Shosha

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  While the Hasidim greeted Moishe and asked him about the Hasidic courts in Galicia – the courts of Belz, Sieniawa, Ropczyca – the young men and girls introduced themselves to me. They praised the sketches and articles I wrote. They spoke to me in a literary Yiddish with illiterate errors. They had heard about my play that had failed and complained about the state of the Yiddish theater. Civilization was on the verge of collapse, but they were still producing the kitsch plays of fifty years ago. Teibele had come to the reception and she had brought with her her lover the bookkeeper, a little man with a pointed belly and gold teeth in the front of his mouth. Some of the girls gathered around Shosha. I heard one of them ask her, ‘How does it feel to be engaged to a writer?’

  Shosha answered, ‘Nothing, just like a human being.’

  ‘How did you two come together?’ another girl asked.

  ‘We both lived in No. 10,’ Shosha said. ‘Arele lived in the apartment with the balcony. Our windows faced the courtyard just across the horse stable.’

  The girls looked at one another and smiled. They exchanged side glances that asked, ‘What does he see in her?’

  Bashele had placed Moishe at the head of the table, with the old men on either side of him. Moishe hinted that it was not in the Hasidic tradition for men and women to sit at the same table, and Bashele put chairs for the old women in the middle of the room. The boys and the girls remained standing. The Hasidim continued to discuss Hasidic topics: What is the difference between the court of Belz and the court of Bobow? Why are the Hungarian rabbis against the world organization of Orthodox Jews? What kind of a saint is the rabbi of Rydnik? Is it true that the rabbi of Rozwadow has inherited the sense of humor of his great-grandfather, the rabbi of Ropczyca? They said it was a pity so little was known about the rabbis of Galicia in this part of the country.

  ‘Why is it important to know?’ Moishe asked. ‘Everyone serves God in his own manner.’

  ‘What do they say in Galicia about the tribulations of our time?’ one of them asked.

  Moishe answered the question with a question: ‘What is there to say? These are the birth pains of the Messiah. The prophet has already foreseen that at the End of Days the Lord will come with fire and with His chariots like a whirlwind to render His anger with fury and His rebuke with flames of fire. The evil ones don’t surrender so easily. When Satan realizes that his kingdom is shaky, he creates a furor throughout the universe. There are dark powers even in the higher spheres. What is Nogah? Good and evil mixed together. The roots of evil reach as far as the legs of the Throne of Glory. Since God had to create a vacuum and dim His light in order to create the world, His face has to be hidden. Without diminishing the power of His radiance there would be no free choice. Redemption will not come at once but gradually. God’s war with Amalek is going to last long and will bring great distress and many temptations. One of our sages said about the Messiah, “Let Him come, but I don’t wish to live to see Him.” The Mishnah has foreseen that before the Messiah comes human arrogance will reach its height and …’

  ‘Woe to us, the water is up to our necks,’ said an old Hasid, Mendele Wyszkower, with a sigh.

  ‘What? Evil possesses enormous powers,’ Moishe said. ‘In quiet times the vicious try to cover up their intentions and disguise themselves as innocent lambs. But in times of decision they reveal their true faces. Ecclesiastes has said, “I saw under the sun the place of judgment, that wickedness was there.” The men of iniquity aspire to a world of murder, lechery, theft, and robbery. They want the iniquities to be considered virtues. Their aim is to erase the “Thou shalt not” from the Ten Commandments. They scheme to put honest men in prison and thieves to be their judges. Whole communities degenerate. What was Sodom, with its judges Chillek and Billek? What was the Generation of the Flood? Who were the rebels who built the Tower of Babel? One sheep can make the whole herd leprous. One spark of fire can burn a mansion. Hitler – his name should be blotted out – is not the only villain. There are Hitlers in every city, in every community. If we forget the Lord for a second, we are immediately on the side of defilement.’

  ‘Oy, it’s difficult, very difficult,’ said another old man, and he groaned.

  ‘Where is it written that things have to be easy?’ Moishe asked.

  ‘Our strength is waning,’ a third old man moaned.

  ‘ “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew strength,” ’ Moishe replied.

  The old women kept still and cupped their ears to hear better. Even the young men and girls who had come to debate culture, literature, Yiddishism, and progress with me became silent.

  Suddenly Shosha asked, ‘Mommy, is this really Moishe?’

  There was laughter. Even the old women laughed with their toothless mouths.

  Bashele became embarrassed. ‘Daughter, what’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Oy, Mommy, Moishele is a real rabbi, just like his daddy.’ Shosha covered her eyes with a handkerchief and cried.

  4

  Two days before my wedding it started to snow and went on without letup. When it finally stopped, frost set in. The streets were buried under drifts of snow as dry as salt. Not even sleighs could make their way through them. Huge icicles hung from the eaves and balconies. The wires running above the rooftops had grown thick and were glittering with sparks of frost. Here and there a bird’s beak or a cat’s head peeped from the snow. On Krochmalna Street the Place was deserted. Little snow eddies swirled – imps trying to catch their own tails. The thieves, whores, and pimps were hiding in their cellar rooms or garrets. The vendors who usually sat before Yanash’s Court vanished.

  The wedding was to take place at eight that evening at a rabbi’s on Panska Street. With Zelig’s contribution, Bashele had been able to prepare a modest trousseau for Shosha – a few dresses, shoes, and underwear – but I had made no preparations of any kind. From the short pieces I sold and a little money I got from my publisher for translating, I had scratched together enough for my mother’s and Moishe’s expenses at the boardinghouse, but I had very little left.

  On my wedding morning, I rose later than usual. I had stayed awake and could hear the chiming of the grandfather clock and the wailing of the wind until daybreak. It was ten by the time I got out of bed and began to wash and shave.

  Tekla pushed open the door. ‘Shall I bring your breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, Tekla – if you feel like it.’

  She left and soon came back. ‘A lady has come with flowers for you.’

  I had planned to keep everything secret. I started to tell Tekla to let no one in, but at that moment the door opened and I saw Dora. She wore a faded coat, boots, and a hat that looked like an upside-down pot. She held a bouquet wrapped in heavy paper. Tekla grimaced and turned her head.

  Dora said, ‘My dear, there are no secrets. Congratulations!’

  My cheeks were covered with soap. I put down the razor and asked, ‘What kind of nonsense is this?’

  ‘Don’t you know you can’t keep anything from me? It’s true you didn’t ask me to the ceremony, but there will always be a kinship between us. No one can erase the years we spent together. Here – may it be with happiness and prosperity.’

  ‘Who told you about it, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I have connections. Someone who works with the Secret Service would know everything that goes on in Warsaw.’

  Dora was referring to the Stalinists who, ever since she had left the Party, had accused her of being an agent for the Polish Secret Police.

  I took the flowers from her reluctantly and stuck them into the jug that held my wash water.

  Dora said, ‘Yes, I know everything. I’ve even had the honor of meeting your bride.’

  ‘How did you accomplish that?’

  ‘Oh, I knocked on her door and pretended I was collecting for some charitable cause. I spoke Yiddish to her but she didn’t understand what I was talking about, and I thought, She speaks only Polish, but I soon saw that she doesn’t know Polish too well either.
I don’t want to needle you. Since you love her, what difference does it make, anyway? People fall in love with the blind, the deaf, the hunchbacked. May I sit down?’

  ‘Yes, Dora, do sit down. You shouldn’t have spent money for flowers.’

  ‘I wanted to bring something. I have my reasons. I’m getting married too, and if I give you a wedding present, you’ll have to give me one. I have an ulterior motive for everything I do.’ Dora blinked and sat on the edge of the bed. Rivulets of melted snow ran from her boots onto the floor. She took out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘Felhendler?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, my dearest. We’re both renegades, Fascists, traitors, and provocateurs. Could there be a more perfect match? We’ll stand together on the barricades and shoot the workers and peasants. That is, if we don’t happen to be in prison at the time. Do the reactionaries know that we’re their friends? By the way, what happened to that play you were supposed to have written? You drifted away from me, but I remember each hour we spent together. When something of yours is published, I read it not once but three times. I hear that Dr Feitelzohn is planning to put out a magazine.’

  ‘He’s been planning this magazine for years.’

  Tekla opened the door with her toe and brought in my breakfast tray.

  I asked, ‘Would you join me, Dora?’

  ‘I’ve had breakfast already, thank you, but I would have a glass of coffee.’ While Tekla went to bring the coffee, Dora looked around. ‘Will your wife come to live here with you or will you move in with her?’ she asked. ‘I’m nosy as always.’

  ‘I don’t know anything yet.’

  ‘I don’t understand you – but what’s the point of upsetting you with questions? You don’t know the answer, anyway. As for me, I don’t love Wolf. We’re too much alike. Lately, he’s become exceedingly sarcastic. He keeps making those awful jokes. Our being together is futile, anyway. Either he’ll be arrested or I’ll be arrested. The police play with us like cats with mice. But so long as we remain on this side of the bars, we don’t feel like being alone. As soon as he leaves the house, I start looking up at the ceiling for a hook. When I go downstairs I have to cross the street to avoid my former comrades. If they see me, they spit and shake their fists. You once told me things that I didn’t grasp at the time, but since all this has happened, they’re starting to come back to me.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, that you can’t help mankind and that those who worry too much about the fate of man must sooner or later become cruel. How did you know this? I hardly dare say it, but I lie in bed next to him and I think of you. He’s both ironic and grim. He smiles as if he knows the final truth and I can’t stand that smirk, because he smiled the exact same smile when he was a Stalinist. Just the same, I can’t be alone any more.’

  ‘He moved in?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t pay the rent by myself. He got some kind of part-time job in a union.’

  The door opened again and Tekla came in with a glass of coffee. Her eyes sparkled with laughter. ‘Miss Betty is here with flowers,’ she announced.

  Before I could answer, Betty appeared on the threshold in a blond fur coat, a fur hat to match, and fur-trimmed boots. She carried a huge bouquet. When she saw Dora she took a step backward. An urge to laugh came over me. ‘You, too?’

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Of course, come in, Betty.’

  ‘It’s some blizzard outside! Seven witches must have hanged themselves.’

  ‘Betty, this is Dora. I’ve told you about her. Dora, this is Betty Slonim.’

  ‘Yes, I know – the actress from America. I recognize you from your picture in the newspaper,’ Dora said.

  ‘What shall I do with the flowers?’

  ‘Tekla, could you bring a vase?’

  ‘All the vases are full. The mistress keeps kasha in them.’

  ‘Bring whatever there is. Take the flowers.’

  Tekla held out her hand. She seemed to be doing everything in a mocking fashion.

  Betty began to hop up and down in her boots. ‘A terrible frost. You can’t cross the street. It’s the way it used to be in Moscow. It’s like this in Canada, too. In New York they clear away the snow – at least on the main streets. Help me off with my coat. Now that you’re about to marry, be a gentleman.’

  I helped Betty off with her coat. She was wearing a red dress that clashed with her red hair. She looked pale and thin. She said, ‘You’re probably wondering why I came. It’s because you bring flowers for a bridegroom and you bring flowers for a corpse, and when the bridegroom is also a corpse, he deserves a double bouquet.’ She spoke the words as if she had prepared them in advance.

  Dora smiled. ‘Not badly said. I’ll be running along. I don’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing anybody,’ Betty said. ‘What I have to say everyone can hear.’

  ‘Shall I bring more coffee?’ Tekla asked.

  ‘Not for me,’ Betty said. ‘I’ve had maybe ten glasses today already. May I smoke?’

  Betty took out a cigarette, lit it, and after a while offered one to Dora. Both women seemed to fence momentarily with the tips of their cigarettes. It was like the remnant of some heathen rite.

  5

  Dora still sat on the bed. I had given Betty my chair and I sat on a bench by the washstand. Betty spoke of Eugene O’Neill, one of whose plays had been translated into Yiddish. She would be appearing in it in Warsaw. She said, ‘I know it’s going to be a flop. They don’t understand O’Neill even in America, so how will the Warsaw Jews understand him? The translation isn’t any good, either. But Sam insisted that I appear in Poland before we go back to America. Oh, how I envy a writer! He doesn’t have to deal with people all the time. He sits at his desk with paper and pen and says whatever he wants. But actors are always dependent on others. At times the urge to write comes over me. I’ve tried to write a play – a novel, too – but I read what I’ve written and I don’t like it, and I tear it up on the spot. Tsutsik – may I still call you Tsutsik? – here in Poland the situation is deteriorating fast. Sometimes I worry about getting stuck here.’

  ‘With an American passport, you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ Dora said. ‘Even Hitler wouldn’t start up with America.’

  ‘What’s a passport? A piece of paper. And what’s a play? Paper, too. And what are reviews? Again, paper. Well, and traveler’s checks and banknotes are also only paper. One time when I couldn’t sleep I started thinking – there was once a Stone Age; now we’re in the Paper Age. Some tools have remained from the Stone Age, but from the Paper Age nothing will remain. At night the most bizarre thoughts come to mind. Once, I woke up and began musing about my genealogy. I know only a little bit about my grandfathers and nothing at all about my great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Well, and what about the great-great-grandfathers? I figured that when you go back enough generations, everyone stems from thousands of forebears, and from each of them he has inherited some trait. By day, this is nothing more than a passing thought, but at night it becomes terribly relevant and even scary. Tsutsik, you write about dybbuks. The past generations are our dybbuks. They sit within us and usually remain silent. But suddenly one of them cries out. The grandmothers aren’t so dreadful, but the grandfathers terrify me. A person is literally a cemetery where multitudes of living corpses are buried. Tsutsik, has this ever occurred to you?’

  ‘All kinds of crazy things occur to me.’

  ‘Among the generations there have probably been madmen, and their voices must be heard,’ Betty went on. ‘I’m not only a cemetery – in my brain there’s an insane asylum, too. I hear the lunatics shriek their wild laughter. They pull at the bars and try to escape. Heredity cells aren’t lost. If man is descended from an ape, he carries the genes of an ape in him, and if from a fish, there is something of the fish in him, too. Isn’t that funny and frightening at the same time?’

  Dora crushed the butt of her cigarette. ‘Excuse me, Miss Slonim
, but did you ever consider that such thoughts have a social undertone? If you have the right pieces of paper, as you’ve described them – the passport, the checks, the ticket to America – you can indulge in the luxury of probing into all kinds of vagaries. But if you must pay the rent the next day and don’t have a groschen and you’re apt to be forced out into the cold and they’re about to put you in jail for some crime you haven’t committed and you’re hungry besides – that’s when you concentrate on reality. Ninety percent of mankind – ninety-nine percent – is uncertain of its tomorrow, and often of its today. What they have to concern themselves with is the most basic needs. When writers like H. G. Wells or Hans Heinz Evers, or maybe even our own Aaron Greidinger, come out with fantasies about wars between planets or about a girl with two dybbuks who want to get married – excuse me for being so blunt – they’re talking to each other. I never read the writer O’Neill, but I have a feeling he’s one of those who spin dreams. Miss Slonim, you should appear in something that touches everybody. Then you will be understood and you will have an audience. Forgive my frankness.’

  Betty bristled. ‘What should I play in? A propaganda piece preaching Communism? First, I’d be arrested and they’d close down the theater. Second, I come from Russia and I’ve seen what Communism really is. Third …’