Shosha

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  ‘Suddenly I was aware that the man or monster had begun berating me – still in silence – and he lowered a spade toward me. The spade was not a spade at all but something that emerged from his body. It was a kind of tongue, so long and wide that it couldn’t have come from any mouth. It stretched out so close to me that I knew it would catch me at any moment. I was overcome by a dreadful fear and ran back into the house screaming. The household wakened. They blew on me and, it seems, uttered incantations over me. My mother, father, Tzipa, and Yonkel – all of them barefoot and in their nightclothes – asked why I was crying so desperately, but I neither could nor wanted to answer them, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to find the right words for it, that they would not believe me, and above all, that it would be better for me if I said nothing. Actually, I’m telling this for the very first time tonight. From then on, I became a kind of secret visionary. I saw things that some sense told me not to reveal. In the daytime I often saw shadows on the walls of our house, shadows not connected to the phenomena of light and shade. These were beings that crawled over the walls and into the walls. At times, two came together from opposite directions and one swallowed the other. Some were tall; their heads touched the ceiling – if you could call them heads. Others were small. At times I saw them on the floor, too, and outside on other houses, and in the air. They were always busy – coming, going, rushing. Rarely did one stop for a moment. I tell myself today that I saw ghosts, but this is merely an appellation. One thing does come to mind – I separated them into males and females. I wasn’t afraid of them. It would be more accurate to say that I was curious.

  ‘One night after I had gone to sleep and my mother had put out the light and the moon shone in through the cracks in the shutters, I heard a rustling. How shall I describe it? It was like a dried palm leaf shaking, like beating osier branches, like spraying water, and like something else to which there is no comparison. The walls began to hum and buzz, particularly in the corners, and the shapes that till then I had seen only by day now raced in thick whirls. Today, I would express it as a kind of panic among them. They hurried here and there, merged in the corners from which the noise came, raced over the beams and across the floor. My bed began to vibrate. Everything beneath me shook and tossed, and the straw in my mattress seemed animated. For once I was terrified, but I didn’t dare cry out, fearing a blow or some other punishment. When I grew older, I speculated that this vibration might have been the result of an earthquake, but when I casually asked my parents and other townspeople if they had ever been through an earthquake, they all replied in the negative. I don’t know if Poland has ever suffered an earthquake. The noise and dashing about lasted a long time. You can tell me my venture outside the house and the experiences that night were dreams or nightmares, but I know this isn’t so.

  ‘In later years I almost ceased having these visions, or whatever they may have been, but others evolved. I got an urge for girls – for Gentile girls, too – and I gradually realized that if I thought about a girl long enough or intensely enough, she grew magnetized and came to me. I’m not one to ascribe unusual powers to myself. Essentially, I’m a rationalist. I know coincidences occur that, in terms of probability, couldn’t happen. When I play the game of dreidel with myself and the dreidel falls on the same letter five or six times because I will it to do so, I can assume that it happened by chance. However, when I spin the dreidel ten times and it comes out the same, I know that chance has nothing to do with it. I’m sure you’d rather hear about girls than dreidels. It came to the point where I would mentally order a woman to come to this and that street, and this and that number – we were then living in Warsaw – and she would come. I can’t prove this to you. I can’t even demonstrate with a dreidel each and every time. These powers are strangely inclined to be spiteful. They are mischievous, and they hate to be put to the test with pencils and watches. I would say that they hate science and scientists. Believe me, even to my own ears this sounds like nonsense. Who are these powers? Are they living beings? And why should they hate science and statistics? It sounds like a pretext for lying, and I’ve been called a liar more than once. I myself considered mediums liars if they couldn’t demonstrate their powers when they were being controlled, so to say, scientifically. Well, but aren’t our sex organs full of caprices, and aren’t they, in a sense, antiscience? Morris, if you were told to sleep with a woman in the presence of ten professors with cameras and meters and all kinds of measuring instruments, you wouldn’t be such a Don Juan. Well, and what would have happened to poets like Goethe or Heine, if they had been placed at a table surrounded by professors and instruments and ordered to write a great poem? You can play a violin in a bright hall before hundreds of people, but it’s a moot point whether Beethoven or Mozart could have written their symphonies under such circumstances. I tell you that although I’ve managed many things under strict controls and before huge crowds, I’ve experienced my most significant events only when I’ve been alone. No one watched for results, and I didn’t have to worry that I would be jeered or whistled at. Shyness is a tremendous force – occasionally a negative one. There are many men who would go to brothels, but they don’t because with a prostitute they would become impotent. Why should the occult powers be any less capricious than the genitals? I can hypnotize in front of an audience today. I had to learn to do this. I’ve conquered my fear of failure, but not altogether. If I bang my fist on the table, the table bangs the fist back in return. This is true in spiritual matters as well. Every hypnosis has its counterhypnosis. If I’m afraid that I won’t be able to sleep, I lie awake all night, and if professors from another planet sat around me on a single visit, they might conclude that I never slept at all. Why is it so hard to be a good actor and to speak and behave naturally onstage? At home, every woman is a Sarah Bernhardt. I’ve seen great scholars face an audience unable to utter a lucid sentence on a subject in which they were world experts.

  ‘Yes, I did things that amazed me and convinced me I could dominate other souls, often those whom I barely knew – perhaps they had glanced at me just once. My success with women was so great that it frightened me. What is hypnotism, anyway? My theory is that it’s a language with which one soul communicates directly with another.

  ‘Our conscious hypnotic powers have limits. I don’t believe that I hypnotized the dreidel. Perhaps I hypnotized my hand to spin the dreidel in such a way that it fell where I wanted it to. But who says that hypnotism is merely a biological force? Maybe it’s physical, too? Maybe gravity is a kind of hypnotism? Maybe magnetism is hypnotism? Maybe God is a hypnotist with such strong hypnotic powers that He can say, “Let there be light,” and there is light? I heard of a woman who ordered a chair to walk, and the chair walked from wall to wall and even danced. A poltergeist lifts plates and breaks them, throws stones, and opens locked doors. A woman came to me once and swore on all that was holy to her that one time when she entered her kitchen a pot rose, soared toward her, and slowly came to rest at her feet. This was an elderly woman, a lawyer’s widow, a mother of grown sons and daughters, a person of education and dignity. She had no possible reason to make up such a story. She came to me hoping I could explain the mystery. It had plagued her for years. She told me that the pot didn’t fall at her feet but laid itself down carefully. From that day on, she was afraid of the pot. She waited for it to pull another stunt, but no, it remained a pot like all pots. The woman cried as she spoke to me. Could this have been a greeting from her late husband? She spent two hours with me, hoping I could provide her with an explanation, but the only thing I could tell her was that the pot hadn’t acted on its own, but that some force – an unseen hand – had lifted it and laid it down at her feet. I recall her saying, “Maybe the pot wanted to play a joke?” ’

  ‘If this story is true, we must re-examine all our values, our concept of the world,’ Feitelzohn said. ‘Still, why doesn’t it happen that a pot or some other object rises in the presence of a physicist or a chemist or at least a
photographer with a camera? How is it that these wonders always occur in quiet widows’ kitchens? Why don’t they happen in a kitchen where there are several cooks present? Can it be that pots are bashful, too?’

  At ten-thirty, Elbinger announced that he must leave. He had an appointment. I wanted to leave with him, but Feitelzohn insisted I stay.

  He lit a cigar and said, ‘That big hero is a hypochondriac. He has hypnotized himself into believing that he suffers from a dozen ailments. He is convinced that he hasn’t slept in years. He has ulcers. He is supposedly impotent, too. Women are crazy for him, but he practices celibacy. The history of mankind is the history of hypnotism. It’s my firm conviction that all epidemics are mass hypnosis. When the papers announce an outbreak of influenza, people start to die from influenza. I myself talked all kinds of insanities into myself. I can’t even read a book any more. At the end of the first sentence, I start to yawn. I’m sick of women. Their talking puts me off. Take our Celia. She would come here for an hour or two, and for an hour or two she would chatter. That Haiml is a homosexual. At times it seems to me I’m another. Don’t be afraid, I wouldn’t lay a hand on you.’

  Again the telephone rang. Feitelzohn let it ring. He stood there and looked at me in a new way – there was something fatherly and older-brotherly in his look.

  He said, ‘It’s Celia. I see you’re tired. Go home if you want. Tsutsik, don’t stay in Poland. A holocaust is coming here that will be worse than in Chmielnitsky’s time. If you can get a visa – even a tourist visa – escape! A good holiday.’

  Then he walked over to the telephone, which had kept on ringing.

  2

  Warsaw was so quiet I could hear the echo of my own footsteps. Candles still burned in the windows. The gate in the house on Leszno Street was closed, and the janitor was slow in coming to open it. He grumbled, as if he knew that I intended to move out soon. Although I had my key to the elevator with me, I walked up the dark stairs.

  I knocked at the apartment door and Tekla opened it. She said, ‘The phone rang for you today maybe a hundred times. Miss Betty.’

  ‘Thank you, Tekla.’

  ‘You don’t go to the synagogue on such a holy day?’ she asked with reproof.

  I didn’t know how to answer her. I went to my room. Without putting on the lights, I took off my clothes and lay down, but even though I was tired I couldn’t sleep. What would I do after the few zlotys I had left were gone? I saw no possibility of earning money. I lay there, frightened by my situation. Feitelzohn had at least a semblance of a living from his lectures. He took money from Celia and from other women, too. He had a rent-controlled apartment, for which he paid no more than thirty zlotys a month. I had accepted the responsibility for a sick girl.

  I fell asleep and wakened with a start. The phone in the corridor was ringing. On my watch the luminous hands showed a quarter past two. I heard the sound of bare feet – Tekla was running to answer. I heard her whispering. The door to my room opened. ‘It’s for you!’ Her voice expressed the indignation of a Jew forced to desecrate the holiest day of the year.

  I got out of bed and bumped into her. She was wearing only her nightgown. In the hall I picked up the receiver and heard Betty’s voice. It was hoarse and grating, like that of someone in the midst of a quarrel. She said, ‘You must come over to the hotel at once! If I call you in the middle of Yom Kippur night, it’s not because of some trifle.’

  ‘What’s happpened?’

  ‘I’ve been calling you all day. Where do you wander off to on Yom Kippur eve? I didn’t sleep a wink last night and I haven’t closed my eyes tonight. Sam is very sick. He has to have an operation. I told him all about us.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him? Why did you need to tell him?’

  ‘Last night he got up to go to the toilet, but he couldn’t pass water. He was in such pain I had to call the First Aid. They relieved him with a catheter, but he requires an operation. He refuses to go to the hospital here and insists on returning to America to his own doctor. The doctor who saw him today told me that he has a weak heart and is not likely to recover from surgery. My dear, I have a feeling he won’t make it. He called me to his side and said, “Betty, I’m cashing in my chips, but I want to provide for you.” He talked in such a way that I couldn’t withhold anything from him. I told him the whole truth. He wants to talk to you. Catch a cab and come right over. He’s acting like a father to me – closer than a father. I know it’s Yom Kippur, but this can’t wait. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but you shouldn’t have told him!’

  ‘I shouldn’t have been born! Be quick!’ She hung up the receiver.

  I tried to put on my clothes in a hurry, and they slipped from my fumbling fingers. The button fell out of my collar and rolled under the bed. I stooped to pick it up and knocked my forehead against the rail. The room was warm, but I felt a chill. I closed the door behind me and began to race down the unlit stairs. For the second time that night I rang the bell and waited for the janitor to open the gate. The pavement outside was wet – it must have been raining. The street lay deserted. I stood at the curb hoping for a taxi to come by but soon realized I could stand all night without one coming. I went in the direction of Bielanska Street and the Cracow suburb. The only streetcar that passed was headed in the opposite direction. I didn’t walk but ran. I came to the hotel. The clerk dozed before the honeycomb of key boxes. I knocked on Betty’s door. No one answered. I knocked again, this time on Sam Dreiman’s door, and Betty let me in. She was wearing pajamas and slippers. Inside, the lights glared with a middle-of-the-night tension. Sam lay with his eyes closed, his head resting on two pillows, seemingly asleep. From under the bedding a little hose ran into a container. Betty’s face was sallow and drawn, her hair disordered. ‘What took you so long?’ she asked in a choked voice that hid a scream.

  ‘I couldn’t get a cab. I ran all the way.’

  ‘Oh. He just now fell asleep. He took a pill.’

  ‘Why do you have the room so bright here?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll turn the lights down. I don’t know what’s happening to me any more. One calamity after another – look at my eyes. Come closer!’

  She took me by the arm and pulled me to the other end of the room near the window. She gestured to me to be quiet. She began to talk in a whisper, but from time to time she emitted a shriek as if so many words had collected in her they could no longer be contained.

  ‘I started calling you at ten this morning and on into the night. Where were you – still with that Shosha? Tsutsik, I have no one here but you. I tell you, Sam is a saint. I never knew he had such a noble soul. Oh, if I had known, I would have been nicer to him. I would have been faithful. But I’m afraid it’s too late now. He had a hemorrhage in his nose. Tomorrow they’re holding a consultation here. I called the American consulate and they arranged everything. They wanted to check him into a private clinic, where he can have the best doctors, but he insisted he would only be operated on in America. In the midst of the commotion he called me to him and said, “Betty, I know that you love Tsutsik and there’s no point in your denying it.” This was such a blow to me that I confessed everything. I began to cry and he kissed me and called me “daughter.” He has children, but their mother filled them with hate against him. They dragged him to court and tried to grab their inheritance while he was still alive. Wait, he’s waking up.’

  I heard a tossing about and a groan.

  ‘Betty, where are you? Why is the room so dark?’

  She ran to the bed. ‘Sam darling! I thought you would sleep longer. Tsutsik is here!’

  ‘Tsutsik, come over. Betty, turn up the lights. So long as I can draw breath I don’t want to be in the dark. Tsutsik, you can see for yourself I’m a sick man. I want to talk to you like a father. I have two sons, both lawyers, but all my life they treated me not like a father but worse than a stranger. I have a son-in-law, and he’s no better. Living with him has turned my daughter into a bit
ch. I haven’t felt good for a long time. Old age has suddenly caught me – the head, the stomach, the legs. Twenty times a day I run – if you’ll excuse me – to the toilet, but my bladder is blocked up. In New York I have a doctor who watches over me. He gives me a checkup every three months, treats me with massages. He didn’t want me to have an operation because my heart is making monkey business. In Warsaw I have no doctor. Besides, we were so busy with the theater I put off everything. My doctor ordered me not to drink – whiskey irritates the prostate and isn’t good for the bladder, either – but you don’t want to admit you’re washed up. Take a chair, sit down. That’s it. You, too, Betty darling. What was I saying, eh? Well, I’m afraid God wants me up there with Him. He’s probably in the real-estate business and wants Sam Dreiman to advise Him. When the time comes, you got to go. Even if I survive the operation, it won’t be for long. I was supposed to lose weight while I was here. Instead, I gained twenty pounds. How can you diet when you’re away from home? I love your Warsaw dishes – they have that homey taste. Well …’

  Sam Dreiman closed his eyes, then shook himself and opened them again. ‘Tsutsik, today is Yom Kippur. I thought I’d be able to go to the synagogue. I wanted to go to the one on Tlomacka Street as well as to the Hasidim on Nalewki. I bought the tickets. But man proposes and God disposes. I’ll be frank with you – if I should pass away, I don’t want to leave Betty to the fates. I know about your affair – she confessed everything to me. I knew about it even before. After all, she’s a young woman and I’m an old man. I used to be a great lover, I could raise hell with the best of them, but once you pass into your seventies and have high blood pressure you’re no longer the big hero you were. She kept on praising you. She accused herself of having brought you bad luck. I hoped the play would be a success, but it wasn’t fated. We did a lot of talking. Hear me out, don’t interrupt, I beg you, and think over what I’m going to say, because I look at things in a clear-headed way. You’re a poor young man. You have talent, but talent is like a diamond – it has to be polished. I’ve been told you’re involved with some sick, undeveloped girl. She is poor, too, and what is the saying? Two corpses go dancing. Things will not end well in Poland. That beast Hitler will soon come with his Nazis. There’ll be a great war. Americans will lend a hand and they’ll do what they did in the last war, but before that the Nazis will attack the Jews and there’ll be nothing but grief for you here. The Yiddish papers are in trouble already, there are no book publishers, and what goes on on the stage is disgusting. How will you make a living? A writer has to eat, too. Even Moses had to eat. That’s what the holy books say.