
"Wait. I'm coming to that. I kept fowl, and birds too. In the
beginning, they weren't in my house but under the roof and in
the granary. Storks used to come after Passover from the warm
countries and build nests on my roof. They didn't have to build
new ones, they just mended last year's nests after the rain and
snow. Under the eaves, starlings had built theirs. People believe
that crows bring bad luck, but actually crows are clever birds. I
also had pigeon cotes. Some people eat squabs but I never tasted
one. How much meat is there in a squab?"
"You seem to be a regular saint."
''I'm not a saint, but when you live in the suburbs you see all
sorts of things. A bird flies in with a broken wing. A dog comes
in limping. I'm not softhearted, but when you see a bird tottering
on the ground and not able to l ift itself up, you want to help it. I
once took such a bird into my house and kept it until its wing was
healed. I bandaged it like a doctor. Of course, the Jews laughed
at me, but what do Jews know about animals? Some Gentiles
understood. In summer my windows are wide open. As long as a
bird wants to, it can stay and get its seed. When it's healthy
again, it flies away. Once a bird returned to me, not alone, but
with a wife. I was sitting on a stool fixing a saddle and suddenly
two birds flew in. I recognized the male immediately because he
had a scar on his leg. They stood on a shelf and sang me a good
morning. It was like a dream.
"Matchmakers used to come to me and propose all kinds of
 2 I I :!P- The Parrot

arrangements, but when I looked over the merchandise she never

pleased me. One was ugly, the other fat, the third one talked too
much-I can' t stand chatterboxes . Animals are silent; that's why
I love them."
"A parrot talks."

"Well, what else?"

"Nothing. The years go by. One day it's my wife's first anni­
versary, then the second, then the eighth. Other horse dealers
became rich, but I just made a living. I didn't fool the customer. I
decided how much profit I wanted and that was all. I got used to
being alone. "
"What d i d you d o when you needed a female?"
"What do you do?"
"In a prison you have no choice."
"If you don't like anyone, it's like being in a prison. There
were whores in Kalisch, but when I looked at them I felt like
vomiting. You could get a peasant girl or even a woman, but they
were all lousy. Mine was a clean one. Each night she combed her
hair. In the summer we bathed in a pond. She died from a lump
in her breast. They cut it out but it grew again. Such suffering I
don't wish my worst enemy."
"Was she beautiful?"
"A princess."

3.

"Well, what about the parrot?"

"Wait. Where can I begin? I'm not a grandmother and I don't
tell grandmothers' tales. Gypsies used to come to me to sell
horses, but I never bought them. First of all, they're thieves.
Second, their horses are seldom healthy and, if you're not an
 2 1 2 SiP ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

expert, you find the defect later. But I see everything the first
minute. The gypsies knew that they couldn't put anything over
on me.
"Once I was sitting and eating breakfast, millet with milk. I
used to eat the same thing every morning. I always had a sack full
of it for myself and for the birds. As I sat there, I saw a gypsy
woman, a fat black one with large earrings and many strings of
beads around her neck. She came in and said, 'Master, show me
your hand.' I had never been to a fortune-teller; I didn't believe
in it. Besides, what is the good of knowing things in advance?
What must happen will happen. But, for some reason, I gave her
my hand and she looked at my right palm and clucked in dismay.
Then she asked for my left hand. 'Why do you need my left
hand ?' I asked. She said, 'The right one shows your fortune and
the left one the fortune of your wife.' 'But I have no wife,' I said.
'My wife died.' And she said, 'There will be a second one.'
'When will she come?' I asked. 'She will fly into your window
like a bird . ' 'Will she have wings?' I asked. She smiled and
showed her white teeth. I gave her a few groschen and a slice of
bread, and she left. I paid no attention to her talk. Who cares
about the babble of gypsies? But somehow the words were stored
in my head and I remembered them and thought about them.
Sometimes an idea ticks in your mind and you can't get rid
of it.
"Now listen to what happened. They had just called me into
a village to buy horses and I stayed overnight. The next day I
came riding home with four horses, one my own mare and three
which I had bought from a peasant. I walked into my house and
there was a parrot. I d idn't believe my own eyes. Local birds flew
in and out, but where did a parrot come from? Parrots are not of
this country. He stood on my wardrobe and looked at me as
though he had been expecting me. He was as green as an unripe
lemon but on his wings he had dark spots and his neck was
 2 1 3 1<P The Parrot

yellow. He was not a large parrot; in fact, he seemed a young

one. I gave him some millet and he ate it. I held out a saucer of
water and he drank. I stretched out a .finger to him and he
perched on it like an old friend. I forgot all my business. I loved
him immediately like my own child. In the beginning I wanted to
close the window, because he could fly out as easily as he flew in.
But it was summer, and besides, I thought, if he's destined to stay
here, he'll stay.
"He didn't fly away. I bought him a cage, put in a saucer of
millet, a dish of water, vegetables, a little mirror, and whatever
else a bird needs. I named him Metzotze and the name stuck. In
the beginning he didn't talk; he just clucked and cawed. Then
suddenly he began to speak in a strange language. It must have
been gypsy talk because it wasn't Polish or Russian or Yiddish.
He must have escaped from the gypsies.
"The moment he came I knew that what the gypsy foretold
would come true. Somehow I felt that this would happen. The
summer was over and winter was coming on. I closed the
windows to keep the house warm. He began to talk Yiddish and
call me Simon, and when the Gentiles spoke in Polish he imitated
them. The moment I entered the room he would fly up to my
shoulder. When I went to the stable he stayed sitting there. He
put his beak to my ear and played with my earlobe, telling me
secrets i n bird language. In the beginning I didn't know if he was
a he or a she, but a magician passed by and told me it was a he. I
began to look for a wife for him and at the same time I knew I
would find my intended."
"A strange story," Mottele Roiskes interrupted.
"Just wait. Once I had to go to an estate to deliver horses, but
since I loved my Metzotze so much, it was hard for me to leave
him. But-how do they say it?-making a living is like waging a
war. I took my horses and went to the estate. I told my maid­
Tekla was her name-that she should watch the parrot like the
 2 1 4 1iP ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

eyes in her head. I didn't have to tell her-she was attached to

the bird herself, as was my stable man. In a word, he was not
among strangers. I sold my horses for a good price and every­
thing went as smoothly as on greased wheels. I wanted to go
home, but new business came up. The bird had brought me luck.
I had to spend the night at an inn and the moment I entered I
saw a woman : small, dark, with black eyes, a short nose. She
looked at me and smiled familiarly as though I were an old
friend. Outside, there was a blizzard , much as today, and we were
the only guests. The landlady h eated a samovar for us, but I said,
'Perhaps you have some vodka?' I'm not a drunkard but in
business you sometimes have to drink. When the deal is finished,
the buyer and the seller strike their palms together and have a
drink. The landlady brought us a bottle and a bowl of pretzels. I
asked the woman, 'Perhaps you want to taste some? ' and she
answered, 'Why not? I'm still able to enjoy life.' I poured a full
glass for her and she tossed it off as if it were nothing at all. She
d idn't even take a pretzel afterwards. I saw that she could pour it
down. When the landlady went to see a peasant about a cow, we
were left alone. I took a glass, she took a glass. I don't get drunk
quickly-! can pour down a large bottle and still stay sober. I
was afraid she would get fuddled but she sat there and smiled,
and we just became more cheerful and familiar. We talked like
old cronies. She told me her name was Esther and she came from
somewhere in Volhynia. 'What is a young woman doing alone in
an inn?' I asked her.
" 'I'm waiting for a smuggler.'
" 'What do you need a smuggler for?' I asked, and she told me
she was going to America. 'What's wrong with this country?'
"She told me she had had an affair and the man left her. She
learned that he had a wife. He was a traveling salesman, one of
those skirt chasers who think tricking a woman is something to
boast about. 'Well,' she said, 'I played and lost. I couldn't show
 2 1 5 :tP The Parrot

my face at home any more.' It came out that she had had a
husband and had divorced him. Her father was a pious man and
it was below his dignity. In short, she had to leave. Some smug­
gler was going to lead her to the German border.
" 'What will you do in faraway America?' I said. And she
answered, 'Sew blouses. If you do something silly, you have to
pay for it.' I poured her a fourth glass, a fifth glass. She said,
'Why didn't I meet you before? A man like you would make a
good husband for me.' 'It's never too late,' I said. Why should I
drag it out? By the time the landlady came back from the peasant,
everything was settled between us. I was drawn to her as to a
magnet and she felt the same way. We held hands, kissed, and
her kissing drove you crazy. She wasn't a female, she was a piece
of fire. I didn't want the landlady to know what was going on
and I went to sleep in my room, but I lay there in a fever. She
slept right next door and I heard through the thin wall how she
tossed on her bed. At dawn I fell asleep and in the morning I had
to leave. We had already decided that she was going with me.
The whole business of America was out. She didn't need a
smuggler any more.
"I came out of my room and found my woman already packed
and ready. She smiled at me and her eyes shone. When the
landlady heard that she was going with me, she understood what
had happened, but what did I care? My heart was with Esther. I
took her in my sleigh and she sat near me on the driver's seat. She
was afraid of falling and she held on to me and excited me all
over again. Riding along, we decided to get married. We didn't
need any special ceremonies. I was a widower and she a divorcee.
We would go to Getzel, the assistant rabbi, and he would lead us
under a canopy. I told her about the bird and she said, 'I will be a
mother to him.' We spoke about him as though he would be our
child.''
"Did you really marry her?" Leibele asked.
 2 1 6 n'- I SAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Why not?"
"Because she was divorced and I was a Cohen. I had forgotten
the law."
"Who reminded you? The assistant rabbi?"
"Who else?"
"What a story ! "

4.

"When Rabbi Getzel told me that we couldn't marry, I wanted to

tear him to pieces, but was it his fault? I never went to pray
except at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Suddenly I was a
Cohen, descended from a priestly line! I took Esther and went
home with her. 'Let's pretend that I'm a Catholic priest and
you're my housekeeper. ' I lived far from the city and nobody
would look through the keyhole. At first she was disappointed.
What should she write to her family? But we were both so much
in love that we could barely wait till night. Metzotzc immediately
became pals with her. The moment she entered, he perched on
her shoulder and she kissed him on the beak and he kissed back.
I said to her, 'He's our matchmaker,' and I told her the story of
the gypsy and the rest of it.
"In the beginning everything went well. We lived like two
doves. They gossiped about us in the city, but who cared ? So what
if Simon the horse dealer isn't pious? So they won't call me up to
the reading of the scroll. Well, but Esther wanted a baby and that
was bad. It would mean that the baby would be a bastard. Some
student from the study house told me that such a baby is not
exactly a bastard but is called by some other name. But it's bad
just the same. Esther had written to her parents that she got
married and they wanted to visit us. Now the complications
began. I was satisfied to be alone with her. Esther and Metzotze
 2 r 7 1/P The Parrot

were enough for me. But she only wanted to go to town. She
asked me if I had friends, wanted to invite guests to show off her
cooking and baking. Her cooking was fit for a king. She could
bake a cake which you couldn't match in the best bakeries. She
dressed nicely too, but for whom? In the fields she wore a corset.
She tried to persuade me to go with her to America. I wish I had
listened to her, but I had no desire to travel thousands of miles. I
had a house, stables, grounds. If you have to sell all this, you get
almost nothing in return. What could I do in America? Press
pants? Besides, I was so attached to the bird that I couldn't leave
him. And it's not so easy to drag a parrot over borders and
oceans. I was attached to my mare too. And where could I leave
her? She wasn't young any more and if she fell into the hands of
a coachman he would whip her to pieces. I said to Esther, 'We
love each other, let's live quietly. Who cares what people babble
about?' But she was only drawn to people. She went to the city,
made acquaintances, entangled herself with low characters and the
devil knows what. I let her persuade me to invite a few horse
dealers to a party, but in the years when I was a widower I had
kept away from everybody and no one wanted to come to the
suburbs . Those who came did us a great favor. After they left,
Esther burst into tears and cried until daybreak.
"Why drag it out? We began to quarrel. I mean, she quar­
reled. She scolded, she cursed, she cried and screamed that I had
trapped her. Why didn't I tell her I was a Cohen? I didn't
remember that I was a Cohen any more than you remember what
you ate in your mother's belly. She lay beside me at night and
kept talking as though possessed by a dybbuk. One moment she
laughed; the next moment she cried. She was putting on an act,
but for whom? She talked to herself and did such strange things
that you wouldn't believe it was the same Esther. She called me
names that you don't hear in my part of the country. Suddenly
she began to be hostile to the bird. He screamed too much, he
 218 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

dirtied the house, he didn't let her sleep at night. She was jealous
too, complaining that I loved him more than I did her.
"When this began I knew that it would have a bad ending.
Was it Metzotze's fault? He was as good as an angel. At night he
was quiet, but in the morning a bird doesn't lie under a quilt and
snore. A bird begins to sing at daybreak. Esther, however, went
to sleep at two o'clock in the morning, and at eleven at night she
might begin to wash her hair or bake a cake. I saw I was in a
mess, but what could I do? One minute she was sane, the next
minute crazy. There's a teahouse in Kalisch where all the scum
gather together. She kept on dragging me there. I sat and drank
tea while she made friends with all the roughnecks. She met some
strange nobody and told him all our secrets. I must have been
stronger than iron not to bury myself from shame. She could be
clever, but when she wanted she could act like the worst fool. It
was all from spite, but what did I do to deserve it? Another man
in my place would take her by the hair and throw her out, but I
get used to a person. Also, I have pity.
"I can tell you, it became worse from day to day. I never knew
what Gehenna was, but I had Gehenna in my own house. She
picked quarrels with the maid, the Gentile, and made her leave. I
had never touched her, but Esther suspected the worst. She was
only looking for excuses to make trouble. She also began to pick
fights with the stable boy. For years both had worked for me
with devotion. Now they had to run away, and in my business
you need help. You can't do everything by yourself. Horses have
to be scrubbed and groomed. There are imps that come into the
stables at night. Don't laugh at me. I didn't believe it either until
I saw it with my own eyes. I would buy a horse and put him in
the stable. I'd come in the morning and he was bathed in sweat as
though he had been driven all night long over hills and ditches.
He was foaming at the mouth. I would look at the mane and i t
would be i n pigtails. Who would come at night to braid pigtails
 2 1 9 n'- The Parrot

on a horse? It happened not once but ten times. These imps can
torture a horse to death. I had to go down at night and keep
watch. But when the groom left, I had to do his work too. In
short, it was bad. When I talked she flared up; when I was silent
she complained that I ignored her. She was only looking for
something to pick on. I couldn't write, and she tried to teach me.
She gave me one lesson and that was it. We played cards just to
kill time, but she cheated. Why d id she have to cheat? I gave her
enough money."
"For such a piece of merchandise there is only one remedy,"
said Leibele. "A good swat in the kisser."
"Just what I wanted to say," Mottele Roiskes chimed in.
"I tried that too. But I have a heavy hand and when I give a
blow I can cripple someone. If I touched her I had to pay the
doctor. She also threatened to denounce me. But what was there
to denounce? I didn't make counterfeit money. She was far from
religious, but if she felt like it she could become pious. To make
a fire on the Sabbath was all right, but to pour out the slops was
forbidden. She changed the rules whenever it suited her. The
women in the city knew of my misfortune and laughed in my
face.
"It happened two years ago in the winter. I don't know how it
was here, but around Kalisch there were terrible frosts. Old men
couldn't remember such cold, and heating the stoves didn't help.
The wind blew and broke the trees. On my place, the wind tore
off a piece of the fence. Usually it's warm in the stable, but I was
afraid for my horses, for when a horse catches cold it's the end.
To this day I don't remember what we quarreled about that
evening, but then, when didn't we quarrel? It was one long war.
Sometimes at night we made peace for a few minutes, but later
we didn't even do this. She slept in the bed and I on a bench.
When I had to get up, she went to sleep. I'm a light sleeper-it's
easy to disturb me. She crept around, boiled tea, moved chairs;
 220 1iP- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

she began to say the Shema and suddenly she burst out laughing
like mad. She wasn't mad-she did it to spite me. She knew that
I loved the parrot and she had it in for him. A parrot comes from
a warm climate and if he catches a draft he's finished. But she
opened the doors and let the wind blow in. He could have flown
away, because he was an animal, not a man with understanding. I
told her dearly, 'If anything happens to Metzotze, it's all over
with you.' And she screamed, 'Go and marry him. A Cohen is
allowed to marry a parrot.' I know now that it was all pre­
destined. It's written on a man's palm or on his forehead : he will
live this long; he will do this and that. But what did she have
against me? I didn't stop her from going to America. I was even
ready to pay her expenses.
"Where am I? Oh. Yes, I warned her, 'You can do with me
whatever you want, but don't take it out on Metzotze.' Nonethe­
less, she screamed at him and scolded him as though he were a
man. 'He's scabby, lousy, a demon's in him,' and so on. You
know, a bird needs to have darkness at night. When a lamp is lit,
he thinks it's day. She kept on lighting the candles, and the bird
couldn't stand light at night and tucked his head under his wing.
What does a bird need? A few grains of seed and a little sleep.
How can a man torture a bird? One night I heard noises in the
stable. I took my lantern and went to look at the horses. As I
stepped over the threshold I somehow knew there would be
.
misfortune."
For a while all was silent. Then Leibele asked, "What did
she do? Chase out the parrot?"
The stranger began to murmur and to clear his throat. "Yes, in
the middle of the night, in a burning frost."
"He wasn't found, huh ? "
" H e flew away."
"And you finished her, huh?"
The stranger paused.
 221 � The Parrot

"As I came back from the stable and I saw that the parrot
wasn't there, I went over to her and said, 'Esther, it's your end.'
I grabbed her by the hair, took her outside, and threw her into
the well."
"She didn't fight back?"
"No, she went quietly."
"Still, one has to be a murderer to do something like that,"
Mottele Roiskes remarked.
"I am a murderer.''
"What else?"
"Nothing. I went to the police and said, 'This is what I did.
Take me.' "
"In the middle of the night?"
"It was already beginning to get light.''
"Did they let you go to the funeral?"
"No funeral.''
"They say that a Cohen is an angry man," Berele Zakelkover
threw in.
"It looks that way."
"How much did they give you?"
"Eight years."
"\X'ell, you got off easy.''
' Til never get out," the stranger said.
For a long while all were quiet. Then the stranger said,
"Metzotze is still around."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll think I'm crazy, but what do I care?"
"What do you mean, around?"
"He comes to me. He perches on my shoulder.''
"Are you dreaming? "
"No, it's the truth.''
"You imagine it. ''
"He speaks. I hear his voice."
 222 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"In that case you're a little touched."

"He sleeps on my forehead."
"\'Veil, you're out of your mind."
"A parrot has a soul."
"Nonsense," Leibele said. "If a parrot has a soul, so has a
chicken. If all the chickens, geese, and ducks had souls, the world
would be full of souls."
"All I know is that Metzotze visits me."
"It's because you miss him so much."
"He comes, he kisses me on the mouth. He flutters his tail
against my ear."
"Will he come here too?"
"Perhaps."
"And how will he know that they sent you to Yanev?"
"He knows everything."
"Nonsense. Tell it to the doctor. They'll send you to the nut­
house. It's easy to run away from there. \'Vhat about Esther? Does
she visit you too?"
"No, she doesn't."
"Fantasies. The dead are dead. Men as well as animals."
The stranger stretched out on the bench again. "I know the
truth. "
Tl'amlated b y Ruth Whitman
 The
Brooch

When Wolf Ber returned from the road, he always bought gifts
for Celia and the girls. This time Wolf Ber had been in luck. He
had broken into a safe and stolen 740 rubles. In addition, travel­
ing on the railroad second-class, he had met a wealthy Russian
and had won 1 5 0 rubles from him in a card game. Wolf Ber had
long ago reached the conclusion that everything depended on
fate : sometimes everything goes wrong; sometimes it doesn't.
This particular trip had started right immediately. Just for fun he
had tried to pick a pocket ( a safecracker is not a pickpocket ) and
pulled out a purse full of bank notes. Then he had gone to a
Turkish bath, and there he found a gold watch ! After such
"business" he always gave thanks to God and dropped a coin in

223
 2 2 4 ;tp. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

the poor box. Wolf Ber did not belong to a gang and he con­
ducted himself respectably. He knew that thieving was a sin. But
were the merchants any better? Didn't they buy cheap and sell
dear? Didn't they bleed the poor dry? Didn't they, every few
years, go bankrupt and settle for a fraction? Wolf Ber had once
worked as a tanner in Lublin. But he had been unable to stand
the dust, the heat, the stench. The foreman had yelled at the
tanners and was forever trying to get more work out of them.
The earnings had amounted to no more than water for groats. It
was better to rot in prison.
Wolf Ber had long since gotten used to earning his living as a
thief. He had been caught a few times but had been let off easily.
He knew how to speak to the natchalniks : Sir . . . I have a wife
and children! He never talked back and did not try to play tough.
In jail, far from fighting with the other prisoners, he shared his
money and cigarettes with them and wrote letters for them. Wolf
Ber came from a respectable home. His father, a pious man, had
been a house painter. His mother had peddled tripe and calves'
legs. He, Wolf Ber, was the only member of the family to
become a thief. Already near forty, Wolf Ber was of medium
height, with broad shoulders, brown eyes, and a beer-yellow
mustache twisted in the Polish way. He wore riding pants, and
boots with tight uppers that made him look like a Gentile; the
Poles believed a Jew could not get his feet into such boots,
because Jewish feet grew always wider and never longer. \'V'olf
Ber's cap had a leather visor. Over his vest a watch chain
dangled, with a little spoon to clean out ear wax attached to it.
Other thieves carried guns or spring-knives, but Wolf Ber never
had any weapons on his person. A gun will sooner or later shoot;
a knife will sooner or later stab. And why shed blood? Why take
upon oneself a severe punishment? Wolf Ber was a self-con­
trolled and careful man; he was inclined to think about things
and liked to read storybooks and even newspapers. Women were
 225 n'- The Brooch

always trying to entice him with their charms. But Wolf Ber had
one God and one wife. What could he find in others that Celia
did not have? Loose females disgusted him. He never stepped
over the threshold of a brothel and he detested liquor. He had a
faithful wife and two well-brought-up children. He had a house
and garden in Kozlow. His girls went to school. On Purim, Wolf
Ber sent the rabbi a gift. Before Passover the conununity elders
came to him to collect for the poor.
Coming home this time, Wolf Ber h ad bought a pair of gold
earrings for Celia from a j eweler in Lublin, and for his daughters,
Masha and Anka, two medallions. Until Reivitz, the last station,
he had traveled by train; then he had taken a carriage wagon,
sitting up front with the driver and helping him drive. Wolf Ber
had no patience with the sort of jokes and puns that the business­
men riding inside exchanged with the women. They always tried
to make Wolf Ber join in the conversation but he preferred to
look in silence at the trees and sky and to listen to the twittering
birds. The snow was melting in the fields; the winter grain was
sprouting; the sun hung low, yellow and golden, as if painted on
a canvas. Now and again he saw cows nibbling fresh grass in
their pastures. Warm breezes drifted over from the woods as if a
summer land were hidden in the thickets. Once in a while a hare
or a deer peeked out at the edge of the forest; or a turtle moved
slowly across the road like a living stone.
As a rule, Wolf Ber set out from home four times a year.
When things went smoothly, he never stayed away longer than
six weeks. He went to the same towns, the same fairs. In Kozlow
they knew what Wolf Ber did for a living-but he never stole
from anyone there; and in his absence Celia could always get
credit at the stores. All such debts were entered in a book, and
when Wolf Ber returned he paid them to the last grosz. Once
Wolf Ber had been imprisoned for several months in the Yanow
jail, but the Kozlow merchants did not let Celia d own. They
 226 Jf'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

advanced her goods for hundreds of rubles. Many times Celia

complained to Wolf Bee that the shopkeepers had given her false
weight or short measure or had padded the bill, but he refused to
argue. That was how the world was.
As always, Wolf Bee came back to Kozlow longing for Celia
and the girls, looking forward to Celia's dishes, which he could
not get on the road, and to the soft bed, better than at any inn.
Celia's pillowcases and sheets, luxuriously clean, were as smooth
as silk and smelled of lavender. Celia always came to him in the
bedroom freshly washed and combed, with her hair braided, her
feet in slippers with pompoms, and dressed in a fancy night­
gown. She kissed him like a bride and murmured sweet secrets
into his ear. The girls were growing up : one was ten; the other,
eleven. Yet, like small children, they fell all over him, covered
him with kisses, showed him their schoolbooks, their composi­
tions, their marks, their drawings. His children were dressed like
those of the gentry, in starched and pleated dresses, with alpaca
aprons, hair ribbons, and shiny shoes. They spoke not only
Yiddish but Russian and Polish too. They talked about foreign
countries and cities of which Wolf Ber had never heard ; they
were versed in the histories of kings and wars and could recite by
heart poems and rhymes. Wolf Ber never stopped wondering
how so much knowledge could enter into such small heads. Their
father's occupation was never mentioned. He was supposed to be
a traveling salesman. His house stood on Church Street near the
toll bridge. The Gentile neighbors did not know what he did, or
perhaps only professed not to. On Christmas and Easter he would
send them gifts.
The carriage wagon bringing Wolf Ber home stopped in the
marketplace. Although it was not long after Purim, the sun
already had a touch of Passover warmth. Golden rivulets trickled
in the mud. Birds picked grain from horse dung. Peasant women,
wading barefoot through the puddles, were selling horseradish,
 227 � The Brooch

parsley, beets, and onions. Wolf Ber paid the coachman and, in
the big-city manner, added twenty groszy "for beer. " Lifting up
his leather valise with its copper locks and sidepockets, he began
to walk toward Church Street. The storekeepers followed him
with their eyes. Girls parted their window curtains, wiping the
mist off the glass. From somewhere Chazkele the fool emerged
and Wolf Ber handed him some coins. Even the dogs around the
butcher shop wagged their tails.
Thank God! Wolf Ber was going to be home for Passover.
Celia would prepare a Seder; he would drain the four goblets, eat
matzo pancakes, matzo balls, and gefilte fish. Since he had
brought home a large sum of money, he would dress up the
whole family. With such a trade as his, it was best to spend the
money at once. Wolf Ber was suddenly aware of a familiar smell.
He was passing a matzo bakery and stopped to look in the
window. Women with flushed faces, wearing white aprons and
kerchiefs on their heads, were rolling out the matzos, stopping
frequently to scrape their rolling pins with pieces of glass. One
woman was pouring water; another was kneading the dough; a
third perforated the matzos with a pointed stick. At the oven a
man was shoveling out those already baked. Near him another
man with sidelocks and a skullcap gesticulated and grimaced­
the overseer. Wolf Ber suddenly remembered his parents. Where
were they now? Most probably in paradise. True, their son had
not chosen the righteous way, but he had put up a headstone over
their graves. Every year he lit a memorial candle, recited the
Kaddish, and hired a man to study the Mishnah in their memory.
God was merciful to sinners. If not, He would have sent down a
second deluge long ago.

2 .

When Wolf Ber entered Church Street, where he lived, a sudden

fear came over him. A power that knows more than man seemed
 2 2 8 $lP- I SAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

to be warning rum against too much exuberance. Inside him, a

voice seemed to say : It's not yet Passover; you are not yet at the
Seder. Wolf Ber halted. Was Celia ill? Had something happened
to the children? Was he, Wolf Ber, destined to end up in prison?
But how? He never left any traces. Trying to dispel the premoni­
tion, he began to walk briskly between the two rows of houses,
built low as for midgets and closed in with spiked fences.
Through the half-melted snow pocked with holes like a sieve, the
stems of last year's sunflowers stuck out. On Marchinsky's roof
the storks had already returned and were mending last year's nest.
Wolf Ber soon approached his own house, which had a roof
shaped like a mushroom. White smoke was curling from the
chimney. One pane in the front window reflected the midday sun.
Well, everything is all right, Wolf Ber comforted himself. He
opened the door and there was the whole family. Celia was
standing at the kitchen stove in a short underskirt, her blond hair
brushed up with a knot on top, her face white and girlish, her
waist cinched in; she was wearing a pair of red slippers, and her
legs, broad at the calf, were narrow at the ankle. She had never
looked so fresh and charming to him. The girls were sitting on
stools, playing some game with bonesticks.
There was an outcry as they all ran toward him. Celia almost
tipped over the pot on the stove. The girls hung on him, covering
him with kisses. In the next room the parrot, apparently recog­
nizing his master's voice, began to shriek. The moment Wolf Ber
touched Celia's lips, he was full of desire. He kissed her again
and again. Masha and Anka fought over him. After a while he
opened his valise to take out the gifts, and that set off another
outcry. When Wolf Ber went to greet the parrot, the bird, which
was perched on one foot on the top of its cage, flapped its wings
and landed on his shoulder. Wolf Ber kissed the bird's beak and
let it taste a p retzel which he had bought for it in Lublin. The
 22 9 ;tp. The Brooch

parrot had lost its winter feathers and had sprouted brightly
colored new ones.
The parrot spoke. "Papa, Papa, Papa."
"Do you love Papa?"
"Love, love, love."
Well, there was no reason for fear. Wolf Ber examined the
house with an expert eye. Everything gleamed : the floor, the
copper pans above the oven, the brass samovar. It was the custom
to whitewash the walls each year before Passover, but he could
see no blemishes. "There is no better wife anywhere in the
world," Wolf Ber said aloud. Earlier in the day, sitting on the
wagon, he had felt tired and barely able to keep his eyes open,
but now he was wide awake and gay. Celia brought him a
Sabbath cookie and a glass of Vishniak.
When they had been alone in the room for a while, Celia
questioned him with a glint in her eye. " How was business?"
"As long as I have you, everything goes well," Wolf Ber
answered, ashamed of his profession. As a rule, Celia asked
nothing about what he had done while away and he seldom told
her anything. But now it seemed she had made peace with his
way of making a living. Presently Wolf Ber started to talk about
new clothes for her and the girls. Celia doubted that any tailor
would accept new orders so near Passover. Nevertheless, they
decided that she would walk over to the dry-goods stores and
select materials. Celia loved to shop. Wolf Ber handed her a wad
of bills and she left, taking the children with her. While
shopping, she would also pay up her accounts. Wolf Ber lay
down on the sofa to get some sleep. He knew Celia would
prepare a rich supper and he wanted to be rested. He dozed off
immediately and dreamed that he was in Lublin. He stood in an
alcove somewhere, half undressed, washing himself from a
trough; his body gave off a bad smell. He was again a tanner. A
 230 :iP ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

door opened and a women in a d isheveled wig, with a d irty face,

looked in and spoke angrily to h im : "How long are you going to
wash yourself? It's time for the Seder." Wolf Ber woke with a
start. What kind of a dream was that? There was a bitter taste in
his mouth. The dream had been unusually vivid. In his nostrils
he could still feel the stench of rawhide. Wolf Ber reached into
his breast pocket to take out the Havana cigar which had been
presented to him by the Russian from whom he had won I S O
rubles. Wolf Ber never smoked cigars; he rolled his own ciga­
rettes. But he was curious now to taste a cigar that cost half a
ruble. He remembered that he had once had an amber cigar
holder trimmed with gold. If he was going to smoke a Havana,
he might as well do it in style.
Wolfe Ber got up to hunt for the cigar holder but couldn't
find it. He hated to lose things. He opened all the drawers,
rummaged in nooks and crannies, and searched through the
oaken chest. In a drawer in the linen closet there was a tin box
where Wolf Ber kept the birth certificates, the marriage contract,
the mortgage papers, and other valuable documents which were
seldom looked at. It was improbable that the cigar holder would
be there, but Wolf Ber opened the tin box just the same. The
cigar holder was not there, but on the marriage contract lay a
brooch with big diamonds. Wolf Ber was stunned. What was
this? He knew jewelry. These were real diamonds, not imitations.
The brooch looked like an antique. The longer Wolf Ber ex­
amined it, the more his amazement grew. How did this brooch
come to be here? It was neither his nor Celia's. Could Celia have
saved up a nest egg and bought herself a brooch for hundreds of
rubles? But such a piece could not be bought in Kozlow! Wolf
Ber examined the brooch carefully and found on the reverse side
two engraved letters : an aleph and a gimel. After a time he put
the brooch in his inner pocket. He became depressed. He returned
to the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to solve the riddle, but no
 2 3 1 :tP The Brooch

matter how he racked his brain, he could find no answer. Finally

he dozed off again and once more he was washing himself in that
alcove in Lublin. Once more it smelled of rawhide and of
chemicals used in tanneries. The disheveled woman with the
wrinkled face warned him again that he would be late for the
Seder. Wolf Ber woke up. What explanation could there be? Did
Celia have a lover who had given her the brooch as a present?
Wolf Ber felt a bitterness on his palate. He hiccuped and an
unsavory taste came up from his stomach. He spat into his
handkerchief. Well, there must be some answer. And what did
the letters aleph and gimel mean? Was there a Jew in Kozlow
who would have an affair with a married woman? And was Celia
likely to do anything like that? The longer Wolf Ber pondered,
the stranger the whole thing seemed to him. He paced the room.
He spoke to the parrot : "You know the truth. Speak up !"
"Papa, Papa, Papa! Love, love love!"
Dusk fell. The windowpanes turned green. Purple reflections
from the sunset trembled on the wall. The parrot entered its cage,
ready for the night. Wolf Ber lit the Havana cigar and sat in the
dark, inhaling deeply. The outlandish aroma made him drunk.
Again and again he put his hand into his inner pocket and
touched the brooch. Whenever he heard a noise outside, he
listened intently. Where was his wife? Why was she taking so
long? He decided not to get into any argument so long as the
children were up. After a while he heard steps and voices. Celia
was back. She and the girls, all three carrying packages, burst in
gaily.
Celia spoke happily. "Wolf Ber, are you here? Why are you
sitting in the dark? What's that you're smoking-a cigar?"
"A Russian gave it to me on the train."
"The smell makes me dizzy. We've bought out the store. Just a
minute. I'll light the lamp."
"I had an amber cigar holder once. Where is it?"
 2 3 2 ,P. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"Where is it? I don't know."

The girls pranced about with the packages in their arms. Celia
lit the table lamp first and then a hanging lamp that was sus­
pended from the ceiling on bronze chains and had a gourd filled
with lead pellets attached to keep it in balance. Celia had bought
yards and yards of all kinds of materials, silks, woolens, velvet,
and she had already had a talk with Leizer the tailor, who had
promised to finish a few dresses before Passover. Now, with
housewifely dispatch, she began to prepare supper. Usually the
children went to bed early, but the day their father came home
was a holiday. Celia had already promised them they would not
have to go to school tomorrow.

3.

Wolf Ber sat a t the table, praised Celia's dishes, and joked with
the children, but he was not as jolly as he had been earlier. He
hurried through his dinner, didn't eat much, and from time to
time looked sharply at Celia. Immediately after the tea and j am
and honey-cake, he urged the girls to go to bed. They protested
that they hadn't celebrated their father's homecoming enough.
They wanted to show him their books, their maps, their draw­
ings. But Wolf Ber i nsisted that all this could wait until tomor­
row and that children should not sit up till all hours of the
night.
After some haggling and delaying, the girls said good night.
Celia had seemed to side with him, but at the same time she
smiled knowingly. Apparently he was in a rush to be with her.
You are eager, eh? her look seemed to ask. Wolf Ber went into
the bedroom and undressed. His boots with the stiff uppers stood
by the bed in soldierly fashion. He sat down on the freshly made
bed. Celia was in the kitchen combing her hair and washing her·
self as she always did before coming to her husband. She donned
 233 � The Brooch

a fresh nightgown, sprinkled hereself with lotion, and brushed

her teeth with paste the way they did in the big cities. Glancing at
her image in the mirror, she thought : He will certainly not
poison himself with me. . . . Celia expected Wolf Ber to extin­
guish the lamp immediately and make love to her, but he
remained sitting up in his bed and looked at her sideways.
"Be so good as to close the door."
"Has something happened?"
"Close the door."
"It's closed."
Wolf Ber brought out the brooch from under his pillow.
"Where did you get this?"
Celia lifted her eyes and her expression changed. She looked at
the brooch, her face astonished, grave. ' 'I've had it for a long
time. "
"How long?"
"A few years."
' "Where did you get it?"
Celia did not answer immediately. Finally she raised her eye­
brows. "I found it," she replied in the tone of one who does not
expect to be believed.
"You found it? Where?"
"In the women's section of the synagogue."
"How often do you go to the synagogue?"
"It was Rosh Hashanah."
"And you didn't ask who'd lost it?"
' 'No.··
"How is it you've never told me?" Wolf Ber asked after a
pause.
Celia shook her head. "I don't h ave to tell you everything."
Man and wife spoke in low voices since the girls were not yet
asleep. Wolf Ber thought it over. "Two letters are engraved on
the back, an aleph and a gimel."
 234 � ISAAC BASHE VIS SINGER

' 'Yes.''
"Whose is it?"
Celia was silent. She turned to the door and made sure it was
firmly shut. She moved as though she were trying to block the
sounds of their conversation with her person, to keep them from
reaching the children. For the first time Wolf Ber saw signs of
insolence in her eyes.
"After all, you are not an investigating attorney! "
"Whose i s i t ? " Wolf Ber raised his voice.
"Don't shout. Alte Gitel's."
In one second Wolf Ber knew everything. He remembered it
all. "Alte Gitel lost her brooch at Hanukkah-not Rosh Ha­
shanah. The whole town was in an uproar."
"Have it your way."
"How did you get it?"
"I found it."
"Where?"
"In the street."
"A minute ago you said you found it in the synagogue."
"What if I did?"
"Alte Gitel lost her brooch at Deborah Lea's wedding." Wolf
Ber spoke half to Celia, half to himself. "You were there. . . .
You even told me everyone was searched. . . . I remember your
telling me . . . . Well, where did you hide it?"
Celia laughed shortly. "See how he interrogates me! One
would think he was a saint!"
"You are a thief, aren't you?"
"If you are, why shouldn't I be?" Celia spoke rapidly and in
whispers. "Why all the fuss? The whole town knows what you
do. Our children are taunted. The teachers make fun of them. If
a girl loses something at school, it's our Masha and Anka who
are suspected. I haven't told you all this because I didn't want to
 235 � The Brooch

hurt you, but I'm disgraced ten times a day. So now why do you
suddenly play the honest man? If I were a holy woman I would
never have become your wife. That's plain enough. "
"You d i d steal it, didn't you?"
"Yes, I stole it."
And Celia's eyes turned to him with a mixture of laughter and
fear.
"How did you do it?"
"I took it off her cape-when the jester was reciting. I don't
know myself why I did it. It's lain around here for years. Why
were you going through my drawers?"
"I was hunting for my cigar holder."
"Your cigar holder I didn't take."
It became quiet. Wolf Ber sat up straight in his bed, his face
stern, stiff. It was not that he was angry, but a sadness had come
over him, as if he had heard belated news of a near relative's
death. All these years he had thought Celia an honest woman
and had reproached himself for bringing shame to the daughter of
a good house. Occasionally she had complained about the bitter
way of making a living he had chosen, telling him how the
townspeople ignored her, reminding him how important it was for
their children to grow up decent and with a good education.
Then, when he had been arrested a few years ago in Yanow and
had been in danger of a severe sentence, it was Celia who had
come to Yanow and gotten him released. She had told him how
she had thrown herself at the d istrict attorney's feet, crying and
pleading until he finally stopped her : "Get up, my beauty, I can't
bear to see your tears any longer." It had never occurred to Wolf
Ber before that perhaps this story was not the whole truth. Many
times in the big cities women of dubious character had tried to
entangle him, but he had always answered that he had a faithful
wife in Kozlow, a fine woman who was a devoted mother of
 2 3 6 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

their children. He had risked his freedom so that she should want
for nothing. He had even denied himself the more expensive
restaurants and theaters. Now it was all for nothing. Something
within him laughed : You are a fool, Wolf Ber, a damned fool!
He felt nauseous and as though in these last few minutes old
age had overtaken him.
He heard Celia's voice. "Shall I put out the lamp?"
"If you want to."
Celia blew out the night lamp and went to her bed. For a
long time there was silence. Wolf Ber listened to himself. An icy
coldness enveloped h im, like a cold poultice around his chest.
"Did you sleep with the district attorney?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know very well ! "
"You must have lost your mind. "
Wolf Ber stretched out, closed h i s eyes, and lay silently o n the
cool sheet. In the other room the girls still whispered and
giggled. An early spring breeze was blowing outside and it shook
the shutters. Beams of moonlight si fted in through the cracks.
From time to time Celia's bed creaked. Wolf Ber had come home
full of lust for Celia, but now all desire had left him. Everything
is finished, he said to himself. The seven good years are over.
Something in him mourned . Who could tell-perhaps the chil­
dren were not his own? There was no more point to dragging
himself about on trains, sleeping in cheap hostelries, endangering
his life at fairs. If she is a thief, I must become an honest man, he
murmured. There is no place in the family for two thieves !
Wolf Ber was himself baffied at this queer idea. Nevertheless,
he knew there was no other way. For some time he lay quietly and
l istened in the dark. Then he put his feet down on the floor.
"Where are you going?"
"To Lublin."
 2 3 7 1/P The Brooch

"In the middle of the night?"

"In the middle of the night."
"What are you going to do in Lublin?" Celia asked.
And Wolf Ber answered : "Become a tanner."
Translated by Alma Singer and Elizabeth Pollet
 The
Letter
Writer

Herman Gombiner opened an eye. This was the way he woke up

each morning-gradually, first with one eye, then the other. His
glance met a cracked ceiling and part of the building across the
street. He had gone to bed in the early hours, at about three. It
had taken him a long time to fall asleep. Now it was close to ten
o'clock. Lately, Herman Gombiner had been suffering from a
kind of amnesia. When he got up during the night, he couldn't
remember where he was, who he was, or even his name. It took a
few seconds to realize that he was no longer in Kalomin, or i n
Warsaw, but i n New York, uptown o n one of the streets between
Columbus Avenue and Central Park West.
It was winter. Steam hissed in the radiator. The Second World

23 9
 240 ,P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

War was long since over. Herman (or Hayim David, as he was
called in Kalomin ) had lost his family to the Nazis. He was now
an editor, proofreader, and translator in a Hebrew publishing
house called Zion. It was situated on Canal Street. He was a
bachelor, almost fifty years old, and a sick man.
"What time is it?" he mumbled. His tongue was coated, his
lips cracked. His knees ached; his head pounded; there was a
bitter taste in his mouth. With an effort he got up, setting his feet
down on the worn carpet that covered the floor. "What's this?
Snow? " he muttered. "Well, it's winter."
He stood at the window awhile and looked out. The broken­
down cars parked on the street j utted from the snow like relics of
a long-lost civilization. Usually the street was filled with rubbish,
noise, and children-Negro and Puerto Rican. But now the cold
kept everyone indoors. The stillness, the whiteness made him
think of his old home, of Kalomin. Herman stumbled toward the
bathroom.
The bedroom was an alcove, with space only for a bed. The
living room was full of books. On one wall there were cabinets
from floor to ceiling, and along the other stood two bookcases.
Books, newspapers, and magazines lay everywhere, piled in
stacks. According to the lease, the landlord was obliged to paint
the apartment every three years, but Herman Gombiner had
bribed the superintendent to leave him alone. Many of his old
books would fall apart if they were moved. Why is new paint
better than old? The dust had gathered in layers. A single mouse
had found its way into the apartment, and every night Herman
set out for her a piece of bread, a small slice of cheese, and a
saucer of water to keep her from eating the books. Thank good­
ness she didn't give birth. Occasionally, she would venture out of
her hole even when the light was on. Herman had even given her
a Hebrew name : Huldah. Her little bubble eyes stared at him
with curiosity. She stopped being afraid of him.
 24I ,P The Letter Writer

The building in which Herman lived had many faults, but it

did not lack heat. The radiators sizzled from early morning till
late at night. The owner, himself a Puerto Rican, would never
allow his tenants' children to suffer from the cold.
There was no shower in the bathroom, and Herman bathed
daily in the tub. A mirror that was cracked down the middle
hung inside the door, and Herman caught a glimpse of himself­
a short man, in oversize pajamas, emaciated to skin and bone,
with a scrawny neck and a large head, on either side of which
grew two tufts of gray hair. His forehead was wide and deep,
his nose crooked, his cheekbones high. Only in his dark eyes,
with long lashes like a girl's, had there remained any trace of
youth fulness. At times, they even seemed to twinkle shrewdly.
Many years of reading and poring over tiny letters hadn't blurred
his vision or made him nearsighted. The remaining strength in
Herman Gombiner's body-a body worn out by illnesses and
undernourishment-seemed to be concentrated in his gaze.
He shaved slowly and carefully. His hand, with its long
fingers, trembled, and he could easily have cut himself. Mean­
while, the tub filled with warm water. He undressed, and was
amazed at his thinness-his chest was narrow, his arms and legs
bony; there were deep hollows between his neck and shoulders.
Getting into the bathtub was a strain, but then lying in the warm
water was a relief. Herman always lost the soap. It would slip out
of his hands playfully, like a live thing, and he would search for
it in the water. "Where are you running?" he would say to it.
"You rascal !" He believed there was life in everything, that the
so-called inanimate objects had their own whims and caprices.
Herman Gombiner considered himself to be among the select
few privileged to see beyond the fa«;ade of phenomena. He had
seen a blotter raise itself from the desk, slowly and unsteadily
float toward the door, and, once there, float gently down, as if
suspended by an invisible string held by some unseen hand. The
 242 ;ip- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

whole thing had been thoroughly senseless. No matter how much

Herman thought about it, he was unable to figure out any reason
for what had taken place. It had been one of those extraordinary
happenings that cannot be explained by science, or religion, or
folklore. Later, Herman had bent down and picked up the
blotter, and placed it back on the desk, where it remained to this
day, covered with papers, dusty, and dried out-an inanimate
object that for one moment had somehow freed itself from
physical laws. Herman Gombiner knew that it had been neither a
hallucination nor a dream. It had taken place in a well-lit room at
eight in the evening. He hadn't been ill or even upset that day.
He never drank liquor, and he had been wide awake. He had
been standing next to the chest, about to take a handkerchief out
of a d rawer. Suddenly his gaze had been attracted to the desk and
he had seen the blotter rise and float. Nor was this the only such
incident. Such things had been happening to him since
childhood.
Everything took a long time-his bath, drying himself, putting
on his clothes. Hurrying was not for him. His competence was
the result of deliberateness. The proofreaders at Zion worked so
quickly they missed errors . The translators hardly took the time
to check meanings they were unsure of in the dictionary. The
majority of American and even Israeli Hebraists knew little of
vowel points and the subtleties of grammar. Herman Gombiner
had found the time to study all these things. It was true that he
worked very slowly, but the old man, Morris Korver, who owned
Zion, and even his sons, the half Gentiles, had always appre­
ciated the fact that it was Herman Gombiner who had earned the
house its reputation. Morris Korver, however, had become old
and senile, and Zion was in d anger of closing. It was rumored
that his sons could hardly wait for the old man to die so they
could liquidate the business.
Even if Herman wanted to, it was impossible for him to do
 243 1:P The Letter Writer

anything in a hurry. He took small steps when he walked. It took

him half an hour to eat a bowl of soup. Searching for the right
word in a dictionary or checking something in an encyclopedia
could involve hours of work. The few times that he had tried to
hurry had ended in disaster; he had broken his foot, sprained his
hand, fallen down the stairs, even been run over. Every trifle had
become a trial to him-shaving, dressing, taking the wash to the
Chinese laundry, eating a meal in a restaurant. Crossing the
street, too, was a problem, because no sooner would the light turn
green than it turned red again . Those behind the wheels of cars
possessed the speed and morals of automatons. If a person
couldn't run fast enough, they were capable of driving right over
him. Recently, he had begun to suffer from tremors of the hands
and feet. He had once had a meticulous handwriting, but he
could no longer write. He used a typewriter, typing with his right
index finger. Old Korver insisted that all Gombiner's troubles
came from the fact that he was a vegetarian; without a piece of
meat, one loses strength . Herman couldn't take a bite of meat if
his life depended on it.
Herman put one sock on and rested. He put on the second
sock, and rested again. His pulse rate was slow-fifty or so beats
a minute. The least strain and he felt dizzy. His soul barely
survived in his body. It had happened on occasion, as he lay in
bed or sat on a chair, that his disembodied spirit had wandered
around the house, or had even gone out the window. He had seen
his own body in a faint, apparently dead. Who could enumerate
all the apparitions, telepathic incidents, clairvoyant visions, and
prophetic dreams he experienced ! And who would believe him?
As it was, his co-workers derided him. The elder Korver needed
only a glass of brandy and he would call Herman a superstitious
greenhorn. They treated him like some outlandish character.
Herman Gombiner had long ago arrived at the conclusion that
modern man was as fanatic in his non-belief as ancient man had
 244 SlP- 1SAAC BASHEV1S S1NGER

been in his faith. The rationalism of the present generation was

in itself an example of preconceived ideas. Communism, psycho­
analysis, Fascism, and radicalism were the shibboleths of the
twentieth century. Oh, well! What could he, Herman Gombiner,
do in the face of all this? He had no choice but to observe and be
silent.
"Well, it's winter, winter!" Herman Gombiner said to himself
in a voice half chanting, half groaning. "When will it be
Hanukkah? Winter has started early this year." Herman was in
the habit of talking to himself. He had always done so. The uncle
who raised him had been deaf. His grandmother, rest her soul,
would wake up in the middle of the night to recite penitential
prayers and lamentations found only in outdated prayer books.
His father had died before Herman-Hayim David-was born.
His mother had remarried in a faraway city and had had children
by her second husband. Hayim David had always kept to himself,
even when he attended heder or studied at the yeshiva. Now,
since Hitler had killed all of his family, he had no relatives to
write letters to. He wrote letters to total strangers.
"What time is it?" Herman asked himself again. He dressed in
a dark suit, a white shirt, and a black tie, and went out to the
kitchenette. An icebox without ice and a stove that he never used
stood there. Twice a week the milkman left a bottle of milk at
the door. Herman had a few cans of vegetables, which he ate on
days when he didn't leave the house. He had discovered that
a human being requires very little. A half cup of milk and a

pretzel could suffice for a whole day. One pair of shoes served
Herman for five years. His suit, coat, and hat never wore out.
Only his laundry showed some wear, and not from use but
from the chemicals used by the Chinese laundryman. The furni­
ture certainly never wore out. Were it not for his expenditures on
cabs and gifts, he could have saved a good deal of money.
He drank a glass of milk and ate a biscuit. Then he carefully
 245 1lP The Letter Writer

put on his black coat, a woolen scarf, rubbers, and a felt hat with a
broad brim. He packed his briefcase with books and manuscripts.
It became heavier from day to day, not because there was more in
it but because his strength diminished. He slipped on a pair of
dark glasses to protect hts eyes from the glare of the snow. Before
he left the apartment, he bade farewell to the bed, the desk piled
high with papers ( under which the blotter lay ) , the books, and
the mouse in the hole. He had poured out yesterday's stale water,
refilled the saucer, and set out a cracker and a small piece of
d1eese. "Well, Huldah, be well!"
Radios blared in the hallway. Dark-skinned women with
uncombed hair and angry eyes spoke in an unusually thick
Spanish. Children ran around half naked. The men were appar­
ently all unemployed. They paced idly about in their overcrowded
quarters, ate standing up, or strummed mandolins. The odors
from the apartments made Herman feel faint. All kinds of meat
and fish were fried there. The halls reeked of garlic, onion,
smoke, and something pungent and nauseating. At night his
neighbors danced and laughed wantonly. Sometimes there was
fighting and women screamed for help. Once a woman had come
pounding on Herman's door in the middle of the night, seeking
protection from a man who was trying to stab her.

2 .

Herman stopped downstairs at the mailboxes. The other residents

seldom received any mail, but Herman Gombiner's box was
packed tight every morning. He took his key out, fingers trem­
bling, inserted it in the keyhole, and pulled out the mail. He was
able to recognize who had sent the letters by their envelopes.
Alice Grayson, of Salt Lake City, used a rose-colored envelope.
Mrs. Roberta Hoff, of Pasadena, California, sent all her mail in
the business envelopes of the undertaking establishment for
 246 JP ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

which she worked. Miss Bertha Gordon, of Fairbanks, Alaska,

apparently had many leftover Christmas-card envelopes. Today
Herman found a letter from a new correspondent, a Mrs. Rose
Beechman, of Louisville, Kentucky. Her name and address were
hand-printed, with flourishes, across the back of the envelope.
Besides the letters, there were several magazines on occultism to
which Herman Gombiner subscribed-from America, England,
and even Australia. There wasn't room in his briefcase for all
these letters and periodicals, so Herman stuffed them into his coat
pocket. He went outside and waited for a taxi.
It was rare for a taxi, particularly an empty one, to drive down
this street, but it was too much of an effort for him to walk the
half block to Central Park West or Columbus Avenue. Herman
Gombiner fought his weakness with prayer and autosuggestion.
Standing in the snow, he muttered a prayer for a taxi. He repeat­
edly put his hand into his pocket and fingered the letters in their
envelopes. These letters and magazines had become the essence of
his life. Through them he had established contact with souls. He
had acquired the friendship and even the love of women. The
accounts he received from them strengthened his belief in psychic
powers and in the world beyond. He sent gifts to his unknown
correspondents and received gifts from them. They called him by
his first name, revealed their thoughts, dreams, hopes, and the
messages they received through the Ouija board, automatic writ­
ing, table turning, and other supernatural sources.
Herman Gombiner had established correspondences with these
women through the periodicals he subscribed to, where not only
accounts of readers' experiences were published but their con­
tributors' names and addresses as well. The articles were mainly
written by women. Herman Gombiner always selected those who
lived far away. He wished to avoid meetings. He could sense from
the way an experience was related, from a name or an address,
whether the woman would be capable of carrying on a coree-
 247 � The Letter Writer

spondence. He was almost never wrong. A small note from him

would call forth a long letter in reply. Sometimes he received
entire manuscripts. His correspondence had grown so large that
postage cost him several dollars a week. Many of his letters were
sent out special delivery or registered.
Miracles were a daily occurrence. No sooner had he finished
his prayer than a taxi appeared. The driver pulled up to the house
as if he had received a telepathic command. Getting into the taxi
exhausted Herman, and he sat a long while resting his head
against the window with his eyes shut, praising whatever Power
had heard his supplication. One had to be blind not to acknowl·
edge the hand of Providence, or whatever you wanted to call it.
Someone was concerned with man's most trivial requirements.
His disembodied spirit apparently roamed to the most distant
places. All his correspondents had seen him. In one night he had
been in Los Angeles and in Mexico City, in Oregon and in Scot·
land. It would come to him that one of his faraway friends was
ill. Before long, he would receive a letter saying that she had
indeed been ill and hospitalized. Over the years, several had died,
and he had had a premonition each time.
For the past few weeks, Herman had had a strong feeling that
Zion was going to dose down. True, this had been predicted for
years, but Herman had always known that it was only a rumor.
And just recently the employees had become optimistic; business
had improved. The old man talked of a deficit, but everybody
knew he was lying in order to avoid raising salaries. The house
had published a prayer book that was a best-seller. The new
Hebrew-English dictionary that Herman Gombiner was com·
pleting had every chance of selling tens of thousands of copies.
Nevertheless, Herman sensed a calamity j ust as surely as his
rheumatic knees foretold a change in the weather.
The taxi drove down Columbus Avenue. Herman glanced out
the window and dosed his eyes again. What is there to see on a
 248 1/Po ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

wintry day in New York? He remained wrapped up in his gloom.

No matter how many sweaters he put on, he was always cold.
Besides, one is less aware of the spirits, the psychic contacts,
during the cold weather. Herman raised his collar higher and put
his hands in his pockets. A violent kind of civilization developed
in cold countries. He should never have settled in New York. If
he were living in southern California, he wouldn't be enslaved by
the weather in this way. Oh, well . . . And was there a Jewish
publishing house to be found in southern California?

3.

The taxi stopped on Canal Street. Herman paid his fare and
added a fifty·cent tip. He was frugal with himself, but when it
came to cabdrivers, waiters, and elevator men, he was generous.
At Christmastime he even bought gifts for his Puerto Rican
neighbors. Today Sam, the elevator man, was apparently having a
cup of coffee in the cafeteria across the street, and Herman had to
wait. Sam did as he pleased. He came from the same city as
Morris Korver. He was the only elevator man, so that when he
didn't feel like coming in the tenants had to climb the stairs. He
was a Communist besides.
Herman waited ten minutes before Sam arrived-a short man,
broad-backed, with a face that looked as if it had been put
together out of assorted pieces : a short forehead, thick brows,
bulging eyes with big bags beneath them, and a bulbous nose
covered with cherry-red moles. His walk was unsteady. Herman
greeted him, but he grumbled in answer. The Yiddish leftist
paper stuck out of his back pocket. He didn't shut the elevator
door at once. First he coughed several times, then lit a cigar.
Suddenly he spat and called out, "You've heard the news?"
"What's happened? "
"They've sold the building."
 249 n"- The Letter Writer

"Aha, so that's it!" Herman said to himself. "Sold? How

come?'' he asked.
"How come? Because the old wise guy is senile and his sonny
boys don't give a damn. A garage is what's going up here.
They'll knock down the building and throw the books on the
garbage dump. Nobody will get a red cent out of these Fascist
bastards !"
"When did it happen?"
"It happened, that's all."
Well, I am clairvoyant, Herman thought. He remained silent.
For years, the editorial staff had talked about joining a union and
working out a pension plan, but talk was as far as they had got.
The elder Korver had seen to that. Wages were low, but he
would slip some of his cronies an occasional five- or ten-dollar
bonus. He gave out money at Hanukkah, sent Purim gifts, and in
general acted like an old-style European boss. Those who op­
posed him were fired. The bookkeepers and other workers could
perhaps get jobs elsewhere, but the writers and editors would
have nowhere to go. Judaica was becoming a vanishing specialty
in America. When Jews died, their religious and Hebrew books
were donated to libraries or were simply thrown out. Hitlerism
and the war had caused a temporary upsurge, but not enough to
make publishing religious works in Hebrew profitable.
"Well, the seven fat years are over," Herman muttered to
himself. The elevator went up to the third floor. It opened di­
rectly into the editorial room-a large room with a low ceiling,
furnished with old desks and outmoded typewriters. Even the
telephones were old-fashioned. The room smelled of dust, wax,
and something stuffy and stale.
Raphael Robbins, Korver's editor-in-chief, sat on a cushioned
chair and read a manuscript, his eyeglasses pushed down to the
tip of his nose. He suffered from hemorroids and had prostate
trouble. A man of medium height, he was broad-shouldered,
 2 5 0 JiP' I SAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

with a round head and a protruding belly. Loose folds of skin

hung under his eyes. His face expressed a grandfatherly kindli­
ness and an old woman's shrewdness. For years his chief task had
consisted of eating lunch with old Korver. Robbins was known to
be a boaster, a liar, and a flatterer. He owned a library of
pornographic books-a holdover from his youth. Like Sam, he
came from the same city as Morris Korver. Raphael Robbins's
son, a physicist, had worked on the atomic bomb. His daughter
had married a rich Wall Street broker. Raphael Robbins himself
had accumulated some capital and was old enough to receive his
Social Security pension. As Robbins read the manuscript, he
scratched his bald pate and shook his head. He seldom returned a
manuscript, and many of them were lying about gathering dust
on the table, in his two bookcases, and on cabinets in the kitchen­
ette where the workers brewed tea.
The man who had made Morris Korver rich and on whose
shoulders the publishing house had rested for years was Professor
Yohanan Abarbanel, a compiler of dictionaries. No one knew
where his title came from. He had never received a degree or
even attended a university. It was said that old Korver had made
him a professor. In addition to compiling several dictionaries,
Abarbanel had edited a collection of sermons with quotations for
rabbis, written study books for bar-mitzvah boys, and put to­
gether other handbooks, which had run into many editions. A
bachelor in his seventies, Yohanan Abarbanel had had a heart
attack and had undergone surgery for a hernia. He worked for a
pittance, lived in a cheap hotel, and each year worried that he
might be laid off. He had several poor relatives whom he sup­
ported. He was a small man, with white hair, a white beard, and
a small face, red as a frozen apple; his little eyes were hidden by
white bushy eyebrows. He sat at a table and wheezed and
coughed, and all the while wrote in a tiny handwriting with a
steel pen. The last few years, he couldn't be trusted to complete
 251 � The Letter Writer

any work by himself. Each word was read over by Herman

Gombiner, and whole manuscripts had to be rewritten.
For some reason, no one in the office ever greeted anyone else
with a "hello" or a "good morning" on arrival, or said anything
at closing time. During the day, they did occasionally exchange a
few friendly words. It might even happen that, not having ad­
dressed a word to one another for months, one of them might go
over to a colleague and pour out his heart, or actually invite him
to supper. But then the next morning they would again behave as
if they had quarreled. Over the years they had become bored with
one another. Complaints and grudges had accumulated and were
never quite forgotten.
Miss Lipshitz, the secretary, who had started working at Zion
when she was just out of college, was now entirely gray. She sat
at her typewriter-small, plump, and pouting, with a short neck
and an amp le bosom. She had a pug nose and eyes that seemed
never to look at the manuscript she was typing but stared far off,
past the walls. Days would pass without her voice being heard.
She muttered into the telephone. When she ate lunch in the
restaurant across the street, she would sit alone at a table, eating,
smoking, and reading a newspaper simultaneously. There was a
time when everyone in the office-old Mr. Korver included­
had either openly or secretly been in love with this clever girl
who knew English, Yiddish, Hebrew, stenography, and much
more. They used to ask her to the theater and the movies and
quarreled over who should take her to lunch. For years now, Miss
Lipshitz had isolated herself. Old man Korver said that she had
shut herself up behind an invisible wall.
Herman nodded to her, but she didn't respond. He walked
past Ben Melnick's office. Melnick was the business manager­
tall, swarthy, with a young face, black bulging eyes, and a head of
milky-white hair. He suffered from asthma and played the horses.
All sorts of shifty characters came to see him-bookies. He was
 2 5 2 1/P. I SAA C B AS H E V I S S I N G E R

separated from his wife and was carrying on a love affair with
Miss Potter, the chief bookkeeper, another relative of Morris
Korver's.
Herman Gombiner went into his own office. Walking through
the editorial room, and not being greeted, was a strain for
him. Korver employed a man to keep the place clean-Zeinvel
Gitzis-but Zeinvel neglected his work; the walls were filthy, the
windows unwashed . Packs of dusty manuscripts and newspapers
had been lying around for years.
Herman carefully removed his coat and laid it on a stack of
books. He sat down on a chair that had horsehair sticking
through its upholstery. Work? What was the sense of working
when the firm was closing down? He sat shaking his head-half
out of weakness, half from regret. "Well, everything has to have
an end," he muttered. "It is predestined that no human institu­
tion will last forever." He reached over and pulled the mail out
of his coat pocket. He inspected the envelopes, without opening
any of them. He came back to Rose Beechman's letter from
Louisville, Kentucky. In a magazine called the Meuage, Mrs.
Beechman had reported her contacts over the last fifteen years
with her dead grandmother, Mrs. Eleanor Brush. The grand­
mother usually materialized during the night, though sometimes
she would also appear in the daylight, dressed in her funeral
clothes. She was full of advice for her granddaughter, and once
she even gave her a recipe for fried chicken. Herman had writ­
ten to Rose Beechman, but seven weeks had passed without a
reply. He had almost given up hope, although he had continued
sending her telepathic messages. She had been ill-Herman was
certain of it.
Now her letter lay before him in a light-blue envelope.
Opening it wasn't easy for him. He had to resort to using his
teeth. He finally removed six folded sheets of light-blue station­
ery and read :
 2 5 3 ,P. The Letter Writer

Dear Mr. Gombiner:

I am writing this letter to you a day after my return from the
hospital where I spent almost two months. I was operated on
for the removal of a spinal tumor. There was danger of paralysis
or worse. But fate, it seems, still wants me here . . . . Appar­
ently, my little story in the Meuage caused quite a furor. During
my illness, I received dozens of letters from all parts of the
country and from England.
It so happened that my daughter put your letter at the bottom
of the pile, and had I read them in order, it might have taken
several weeks more before I came to yours. But a premonition­
what else can I call it ?-made me open the very last letter first.
It was then that I realized, from the postmark, yours had been
among the first, if not the very first, to arrive. It seems I always
do things not as I intend to but according to a command from
someone or something that I am unaware of. All I can say is :
this "something" has been with me as long as I can remember,
perhaps even since before I was capable of thinking.
Your letter is so logical, so noble and fascinating, that I may
say it has brightened my homecoming. My daughter has a job in
an office and has neither the time nor the patience to look a fter
the house. When I returned, I found things in a sorry state. I am
by nature a meticulous housekeeper who cannot abide disorder,
and so you can imagine my feelings. But your profound and
truly remarkable thoughts, as well as the friendliness and hu­
manity implicit in them, helped me to forget my troubles. I
read your letter three times and thanked God that people with
your understanding and faith exist.
You ask for details. My dear Mr. Gombiner, if I were to re­
late all the facts, no letter would suffice. I could fill a whole
book. Don't forget that these experiences have been going on
for fifteen years. My saintly grandmother visited me every day
in the hospital. She literally took over the work of the nurses,
who are not, as you may know, overly devoted to their patients
-nor do they have the time to be. Yes, to describe it all "ex­
actly," as you request, would take weeks, months. I can only
repeat that everything I wrote in the Meuage was the honest
truth. Some of my correspondents call me "crackpot," "cra zy,"
 254 ,P ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"charlatan." They acruse me of lying and publicity-seeking.

Why should I tell lies and why do I need publicity ? It was,
therefore, especially pleasing to read your wonderful sentiments.
I see from the letterhead that you are a Jew and connected with
a Hebrew publishing house. I wish to assure you that I have al­
ways had the highest regard for Jews, God's chosen people.
There are not very many Jews here in Louisville, and my per­
sonal contact has been only with Jews who have little interest in
their religion. I have always wanted to become acquainted with
a real Jew, who reveres the tradition of the Holy Fathers.
Now I come to the main point of my letter, and I beg you to
forgive my rambling. The night before I left the hospital, my
beloved grandmother, Mrs. Brush, visited with me till dawn. We
chatted about various matters, and just before her departure she
said to me, "This winter you will go to New York, where you
will meet a man who will change the direction of your life."
These were her parting words. I must add here that although
for the past fifteen years I have been fully convinced that my
grandmother never spoke idly and that whatever she said had
meaning, at that moment for the first time I felt some doubt.
What business did I, a widow living on a small pension, have
in far-off New York ? And what man in New York could pos­
sibly alter my existence ?
It is true I am not yet old-just above forty-and considered
an attractive woman. (I beg you not to think me vain. I simply
wish to clari fy the situation. ) But when my husband died eight
years ago, I decided that was that. I was left with a twelve-year­
old daughter and wished to devote all my energies to her up­
bringing, and I did. She is today good-looking, has gone through
business school and has an excellent position with a real-estate
firm, and she is engaged to marry an extremely interesting and
well -educated man (a government official ) . I feel she will be
very happy.
I have since my husband's death received proposals from men,
but I have always rejected them. My grandmother, it seems,
must have agreed with me, because I never heard anything to
the contrary from her. I mention this because my grandmother's
talk of a trip to New York and the man I would meet there
seemed so unlikely that I believed she had said it just to cheer
 2 5 5 SiP The Letter Writer

me up after my i llness. Later, her words actually slipped my

mind.
Imagine my surprise when today, on my return from the
hospital, I received a registered letter from a Mr. Ginsburg, a
New York lawyer, notifying me of the death of my great-aunt
Catherine Pennell and telling me that she had left me a sum of
almost five thousand dollars. Aunt Catherine was a spinster and
had severed her ties with our family over fifty years ago, before
I was born. As far as we knew, she had lived on a farm in
Pennsylvania. My father had sometimes talked about her and
her eccentricities, but I had never met her nor did I know
whether she was alive or dead. How she wound up in New
York is a mystery to me, as is the reason for her choosing to
leave me money. These are the facts, and I must come to New
York concerning the bequest. Documents have to be signed and
so forth.
When I read the lawyer's letter and then your highly inter­
esting and dear one, I suddenly realized how foolish I had been
to doubt my grandmother's words. She has never made a predic­
tion that didn't later prove true, and I will never doubt her
again.
This letter is already too long and my fingers are tired from
holding the pen. I simply wish to inform you that I will be in
New York for several days in January, or at the latest in early
February, and I would consider it a privilege and an honor to
meet you personally.
I cannot know what the Powers that be have in store for me,
but I know that meeting you will be an important event in my
life, as I hope meeting me will be for you. I have extraordinary
things to tell you. In the meantime, accept my deepest gratitude
and my fondest regards.
I am, very truly yours,
Rou Beechman

4.

Everything happened quickly. One day they talked about closing

down the publishing house, and the next day it was done. Morris
 256 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Korver and his sons called a meeting of the staff. Korver himself
spoke in Yiddish, pounded his fist on a bookstand, and shouted
with the loud voice of a young man. He warned the workers that
if they didn't accept the settlement he and his sons had worked
out, none of them would get a penny. One son, Seymour, a lawyer,
had a few words to say, in English. In contrast with his father's
shouting, Seymour spoke quietly. The older employees who were
hard of hearing moved their chairs closer and turned up their
hearing aids. Seymour displayed a list of figures. The publishing
house, he said, had in the last few years lost several hundred
thousand dollars. How much can a business lose? There it all
was, written down in black and white.
After the bosses left, the writers and office workers voted
whether or not to agree to the proposed terms. The majority
voted to accept. It was argued that Korver had secretly bribed
some employees to be on his side, but what was the difference?
Every worker was to receive his final check the following day.
The manuscripts were left lying on the tables. Sam had already
brought up men from the demolition company.
Raphael Robbins carefully put into his satchel the little cush­
ion on which he sat, a magnifying glass, and a drawerful of
medicine. He took leave of everyone with the shrewd smile of a
man who knew everything in advance and therefore was never
surprised. Yohanan Abarbanel took a single dictionary home
with him. Miss Lipshitz, the secretary, walked around with red,
weepy eyes all morning. Ben Melnick brought a huge trunk and
packed his private archives, consisting of horse-racing forms.
Herman Gombiner was too feeble to pack the letters and books
that had accumulated in his bookcase. He opened a drawer,
looked at the dust-covered papers, and immediately started
coughing. He said goodbye to Miss Lipshitz, handed Sam a last
five-dollar tip, went to the bank to cash the check, and then
waited for a taxi.
 257 � The Letter Writer

For many years, Herman Gombiner had lived in fear of the

day when he would be without a job. But when he got into the
taxi to go home at one o'clock in the afternoon, he felt the calm
of resignation. He never turned his head to look back at the place
in which he had wasted almost thirty years. A wet snow was
falling. The sky was gray. Sitting in the taxi, leaning his head
back against the seat, with eyes closed, Herman Gombiner com­
pared h imself to a corpse returning from its own funeral. This is
probably the way the soul leaves the body and starts its spiritual
existence, he thought.
He had figured everything out. With the almost two thousand
dollars he had saved in the bank, the money he had received from
Morris Korver, and unemployment insurance, he would be able
to manage for two years-perhaps even a few months longer.
Then he would have to go on relief. There was no sense in even
trying to get another job. Herman had from childhood begged
God not to make him dependent on charity, but it had evidently
been decided differently. Unless, of course, death redeemed him
first.
Thank God it was warm in the house. Herman looked at the
mouse's hole. In what way was he, Herman, better than she?
Huldah also had to depend on someone. He took out a notebook
and pencil and started to calculate. He would no longer need to
pay for two taxis daily, or have to eat lunch in a restaurant, or
leave a tip for the waiter. There would be no more contributions
for all kinds of collections-for Palestine, for employees' chil­
dren or grandchildren who were getting married, for retirement
gifts. He certainly wouldn't be paying any more taxes. Herman
examined his clothes closet. He had enough shirts and shoes to
last him another ten years. He needed money only for rent, bread,
milk, magazines, and stamps. There had been a time when he
considered getting a telephone in his apartment. Thank God he
had not done it. With these six dollars he could manage for a
 258 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

week. Without realizing it would come to this, Herman had for

years practiced the art of reducing his expenditures to a mini­
mum, lowering the wick of life, so to speak.
Never before had Herman Gombiner enjoyed his apartment as
he did on that winter day when he returned home after the
closing of the publishing house. People had often complained to
him about their loneliness, but as long as there were books and
stationery and as long as he could sit on a chair next to the
radiator and meditate, he was never alone. From the neighboring
apartments he could hear the laughter of children, women talk·
ing, and the loud voices of men. Radios were turned on full blast.
In the street, boys and girls were playing noisily.
The short day grew darker and darker, and the house filled
with shadows. Outside, the snow took on an unusual blue
coloring. Twilight descended. "So, a day has passed," Herman
said to himself. This particular day, this very date would never
return again, unless Nietzsche was right in his theory about the
eternal return. Even if one did believe that time was imaginary,
this day was finished, like the flipped page of a book. It had
passed into the archives of eternity. But what had he, Herman
Gombiner, accomplished? Whom had he helped? Not even the
mouse. She had not come out of her hole, not a peep out of her
all day. Was she sick? She was no longer young; old age crept up
on everyone. . . .

As Herman sat in the wintry twilight, he seemed to be waiting

for a sign from the Powers on high. Sometimes he received
messages from them, but at other times they remained hidden
and silent. He found himself thinking about his parents, grand·
parents, his sisters, brother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Where
were they all? Where were they resting, blessed souls, martyred
by the Nazis. Did they ever think of him? Or had they risen into
spheres where they were no longer concerned with the lower
 2 5 9 � The Letter Writer

worlds? He started to pray to them, inviting them to visit h im on

this winter evening.
The steam in the radiator hissed, singing its one note. The steam
seemed to speak in the pipes, consoling Herman: "You are not
alone, you are an element of the universe, a child of God, an
integral part of Creation. Your suffering is God's suffering, your
yearning His yearning. Everything is right. Let the Truth be
revealed to you, and you will be filled with joy."
Suddenly Herman heard a squeak. In the dimness, the mouse
had crawled out and looked cautiously around, as if afraid that a
cat lurked nearby. Herman held his breath. Holy creature, have
no fear. No harm will come to you. He watched her as she
approached the saucer of water, took one sip, then a second and a
third. Slowly she started gnawing the piece of cheese.
Can there be any greater wonder, Herman thought. Here
stands a mouse, a daughter of a mouse, a granddaughter of mice,
a product of millions, billions of mice who once lived, suffered,

reproduced, and are now gone forever, but have left an heir.
apparently the last of her line. Here she stands, nourishing her­
self with food. What does she think about all day in her hole?
She must think about something. She does have a mind, a
nervous system. She is just as much a part of God's creation as
the planets, the stars, the d istant galaxies.
The mouse suddenly raised her head and stared at Herman
with a human look of love and gratitude. Herman imagined that
she was saying thank you.

5 .

Since Herman Gombiner had stopped working, he realized

what an effort it had been for him to wake up in the morning, to
wait outside for a cab, to waste his time with dictionaries,
writing, editing, and traveling home again each evening. He had
 260 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

apparently been working with the last of his strength . It seemed

to him that the publishing house had closed on the very day that
he had expended his last bit of remaining energy. This fact in
itself was an excellent example of the presence of Godly com­
passion and the hand of Providence. But thank heaven he still
had the will to read and write letters.
Snow had fallen. Herman couldn't recall another New York
winter with as much snow as this. Huge drifts had piled up. It
was impossible for cars to drive through his street. Herman
would have had to plow his way to Columbus Avenue or Central
Park West to get a taxi. He would surely have collapsed. Luckily,
the delivery boy from the grocery store didn't forget him. Every
other day he brought up rolls, sometimes eggs, cheese, and what­
ever else Herman had ordered. His neighbors would knock on his
door and ask him whether he needed anything--coffee, tea, fruit.
He thanked them profusely. Poor as he was, he always gave a
mother a nickel to buy some chocolate for her child. The women
never left at once; they lingered awhile and spoke to him in their
broken English, looking at him as if they regretted having to go.
Once, a woman stroked Herman's head gently. Women had
always been attracted to him.
There had been times when women had fallen desperately in
love with him, but marriage and a family were not for Herman.
The thought of raising children seemed absurd to him. Why
prolong the human tragedy? Besides, he had always sent every
last cent to Kalomin.
His thoughts kept returning to the past. He was back in
Kalomin. He was going to heder, studying at a yeshiva, secretly
teaching himself modern Hebrew, Polish, German, taking les­
sons, instructing others. He experienced his first love affair, the
meetings with girls, strolls in the woods, to the watermill, to the
cemetery. He had been drawn to cemeteries even as a youngster,
and would spend hours there, meditating among the tombstones
 26r � The Letter Writer

and listening to their stony silence. The dead spoke to him from
their graves. In the Kalomin cemetery there grew tall, white­
barked birch trees. Their silvery leaves trembled in the slightest
breeze, chattering their leafy dialect all day. The boughs leaned
over each other, whispering secrets.
Later came the trip to America and wandering around New
�
York without a job. The pe went to work for Zion and began
studying English. He had been fairly healthy at that time and had
had affairs with women. It was difficult to believe the many
triumphs he had had. On lonely nights, details of old episodes
and never-forgotten words came to him. Memory itself demon­
strates that there is no oblivion. Words a woman had uttered to
him thirty years before and that he hadn't really understood at the
time would suddenly become clear. Thank God he had enough
memories to last him a hundred years.
For the first time since he had come to America, his windows
froze over. Frost trees like those in Kalomin formed on the
windowpanes-upside-down palms, exotic shrubs, and strange
flowers. The frost painted like an artist, but its patterns were
eternal. Crystals? What were crystals? Who had taught the atoms
and molecules to arrange themselves in this or that way? What
was the connection between the molecules in New York and the
molecules in Kalomin?
The greatest wonders began when Herman dozed off. As soon
as he closed his eyes, his dreams came like locusts. He saw every­
thing with clarity and precision. These were not dreams but
visions. He flew over Oriental cities, hovered over cupolas,
mosques, and castles, lingered in strange gardens, mysterious
forests. He came upon undiscovered tribes, spoke foreign lan­
guages. Sometimes he was frightened by monsters.
Herman had often thought that one's true life was lived
during sleep. Waking was no more than a marginal time as­
signed for doing things.
 262 1(p- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

Now that he was free, his entire schedule was turned around.
It seemed to happen of itself. He stayed awake at night and slept
during the day. He ate lunch in the evening and skipped supper
altogether. The alarm clock had stopped, but Herman hadn't
rewound it. What difference did it make what time it was? Some­
times he was too lazy to turn the lights on in the evening. Instead
of reading, he sat on a chair next to the radiator and dozed. He
was overcome by a fatigue that never left him. Am I getting sick,
he wondered. No matter how little the grocery boy delivered,
Herman had too much.
His real sustenance was the letters he received. Herman still
made his way down the few flights of stairs to his letter box in
the lobby. He had provided himself with a supply of stamps and
stationery. There was a mailbox a few feet from the entrance of
the house. If he was unable to get through the snow, he would
ask a neighbor to mail his letters. Recently, a woman who lived
on his floor offered to get his mail every morning, and Herman
gave her the key to his box. She was a stamp collector ; the stamps
were her payment. Herman now spared himself the trouble of
climbing stairs. She mailed his letters and slipped the ones he
received under the door, and so quietly that he never heard her
footsteps.
He often sat all night writing, napping between letters. Occa­
sionally he would take an old letter from the desk drawer and
read it through a magnifying glass. Yes, the dead were still with
us. They came to advise their relatives on business, debts,
the healing of the sick; they comforted the discouraged, made
suggestions concerning trips, jobs, love, marriage. Some left
bouquets of flowers on bedspreads, and apported articles from
distant places. Some revealed themselves only to intimate ones at
the moment of death, others returned years after they had passed
away. If this were all true, Herman thought, then his relatives,
too, were surely living. He sat praying for them to appear to him.
 263 ,P The Letter Writer

The spirit cannot be burned, gassed, hanged, shot. Six million

souls must exist somewhere.
One night, having written letters till dawn, Herman inserted
them in envelopes, addressed and put stamps on them, then went
to bed. When he opened his eyes, it was full daylight. His head
was heavy. It lay like a stone on the pillow. He felt hot, yet chills
ran across his back. He had dreamed that his dead family came to
him, but they had not behaved appropriately for ghosts; they had
quarreled, shouted, even come to blows over a straw basket.
Herman looked toward the door and saw the morning mail
pushed under it by his neighbor, but he couldn't move. Am I
paralyzed, he wondered. He fell asleep again, and the ghosts
returned. His mother and sisters were arguing over a metal comb.
"Well, this is too ridiculous," he said to himself. "Spirits don't
need metal combs." The dream continued. He discovered a
cabinet in the wall of his room. He opened it and letters started
pouring out-hundreds of letters. What was this cabinet? The
letters bore old datemarks; he had never opened them. In his
sleep he felt troubled that so many people had written to him and
he hadn't answered them. He decided that a postman must have
hidden the letters in order to save himself the trouble of deliver­
ing them. But if the postman had already bothered to come to his
house, what was the sense of hiding the letters in the cabinet?
Herman awoke, and it was evening. "How did the day pass so
quickly?" he asked himself. He tried to get up to go to the
bathroom, but his head spun and everything turned black. He fell
to the floor. Well, it's the end, he thought. What will become of
Huldah?
He lay powerless for a long time. Then slowly he pulled
himself up, and by moving along the wall he reached the bath­
room. His urine was brown and oily, and he felt a burning
sensation.
It took him a long time to return to his bed. He lay down
 264 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

again, and the bed seemed to rise and fall. How strange-he no
longer needed to tear open the envelopes of his letters. Clairvoy­
ant powers enabled him to read their contents. He had received a
reply from a woman in a small town in Colorado. She wrote of a
now dead neighbor with whom she had always quarreled, and of
how after the neighbor's death her ghost had broken her sew­
ing machine. Her former enemy had poured water on her
.floors, ripped open a pillow and spilled out all the feathers. The
dead can be mischievous. They can also be full of vengeance. If
this was so, he thought, then a war between the dead Jews and
the dead Nazis was altogether possible.
That night, Herman dozed, twitched convulsively, and woke
up again and again. Outside, the wind howled. It blew right
through the house. Herman remembered Huldah; the mouse was
without food or water. He wanted to get down to help her, but
he couldn't move any part of his body. He prayed to God, "I
don't need help any more, but don't let that poor creature die of
hunger! " He pledged money to charity. Then he fell asleep.
Herman opened his eyes, and the day was just beginning-an
overcast wintry day that he could barely make out through the
frost-covered windowpanes. It was as cold indCJors as out. Her­
man listened but could hear no tune from the radiator. He tried
to cover himself, but his hands lacked the strength. From the
hallway he heard sounds of shouting and running feet. Someone
knocked on the door, but he couldn't answer. There was more
knocking. A man spoke in Spanish, and Herman heard a
woman's voice. Suddenly someone pushed the door open and
a Puerto Rican man came in, followed by a small woman wearing
a knitted coat and matching hat. She carried a huge muff such as
Herman had never seen in America.
The woman came up to his bed and said, "Mr. Gombiner?"
She pronounced his name so that he hardly recognized it-with
the accent on the first syllable. The man left. In her hand the
 265 � The Letter Writer

woman held the letters she had picked up from the floor. She had
fair skin, dark eyes, and a small nose. She said, "I knew that you
were sick. I am Mrs. Beechman-Rose Beechman. " She held out
a letter she had sent him that was among those she found at the
door.
Herman understood, but was unable to speak. He heard her
say, "My grandmother made me come to you. I was coming to
New York two weeks from now. You are ill and the furnace in
your house has exploded. Wait, I'll cover you. Where is your
telephone?"
She pulled the blanket over him, but the bedding was like ice.
She started to move about, stamping her boots and clapping her
hands. "You don't have a telephone? How can I get a doctor?"
He wanted to tell her he didn't want a doctor, but he was too
weak. Looking at her made him tired. He shut his eyes and
immediately forgot that he had a visitor.

6.

"How can anyone sleep so much? " Herman asked himself. This
sleepiness had transformed him into a helpless creature. He
opened his eyes, saw the strange woman, knew who she was, and
immediately fell asleep again. She had brought a doctor-a tall
man, a giant-and this man uncovered him, listened to his heart
with a stethoscope, squeezed his stomach, looked down his
throat. Herman heard the word "pneumonia" ; they told him he
would have to go to the hospital, but he amassed enough strength
to shake his head. He would rather die. The doctor reprimanded
him good-naturedly; the woman tried to persuade him. What's
wrong with a hospital? They would make him well there. She
would visit him every day, would take care of him.
But Herman was adamant. He broke through his sickness and
spoke to the woman. "Every person has the right to determine his
 266 ,P. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

own fate." He showed her where he kept his money; he looked at

her pleadingly, stretched out his hand to her, begging her to
promise that he would not be moved.
One moment he spoke clearly as a healthy man, and the next
he returned to his torpor. He dreamed again-whether asleep or
awake he himself didn't know. The woman gave him medicine.
A girl came and administered an injection. Thank God there was
heat again. The radiator sang all day and half the night. Now the
sun shone in-the bit of sunlight that reached his window in the
morning; now the ceiling light burned. Neighbors carne to ask
how he was, mostly women. They brought him bowls of grits,
warm milk, cups of tea. The strange woman changed her clothes;
sometimes she wore a black dress or a yellow dress, sometimes a
white blouse or a rose-colored blouse. At times she appeared
middle-aged and serious to him, at others girlishly young and
playful. She inserted a thermometer in his mouth and brought his
bedpan. She undressed him and gave him alcohol rubs. He felt
embarrassed because of his emaciated body, but she argued,
"What is there to be ashamed of? We are all the way God made
us." Sick as he was, he was still aware of the smoothness of her

palms. Was she human? Or an angel? He was a child again,

whose mother was worrying about him. He knew very well that
he could die of this sleepiness, but he had ceased being afraid of
death.
Herman was preoccupied with something-an event, a vision
that repeated itself with countless variations but whose meaning
he couldn't fathom. It seemed to him that his sleeping was like a
long book which he read so eagerly he could not stop even for a
minute. Drinking tea, taking medicine were merely annoying
interruptions. His body, together with its agonies, had detached
itself from him.
He awoke. The day was growing pale. The woman had placed
 267 � The Letter Writer

an ice pack on his head. She removed it and commented that his
pajama top had blood on it. The blood had come from his nose.
"Am I dying? Is this death?" he asked himself. He felt only
curiosity.
The woman gave him medicine from a teaspoon, and the fluid
had the strength and the smell of cognac. Herman shut his eyes,
and when he opened them again he could see the snowy blue of
the night. The woman was sitting at a table that had for years
been cluttered with books, which she must have removed . She
had placed her fingertips at the edge of the table. The table was
moving, raising its front legs and then dropping them down with
a bang.
For a while he was wide awake and as clearheaded as if he
were well. Was the table really moving of its own accord? Or
was the woman raising it? He stared in amazement. The woman
was mumbling; she asked questions that he couldn't hear. Some­
times she grumbled ; once she even laughed, showing a mouthful
of small teeth. Suddenly she went over to the bed, leaned over
him, and said, "You will live. You will recover."
He l istened to her words with an indifference that surprised
him.
He closed his eyes and found himself in Kalomin again. They
were all living-his father, his mother, his grandfather, his
grandmother, his sisters, his brother, all the uncles and aunts and
cousins. How odd that Kalomin could be a part of New York.
One had only to reach a street that led to Canal Street. The street
was on the side of a mountain, and it was necessary to climb up
to it. It seemed that he had to go through a cellar or a tunnel, a
place he remembered from other dreams. It grew darker and
darker, the ground became steeper and full of d itches, the walls
lower and lower and the air more stuffy. He had to open a door
to a small chamber that was full of the bones of corpses, slimy
with decay. He had come upon a subterranean cemetery, and
 268 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

there he met a beadle, or perhaps a warden or a gravedigger who

was attending to the bones.
"How can anyone live here?" Herman asked himself. " \Vho
would want such a livelihood?" Herman couldn't see this man
now, but he recalled previous dreams in which he had seen
him-bearded and shabby. He broke off limbs like so many
rotten roots. He laughed with secret glee. Herman tried to escape
from this labyrinth, crawling on his belly and slithering like a
snake, overexerting himself so that his breathing stopped.
He awakened in a cold sweat. The lamp was not lit, but a faint
glow shone from somewhere. \'\'here is this light coming from,
Herman wondered, and where is the woman? How miraculous­
he felt well.
He sat up slowly and saw the woman asleep on a cot, covered
with an unfamiliar blanket. The faint illumination came from a
tiny light bulb plugged into a socket near the floor. Herman sat
still and let the perspiration dry, feeling cooler as it dried.
"Well, it wasn't destined that I should die yet," he muttered .
"But why am I needed here?" He could find no answer.
Herman leaned back on the pillow and lay still. He remem­
bered everything : he had fallen ill, Rose Beechman had arrived,
and had brought a doctor to see him. Herman had refused to go
to the hospital.
He took stock of himself. He had apparently passed the crisis.
He was weak, but no longer sick. All his pains were gone. He
could breathe freely. His throat was no longer clogged with
phlegm. This woman had saved his life.
Herman knew he should thank Providence, but something
inside him felt sad and almost cheated. He had always hoped for
a revelation. He had counted on his deep sleep to see things kept
from the healthy eye. Even of death he had thought, Let's look at
what is on the other side of the curtain. He had often read about
people who were ill and whose astral bodies wandered over cities,
 269 � The Letter Writer

oceans, and deserts. Others had come in contact with relatives,

had had visions; heavenly lights had appeared to them. But in his
long sleep Herman had experienced nothing but a lot of tangled
dreams. He remembered the little table that had raised and
lowered its front legs one night. Where was it? It stood not far
from his bed, covered with a pile of letters and magazines, ap·
parently received during his illness.
Herman observed Rose Beechman. Why had she come? When
had she had the cot brought in? He saw her face distinctly now­
the small nose, hollow cheeks, dark hair, the round forehead a
bit too high for a woman. She slept calmly, the blanket over her
breast. Her breathing couldn't be heard. It occurred to Herman
that she might be dead. He stared at her intently; her nostrils
moved slightly.
Herman dozed off again. Suddenly he heard a mumbling. He
opened his eyes. The woman was talking in her sleep. He listened
carefully but couldn't make out the words. He wasn't certain
whether it was English or another language. What did it mean?
All at once he knew: she was talking to her grandmother. He
held his breath. His whole being became still. He made an effort
to distinguish at least one word, but he couldn't catch a single
syllable. The woman became silent and then started to whisper
again. She didn't move her lips. Her voice seemed to be corning
out of her nostrils. \Vho knows? Perhaps she wasn't speaking a
known language, Herman Gombiner thought. He fancied that
she was suggesting something to the unseen one and arguing
with her. This intensive listening soon tired him. He closed his
eyes and fell asleep.
He twitched and woke up. He didn't know how long he had
been sleeping-a minute or an hour. Through the window he
saw that it was still night. The woman on the cot was sleeping
silently. Suddenly Herman remembered. What had become of
Huldah? How awful that throughout his long illness he had
 270 �p. ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

entirely forgotten her. No one had fed her or given her anything
to drink. "She is surely dead," he said to himself. "Dead of
hunger and thirst!" He felt a great shame. He had recovered. The
Powers that rule the world had sent a woman to him, a merciful
sister, but this creature who was dependent on him for its necessi­
ties had perished. "I should not have forgotten her! I should not
have! I've killed her! "
Despair took hold o f Herman. H e started t o pray for the
mouse's soul. "Well, you've had your life. You've served your
time in this forsaken world, the worst of all worlds, this bottom­
less abyss, where Satan, Asmodeus, Hitler, and Stalin prevail.
You are no longer confined to your hole-hungry, thirsty, and
sick, but at one with the God-filled cosmos, with God Himself.
. • . Who knows why you had to be a mouse?"
In his thoughts, Herman spoke a eulogy for the mouse who had
shared a portion of her life with him and who, because of him,
had left this earth. "What do they know-all those scholars, all
those philosophers, all the leaders of the world-about such as
you? They have convinced themselves that man, the worst trans­
gressor of all the species, is the crown of creation. All other
creatures were created merely to provide him with food, pelts, to
be tormented, exterminated. In relation to them, all people are
Nazis; for the animals it is an eternal Treblinka. And yet man
demands compassion from heaven." Herman clapped his hand to
his mouth. "I mustn't live, I mustn't! I can no longer be a part of
it! God in heaven-take me away! "
For a while his mind was blank. Then h e trembled. Perhaps
Huldah was still alive? Perhaps she had found something to eat.
Maybe she was lying unconscious in her hole and could be re­
vived ? He tried to get off the bed. He lifted the blanket and
slowly put one foot down. The bed creaked.
The woman opened her eyes as if she hadn't been asleep at all
but had been pretending. "Where are you going?"
 271 � The Letter Writer

"There is something I must find out."

"What? Wait one second . " She straightened her nightgown
underneath the blanket, got out of bed, and went over to him
barefooted. Her feet were white, girlishly small, with slender
toes. "How are you feeling?"
"I beg you, listen to me!" And in a quiet voice he told her
about the mouse.
The woman listened. Her face, hidden in the shadows, ex­
pressed no surprise. She said, "Yes, I did hear the mice scratching
several times during the night. They are probably eating your
books."
"It's only one mouse. A wonderful creature."
"What shall I do?"
"The hole is right here. . . . I used to set out a dish of water
for her and a piece of cheese."
"I don't have any cheese here."
"Perhaps you can pour some milk in a little dish. I'm not sure
that she is alive, but maybe . . . "

"Yes, there is milk. First I'll take your temperature." She took
a thermometer from somewhere, shook it down, and put it in his
mouth with the authority of a nurse.
Herman watched her as she busied herself in the kitchenette.
She poured milk from a bottle i nto a saucer. Several times she
turned her head and gave him an inquiring look, as if she didn't
quite believe what she had just heard.
How can this be, Herman wondered . She doesn't look like a
woman with a grown daughter. She looks like a girl herself. Her
loose hair reached her shoulders. He could make out her figure
through her bathrobe : narrow in the waist, not too broad in the
hips. Her face had a mildness, a softness that didn't match the
earnest, almost severe letter she had written him. Oh, well, where
is it written that everything must match? Every person is a new
experiment in God's laboratory.
 272 n'- ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

The woman took the dish and carefully set it down where he
had indicated. On the way back to the cot, she put on her house
slippers. She took the thermometer out of his mouth and went to
the bathroom, where a light was burning. She soon returned.
"You have no fever. Thank God. "
"You have saved m y life," Herman said.
"It was my grandmother who told me to come here. I hope
you've read my letter. "
"Yes, I read it."
"I see that you correspond with half the world."
'Tm interested in psychic research."
"This is your first day without fever."
For a while, both were silent. Then he asked, "How can I
repay you?"
The woman frowned. "There's no need to repay me."

7 .

Herman fell asleep and found h imself in Kalomin. It was a

summer evening and he was strolling with a girl across a bridge
on the way to the mill and to the Russian Orthodox Cemetery,
where the gravestones bear the photographs of those interred. A
huge luminous sphere shimmered in the sky, larger than the
moon, larger than the sun, a new incomparable heavenly body. It
cast a greenish glow over the water, making it transparent, so that
fish could be seen as they swam. Not the usual carp and pike but
whales and sharks, fish with golden fins, red horns, with skin
similar to that on the wings of bats.
"What is all this?" Herman asked . "Has the cosmos changed?
Has the earth torn itself away from the sun, from the whole
Milky Way? Is it about to become a comet?" He tried to talk to
the girl he was with, but she was one of the ladies buried in the
graveyard. She replied in Russian, although it was also Hebrew.
 273 � The Letter Writer

Herman asked, "Don't Kant's categories of pure reason any

longer apply in Kalomin?"
He woke up with a start. On the other side of the window it
was still night. The strange woman was asleep on the cot.
Herman examined her more carefully now. She no longer mum­
bled, but her lips trembled occasionally. Her brow wrinkled as
she smiled in her sleep. Her hair was spread out over the pillow.
The quilt had slid down, and he could see the bunched-up folds
of her nightgown and the top of her breast. Herman stared at
her, mute with amazement. A woman had come to him from
somewhere in the South-not a Jewess, but as Ruth had come to
Boaz, sent by some Naomi who was no longer among the living.
Where had she found bedding, Herman wondered. She had
already brought order to his apartment-she had hung a curtain
over the window, cleaned thi! newspapers and manuscripts from
the large table. How strange, she hadn't moved the blotter, as if
she had known that it was the implement of a miracle.
Herman stared, nodding his head in wonder. The books in the
bookcases did not look so old and tattered. She had brought some
kind of order to them, too. The air he breathed no longer smelled
moldy and dusty but had a moist, cool quality. Herman was
reminded of a Passover night in Kalomin. Only the matzos
hanging in a sheet from the ceiling were lacking. He tried to
remember his latest dream, but he could only recall the unearthly
light that fell across the lake. "Well, dreams are all lost,"
Herman said to himself. "Each day begins with amnesia."
He heard a slight noise that sounded like a child sucking.
Herman sat up and saw Huldah. She appeared thinner, weak,
and her fur looked grayer, as if she had aged.
"God in heaven ! Huldah is alive! There she stands, drinking
milk from the dish !" A joy such as he had seldom experienced
gripped Herman. He had not as yet thanked God for bringing
him back to life. He had even felt some resentment. But for
 274 1/P I SA A C BASHEVIS SINGER

letting the mouse live he had to praise the Higher Powers.

Herman was filled with love both for the mouse and for the
woman, Rose Beechman, who had understood his feelings and
without question had obeyed his request and given the mouse
some milk. "I am not worthy, I am not worthy," he muttered. "It
is all pure Grace."
Herman was not a man who wept. His eyes had remained dry
even when he received the news that his family had perished in
the destruction of Kalomin. But now his face became wet and
hot. It wasn't fated that he bear the guilt of a murderer. Provi­
dence-aware of every molecule, every mite, every speck of
dust-had seen to it that the mouse received its nourishment
during his long sleep. Or was it perhaps possible that a mouse
could fast for that length of time?
Herman watched intently. Even now, after going hungry for
so long, the mouse didn't rush. She lapped the milk slowly,
pausing occasionally, obviously confident that no one would take
away what was rightfully hers. "Little mouse, hallowed creature,
saint! " Herman cried to her in his thoughts. He blew her a
kiss.
The mouse continued to drink. From time to time, she cocked
her head and gave Herman a sidelong glance. He imagined he
saw in her eyes an expression of surprise, as if she were silently
asking, "Why did you let me go hungry so long? And who is this
woman sleeping here?" Soon she went back to her hole.
Rose Beechman opened her eyes. "Oh! You are up? What time
is it?"
"Huldah has had her milk," Herman said.
"What? Oh, yes."
"I beg you, don't laugh at me."
''I'm not laughing at anyone."
"You've saved not one life but two."
"Well, we are all God's creatures. I'll make you some tea."
 275 ,P The Letter Writer

Herman wanted to tell her that it wasn't necessary, but he was

thirsty and his throat felt dry. He even felt a pang of hunger. He
had come back to life, with all its needs.
The woman immediately busied herself in the kitchenette, and
shortly she brought Herman a cup of tea and two biscuits. She
had apparently bought new dishes for him. She sat down on the
edge of a chair and said, "Well, drink your tea. I don't believe
you realize how sick you were."
"I am grateful."
"If I had been just two days later, nothing would have
helped . ' '
"Perhaps it would have been better that way."
"No. People like you are needed."
"Today I heard you talking to your grandmother." Herman
spoke, not sure if he should be saying this.
She listened and was thoughtfully silent awhile. "Yes, she was
with me last night."
"What did she say?"
The woman looked at him oddly. He noticed for the first time
that her eyes were light brown. "I hope you won't make fun of
me."
"God in heaven, no!"
"She wants me to take care of you; you need me more than my
daughter does-those were her words."
A chill ran down Herman's spine. "Yes, that may be true,
but-"
"But what? I beg you, be honest with me."
"I have nothing. I am weak. I can only be a burden
"Burdens are made to be borne."
"Yes. Yes."
"If you want me to, I will stay with you. At least until you
recover completely."
"Yes, I do."
 276 � ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER

"That is what I wanted to hear." She stood up quickly and

turned away. She walked toward the bathroom, embarrassed as
a young Kalomin bride. She remained standing in the doorway
with her back toward him, her head bowed, revealing the small
nape of her neck, her uncombed hair.
Through the window a gray light was beginning to appear.
Snow was falling-a dawn snow. Patches of day and night
blended together outside. Clouds appeared. Windows, roofs, and
fire escapes emerged from the dark. Lights went out. The night
had ended like a dream and was followed by an obscure reality,
self-absorbed, sunk in the perpetual mystery of being. A pigeon
was flying through the snowfall, intent on carrying out its
mission. In the radiator, the steam was already whistling. From
the neighboring apartments were heard the first cries of awak­
ened children, radios playing, and harassed housewives yelling
and cursing in Spanish. The globe called Earth had once again
revolved on its axis. The windowpanes became rosy-a sign that
in the east the sky was not entirely overcast. The books were
momentarily bathed in a purplish light, illuminating the old
bindings and the last remnants of gold-engraved and half-legible
titles. It all had the quality of a revelation.
Translated by A/izah Shevrin and Elizabeth Shub