Praise for Nathan Englander’s
For the Relief of Unbearable Urges
“Pitch-perfect.… [Englander’s] wit has glimpses of Philip Roth and Saul Bellow; its subtlety recalls James Joyce’s Dubliners.”
—Newsweek
“Provokes an array of reactions, from shocked tears to guilty belly laughs.… Nathan Englander has constructed a deeply affecting treatise on the caprices of fate and the inevitability of laughter.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“One of the classiest, most assured, impressive literary debuts I’ve come across in ten years of reviewing books.… The many voices … [Englander] has given life to in this collection earn this gifted writer a distinct and distinguished niche of his own.”
—Susan Miron, The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Extraordinary, insightful writing. Englander is a fresh, awe-inspiring voice.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“In [Englander’s] sharply etched stories, his characters burst their bounds of culture, history and identity.”
—USA Today
“Impressive.… A fresh and promising collection, Nathan Englander’s rocket is launched.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“This debut collection reflects a mastery of the short story form.… [These stories are] as faceted and polished as gemstones.”
—San Diego Union Tribune
“These stories have the sly wit and impenetrable wisdom of an elder of the tribe.… All the stories seem simple and profound at once. They offer multiple meanings, each tempting in its own witty way. Englander has been compared to Isaac Bashevis Singer, and the comparison is just.”
—The Boston Globe
“A talent so stunning it makes you want to lift the printed page and kiss it.… [Englander’s] clear-edged voice rips along smoothly, sometimes slyly funny, sometimes heartbreakingly sad, always sophisticated and wise.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“A stunner.”
—Boston Book Review
“Brilliant.… Englander recalls … the best of John Cheever”
—Salon
“Daring in both its shape and honesty. Nathan Englander has the stately, rhythmic pacing of the true storyteller, as well as an overarching courage in the face of unbearable truths.”
—Portland Oregonian
“A debut collection of nine stories that explore the condition of being Jewish with an often hallucinatory, epigrammatic eloquence that is … reminiscent of the fiction of Isaac Singer, Saul Bellow, and especially Bernard Malamud.… A truly remarkable debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“Quirky, intelligent stories … pure delight.”
—The Plain Dealer
“It is not just the clarity and virtuosity of Englander’s stories that makes them outstanding. It is Englander’s voice, which comes to us bold, unwavering, and with a whiff of prophecy.… These stories boldly re-imagine what fiction is capable of doing.”
—Boston Phoenix
“This book is perhaps the best debut collection of short fiction that I’ve read in the last five or ten years.”
—Alan Cheuse, National Public Radio
“[A] stellar first collection … graceful and remarkably self-assured.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred)
“Heart-wrenching, humorous tales … starkly elegant.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Unique wisdom … worthy of Gogol or Isaac Bashevis Singer.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Stunning … a knife-edge examination of the friction between Jewish tradition and modern reality.”
—The Hartford Courant
“Wryly funny and deeply poignant.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Englander charges [his stories] with fresh nuance—the questions with which James Joyce and Flannery O’Connor pried at Catholic doctrine he now aims at Orthodox Judaism.”
—The Village Voice
Nathan Englander
For the Relief of Unbearable Urges
Nathan Englander grew up in New York and lives in Jerusalem. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a recent recipient of the Pushcart Prize. His stories have appeared in Story magazine and The New Yorker.
FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION. APRIL 2000
Copyright © 1999 by Nathan Englander
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf. a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1999.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Some of the stories in this collection were originally published as follows: “The Tumblers” in American Short Fiction (Fall 1998. no. 31): “The Gilgul of Park Avenue” in Atlantic (March 1999): “The Last One Way” in The New Yorker (January 18, 1999); “For the Relief of Unbearable Urges,” “Reb Kringle,” and “The Twenty-seventh Man” in Story (Spring 1996, Winter 1997, and Winter 1998).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Englander, Nathan.
For the relief of unbearable urges / Nathan Englander. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Jews—Social life and customs—Fiction. 2. Jews—Persecutions—Fiction.
3. Orthodox Judaism—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3555.N424F67 1999
813′.54—de21 98-41727
eISBN: 978-0-307-56951-6
www.vintagebooks.com
v3.1
For Merle N. Englander
There are many people whose friendship and support have been essential to the creation of this book. The author gratefully acknowledges their contribution and would also like to thank Glen Weldon, Deborah Brodie, and Lois Rosenthal of Story magazine. Thank you to Jordan Pavlin for her sensitive and insightful comments. And to Nicole Aragi, agent and cherished friend.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Twenty-seventh Man
The Tumblers
Reunion
The Wig
The Gilgul of Park Avenue
Reb Kringle
The Last One Way
For the Relief of Unbearable Urges
In This Way We Are Wise
The Twenty-seventh Man
The orders were given from Stalin’s country house at Kuntsevo. He relayed them to the agent in charge with no greater emotion than for the killing of kulaks or clergy or the outspoken wives of very dear friends. The accused were to be apprehended the same day, arrive at the prison gates at the same moment, and—with a gasp and simultaneous final breath—be sent off to their damnation in a single rattling burst of gunfire.
It was not an issue of hatred, only one of allegiance. For Stalin knew there could be loyalty to only one nation. What he did not know so well were the authors’ names on his list. When presented to him the next morning he signed the warrant anyway, though there were now twenty-seven, and yesterday there had been twenty-six.
No matter, except maybe to the
twenty-seventh.
The orders left little room for variation, and none for tardiness. They were to be carried out in secrecy and—the only point that was reiterated—simultaneously. But how were the agents to get the men from Moscow and Gorky, Smolensk and Penza, Shuya and Podolsk, to the prison near the village of X at the very same time?
The agent in charge felt his strength was in leadership and gave up the role of strategist to the inside of his hat. He cut the list into strips and sprinkled them into the freshly blocked crown, mixing carefully so as not to disturb its shape. Most of these writers were in Moscow. The handful who were in their native villages, taking the waters somewhere, or locked in a cabin trying to finish that seminal work would surely receive a stiff cuffing when a pair of agents, aggravated by the trek, stepped through the door.
After the lottery, those agents who had drawn a name warranting a long journey accepted the good-natured insults and mockery of friends. Most would have it easy, nothing more to worry about than hurrying some old rebel to a car, or getting their shirts wrinkled in a heel-dragging, hair-pulling rural scene that could be as messy as necessary in front of a pack of superstitious peasants.
Then there were those who had it hard. Such as the two agents assigned to Vasily Korinsky, who, seeing no way out, was prepared to exit his bedroom quietly but whose wife, Paulina, struck the shorter of the two officers with an Oriental-style brass vase. There was a scuffle, Paulina was subdued, the short officer taken out unconscious, and a precious hour lost on their estimated time.
There was the pair assigned to Moishe Bretzky, a true lover of vodka and its country of origin. One would not have pegged him as one of history’s most sensitive Yiddish poets. He was huge, slovenly, and smelly as a horse. Once a year, during the Ten Days of Penitence, he would take notice of his sinful ways and sober up for Yom Kippur. After the fast, he would grab pen and pad and write furiously for weeks in his sister’s ventless kitchen—the shroud of atonement still draped over his splitting head. The finished work was toasted with a brimming shot of vodka. Then Bretzky’s thirst would begin to rage and off he would go for another year. His sister’s husband would have put an end to this annual practice if it weren’t for the rubles he received for the sweat-curled pages Bretzky abandoned.
It took the whole of the night for the two agents to locate Bretzky. They tracked him down in one of the whorehouses that did not exist, and if they did, government agents surely did not frequent them. Nonetheless, having escaped notice, they slipped into the room. Bretzky was passed out on his stomach with a smiling trollop pinned under each arm. The time-consuming process of freeing the whores, getting Bretzky upright, and moving him into the hallway reduced the younger man to tears.
The senior agent left his partner in charge of the body while he went to chat with the senior woman of the house. Introducing himself numerous times, as if they had never met, he explained his predicament and enlisted the help of a dozen women.
Twelve of the house’s strongest companions—in an array of pink and red robes, froufrou slippers, and painted toenails—carried the giant bear to the waiting car amid a roar of giggles. It was a sight Bretzky would have enjoyed tremendously had he been conscious.
The least troubling of the troublesome abductions was that of Y. Zunser, oldest of the group and a target of the first serious verbal attacks on the cosmopolitans back in ’49. In the February 19 edition of Literaturnaya Gazeta he had been criticized as an obsolete author, accused of being anti-Soviet, and chided for using a pen name to hide his Jewish roots. In that same edition they printed his real name, Melman, stripping him of the privacy he had so enjoyed.
Three years later they came for him. The two agents were not enthusiastic about the task. They had shared a Jewish literature instructor in high school, whom they admired despite his ethnicity and who even coerced them into writing a poem or two. Both were rather decent fellows, and capturing an eighty-one-year-old man did not exactly jibe with their vision of bravely serving the party. They were simply following instructions. But somewhere amid their justifications lay a deep fear of punishment.
It was not yet dawn and Zunser was already dressed, sitting with a cup of tea. The agents begged him to stand up on his own, one of them trying the name Zunser and the other pleading with Melman. He refused.
“I will neither resist nor help. The responsibility must rest fully upon your conscience.”
“We have orders,” they said.
“I did not say you were without orders. I said that you have to bear responsibility.”
They first tried lifting him by his arms, but Zunser was too delicate for the maneuver. Then one grabbed his ankles while the other clasped his chest. Zunser’s head lolled back. The agents were afraid of killing him, an option they had been warned against. They put him on the floor and the larger of the two scooped him up, cradling the old man like a child.
Zunser begged a moment’s pause as they passed a portrait of his deceased wife. He fancied the picture had a new moroseness to it, as if the sepia-toned eyes might well up and shed a tear. He spoke aloud. “No matter, Katya. Life ended for me on the day of your death; everything since has been but nostalgia.” The agent shifted the weight of the romantic in his arms and headed out the door.
The solitary complicated abduction that took place out of Moscow was the one that should have been the easiest of the twenty-seven. It was the simple task of removing Pinchas Pelovits from the inn on the road that ran to X and the prison beyond.
Pinchas Pelovits had constructed his own world with a compassionate God and a diverse group of worshipers. In it, he tested these people with moral dilemmas and tragedies—testing them sometimes more with joy and good fortune. He recorded the trials and events of this world in his notebooks in the form of stories and novels, essays, poems, songs, anthems, tales, jokes, and extensive histories that led up to the era in which he dwelled.
His parents never knew what label to give their son, who wrote all day but did not publish, who laughed and cried over his novels but was gratingly logical in his contact with the everyday world. What they did know was that Pinchas wasn’t going to take over the inn.
When they became too old to run the business, the only viable option was to sell out at a ridiculously low price—provided the new owners would leave the boy his room and feed him when he was hungry. Even when the business became the property of the state, Pinchas, in the dreamer’s room, was left in peace: Why bother, he’s harmless, sort of a good-luck charm for the inn, no one even knows he’s here, maybe he’s writing a history of the place, and we’ll all be made famous. He wasn’t. But who knows, maybe he would have, had his name—mumbled on the lips of travelers—not found its way onto Stalin’s list.
The two agents assigned Pinchas arrived at the inn driving a beat-up droshky and posing as the sons of now poor landowners, a touch they thought might tickle their superiors. One carried a Luger (a trinket he brought home from the war), and the other kept a billy club stashed in his boot. They found the narrow hallway with Pinchas’s room and knocked lightly on his door. “Not hungry” was the response. The agent with the Luger gave the door a hip check; it didn’t budge. “Try the handle,” said the voice. The agent did, swinging it open.
“You’re coming with us,” said the one with the club in his boot.
“Absolutely not,” Pinchas stated matter-of-factly. The agent wondered if his “You’re coming with us” had sounded as bold.
“Put the book down on the pile, put your shoes on, and let’s go.” The agent with the Luger spoke slowly. “You’re under arrest for anti-Soviet activity.”
Pinchas was baffled by the charge. He meditated for a moment and came to the conclusion that there was only one moral outrage he’d been involved in, though it seemed to him a bit excessive to be incarcerated for it.
“Well, you can have them, but they’re not really mine. They were in a copy of a Zunser book that a guest forgot and I didn’t know where to return them. Regardless, I
studied them thoroughly. You may take me away.” He proceeded to hand the agents five postcards. Three were intricate pen-and-ink drawings of a geisha in various positions with her legs spread wide. The other two were identical photographs of a sturdy Russian maiden in front of a painted tropical background wearing a hula skirt and making a vain attempt to cover her breasts. Pinchas began stacking his notebooks while the agents divvied the cards. He was sad that he had not resisted temptation. He would miss taking his walks and also the desk upon whose mottled surface he had written.
“May I bring my desk?”
The agent with the Luger was getting fidgety. “You won’t be needing anything, just put on your shoes.”
“I’d much prefer my books to shoes,” Pinchas said. “In the summer I sometimes take walks without shoes but never without a novel. If you would have a seat while I organize my notes—” and Pinchas fell to the floor, struck in the head with the pistol grip. He was carried from the inn rolled in a blanket, his feet poking forth, bare.
Pinchas awoke, his head throbbing from the blow and the exceedingly tight blindfold. This was aggravated by the sound of ice cracking under the droshky wheels, as happens along the river route west of X. “The bridge is out on this road,” he told them. “You’d best cut through the old Bunakov place. Everybody does it in winter.”
The billy club was drawn from the agent’s boot, and Pinchas was struck on the head once again. The idea of arriving only to have their prisoner blurt out the name of the secret prison was mortifying. In an attempt to confound him, they turned off on a clearly unused road. There are reasons that unused roads are not used. It wasn’t half a kilometer before they had broken a wheel and it was off to a nearby pig farm on foot. The agent with the gun commandeered a donkey-drawn cart, leaving a furious pig farmer cursing and kicking the side of his barn.
The trio were all a bit relieved upon arrival: Pinchas because he started to get the idea that this business had to do with something more than his minor infraction, and the agents because three other cars had shown up only minutes before they had—all inexcusably late.
For the Relief of Unbearable Urges: Stories Page 1
