“He’s a great scholar.”
“Aren’t there greater scholars?”
“Can Torah scholarship be measured? Everyone understands the Torah according to his ability. Sometimes one encounters a problem which a great scholar cannot answer while a simple Jew can. Everyone has a share in the Torah.”
One time the rabbi came and seemed to be terribly angry. He had written a letter of approbation for a scholarly treatise and the author had not given him, the rabbi, the title that he thought he deserved. The author had called him “the gaon,” that is, the genius, but had omitted the word “famous.” On another letter of approbation the term “famous” had indeed been included. The rabbi maintained that all this concerned him as much as last year’s snow. That little nothing of a scholar couldn’t make him famous or not famous, the rabbi told Father. But it was the impudence, he said, that infuriated him. The rabbi made muck and mire of that scholar. He called him a boor, a thickhead, an ass, a donkey, a fool, a moron, an ox, and other similar names. He continued complaining: “He is as fit to be an author as I am to be a woodchopper. He should be an aleph-beys teacher, not a scholar. He’s a simpleton, a common lout, a zero. Of people like him it is said: That which is wisdom isn’t his writing and that which is his writing isn’t wisdom. In short, he has taken everything from others. There isn’t a thing in his book that’s his own original work. The trouble is that he can’t even properly steal from others. For that, one has to have a head on one’s shoulders, but he has a clump of cabbage, not a head. And even that head of cabbage is all stem …”
Father was silent. His face was red. I later looked up that letter of approbation which this same rabbi had given to that scholar. He had written: “In his work the author uproots mountains. He is a library full of books. He has descended into the very depths of the Talmud and has come up with a pearl.” This flowery language did not at all jibe with his abusive language. He was enraged that the author had not called him “famous.”
That day the rabbi spoke longer than usual. Even I could see that this rabbi was capable of murder for that shortened honorific he had been given. Everything in him stormed and seethed. He smoked one cigar after another and the apartment filled with noxious wisps of smoke. He vented his rage at Father. Now not only did he explain each Talmud passage he mentioned but he even began explaining Biblical verses. Father sat there shrunken. It was absolutely impossible to respond, because the rabbi spewed such a thick barrage of words one couldn’t even insert a “but.” After the rabbi left, Father at once went to the Hasidic shtibl. It seemed to me he wanted to clear his head in the street a bit.
Another time the rabbi came to visit us after Father had published his own book, one with a letter of approbation from that same rabbi. When Father showed him the book, the rabbi glanced quickly at the honorific title that Father had given him, then at once began speaking about his own affairs. He did not congratulate Father, nor did he even attempt to cut open the pages and look into the book, which was customary on such occasions. His eyes brimmed with scorn and contempt. It seemed that the rabbi took the fact of Father’s publishing a book as an insult. And another thing: in the period between the rabbi’s visits, Father had spent some time in Bilgoray with his father-in-law, my grandfather. The rabbi knew quite well that Father had undertaken a journey, but he didn’t even ask about it. For him, Father was merely a pair of ears. It sufficed him that Father should hear what he, the world-famous genius, had to say …
Mother declared that she wouldn’t let the rabbi cross our threshold anymore, but Father implored her not to do such a thing, God forbid.
“He has his flaws, but he’s a great scholar,” Father said.
Then my mother uttered something I had never heard her say before: “Yes, he’s great. He grates on one’s nerves.”
In time, the rabbi stopped visiting us. I grew up somewhat. Once, a scholar praised my father’s book, telling me that Father “interprets what he sees.” For him, the plain meaning of the text was more important than overly subtle hair-splitting. He compared Father to the early commentators. I then asked the scholar if he knew that rabbi who would come to visit us, and if he indeed was such a genius.
The scholar replied, “Disjointed blather … lots of hot air … In his quibbling analyses he tries to bring East and West together. Can you bring two walls together? Futile attempts … he doesn’t even come up to your father’s ankles.”
SOUNDS THAT INTERFERE WITH STUDYING
A few doors from us there was an apartment whose tenants were dissolute. It wasn’t a house of prostitution, God forbid, but the people who lived there were decidedly low-class. The man probably dealt in stolen goods; in Warsaw lingo he was called a fence. He may have had another profession which wasn’t too kosher either. His wife went about bareheaded. In my parents’ view, everything about that apartment was loud and brazen. The walls were colored rose and red. They had a gramophone that squeaked out all kinds of theater songs from early in the morning until late at night. They had a cage with canaries and a parrot. And as if that wasn’t enough, they also kept a dog.
The man’s wife was chubby, with big breasts, a short neck, and a round face. She didn’t speak; she sang. Her Yiddish was a kind of Warsaw slang; she added letters to words and changed prefixes. She also spoke Polish. She had a baby girl whom she took out on walks in a stroller. We considered all these things gentile ways.
In that apartment they were still asleep at 10 a.m., for they went to bed at three in the morning. Aside from breakfast, lunch, and supper, they also took a second supper at midnight. Their gentile maid would go down late at night to bring them crackly fresh rolls, salami, turkey breast, liver, roast meat, goose, or a platter of cold cuts, all of which they dipped into mustard and washed down with beer. Sometimes they would eat hot sausages. And during this meal the men—the owner of the apartment and his guests—spoke loudly and shouted. The women’s laughter could be heard in the entire courtyard.
Every manner of evil was imputed to them. The man shaved his beard. He didn’t even attend synagogue on Sabbath. The woman did not go to the ritual bath. They had a balcony next to ours and on it they did all kinds of forbidden things. Men kissed women. They used uncouth expressions. My mother once saw the mistress of the house kissing her dog. “How low can people sink?” Mother asked. “That’s what happens when people turn away from the Jewish path.”
Once, they threw a party and invited the police. Father immediately removed his rabbinic hat and put on a velvet one with a high crown, for he did not have a permit to be a rabbi. He was afraid that while they were celebrating, the police might decide to inspect his apartment. The thought that Jews were sitting at one table with peasants, eating and drinking and having a good time, struck him as wild. How could one enjoy one’s food when a peasant was sitting opposite you? How could the grandchildren of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob be fraternizing with the enemies of Israel?
Father said, “Alas, it’s all because of this dark and bitter exile that we’re in. It’s high time for the Messiah to come. It’s time, high time!”
Mother also walked about the house upset. We heard men shouting, women laughing, and after a while the gramophone played a march and we could hear them dancing. Men and women were dancing together, and all of this was happening no more than a door or two away.
One day I saw some policemen going up to that apartment. I thought that our neighbors were having another party, but it was something entirely different. The owner of the apartment had been arrested. I saw him coming down, a tall man with a long face and a long neck, wearing a shirt without a collar. Strangely, a pair of brand-new boots bound by a string was hanging from his shoulders. The new boots fascinated me more than the fact of his arrest. One boot dangled over his chest, the other over his back. Was he going to stay in jail for years? Did he know in advance that he would be imprisoned? And if so, why didn’t he run away?
His wife followed him, as did many others. Once outside, the policemen a
nd our neighbor boarded a droshky and off they went—to prison, no doubt.
For a couple of days the apartment was quiet. Not a sound came from the gramophone, the dog, the parrot, or the canaries. A weird silence emanated from the rooms from which the owner had been taken. Father insinuated that perhaps now those people would repent, for if they were already being punished in this world, what had they gained? But he was mistaken.
Soon the gramophone was heard once again playing the same merry little tunes and ditties as before. Once again we heard the dog and the birds. And if that was not enough, a rumor circulated in the courtyard that the woman had taken a lover. A man began visiting. He wasn’t as tall as the apartment owner, but he was broad-shouldered. He had a wide nose, a thick mustache, and the eyes of a libertine. He wore a Polish jacket and a pair of baggy riding breeches. His boots had such narrow uppers it was hard to imagine how a man’s foot could slip into them. He always came with presents in hand: all kinds of small packages tied with colored ribbons and held with little wooden handles.
Mother came into Father’s study and said, “These things are unheard of even among respectable gentiles … an adulterous woman!”
“I don’t want to hear about it! Enough!” Father replied.
“It’s like getting slapped in the face when I look at them!”
“So don’t look! What’s there to look at?”
“Perhaps you should summon her to your courtroom.”
Father sighed. First of all, he knew that anything he said would do no good; second, he didn’t want to hear the voice of such a wanton. He said, “She would defile the apartment.”
“One must warn someone before imposing punishment!” Mother answered, quoting the Talmud.
Father placed his handkerchief on the Talmud he was studying. “Who should summon her?”
“Mama, I’ll go.”
Father cast an angry glance at me. “I don’t want you to have anything to do with such people.”
But there was no one else to go. Furthermore, if a stranger went, the woman would surely pay him no heed. I heard Mother telling Father, “What does he know? He doesn’t know a thing …”
“Well then, all right.”
They told me to summon the woman, and I went off at once. I was a bit afraid of the dog, but my curiosity to see this dissolute apartment was greater than my fear. As soon as I knocked on the door, I heard the dog barking. Then I saw the mistress of the house. She wore an unbuttoned, lace-decorated housecoat and a pair of wide bloomers also adorned with lace. I could see her breasts, too. She stood next to me, a hunk of evil impulse, Rehab the prostitute, a Biblical harlot, a half-naked piece of riffraff. All kinds of unkosher smells emanated from her. The entire woman was one chunk of trayfness. My nose was subjected to such awful smells I couldn’t even speak.
“Papa is summoning you!” I barely managed to say.
“And who’s your papa?”
“The rabbi.”
“What does the rabbi need me for?”
And she began to laugh, displaying a set of broad teeth. Here and there a piece of gold glinted. Her lover came into the room; he wore no jacket but had on a gold, polka-dotted little vest. The parrot began screeching. The dog began barking again.
The man asked, “What does the little jerk want?”
“I’m being summoned to the rabbi.”
“Tell his father to go fly a kite,” the man responded, slamming the door in my face.
I left, stung to the core. I told my parents what I had seen. Father said in Aramaic, “Since he has so much impudence, it’s obvious that he’s a bastard.” In this fashion Father took his revenge upon the wanton by quoting a line from the Gemara.
Nevertheless, half an hour later the neighbor came to our apartment. Father began lecturing her, but the woman denied everything.
“Never mind what people say,” she said. “People have big yaps, so they shoot off their mouths. Let ‘em babble, let ’em blab with their behinds. Let ’em spit up blood and pus. Sure, as if I’ve got nothing better to think about when my husband is sitting in the clinker than another man! … May their bones rot! A fire in their kishkes!”
“One is forbidden to curse.”
“Rabbi, it’s the truth.”
“One is forbidden to curse even if it’s the truth.”
“Rabbi, I’m a kosher wife. It’s all a lie. There’s not one bit of truth in it. He’s my husband’s good friend, so he comes into the house to hear news. What should I do? Throw him out?”
“God forbid.”
“Then what?”
“It is written that one is forbidden to give people the opportunity to be suspicious.”
“Is it my fault that people have big eyes? May their eyes go blind, dear sweet Father in heaven!”
Father apparently believed her, because he went on: “Why do you keep a dog? It’s not a Jewish trait.”
“Rabbi, the street is full of thieves. If not for the dog, I’d be in the poorhouse.”
You’re full of baloney! You’re talking through your hat, I thought to myself. You can pick a pocket just by looking. But Father became milder and milder. He said, “One doesn’t live forever. It is written that when a person dies, God forbid, neither silver nor gold accompanies him. Not precious stones and pearls but only mitzvahs and good deeds.”
“Don’t you think I know this? I have a little charity box hanging in my kitchen. I light candles every Friday night. Every day I put in a couple of coins. May my husband come back to me in good health! …”
Before she left Father wished her well.
As soon as she had departed, Mother came in. “Well, what have you accomplished?”
“She denies everything.”
“And do you believe her?”
“People dream up all kinds of stories.”
Mother was annoyed with Father, saying that anyone could fool him. Then she quoted a Biblical verse to him that was hardly complimentary. He sat there with his head bent. By nature he trusted people and didn’t like to delve into sins and wickedness. He had but one wish: to return to studying his sacred text.
A couple of months later the woman’s husband was released from jail, but her lover—that’s what they still called him on the street—kept coming to the apartment. The gramophone played on, the dog barked, the parrot screeched, and the canaries trilled. Again they gave a party and, evidently, once more invited the police. It was summertime and hot in our apartment, but Father ordered me to close the windows and said, “Why are you wandering about? Go study a Gemara.”
QUESTION OR ADVICE?
The door opened and a young man entered. He was bent over like an old man, beardless, wearing a black suit with tin buttons and a hat with a leather brim. His eyes shone with suffering and stubbornness. His face was bronze-colored and his cheeks hollow. His entrance frightened my mother a bit, for his footfalls were not heard on the steps. He just stood there and did not say a word.
“What do you want?”
“Is the rabbi here?”
“He’s in the study.”
“What’s the good word?” Father asked unceremoniously.
“Rabbi, my wife is a whore,” the newcomer called out.
Only now did Father raise his eyes from the Gemara he was studying. Confused, he placed a narrow black cord on the page, then took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“What are you talking about?”
“Rabbi, I’m not making it up. She’s got a lover who spends days and nights in our house. She kisses him right in front of me. When I leave, he creeps into her bed …”
“Nu, nu, nu … tsk tsk tsk,” Father muttered. He looked around, apparently suspicious that I was in the room. But I was standing behind the bookcase, which was perpendicular to the wall, and he couldn’t see me. And besides, he was nearsighted. For a while he sat staring into his text as though ashamed. Then he said, “Why do you let such a person into your apartment?”
“She takes in anybody she wa
nts. She wears the pants in the family, not me.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a gravedigger. Not in the cemetery on Genshe Street3 but in the one in Praga. That’s where I work.”
Father wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Nu …”
“I’m not home all day long. Sometimes I go out early in the morning and don’t come back till very late at night. Sometimes there are a lot of dead people. So she does what she wants. She lives with him openly and makes a laughingstock of me!”
“Stick her with a divorce!” Father shouted. “You are not allowed to remain under one roof with such a promiscuous woman!”
“Rabbi, she denies it completely.”
“What do you mean, she denies it? You yourself just said you’ve seen it with your own eyes.”
“I saw them kissing, but not—like they say—not the real thing.”
“That is enough. A married woman who kisses another man is a whore!” Father raised his voice again. “She deserves to be divorced without a settlement.”
“She doesn’t want to divorce me.”
“Put the bill of divorce in her hands. You are not allowed to be with her one minute longer.”
“Even if she only kisses him?”
“Yes. One thing leads to another. Even if a woman is just running around, one may divorce her. The Gemara calls someone like that a prostitute. A Jewish girl doesn’t run around and doesn’t consort with strange men. Woe unto us, it’s awful!”
“Rabbi, we have two children. Two decent girls.”
“Take the children away from her. With such a mother the children will grow up to be licentious, God forbid. Why didn’t you speak up before?” Father was roused again.
“I always thought she would come to her senses. After all, it’s not easy to destroy one’s home.”
“In such matters there’s no such thing as ‘coming to one’s senses,’” Father said. “Of course, one can repent any deed, but when a married woman has dealings with a strange man, she becomes defiled. Who is he, this sinner of Israel? Why did you let him into your home in the first place?”
More Stories From My Father's Court Page 4