Shosha

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  I had resolved to work late into the night, but as I climbed the steps to my room, weariness settled over me. Tekla let me in. She wore a short white apron and a cap with lace over her hair, like a maid at a doctor’s. She smiled familiarly and showed me the curtains she had hung in my room. She had already made my bed. She asked if I would like some tea. I thanked her and said not now.

  I tried to overcome my weariness and sat down to rewrite the first act of The Ludmir Maiden, but instead I started to write a play that was completely new. I seemed to have lost control over my pen. It raced faster than my fingers. Although the mistress of the house had installed a desk covered in green felt and a desk lamp with a green shade, things glared before my eyes. Aha, that inner antagonist and saboteur was launching a campaign against me. I knew his tricks by now. I wanted to succeed, but he sought my downfall. I found I was leaving out letters and whole words. I began to consult the books that were supposed to serve as guides for my behavior: Payot’s The Education of the Will and Charles Baudouin’s work on autosuggestion, the notebook in which I had set down rules for living and means of maintaining spiritual hygiene, but fatigue overcame me and I fell on my bed in my clothes.

  At once the dreams and nightmares took over. When I opened my eyes, the clock showed a quarter of two. I hardly managed to undress before drifting off again into a deep sleep. In my dreams I was able to analyze what I was going through. Yes, dreams were precisely what Dr Feitelzohn sought to restore to man – aimlessness, spiritual anarchy, the whims of idolators, the perversions of madmen. In my sleep, Betty and Celia became one, although not altogether. I mated with this plural female, and Haiml stood by and encouraged us. Even this coupling had some connection with the play. Is Celia the Ludmir Maiden? Is Betty the dybbuk of the adulteress? And am I myself the blind musician? But I had never had any special feeling for music.

  I had known Betty Slonim less than two days, but here she was participating not only in my daytime fantasies but in my nocturnal visions as well. She was somehow with me and part of me, my deeds and philosophizing. Feitelzohn wanted to return the soul to that primeval chaos from which all things evolved, but how could chaos create anything? Could it be that purpose, not causality was the essence of being? Were the teleologists right after all?

  2

  I had planned to get up at seven, but when I wakened I heard the clock in the living room toll nine times. Someone knocked on my door with the stippled panes and Tekla came in carrying a tray covered with a napkin. She had brought me eggs, rolls, cheese, and coffee. I had slept more than seven hours. I had gone through a dreamy epoch I had forgotten except for one fragment – sliding down a mountain as a band of wild people awaited below with clubs, spears, poles, and axes. They half shouted, half chanted a melody, a remnant of which still lingered in my ears – a dirge of passion and madness.

  The girl started to apologize. ‘I thought you were up.’

  ‘Oh, I overslept.’

  ‘Shall I take the tray back to the kitchen?’

  ‘No, I’ll wash later.’

  ‘You have a pitcher of water and a basin right here. A towel, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Tekla. Thank you very much.’

  I was overcome by the feeling that I was being given more than I deserved. Why should this country girl be waiting on me? She had undoubtedly been on her feet since six that morning. Yesterday, I had seen her washing clothes. I would have liked to give her something, but I couldn’t reach the chair where my jacket hung. She smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth without a blemish. She had muscular legs and firm breasts. She placed the tray carefully on the table. She studied me as if trying to fathom my thoughts. ‘A good appetite!’

  ‘Thank you, Tekla. You’re a fine girl.’

  A dimple showed in her left cheek. ‘Good health to you.’ She left the room slowly.

  These are the real people, the ones who keep the world going, I thought. They serve as proof that the cabalists are right – not Feitelzohn. An indifferent God, a mad God couldn’t have created Tekla. I felt temporarily enamored of this girl. Her cheeks were the color of ripe apples. She gave forth a vigor rooted in the earth, in the sun, in the whole universe. She didn’t want to better the world as did Dora; she didn’t require roles and reviews as did Betty; she didn’t seek thrills as did Celia. She wanted to give, not to take. If the Polish people had produced even one Tekla, they had surely accomplished their mission. I poured a little water from the clay pitcher into the basin on my washstand. I moistened my hands and dried them on the towel. I took a drink of coffee and a bite of the fresh roll. I felt an urge to utter a benediction and thank the powers that made wheat and coffee beans grow, to offer thanks to the chickens that laid these eggs. I had gone to sleep in misery and risen almost happy.

  Someone knocked on the door and opened it. It was my landlord’s son, Wladek, who, his father had told me, had quit his law studies at Warsaw University and spent all day at home reading trash and listening to the music and chatter on the radio. Wladek was tall, lean, pale, with a high forehead, thin nose. To me, he appeared ill both physically and mentally. The father spoke Polish with a Yiddish accent but Wladek spoke it grammatically and with style. He said, ‘Excuse me, sir, for disturbing you in the midst of your meal, but you’re wanted on the telephone.’

  I jumped up, nearly spilling my coffee. This was my first call here. I went out into the corridor and snatched up the receiver.

  It was Celia. ‘I know that if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, I have never considered myself a mountain. I’ve heard about your successes and I want to congratulate you. I thought we were friends, but if you prefer to remain aloof, of course that’s your privilege. Still, I would like you to know I’m delighted for you.’

  ‘Not only am I your friend – I love you!’ I exclaimed with the light-minded assurance of those who can afford to say whatever comes to their lips.

  ‘Oh, really? Well, that’s good to hear. But if that’s the case, why haven’t I heard from you? When you come to us you’re like a friend, a brother. Then you go away – and silence. Is this your nature or is it a system you use?’

  ‘No system. Nothing of any kind. I know how busy you are.’

  ‘Busy? With what am I busy? Our Marianna does everything. I sit and read, but how much reading can you do? Morris has been visited lately by hordes of Americans, so I see nothing of him. The second American ambassador to Poland I call him. Besides you two, there’s no one in our circle to exchange a few words with. Haiml, God bless him, has gotten himself too involved with the Poale Zion. I believe in Palestine and all that, but England does what she pleases with her mandate. Days go by that I don’t speak a word to anyone.’

  ‘Madam Chentshiner, whenever you want to meet me, all you need do is call. I miss you too,’ my mouth said of its own volition.

  Again Celia paused. ‘If you miss me, what’s to keep you away? And call me Celia, not Madam Chentshiner. Come over and we’ll talk. If you’d rather, we can meet at a confectionery. You’re probably busy with the play. Morris told me all about it. But no writer writes ten hours a day. What kind of woman is this Betty Slonim? I expect you’re in love with her already.’

  ‘No, not in love.’

  ‘I sometimes envy women like her. They go straight to the target. She picked out a rich old man for a lover and he’ll do everything to make her famous. To me, this is prostitution, but when have women not sold themselves for money? If she gets two zlotys for it, she’s a streetwalker, but when it’s many thousands, along with diamonds and furs, she’s a lady. I didn’t know you wrote plays. Morris told me the theme. An interesting subject. When will you be over?’

  ‘When shall I come?’

  ‘Come for lunch today. Haiml went to his father’s in Lodz. I’m all alone.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll see you at three.’

  ‘Don’t be la
te!’

  I put down the receiver. She was lonely. I had suffered for years from loneliness; now suddenly my luck had changed. But for how long? An inner voice, that unconscious which Hartmann claims is never in error, told me that it wouldn’t be for long. Everything would end in catastrophe. Then why not enjoy the moment? Sleep had calmed me somewhat, but now tension returned. I wouldn’t make the first move with Celia, I decided. I’d leave all the initiative to her.

  I went back to my interrupted breakfast. Yes, I had to find pleasure before I died and returned to nothing. I reminded myself that I hadn’t checked the money I had left overnight in my jacket pocket. Someone might have robbed me while I was asleep. Even Tekla could have stuck in her hand and taken everything. I jumped up and tapped the pocket. No, no one had robbed me. Tekla was an honest girl. Still, I began to count the bills even as I felt ashamed of my mistrust.

  There was another knock on the door. Tekla had come to see if I wanted more coffee.

  ‘No, Tekla dear, I’ve had enough.’ I gave her a zloty and her cheeks turned red.

  3

  Exactly at three o’clock I arrived at Haiml’s house on Zlota Street. To get there I walked down Iron Street to the juncture of Twarda and Zlota, then turned left. Zlota Street was almost always deserted – a residential street, without stores. Most of the residents were well off, with few or married children. The five-story building where Haiml lived was dark gray, with balconies supported on the shoulders of mythological figures. One had to ring a bell to get in the front entrance. The stairs were of marble but worn, and a spittoon stood on every landing. From the landings one looked out onto a square courtyard, a small enclosed garbage bin with snow on its deck, and a tiny garden where the branches of trees were glazed by the frost and reflected the colors of the rainbow. Celia answered when I rang. Marianna, the maid, had gone to visit her sister, Celia explained. She invited me in. The apartment glistened from cleanliness. In the dining room the table was set. A huge china closet sparkled with crystal and silver. Portraits of men with white beards and of women in wigs and jewelry hung on the walls.

  Celia said, ‘I prepared your favorite dish – potatoes with borscht and meatballs.’

  She showed me to Haiml’s place at the head of the table. From the way she had sounded on the telephone, I expected kisses the moment I came in, an immediate physical intimacy. But her expression told me that she was in no mood for this. She had turned formal. We sat facing each other, far apart. Celia served me. I suspected she had sent the maid away so that we could be alone. The cold walk had given me an appetite and I ate a lot. Celia questioned me about the play, and as I outlined the theme to her, I found myself making unexpected changes. This was a magical theme – like the Torah, it seemed to possess seventy different faces.

  Celia said, ‘Where will you find the actors for such a play? And what about the director? If it doesn’t come out absolutely right, it can turn into something terribly vulgar. Our Yiddish actors and actresses in Warsaw are of a low breed. You know this yourself. In all these years I haven’t seen anything worthwhile on our stage.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I’ve fallen into a trap.’

  ‘Not if you don’t hand the play over to them until you’re satisfied it’s just as you want it. That’s my advice.’

  ‘Sam Dreiman is about to rent a theater and hire a cast.’

  ‘Don’t let him do it. From what Morris tells me, he’s a common man – a former carpenter. If the thing turns out badly it’s your reputation that will suffer.’

  This was not the Celia I had seen on my earlier visit, but I was growing accustomed to abrupt changes both in myself and in others. Modern man may be ashamed of emotion, but he is all affect and temperament. He burns wth love and turns cold as ice; he is intimate one moment and aloof the next. I was no longer astonished by these mysterious variations. In fact, I often suspected that I unwillingly hypnotized those with whom I came in contact and inflicted my moods upon them.

  After lunch we went into the parlor and Celia offered me cherry liqueur and cookies. The walls were covered with paintings by Jewish artists – Liebermann, Minkowski, Glicenstein, Chagall, Rybak, Rubinlicht, Barlevi. Jewish antiques were displayed in a glass cabinet – spice boxes, a gold-plated wine benediction goblet, Hanukkah candelabra, a Passover bowl, the sheath of a Book of Esther, a Sabbath bread knife with a mother-of-pearl handle, an illuminated marriage contract, a pointer and crown from a Torah scroll. It was difficult for me to accept the fact that this intense Jewishness was merely decoration, its essence long since lost to many of us.

  For a while we discussed painting – cubism, futurism, expressionism. Celia had recently attended an exhibition of modern art and been thoroughly disappointed. In what way was a square head and a nose like a trapeze indicative of man and his dilemmas? What could harsh colors that had neither harmony nor basis in reality say to us? As to literature, Celia had read Gottfried Benn, Trackl, Däubler, as well as translations from modern American and French poets. They left her cold. ‘All they want is surprise and shock,’ she said. ‘But we become shockproof so quickly.’

  She began to look at me quizzically. It seemed that she was wondering, as I was, why we were behaving so conventionally. She said, ‘I’m sure that you’re infatuated with that Betty Slonim. Tell me about her.’

  ‘What is there to tell? She wants the same thing we all do – to grab some pleasure before we vanish forever.’

  ‘What do you call pleasure? Sleeping, if you’ll forgive me, with a seventy-year-old carpenter?’

  ‘It’s payment for other pleasures she’s getting.’

  ‘What, for instance? I know women who would give up everything to perform on the stage. This seems to me a strange passion. Now, to write a good book, that’s something I’d like to do, but I realized early that I hadn’t the talent for it. It’s the reason I admire writers so.’

  ‘What are writers? The same kind of entertainers as magicians. As a matter of fact, I admire someone who can balance a barrel on his feet more than I do a poet.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe you. You play the cynic, but you’re really a serious young man. Sometimes it seems to me that I can see right through you.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘That you’re constantly bored. All people bore you except maybe Morris Feitelzohn. He is exactly like you. He can’t find a place for himself anywhere. He wants to be a philosopher, but he’s basically an artist. He’s a child who breaks all its toys, then cries to have them put together again. Though I’m no artist, I suffer from the same sickness. We might have shared a great love, but he doesn’t want this. He tells me how he carries on with servant girls. He continually douses me with cold water, enough to put out the hottest fire. You must give me your solemn word that you won’t repeat my words to him. He is deliberately driving me into your arms, and he does this out of insanity. His game consists of igniting the fire in a woman, then leaving her to herself. But he has a heart too, and when he sees those close to him being hurt, it touches his conscience. He is also morbidly curious. He wants to try everything. He’s afraid that somewhere there may remain an emotion he hasn’t tasted.’

  ‘He wants to establish a school of hedonism.’

  ‘Foolish fantasies. For years I’ve been hearing about orgies but I’m sure they provide no satisfaction. They’re a lark for fifteen-year-old boys and streetwalkers, not for mature people. You have to be drunk or mad to take part in them. In Paris, for five francs tourists can watch acts of perversion. The few writers who babble about this at the Writers’ Club are old and sick people. They can barely stand on their feet.’

  We were still for a while; then Celia asked, ‘What about your Communist sweetheart? Has she gone to Stalin’s land yet?’

  ‘You know about her, too?’

  ‘Morris speaks of you constantly.’

  ‘She’s due to go any day now. Everything between us is ended.’

  ‘How do you end things? I never could end anything.
I hear you finally have a nice room.’

  ‘Yes, with Sam Dreiman’s money.’

  ‘Does it have a balcony?’

  ‘No balcony.’

  ‘You once told me that you liked a balcony.’

  ‘One can’t have everything.’

  ‘I sometimes feel that the reason some people get nothing is that they never have the courage to reach out their hands. I am one of those.’

  ‘What would happen if I reached out my hands to you now?’ I asked.

  Celia rocked in her chair. ‘You can try.’

  I went over and held out my hands to her.

  She looked at me ironically. She stood up. ‘You may kiss me.’

  I put my arms around her and we kissed silently for a long time. She moved her lips as if to say something. But no words came out.

  Afterward she said, ‘Don’t tell Feitelzohn. He’s a jealous little boy.’

  4

  Dusk fell. The winter day – the like of which would never occur again, unless Nietzsche was right in his theory of perpetual repetition – flickered out like a candle. For a while, a purple pane reflected on the parlor wall, a sign that some part of the sky in the west had cleared preceding sunset. Celia didn’t switch on the lights. Her face was in shadow and her eyes shone out of it as if casting their own glow. Then it darkened again. Through the window a star sparkled within a split in the clouds. From where I was sitting I tried to fix it in my memory before it vanished. I toyed with the notion of how it would be if the sky remained constantly overcast and parted for only one second each hundred years, when someone might catch a glimpse of a star. He would tell of his revelation, but no one would believe him. He would be called a liar or accused of having suffered an hallucination. Behind how many clouds does the truth lie concealed now? And what did I know about the star I was looking at? This was a fixed star, not a planet. It might be bigger than the sun. Who could know how many planets rotated around it, how many worlds drew sustenance from it? Who could conceive what kind of creatures lived there, what plants grew, what thoughts were thought there? Well, and there were billions of such fixed stars in our Milky Way alone. They couldn’t be merely physical or chemical accidents. There had to be someone whose commands controlled the infinite universe. His orders traveled faster than light. So omnipotent and omniscient was he that he presided over every atom, every molecule, every mite and microbe. He even knew that Aaron Greidinger had just embarked on an affair with Celia Chentshiner.