Vilna My Vilna

by Abraham Karpinowitz

  Dina Halperin’s dress blended with the milky white moonlight. Her low-cut neckline made it impossible for the teacher to collect his thoughts. Wanting to stretch her limbs a little, Dina arched backwards with her arms extended. A strap from her brassiere slipped off her shoulder. Mr. Gershteyn moved towards her, nestling his face in the valley between her breasts. A few minutes passed before he was able to whisper, “Dina, my love. You are my great love.” Dina pressed his body to her. They were frozen in the theatrical glow of the moonlight with the nightingales singing on the roof of the inn.

  They just managed to catch the last steamship back to Vilna. They were met by a city in deep darkness.

  Sam Bronetsky found out about Dina Halperin’s outing with Mr. Gershteyn. The actors said that Zisel, the hotel porter, supplied Bronetsky with the information. In her innocence, Dina had announced that she was going to Verek. If anyone asked about her, she wanted them to know where she was and that there was no reason to worry because she wasn’t alone.

  However it happened, when Sam Bronetsky found out, he was furious. People heard shouts coming from their hotel room. Bronetsky had summoned all his strength and restrained himself at Velfke’s restaurant, but he was now determined to put an end to the romance.

  One school day during the long recess, the students spotted Sam Bronetsky standing in one corner of the large schoolyard, speaking with Mr. Gershteyn. The yard was instantly quiet. All the playing, the shouting, the running, and the jousting stopped immediately.

  Mr. Gershteyn didn’t say a single word to interrupt Sam Bronetsky’s tirade. He just nodded his head. The students from his class stood on the other side of the yard, squeezed against each other like a legion, watching to make sure the lowbrow actor didn’t try to hurt their beloved teacher. They knew full well what Sam Bronetsky was talking about. They saw the actor’s hands shake. They also saw how distressed Mr. Gershteyn was. Every so often he stroked his mustache and looked around, as though searching for someone to rescue him from the unpleasant discussion.

  After talking for a good few minutes, Sam Bronetsky left the schoolyard. Mr. Gershteyn stood by himself until the bell rang. None of his students dared approach their teacher whose pat on the head could sweeten a day of study.

  After his conversation with Sam Bronetsky, Mr. Gershteyn stopped seeing Dina Halperin. Meanwhile, the theatrical run came to an end and the couple prepared to leave Vilna. The night of the final performance, Velfke Usian’s restaurant was bustling, with one toast after the next. The actors were having a very good time. Sam Bronetsky bought a round of whiskey. There were plenty of speeches.

  Only Mr. Gershteyn was missing; he had stayed home. After Dina Halperin and Sam Bronetsky left the city, Mr. Gershteyn confided to his friend Siomke Kagan that he’d promised Bronetsky to stop seeing Dina. To soothe his aching heart, Mr. Gershteyn had only a note that his sister had found under the entry door of their little home on Literatzke Lane. The note read,

  Dear Yankev (Mr. Gershteyn):

  I do not take the beauty of the city with me, nor the warm reception I received here. I take nothing with me except your breath on my naked breast in Verek. I will carry that with me through the entire world. Farewell, Dina.

  The June evening erased all memory of rain and cold. The trees on Literatzke Lane held their breath, listening to the silence. Summer slumbered on the cool stones at the entrance to the Church of the Holy Anna.

  Mr. Gershteyn took his concertina out of its case, sat down on his narrow bed, and from the inner recesses of his instrument, drew the melody of a song he’d prepared for the choir. The words of the song expressed his own painful feelings. “Autumn has arrived, the trees and flowers wither.”

  Translator’s Note

  In December 2008, I spoke with Liba Augenfeld, a native of Vilna. When the Nazis invaded Vilna in June 1941, Liba was about to graduate from the Re’al Gymnasium. Mr. Gershteyn was one of her teachers. “I was in his student choir. He had two choirs, one for students in the Re’al Gymnasium and one for people who were no longer in school.” Liba told me that she and the other students had heard their teacher was having a romance with Dina Halperin. “He used to conduct us kids in a song that went, ‘Di netsn in shifl’ [the nets in the little boat]. To tease him, we used to sing, ‘Di ne-e-e-e- Hal-per-in.’”

  13

  The Tree beside the Theater

  For years, my mother complained that Regina Tsunzer had destroyed the business. My mother was actually jealous of the actress. Regina Tsunzer called my father the Caucasus Count because of his trimmed beard and burning black eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, when she spoke to him, she brushed against him like a kitten after her little saucer of milk.

  Aside from full-blooded talent, Regina Tsunzer also possessed a full bosom and was generously endowed in her other limbs. It wasn’t surprising that my mother thought the actress was nothing but trouble. She warned my father, “Moyshe, when that woman wiggles her rear end on stage, respectable people turn up their noses.”

  Things turned out exactly as my mother had predicted. Not only did Regina Tsunzer show off her assets, she also sang the following song:

  Though you’ve come in such haste,

  And sharpened your knife—’twas a waste.

  The seeds were already well placed,

  And your timing, so badly paced.

  Regina Tsunzer also winked lewdly at the audience. The people in the balcony were delighted. They clapped their hands and begged for more. Those in the parterre were, however, not impressed. That’s where Siomke Kagan, the theater critic from the Vilner tog newspaper, sat. He decided the song wasn’t appropriate for Vilna. Immediately after the performance, he went to the editorial offices of the newspaper and wrote a damning review, claiming the performance flirted with debauchery. “The shameless song severs the audience from their social problems. Moreover, the verse about the sharpened knife appeals to people’s basest instincts. The entire performance is a threat to Yiddish culture, which has its organizational center in Vilna.”

  If that wasn’t enough, the next morning Siomke went to the Re’al Gymnasium and asked his friend, Mr. Gershteyn, to bring his entire class to the theater and have the children shout in unison, “Down with trashy theater.”

  Zeyben the chimney sweep wrote a letter to the editor threatening to bury Siomke in soot. “Regina Tsunzer is a world-class dish. We should kiss every one of her limbs. Because of her, the audience managed to recover after the Yung-teyater Company’s play, Cry Out, China. Who is Siomke anyways to measure the level of people’s instincts?”

  Zeyben wasn’t the only one to stand up for Regina Tsunzer, but it made no difference. The actress was driven out of the city. High culture had triumphed. My mother forgot her jealousy. She hoped Siomke would grow a wart on the tip of his pen for ruining the theater season.

  The theater had no female lead. My father sat at the edge of the sofa, stroking his beard, rubbing one of his eyebrows, and trying to figure out how to get the theater going again. Unable to think of anything, he went to Velfke’s restaurant on Yiddishe Street, where actors got together and ate on credit.

  Kuznietsov, the classical actor who always played a banker dressed in a Shabbes suit, was the first to intercept him. When he saw my father’s forlorn look, Kuznietsov said, “I propose a drink before we try to solve your problems.” The ragtag gang of actors unanimously agreed. They took over one of the tables and told Velfke to bring some spleen and soldier’s kasha from the kitchen.

  After the first glass, the actors began suggesting plays to get the box office open again. Khashie the Orphan had already been staged. They couldn’t revive Pauperson and Hungryman because Shtraytman the comic had left Vilna to try his luck in Argentina. Where Are My Children? was certainly a good play, but it needed music and the musicians were refusing to perform until they were paid what they were owed from Regina Tsunzer’s run. Stufel, the conductor and first violin, announced that he would no longer draw his bow simply for the sa
ke of art. Orliek stood up and asked to have his say. He suggested they stage a play with national themes. “Lately there’s been pressure from all sides and no way for people to earn a living. We have to provide people with hope.”

  Orliek was a very intelligent actor. He wore glasses, and his word carried weight. People in the theater knew he was a Zionist who dreamt about the state of Israel. Orliek proposed they remount Bar-Kochba. My father agreed immediately. They wouldn’t have to lay out any money. The cardboard mountains were still lying around from the opera, Shulamit. Zakovitsh, the prop manager, would only have to get wooden lances for the Jewish army and they’d be set.

  There was one thing bothering my father. Orliek wanted to play the role of Bar-Kochba and he wore glasses. If Siomke Kagan had criticized Regina Tsunzer for a silly little song, what would he do when he saw Bar-Kochba in glasses? He’d heap scorn on the entire theater. But Orliek needed his glasses. Without them, he couldn’t see a centimeter in front of himself. He’d tried removing his glasses during the love scene in The Rose of Istanbul and almost killed himself when he tripped over a set of stairs Mendke the stagehand had left lying around.

  My father had no choice. He had to let Orliek play the lead. The theater was dark and deserted in the middle of the season. The actors were wandering around without a groschen and threatening to dissolve the troupe.

  Then Bombe, a longtime member of Father’s troupe and a loyal soul, spoke to Father. He complained that he wasn’t feeling well. Dr. Yedvabnik had told him to take a little holiday and get a change of air. He wanted an advance. My father looked at Bombe with sad black eyes and shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. The cashbox was empty, cleaned out to the last groschen. Then my father had an idea. He said to Bombe, “An advance would rob you of your dignity. You know full well that the season has collapsed. But we’ll take care of your need for a change of air in the best possible way. You’ve been performing in The Yeshiva Student and sitting in a tiny synagogue for four acts. Now you’ll perform in the mountains and fields of Bar-Kochba. You’ll get a change of air and recover quickly.”

  Acting the imp, my father got Bombe to tell everybody at Velfke’s the story. They split their sides laughing. For years, the actors would tease Bombe, “You want a change of air? There’s a great play with lots of forests.”

  They produced Bar-Kochba. Orliek wiped his glasses on his red cape and dispatched the people, two pale extras wearing short tunics and armed with lances, to save Jerusalem. Siomke Kagan didn’t write anything. After the previous catastrophe, he decided to do nothing, but it didn’t help. Orliek couldn’t carry the play. The audiences just didn’t believe he was Bar-Kochba. They didn’t applaud, not even at the Shabbes matinee performances. Children cried in the middle of the play, frightened by the hullabaloo on stage. By Sunday, everyone in the lumber market knew there was no singing or dancing in Bar-Kochba, just talking.

  For years, Orliek had played the elegant seducer who got a girl pregnant by the end of the second act and then walked out on her. Now he was running around on stage with sandals on his hairy legs and a helmet decorated with a little broom. It just wasn’t Orliek. The play didn’t work.

  My father sat alone in the theater early one morning. He looked at the empty seats and thought about his situation. A permanent bulb burned on the stage, throwing more shadow than light onto the pile of props. A rare smile lost itself between my father’s beard and mustache. Here was his entire fortune, a few pieces of wood and painted canvas. If he’d stayed in the print shop, he’d be a rich man. My mother reminded him of this every time she couldn’t cover expenses. But everything in the print shop, including the machines and the letters, was black, and everything in the theater was colorful, even the poverty.

  My father so loved sunny colors. He created the posters himself—he knew the printing trade better than any of the printers. He’d worked for a number of years in fine art print shops in Frankfurt am Main. Every Friday, he’d stood at the type cases and dreamt up announcements from his imagination. The printers had admired his work, but they’d failed to see the point of a poster that didn’t bring in an audience. Now my father had to maintain a home with a wife, six children, and an entire troupe. In the early mornings, sitting alone in the theater, my father had decided more than once to give it all up.

  Even my mother grew weary and stopped complaining. She just sighed from time to time and mumbled, “The theater should burn to the ground.” She didn’t notice that the theater burned despite her sighs. It burned in Father’s eyes with a silent flame. But instead of devouring the theater, the flame nurtured his theatrical dreams that could never be realized.

  My mother hated the theater. Not so much the theater as the actors. She maintained that the only people who entered the trade were lazy good-for-nothings who didn’t want to wake up early for work like everyone else in the world. She also said acting wasn’t a real trade because anyone could do it.

  When my mother began to bear children, my father sold his print shop. She never forgave him. The print shop had produced steady income, but the income from the theater was unreliable.

  To ease his mind, my father went to Velfke’s to discuss theater. Avrom Morevski was there, his chair pushed far back from the table to make room for his belly. Tearing pieces from a duck, he hollered hoarsely, “Velfke, I’m hungry.”

  Morevski was the richest actor in Vilna. He owned his own building with four floors, but it wasn’t big enough to satisfy his appetite. For that, he would have needed half the city. Even though Morevski and my father were good friends, it was hard for my father to talk to the actor about mounting a show. To satisfy his appetite, Morevski had to earn a lot. He needed the entire box office take. My father tried anyway. Morevski chewed on the thigh of a duck and grumbled, “Moyshe, it’s difficult. I’ve eaten almost the entire fourth floor.” He was talking about his building that he no longer owned because of his debts to the bank.

  The other actors ate beets and potatoes and glanced respectfully at Morevski’s duck. They took it for granted that Morevski would eat duck. Aside from his quickly disappearing fortune, Morevski was the eternal star, the jewel of every troupe, the intellectual with stage charisma.

  My father announced that he’d worked something out with Morevski. The actors cheered. Kuznietsov immediately proposed a toast, but they were a long way from drinking. First Morevski had to hold forth. He’d earned this right when he played the Miropol tsadik in The Dybbuk and shook up the entire theater world. The troupe sat down at the actor’s table and immediately became a family: a theater family with quarrels over roles, jealousy over applause, and love for one another, just like any family.

  Morevski discussed various aspects of the play and the different roles, offering theater doctrine. “Goethe said that the one thing demanded from a genius is the love of truth. Rolland said the objective of art is not the dream, but reality. Stanislavsky said. . . .”

  The actors hung on Morevski’s every word, treating his utterances like truth from above. Even Bombe, who’d long believed you couldn’t produce theater without dancing and singing, listened closely. My father sat in a corner with his glasses on the tip of his nose, scribbling his calculations on his cigarette package. He listed his estimates for expenses with tiny numbers and saw that even with full houses, he wouldn’t get out of the red. But did that matter? The main thing was, they’d produce theater. Morevski would mount a play. Siomke Kagan would be stunned. So would the audiences.

  Siomke Kagan was indeed stunned. He couldn’t believe his eyes. After the fiasco with Regina Tsunzer, Morevski chose The Duke by Alter Kacyzne. The stage was bustling; the boards shook. The director told Ruden, the carpenter, to build an entire castle. Zakovitsh, the prop manager, turned in a requisition long enough for ten plays. Bombe, the assistant director, chose costumes for the Polish nobility, who had to parade around the stage. Efron, the artist, painted a nobleman’s courtyard in gold and silver.

  Morevski played the duke, the
capricious landowner dressed in bouffant pants with a nobleman’s mustache stuck to his face. In a hoarse voice he demanded that his lease-holding arrendar, played by Shloyme Kutner, dance the bear dance at the great ball he would host for his prominent guests. The bear dance wasn’t in the script, but Morevski’s directorial ambition pushed him to add it. He didn’t realize what his artistic whim would cost him.

  My father combed the city for a bearskin. There wasn’t one among Zakovitsh’s props. Father suggested they revise the script. “Why doesn’t Kutner dance wrapped in a sheet? Everyone will laugh and the run’ll go on forever. Kutner can tap-dance like a real Steppe dancer. It’ll be something to see.”

  When Morevski heard about Father’s suggestion, he got so upset, he completely lost his voice. He threatened to cancel the play if they didn’t find a bearskin. My father remembered seeing a brown bearskin with a full head, including bared teeth, in Bunimovitsh the banker’s living room on Pohulanke Street. Father went to the bank and explained what he wanted. Everyone in Vilna had a weakness for theater, even bankers. My father didn’t have to say much. Bunimovitsh immediately gave orders for the bearskin to be taken to the theater.

  Shloyme Kutner danced the famous bear dance wrapped in the bearskin. He took heavy steps, imitating a bear in a thick forest. Kutner poured the desperation of the Jewish condition into his dancing. Each of his crude steps expressed a helpless protest against humiliation. Kutner, the eternal clown in all the heartbreaking musical melodramas, took his role so seriously that with each step he took, he moaned bitterly. The sound rang out from the stage to the heavens above.