by Ezra Glinter
III
HE WAS TORMENTED by jealousy but even more by uncertainty. He didn’t dare speak a word about it and had nothing at all to hold on to.
It seemed to him that if he were only sure it had happened, that his Etta belonged to someone else, his situation would be much more bearable than it was now, when he was flung from one extreme to the other, from love and trust in his wife, to jealousy and distrust. It would be a misfortune, a terrible misfortune, a black abyss would open for him, as if there were nothing left but to throw himself in. But he wouldn’t be feverish and choking on his pain like this.
“What’s wrong with you, Chaim? Go see a doctor,” Etta would say.
“It’s nothing. It comes from loving you so much.” And he would try to smile as he said this. It was meant to be a kind of apology for being cooler to her now.
And his friend’s eyes kept on glowing, his distant look came near when he spoke with Etta. To him, to her husband, Etta smiled, but she laughed out loud when his friend was there. She wouldn’t have laughed like that before, he thought. I don’t like it. It’s too bold, too unrestrained for her, it’s out of harmony with who she is.
Once after his friend left, he let himself remark, “I never heard you laugh the way you laughed today.” Something like an angry fire lit up in her eyes and was extinguished at once. She said nothing, as if she hadn’t heard what he said. And only after a while she sat down next to him, stroked his hair and smiled, and once more soothed him the way one soothes an angry child.
“You don’t like the way I laugh, Chaim? Your nerves are bad. You should see a doctor.” With that, the encounter ended, and once again, a tormented, sleepless night. And in the morning he asked himself again, what reason do I have to be suspicious? And once again he beat his breast within himself for thinking this way about his wife.
Two months passed like this. If the first months after his wedding were the happiest in his life, these last two were the most upsetting. He felt that he lacked the endurance and strength to suffer anymore, that it would all suddenly blow up like a compressed explosive. A catastrophe was coming, surely. He would go crazy, he would kill himself, or there would be a terrible scene. Something had to happen.
And in fact something did happen. He can’t recall exactly how it came about. She came home, complained about a headache, lay down in bed, was sick, and died. The day after taking ill she wasn’t clear in her head, and she died that way, in uncertain circumstances. It happened so simply and so much beyond comprehension. After that came old women who sewed shrouds, candles were lit, and afterwards they took her out and buried her. He followed after her funeral and said nothing and didn’t even weep. Somehow his friend came over to him with his eyes full of tears. Why is he crying? He couldn’t understand. Everything else was totally simple, each thing following the last the way it goes—she was sick and died and was buried, and when he returned home, Etta wasn’t there any longer.
Her bed was empty.
He fell into a hard, heavy sleep, but suddenly woke, as if from something awful, and suddenly he seized his head and began howling between the four walls and the empty bed that heard him. How did this happen? When did it happen? How? He couldn’t even say exactly how many days she’d been sick. It flew by so quickly, came out of nowhere.
This is death, death, he said to himself, as if he just now properly comprehended the import of the short word. That’s what it is—death.
His friend came in, pale, depressed, his eyes red. “Chaim! This is such a tragedy! No one had any idea . . . Such a young life, such a blossoming life . . . and suddenly! Who could have thought it?” And with frightened, uncomprehending eyes Chaim looked at him and answered, “Yes, that’s what it is—death.”
They spent the night together. His friend sat down next to him on the bed and slipped off into sleep leaning against his shoulder. Chaim leaned back on the bed to let his friend’s head slowly sink into the pillow. The physical closeness of his friend eased things for him. And in that way they both slipped into sleep late at night.
IV
HE HAD TO get his brother to run his business while he left the city for a summer cottage. Not alone, but with his doctor, who feared for his mental state.
Nothing distracted or interested him. He couldn’t speak more than brief, abrupt words to anyone but his friend. His friend did in fact visit often and spent time with him. They spoke mainly about Etta. He was sure that her like never was in this world. Such harmony within and without, such capacity to love, such a hidden, delicate, interior life. When he said these things, it seemed to him that his friend responded and understood, and that eased his pain.
“Aah, what do you know, what do you know about her beauty! The most beautiful image in marble hasn’t got it. The world lost a work of art when she died!” And his friend heard him out, nodded and said, “She was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in my life.” But with these words something broke apart in Chaim’s heart. A shudder ran through his body. The old jealousy was ignited. He’d held Etta in his arms—he!
Shattered by the old doubt that suddenly awoke, he left his friend with the excuse that he wanted to rest.
And new nights of torment began for him, and like a worm, doubt gnawed at his heart. Old scenes awakened in his memory. With precision he recalled his friend’s and Etta’s every hand movement, every expression of their eyes, their looks, their smiles, and weighed and measured it all and again tried to get to the truth, and as before, he was hurled from belief to despair, and as before, after the most bitter despair came self-reproach—that he was petty and foolish, that he had no grounds to be suspicious.
And uncertainty, the most frightening of all the torments, plagued him again. It was as if the longing for his lost happiness stepped aside. And as if to confirm his suspicion and increase his uneasiness, his friend stayed away for a few days. And when his friend finally came, he couldn’t control himself any longer, and with despair and pleading he pounced. “You have to tell me the truth. It’s all the same now, she’s no longer alive. Tell me, was she yours? Tell the truth . . .”
But his friend looked at him with his distant look and answered, agitated, as if trying to escape from a trap, “What are you thinking? What are you thinking? It never happened. It’s a fantasy, your sick fantasy,” and Chaim nearly started to cry.
“I’m such a low-down person! I suspected her, I suspected her!”
“Calm yourself, Chaim!”
Chaim really did want to calm himself, but a short time later he began to feel that the recurring doubt wouldn’t go away, and he asked again, “But tell me, what makes you talk about the beauty of her body?” His friend responded as if surprised.
“What?”
“Nothing, sorry.”
And so he was left with his uncertainty again. Just to calm himself a little and not plague himself with the same thought day and night, he felt instinctively that it was better not to see his friend. Let it stay like this, in the dark, let it be a secret, let the dead be forgotten together with their secrets. Anyway, he thought, I’m not looking for any more happiness, all I need is to forget, just to forget!
Returning to the city, he avoided his friend. Now the real grief began for him, the long, choking longing for Etta. Her figure pursued him. He felt depressed and alone in the world, alone forever. This loneliness and longing would never leave him. A third youth wouldn’t happen.
On mild evenings when the grief wouldn’t stop and he felt a sleepless night coming on, he would go out to the cemetery and walk around near the grave of his dead wife, with his eyes on the star-filled sky. Thoughts about the past of everything, of the earth on which he walked, of the millions of stars that sparkle up there—that everything passes, fades and dies, young or old, ripe and weary or fresh and eager for life—comforted and quieted him.
And on one such evening at the start of November, he encountered his friend, whom he hadn’t seen for some time, at his wife’s grave. On her grave lay fresh fl
owers that his friend had brought.
In a split second it was clear to him that his friend had hidden something from him, both during Etta’s life and now after her death. Yes, it had happened.
He was confused, jealousy flared up again in his heart, he looked on in a threatening silence. But his friend got control of himself and said, “It’s now exactly six months since she died. I brought her flowers.”
“Flowers? Did you love her that much?”
“Don’t be angry, Chaim. Let’s not be angry here by her grave. It’s not the place for it. Let’s have respect for her and for what’s sacred in our own lives.”
“So is that it? Did you love her?”
“Don’t talk in that tone! Yes, it’s true, I loved her, and the most splendid part of my life is gone with her. And nothing is left.”
“And did she love you too?”
His friend was silent for a while, but afterwards went over to Chaim, took him by the arm, and quietly, with a tone that came from deep inside him, said: “Don’t be angry with me, my good friend. It’s love. It’s a power beyond our understanding and our best intentions. I loved her like no other woman in the world.”
“Oh there isn’t another such woman in the world!” Chaim blurted out, and as he spoke, the burning hate towards his friend vanished.
It was autumn. There was a chill breeze. At the edge of the horizon the moon floated up as if bathed in blood. The trees creaked, and the last leaves were torn off by the wind.
“I haven’t forgotten her. She’s right here in front of me as if she were alive, with her graceful body and her blond hair and the wonderful expression in her eyes.” But Chaim couldn’t bear to hear his friend speak about Etta. He pulled his arm away and left without saying good night.
But a few months later they met again, as luck would have it, and even now—years have passed and both are growing old—they sit together and remember Etta. And with time they have grown so accustomed to this that they speak about the open and hidden beauties of the deceased and are unembarrassed, like two brothers talking about a sister dear to them both.
Avrom Reyzen
1876–1953
ONE OF THE most influential figures among the second generation of modern Yiddish writers, Avrom Reyzen was a prolific contributor to many Yiddish publications, including the Forward.
Born in Koidanov, Belorussia, Reyzen belonged to a prominent Yiddish literary family that included his father, Kalmen, his brother, Zalmen, and his sister, Soreh.
Reyzen received a traditional religious education, as well as tutoring in Russian, German, and other secular subjects. He began writing in his early adolescence and corresponded with the leading writers of the preceding generation, including Yankev Dinezon and I. L. Peretz. His early work appeared in pioneering Yiddish periodicals such as Dos Yudishes folks-blat (The Jewish People’s Paper) of Saint Petersburg and Peretz’s Yudishe bibliotek (The Jewish Library). In 1895 he was conscripted into the Russian army, where he served in a military band before being released four years later. He then moved to Warsaw, where he became one of the most active Yiddish literary figures in Europe, publishing copious amounts of fiction and poetry and serving as the editor or publisher of numerous journals and publishing enterprises.
In 1911, Reyzen moved to New York, where he began contributing regularly to the city’s Yiddish press, including both the Forward and the Communist Frayhayt (Freedom). In 1929, Reyzen, together with many other writers, broke with Frayhayt over its coverage of Arab attacks against Jews in Hebron, and he subsequently wrote primarily for the Forward, where he contributed a new short story each week.
Although much of Reyzen’s writing was included in two sets of collected works that appeared in 1916–1917 and 1928, much more remained uncollected, including “Who Will Prevail?” The story appeared in the Forward in daily installments between July 26 and 30, 1913, and was republished later that year in the Warsaw newspaper Der moment (The Moment), between September 12 and 24.
Although the story takes place in Warsaw, and features a young Reyzenesque protagonist, its themes are not much different from the fiction that Reyzen and other writers wrote in an American context, particularly when it came to the subject of sexual and romantic relationships in a postreligious environment.
Who Will Prevail?
(JULY 20–30, 1913)
Translated by Ezra Glinter
I
WHILE LOOKING FOR a room, Meir Hecht, a brown-haired young man around twenty years old, of taller than average height with an intelligent, sympathetic face, stopped by the entrance to a quiet Jewish street and read: “A room for a bachelor in the courtyard, third floor, number nineteen.” He entered the courtyard and, after looking for the number on all of the doors, found it at last. He went up the stairs.
The corridor was narrow and the stairs had become crooked with age; Meir Hecht considered it a defect, but he didn’t turn back. “Let me see the room,” he thought, “maybe it will be better inside.” He stood outside the door with a half-covered number 19 and searched for a knocker, but there was no sign of one. He knocked with his fist instead.
The door opened from the inside and a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, holding an unpeeled potato and a knife in her hand. Seeing the woman, Meir Hecht wanted to retreat without a word, but she stood solidly in the doorway and demanded:
“What do you want, young man?”
“A room . . .” Hecht stammered.
“You’re in luck! There is in fact a room to rent,” she said. “Did a friend tell you about it, or did you see it on the gate?”
“On the gate,” Hecht answered briefly.
“You see, Goldele was right. She said we should hang a sign.”
Hearing the name Goldele, Hecht imagined the kind of pretty Warsaw brunette he often saw on the Jewish streets. His face took on a friendly expression and he said:
“Could you be so kind as to show me the room?”
“I can certainly show it,” the woman answered. “When you have merchandise you need to put it on display. Come, forgive me.”
She stepped over the threshold into a large room, which must have been the parlor. There was a wide table and in the corners of the room were two made beds and a sofa, which was covered with a dark quilt. At the end of the room by the wall stood a few old chairs.
“This is the dining room,” the matron said with satisfied look, “but we sleep here also. We are, thank God, not a large household—just three children.”
“And the room is where?” Hecht asked, already a little uneasy.
“There’s a little room here also,” the woman answered good-naturedly. “Why shouldn’t there be a room? True, it’s not a big one, but that just makes it warm, like an oven. Come, forgive me.”
She made a turn to the right and stood by a curtain. As if with witchcraft, she parted it in two, and revealed a tiny room.
“Ach, it’s too small,” Hecht said with surprise, looking at a bed and table that took up the entire space.
“What do you need a bigger one for?” the woman asked. “This seems right to me for one person.”
“But there’s not even enough room to put in a chair,” Hecht scowled.
“You could put three chairs in here,” the matron said defensively. “You just need to push the bed a little bit into the corner. And anyway, what do you need all those chairs for? You can sit on the bed.”
“Sometimes I need to read, to write,” Hecht muttered.
“Be reasonable,” the woman persisted. “Couldn’t you read and write just as well in the dining room? There’s nobody here all day. He works, Goldele my daughter works, and the two boys go to school . . .”
Hecht looked again at the little room—it seemed more like a stall. But then he thought about this Goldele, and about whether something might happen with her . . . How old would she be, exactly? How could he go about asking?
“So you have three children, they should be healthy,” Hecht said. “Two boys and
a girl. How old are the boys?”
“The boys . . .” the matron screwed up her face, “how old are they? One, Leybele is seven years old, and Gershonke, nine years . . .”
“And the girl, I assume, is a year or two older?”
“Oh, what did you say? The girl is already almost nineteen years old.”
“I might, it seems, take the room,” Hecht decided. And he asked coldly, “What will this little room cost?”
“What can we arrange for you?” the woman bargained. “I’ll tell you the truth. Until now two workers lived here, they slept in one bed, and I charged them five rubles. You will presumably live here alone, without a roommate.”
“God help me!” Hecht exclaimed. “It’s too small for myself. Taking more roommates—nothing could be worse!”
“Nu, so what should I do with you?” the woman smiled good-naturedly. “For you, I’ll take four rubles. That’s not too expensive,” she added, afraid that she might have undermined herself with too high a price.
“Good.” Hecht was agreeable. “I’ll move in today.”
“You could move in already,” the woman agreed.
Hecht took his money from a purse. He had a five-ruble note, which he gave to the woman and asked for a receipt. She gave him a ruble back and, looking at him, inquired:
“I forgot to ask. Are you a worker, or something else?”
“Something else,” Hecht said with a laugh.
“Can we know what, for example?”
“A teacher.”
“A teacher?” she said, and seemed to swell up with pride at the fine profession practiced by her new lodger. “You are busy the whole day, I imagine.”
“Yes, I am a little busy, a little free, however I make it,” Hecht answered.
She gave him a friendly look and said: “Do you know German?”
