Collected Stories (40 page)

Sometimes, Liebe Yentl spoke to her mother like one who was altogether unsettled. Zise Feige thought to herself that it was fortunate the girl avoided people. But how long can anything remain a secret? It was already whispered in town that Liebe Yentl was not all there. She played with the cat. She took solitary walks down the Gentile street that led to the cemetery. When anyone addressed her, she turned pale and her answers were quite beside the point. Some people thought that she was deaf. Others hinted that Liebe Yentl might be dabbling in magic. She had been seen on a moonlit night walking in the pasture across the bridge and bending down every now and then to pick flowers or herbs. Women spat to ward off evil when they spoke of her. “Poor thing, unlucky and sick besides.”

II

Liebe Yentl was about to become betrothed again, this time to a young man from Zawiercia. Reb Sheftel had sent an examiner to the prospective bridegroom, and he came back with the report that Shmelke Motl was a scholar. The betrothal contract was drawn up, ready to be signed.

The examiner’s wife, Traine, who had visited Zawiercia with her husband (they had a daughter there), told Zise Feige that Shmelke Motl was small and dark. He did not look like much, but he had the head of a genius. Because he was an orphan, the householders provided his meals; he ate at a different home every day of the week. Liebe Yentl listened without a word.

When Traine had gone, Zise Feige brought in her daughter’s supper—buckwheat and pot roast with gravy. But Liebe Yentl did not touch the food. She rocked over the plate as though it were a prayer book. Soon afterwards, she retired to her room. Zise Feige sighed and also went to bed. Reb Sheftel had gone to sleep early, for he had to rise for midnight prayers. The house was quiet. Only the cricket sang its night song behind the oven.

Suddenly Zise Feige was wide awake. From Liebe Yentl’s room came a muffled gasping, as though someone were choking there. Zise Feige ran into her daughter’s room. In the bright moonlight she saw the girl sitting on her bed, her hair disheveled, her face chalk-white, struggling to keep down her sobs. Zise Feige cried out, “My daughter, what is wrong? Woe is me!” She ran to the kitchen, lit a candle, and returned to Liebe Yentl, bringing a cup of water to splash at her if, God forbid, the girl should faint.

But at this moment a man’s voice broke from Liebe Yentl’s lips. “No need to revive me, Zise Feige,” the voice called out. “I’m not in the habit of fainting. You’d better fetch me a drop of vodka.”

Zise Feige stood petrified with horror. The water spilled over from the cup.

Reb Sheftel had also wakened. He washed his hands hastily, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and came into his daughter’s room.

The man’s voice greeted him. “A good awakening to you, Reb Sheftel. Let me have a schnapps—my throat’s parched. Or Slivovitz—anything will do, so long as I wet my whistle.”

Man and wife knew at once what had happened: a dybbuk had entered Liebe Yentl. Reb Sheftel asked with a shudder: “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Who I am you wouldn’t know,” the dybbuk answered. “You’re a scholar in Shidlovtse, and I’m a fiddler from Pinchev. You squeeze the bench, and I squeezed the wenches. You’re still around in the Imaginary World, and I’m past everything. I’ve kicked the bucket and have already had my taste of what comes after. I’ve had it cold and hot, and now I’m back on the sinful earth—there’s no place for me either in heaven or in hell. Tonight I started out flying to Pinchev, but I lost my way and got to Shidlovtse instead—I’m a musician, not a coachman. One thing I do know, though—my throat’s itchy.”

Zise Feige was seized by a fit of tembling. The candle in her hand shook so badly it singed Reb Sheftel’s beard. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but her voice stuck in her throat. Her knees buckled, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.

Reb Sheftel pulled at his sidelock as he addressed the dybbuk. “What is your name?”

“Getsl.”

“Why did you choose to enter my daughter?” he asked in desperation.

“Why not? She’s a good-looking girl. I hate the ugly ones—always have, always will.” With that, the dybbuk began to shout ribaldries and obscenities, both in ordinary Yiddish and in musician’s slang. “Don’t make me wait, Feige dear,” he called out finally. “Bring me a cup of cheer. I’m dry as a bone. I’ve got an itching in my gullet, a twitching in my gut.”

“Good people, help!” Zise Feige wailed. She dropped the candle and Reb Sheftel picked it up, for it could easily have set the wooden house on fire.

Though it was late, the townsfolk came running. There are people everywhere with something bothering them; they cannot sleep nights. Tevye the night watchman thought a fire had broken out and ran through the street, knocking at the shutters with his stick. It was not long before Reb Sheftel’s house was packed.

Liebe Yentl’s eyes goggled, her mouth twisted like an epileptic’s, and a voice boomed out of her that could not have come from a woman’s throat. “Will you bring me a glass of liquor or won’t you? What the devil are you waiting for?”

“And what if we don’t?” asked Zeinvl the butcher, who was on his way home from the slaughterhouse.

“If you don’t, I’ll lay you all wide open, you pious hypocrites. And the secrets of your wives—may they burn up with hives.”

“Get him liquor! Give him a drink!” voices cried on every side.

Reb Sheftel’s son, Tsadock Meyer, a boy of eleven, had also been awakened by the commotion. He knew where his father kept the brandy that he drank on the Sabbath, after the fish. He opened the cupboard, poured out a glass, and brought it to his sister. Reb Sheftel leaned against the chest of drawers, for his legs were giving way. Zise Feige fell into a chair. Neighbors sprinkled her with vinegar against fainting.

Liebe Yentl stretched out her hand, took the glass, and tossed it down. Those who stood nearby could not believe their eyes. The girl didn’t even twitch a muscle.

The dybbuk said, “You call that liquor? Water, that’s what it is—hey, fellow, bring me the bottle!”

“Don’t let her have it! Don’t let her have it!” Zise Feige cried. “She’ll poison herself, God help us!”

The dybbuk gave a laugh and a snort. “Don’t worry, Zise Feige, nothing can kill me again. So far as I’m concerned, your brandy is weaker than candy.”

“You won’t get a drink until you tell us who you are and how you got in here,” Zeinvl the butcher said. Since no one else dared to address the spirit, Zeinvl took it upon himself to be the spokesman.

“What does the meatman want here?” the dybbuk asked. “Go on back to your gizzards and guts!”

“Tell us who you are!”

“Do I have to repeat it? I am Getsl the fiddler from Pinchev. I was fond of things nobody else hates, and when I cashed in, the imps went to work on me. I couldn’t get into paradise, and hell was too hot for my taste. The devils were the death of me. So at night, when the watchman dropped off, I made myself scarce. I meant to go to my wife, may she rot alive, but it was dark on the way and I got to Shidlovtse instead. I looked through the wall and saw this girl. My heart jumped in my chest and I crawled into her breast.”

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“Forever and a day.”

Reb Sheftel was almost speechless with terror, but he remembered God and recovered. He called out, “Evil spirit, I command you to leave the body of my innocent daughter and go where men do not walk and beasts do not tread. If you don’t, you shall be driven out by Holy Names, by excommunication, by the blowing of the ram’s horn.”

“In another minute you’ll have me scared!” the dybbuk taunted. “You think you’re so strong because your beard’s long?”

“Impudent wretch, betrayer of Israel!” Reb Sheftel cried in anger.

“Better an open rake than a sanctimonious fake,” the dybbuk answered. “You may have the Shidlovtse schlemiels fooled, but Getsl the fiddler of Pinchev has been around. I’m telling you. Bring me the bottle or I’ll make you crawl.”

There was an uproar at the door. Someone had wakened the rabbi, and he came with Bendit the beadle. Bendit carried a stick, a ram’s horn, and the
Book of the Angel Raziel
.

III

Once in the bedroom, the rabbi, Reb Yeruchim, ordered the ram’s horn to be blown. He had the beadle pile hot coals into a brazier, then he poured incense on the coals. As the smoke of the herbs filled the room, he commanded the evil one with holy oaths from the Zohar,
The Book of Creation
, and other books of the Cabala to leave the body of the woman Liebe Yentl, daughter of Zise Feige. But the unholy spirit defied everyone. Instead of leaving, he played out a succession of dances, marches, hops—just with the lips. He boomed like a bass viol, he jingled like a cymbal, he whistled like a flute, and drummed like a drum.

The page is too short for a recital of all that the dybbuk did and said that night and the nights that followed—his brazen tricks, his blasphemies against the Lord, the insults he hurled at the townsfolk, the boasts of all the lecheries he had committed, the mockery, the outbursts of laughing and of crying, the stream of quotations from the Torah and wedding jester’s jokes, and all of it in singsong and in rhyme.

The dybbuk made himself heard only after dark. During the day, Liebe Yentl lay exhausted in bed and evidently did not remember what went on at night. She thought that she was sick and occasionally begged her mother to call the doctor or to give her some medicine. Most of the time she dozed, with her eyes and her lips shut tight.

Since the incantations and the amulets of the Shidlovtse rabbi were of no avail, Reb Sheftel went to seek the advice of the Radzymin rabbi. On the very morning he left, the mild weather gave way to wind and snow. The roads were snowed in and it was difficult to reach Radzymin, even in a sleigh. Weeks went by, and no news came from Reb Sheftel. Zise Feige was so hard hit by the calamity that she fell ill, and her assistant Zalkind had to take over the whole business.

Winter nights are long, and idlers look for ways to while away the time. Soon after twilight, they would gather at Zise Feige’s house to hear the dybbuk’s talk and to marvel at his antics. Zise Feige forbade them to annoy her daughter, but the curiosity of the townspeople was so great that they would break the door open and enter.

The dybbuk knew everyone and had words for each man according to his position and conduct. Most of the time he heaped mud and ashes upon the respected leaders of the community and their wives. He told each one exactly what he was: a miser or a swindler, a sycophant or a beggar, a slattern or a snob, an idler or a grabber. With the horse traders he talked about horses, and with the butchers about oxen. He reminded Chaim the miller that he had hung a weight under the scale on which he weighed the flour milled for the peasants. He questioned Yukele the thief about his latest theft. His jests and his jibes provoked both astonishment and laughter. Even the older folks could not keep from smiling. The dybbuk knew things that no stranger could have known, and it became clear to the visitors that they were dealing with a soul from which nothing could be hidden, for it saw through all their secrets. Although the evil spirit put everyone to shame, each man was willing to suffer his own humiliation for the sake of seeing others humbled.

When the dybbuk tired of exposing the sins of the townsfolk, he would turn to recitals of his own misdeeds. Not an evening passed without revelations of new vices. The dybbuk called everything by its name, denying nothing. When he was asked whether he regretted his abominations, he said with a laugh: “And if I did, could anything be changed? Everything is recorded up above. For eating a single wormy plum, you get six hundred and eighty-nine lashes. For a single moment of lust, you’re rolled for a week on a bed of nails.” Between one jest and another, he would sing and bleat and play out tunes so skillfully that no one living could vie with him.

One evening the teacher’s wife came running to the rabbi and reported that people were dancing to the dybbuk’s music. The rabbi put on his robe and his hat and hurried to the house. Yes, the men and women danced together in Zise Feige’s kitchen. The rabbi berated them and warned that they were committing a sacrilege. He sternly forbade Zise Feige to allow the rabble into her house. But Zise Feige lay sick in bed, and her boy, Tsadock Meyer, was staying with relatives. As soon as the rabbi left, the idlers resumed their dancing—a scissors dance, a quarrel dance, a cossack, a water dance. It went on till midnight, when the dybbuk gave out a snore, and Liebe Yentl fell asleep.

A few days later there was a new rumor in town: a second dybbuk had entered Liebe Yentl, this time a female one. Once more an avid crowd packed the house. And, indeed, a woman’s voice now came from Liebe Yentl—not her own gentle voice but the hoarse croaking of a shrew. People asked the new dybbuk who she was, and she told them that her name was Beyle Tslove and that she came from the town of Plock, where she had been a barmaid in a tavern and had later become a whore.

Beyle Tslove spoke differently from Getsl the fiddler, with the flat accents of her region and a mixture of Germanized words unknown in Shidlovtse. Beyle Tslove’s language made even the butchers and the combers of pigs’ bristles blush. She sang ribald songs and soldiers’ ditties. She said she had wandered for eighty years in waste places. She had been reincarnated as a cat, a turkey, a snake, and a locust. For a long time her soul resided in a turtle. When someone mentioned Getsl the fiddler and asked whether she knew him and whether she knew that he was also lodged in the same woman, she answered, “I neither know him nor want to know him.”