“I have said what is right.”
All kept silent. Then Akhsa said, “Zemach, give me my bundle.” Zemach had put her bag in a corner. He brought it to the table and she took out a little sack. A sigh could be heard from the group as she poured out settings of pearls, diamonds, and rubies. “Rabbi, this is my jewelry,” Akhsa said. “I do not deserve to own it. Let the rabbi dispose of it as he wishes.”
“Is it yours or the squire’s?”
“Mine, Rabbi, inherited from my sacred grandmother.”
“It is written that even the most charitable should never give up more than a fifth part.”
Zemach shook his head. “Again I am in disagreement. She disgraced her grandmother in Paradise. She should not be permitted to inherit her jewels.”
The rabbi clutched his beard. “If you know better, you become the rabbi.” He rose from his chair and then sat down again. “How will you sustain yourselves?”
“I will be a water carrier,” Zemach said.
“Rabbi, I can knead dough and wash linen,” Akhsa said.
“Well, do as you choose. I believe in the mercy, not in the rigor, of the law.”
In the middle of the night Akhsa opened her eyes. Husband and wife lived in a hut with a dirt floor, not far from the cemetery. All day long Zemach carried water. Akhsa washed linen. Except for Saturday and holidays, both fasted every day and ate only in the evening. Akhsa had put sand and pebbles into her shoes and wore a rough woolen shirt next to her skin. At night they slept separately on the floor—he on a mat by the window, she on a straw pallet by the oven. On a rope that stretched from wall to wall hung shrouds she had made for them.
They had been married for three years, but Zemach still had not approached her. He had confessed that he, too, was dipped in sin. While he had a wife, he had lusted for Akhsa. He had spilled his seed like Onan. He had craved revenge upon her, had railed against the Almighty, and had taken out his wrath on his wives, one of whom died. How could he be more defiled?
Even though the hut was near a forest and they could get wood for nothing, Zemach would not allow the stove to be heated at night. They slept in their clothes, covered with sacks and rags. The people of Holishitz maintained that Zemach was a madman; the rabbi had called for man and wife and explained that it is as cruel to torture oneself as it is to torture others, but Zemach quoted from The Beginning of Wisdom that repentance without mortification is meaningless.
Akhsa made a confession every night before sleep, and still her dreams were not pure. Satan came to her in the image of her grandmother and described dazzling cities, elegant balls, passionate squires, lusty women. Her grandfather had become silent again.
In Akhsa’s dreams, Grandmother was young and beautiful. She sang bawdy songs, drank wine, and danced with charlatans. Some nights she led Akhsa into temples where priests chanted and idolators kneeled before golden statues. Naked courtesans drank wine from horns and gave themselves over to licentiousness.
One night Akhsa dreamed that she stood naked in a round hole. Midgets danced around her in circles. They sang obscene dirges. There was a blast of trumpets and the drumming of drums. When she awoke, the black singing still rang in her ears. “I am lost forever,” she said to herself.
Zemach had also wakened. For a time he looked out through the one windowpane he had not boarded up. Then he asked, “Akhsa, are you awake? A new snow has fallen.”
Akhsa knew too well what he meant. She said, “I have no strength.”
“You had the strength to give yourself to the wicked.”
“My bones ache.”
“Tell that to the Avenging Angel.”
The snow and the late-night moon cast a bright glare into the room. Zemach had let his hair grow long, like an ancient ascetic. His beard was wild and his eyes glowed in the night. Akhsa could never understand how he had the power to carry water all day long and still study half the night. He scarcely partook of the evening meal. To keep himself from enjoying the food, he swallowed his bread without chewing it, he over-salted and -peppered the soup she cooked for him. Akhsa herself had become emaciated. Often she looked at her reflection in the slops and saw a thin face, sunken cheeks, a sickly pallor. She coughed frequently and spat phlegm with blood. Now she said, “Forgive me, Zemach, I can’t get up.”
“Get up, adulteress. This may be your last night.”
“I wish it were.”
“Confess! Tell the truth.”
“I have told you everything.”
“Did you enjoy the lechery?”
“No, Zemach, no.”
“Last time you admitted that you did.”
Akhsa was silent for a long time. “Very rarely. Perhaps for a second.”
“And you forgot God?”
“Not altogether.”
“You knew God’s law, but you defied Him willfully.”
“I thought the truth was with the Gentiles.”
“All because Satan braided you a crown of feathers?”
“I thought it was a miracle.”
“Harlot, don’t defend yourself!”
“I do not defend myself. He spoke with Grandmother’s voice.”
“Why did you listen to your grandmother and not to your grandfather?”
“I was foolish.”
“Foolish? For years you wallowed in utter desecration.”
After a while man and wife went out barefoot into the night. Zemach threw himself into the snow first. He rolled over and over with great speed. His skullcap fell off. His body was covered with black hair, like fur. Akhsa waited a minute, and then she too threw herself down. She turned in the snow slowly and in silence while Zemach recited, “We have sinned, we have betrayed, we have robbed, we have lied, we have mocked, we have rebelled.” And then he added, “Let it be Thy will that my death shall be the redemption for all my iniquities.”
Akhsa had heard this lamentation often, but it made her tremble every time. This was the way the peasants had wailed when her husband, Squire Malkowski, whipped them. She was more afraid of Zemach’s wailing than of the cold in winter and the nettles in summer. Occasionally, when he was in a gentler temper, Zemach promised that he would come to her as husband to wife. He even said that he would like to be the father of her children. But when? He kept on searching for new misdeeds in both of them. Akhsa grew weaker from day to day. The shrouds on the rope and the headstones in the graveyard seemed to beckon her. She made Zemach vow that he would recite the Kaddish over her grave.
On a hot day in the month of Tammuz, Akhsa went to gather sorrel leaves from the pasture that bordered the river. She had fasted all day long and she wanted to cook schav for herself and Zemach for their evening meal. In the middle of her gathering she was overcome by exhaustion. She stretched out on the grass and dozed off, intending to rest only a quarter of an hour. But her mind went blank and her legs turned to stone. She fell into a deep sleep. When she opened her eyes, night had fallen. The sky was overcast, the air heavy with humidity. There was a storm coming. The earth steamed with the scent of grass and herbs, and it made Akhsa’s head reel. In the darkness she found her basket, but it was empty. A goat or cow had eaten her sorrel. Suddenly she remembered her childhood, when she was pampered by her grandparents, dressed in velvet and silk, and served by maids and butlers. Now coughing choked her, her forehead was hot, and chills flashed through her spine. Since the moon did not shine and the stars were obscured, she scarcely knew her way. Her bare feet stepped on thorns and cow pats. “What a trap I have fallen into!” something cried out in her. She came to a tree and stopped to rest. At that moment she saw her grandfather. His white beard glowed in the darkness. She recognized his high forehead, his benign smile, and the loving kindness of his gaze. She called out, “Grandfather!” And in a second her face was washed with tears.
“I know everything,” her grandfather said. “Your tribulations and your grief.”
“Grandfather, what shall I do?”
“My daughter, your ordeal is
over. We are waiting for you—I, Grandmother, all who love you. Holy angels will come to meet you.”
“When, Grandfather?”
In that instant the image dissolved. Only the darkness remained. Akhsa felt her way home like someone blind. Finally, she reached her hut. As she opened the door she could feel that Zemach was there. He sat on the floor and his eyes were like two coals. He called out, “It’s you?”
“Yes, Zemach.”
“Why were you so long? Because of you I couldn’t say my evening prayers in peace. You confused my thoughts.”
“Forgive me, Zemach. I was tired and I fell asleep in the pasture.”
“Liar! Convert! Scum!” Zemach screeched. “I searched for you in the pasture. You were whoring with a shepherd.”
“What are you saying? God forbid!”
“Tell me the truth!” He jumped up and began to shake her. “Bitch! Demon! Lilith!”
Zemach had never acted so wildly. Akhsa said to him, “Zemach, my husband, I am faithful to you. I fell asleep on the grass. On the way home I saw my grandfather. My time is up.” She was seized with such weakness that she sank to the floor.
Zemach’s wrath vanished immediately. A mournful wail broke from him. “Sacred soul, where will I be without you? You are a saint. Forgive me my harshness. It was because of my love. I wanted to cleanse you so that you could sit in Paradise with the Holy Mothers.”
“As I deserve, so shall I sit.”
“Why should this happen to you? Is there no justice in Heaven?” And Zemach wailed in the voice that terrified her. He beat his head against the wall.
The next morning Akhsa did not rise from her bed. Zemach brought porridge he had cooked for her on the tripod. When he fed it to her, it spilled out of her mouth. Zemach fetched the town healer, but the healer did not know what to do. The women of the Burial Society came. Akhsa lay in a state of utter weakness. Her life was draining away. In the middle of the day Zemach went on foot to the town of Jaroslaw to bring a doctor. Evening came and he had not returned. That morning the rabbi’s wife had sent a pillow to Akhsa. It was the first time in years she had slept on a pillow. Toward evening, the Burial Society women went home to their families and Akhsa remained alone. A wick burned in a dish of oil. A tepid breeze came through the open window. The moon did not shine, but the stars glittered. Crickets chirped, and frogs croaked with human voices. Once in a while a shadow passed the wall across from her bed. Akhsa knew that her end was near, but she had no fear of death. She took stock of her soul. She had been born rich and beautiful, with more gifts than all the others around her. Bad luck had made everything turn to the opposite. Did she suffer for her own sins or was she a reincarnation of someone who had sinned in a former generation? Akhsa knew that she should be spending her last hours in repentance and prayer. But such was her fate that doubt did not leave her even now. Her grandfather had told her one thing, her grandmother another. Akhsa had read in an old book about the Apostates who denied God, considering the world a random combination of atoms. She had now one desire—that a sign should be given, the pure truth revealed. She lay and prayed for a miracle. She fell into a light sleep and dreamed she was falling into depths that were tight and dark. Each time it seemed that she had reached the bottom, the foundation collapsed under her and she began to sink again with greater speed. The dark became heavier and the abyss even deeper.
She opened her eyes and knew what to do. With her last strength she got up and found a knife. She took off the pillowcase and with numb fingers ripped open the seams of the pillow. From the down stuffing she pulled out a crown of feathers. A hidden hand had braided in its top the four letters of God’s name.
Akhsa put the crown beside her bed. In the wavering light of the wick, she could see each letter clearly: the Yud, the Hai, the Vov, and the other Hai. But, she wondered, in what way was this crown more a revelation of truth than the other? Was it possible that there were different faiths in Heaven? Akhsa began to pray for a new miracle. In her dismay she remembered the Devil’s words: “The truth is that there is no truth.”
Late at night, one of the Burial Society women returned. Akhsa wanted to implore her not to step on the crown, but she was too weak. The woman stepped on the crown, and its delicate structure dissolved. Akhsa closed her eyes and never opened them again. At dawn she sighed and gave up her soul.
One of the women lifted a feather and put it to her nostrils, but it did not flutter.
Later in the day, the Burial Society women cleansed Akhsa and dressed her in the shroud that she had sewn for herself. Zemach still had not returned from Jaroslaw and he was never heard of again. There was talk in Holishitz that he had been killed on the road. Some surmised that Zemach was not a man but a demon. Akhsa was buried near the chapel of a holy man, and the rabbi spoke a eulogy for her.
One thing remained a riddle. In her last hours Akhsa had ripped open the pillow that the rabbi’s wife had sent her. The women who washed her body found bits of down between her fingers. How could a dying woman have the strength to do this? And what had she been searching for? No matter how much the townspeople pondered and how many explanations they tried to find, they never discovered the truth.
Because if there is such a thing as truth it is as intricate and hidden as a crown of feathers.
Translated by the author and Laurie Colwin
A Day in Coney Island
TODAY I know exactly what I should have done that summer—my work. But then I wrote almost nothing. “Who needs Yiddish in America?” I asked myself. Though the editor of a Yiddish paper published a sketch of mine from time to time in the Sunday edition, he told me frankly that no one gave a hoot about demons, dybbuks, and imps of two hundred years ago. At thirty, a refugee from Poland, I had become an anachronism. As if that were not enough, Washington had refused to extend my tourist visa. Lieberman, my lawyer, was trying to get me a permanent visa, but for that I needed my birth certificate, a certificate of morality, a letter saying that I was employed and would not become a public charge, and other papers I could not obtain. I sent alarmed letters to my friends in Poland. They never replied. The newspapers were predicting that Hitler would invade Poland any day.
I opened my eyes after a fitful sleep, full of nightmares. My Warsaw wristwatch showed a quarter to eleven. Through the cracks in the shade a golden light poured in. I could hear the sound of the ocean. For a year and a half I had been renting a furnished room in an old house in Sea Gate, not far from Esther (that’s what I’ll call her here), and I paid sixteen dollars a month for it. Mrs. Berger, the landlady, gave me breakfast at cost.
Until they deported me to Poland, I was enjoying American comfort. I took a bath in the bathroom down the hall (at that time of day, it was not occupied), and I could see a huge boat arriving from Europe—either the Queen Mary or the Normandie. What a luxury to look out my bathroom window and see the Atlantic Ocean and one of the newest and fastest ships in the world! While shaving, I made a decision: I would not let them deport me to Poland. I would not fall into Hitler’s paws. I would stay illegally. I had been told that if war broke out I had a good chance of becoming a citizen automatically. I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror. Already, my red hair was gone. I had watery blue eyes, inflamed eyelids, sunken cheeks, a protruding Adam’s apple. Although people came from Manhattan to Sea Gate to get sunburned, my skin remained sickly white. My nose was thin and pale, my chin pointed, my chest flat. I often thought that I looked not unlike the imps I described in my stories. I stuck out my tongue and called myself a crazy batlan, which means an unworldly ne’er-do-well.
I expected Mrs. Berger’s kitchen to be empty so late in the morning, but they were all there: Mr. Chaikowitz; his third wife; the old writer Lemkin, who used to be an anarchist; and Sylvia, who had taken me to a movie on Mermaid Avenue a few days before (until five o’clock the price of a ticket was only ten cents) and translated for me in broken Yiddish what the gangsters in the film were saying. In the darkness, she had taken my ha
nd, which made me feel guilty. First, I had vowed to myself to keep the Ten Commandments. Second, I was betraying Esther. Third, I had a bad conscience about Anna, who still wrote me from Warsaw. But I didn’t want to insult Sylvia.
When I entered the kitchen, Mrs. Berger cried out, “Here’s our writer! How can a man sleep so long? I’ve been on my feet since six this morning.” I looked at her thick legs, at her crooked toes and protruding bunions. Everyone teased me. Old Chaikowitz said, “Do you realize that you’ve missed the hour of morning prayer? You must be one of the Kotzker Hasids who pray late.” His face was white and so was his goatee. His third wife, a fat woman with a thick nose and fleshy lips, joined in. “I bet this greenhorn hasn’t even got phylacteries.” As for Lemkin, he said, “If you ask me, he was up writing a best-seller the whole night.”
“I’m hungry for the second time,” Sylvia announced.
“What are you going to eat today?” Mrs. Berger asked me. “Two rolls with one egg, or two eggs with one roll?”
“Whatever you give me.”
“I’m ready to give you the moon on a plate. I’m scared of what you may write about me in your Yiddish paper.”
She brought me a large roll with two scrambled eggs and a big cup of coffee. The price of the breakfast was a quarter, but I owed Mrs. Berger six weeks’ rent and for six weeks of breakfasts.
While I ate, Mrs. Chaikowitz talked about her oldest daughter, who had been widowed a year ago and was now remarried. “Have you ever heard of a thing like this?” she said. “He hiccupped once and dropped dead. It seems something ruptured in his brain. God forbid the misfortunes that can happen. He left her over $50,000 insurance. How long can a young woman wait? The other one was a doctor, this one is a lawyer—the biggest lawyer in America. He took one look at her and said, ‘This is the woman I’ve been waiting for.’ After six weeks they got married and went to Bermuda on the honeymoon. He bought her a ring for $10,000.”
“Was he a bachelor?” Sylvia asked.
“He had a wife before, but she was not his type and he divorced her. She gets plenty of alimony from him—$200 a week. May she spend it all on medicine.”
The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer Page 50
