More Stories From My Father's Court

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  “And what would happen if someone came into a store and asked for ten garments instead of one?”

  “Why should he want more? Everybody would take what he needs.”

  “Some people live on fancy Marshalkovska Street,” Mother said, “while others live somewhere in the back of the city, on the outskirts of town, in Peltzovizna, or even in Siberia. If everyone is equal, everyone would want to live on Marshalkovska Street.”

  “What does it matter where you live?”

  “Everyone would want the best and the most beautiful for himself.”

  “That’s only because of money. Once the evil impulse for money disappears, people will be satisfied with a little bit,” Father said.

  “If everybody works, whom will a person go to for religious questions?” I asked.

  “I will decide religious questions,” Father replied, “but without charge. One is forbidden to take money for deciding religious questions or judging a lawsuit. One is not allowed to use one’s Torah learning as a source of income.”

  “And what will they do with money?”

  “Paper money is just paper, it has no value. From the gold they’ll make jewelry, or who knows what.”

  Father spoke of all this as if it would happen soon, tomorrow, but Mother gave the wise smile of a knowing adult who is listening to childish fantasies.

  “Go wash. Supper’s getting cold!”

  At the meal Father didn’t stop speaking about anarchism.

  “Of course Jews long for the Messiah, but while we’re in Exile it would be quite a good thing. We wouldn’t have to pay rent. There would be no thieves. Why would a thief steal if he could work four hours a day? We wouldn’t need policemen or janitors to lock the gates, and there wouldn’t be any soldiers or wars. Because why do kings wage wars? For money.”

  “Father, would the Czar have to work also?”

  “Why not? Every king would have to learn a trade,” Father said. “Our Czar would learn shoemaking. A king would have to learn a trade. Otherwise what would he do when he’s no longer the king? He’d have to go begging from door to door. But with a trade his livelihood would be secure.”

  “And who would remove the garbage?” Mother asked. “And who would want to be a tanner? And who would want to be a chimney sweep and risk his life crawling on roofs?”

  Father’s explanations were in vain. Mother’s questions grew sharper and sharper. Suddenly Mother declared, “And why should the rich agree to this? They have palaces, maids, servants, coaches. Why should Rothschild give away all that he has and learn how to become a shoemaker?”

  “So that justice would prevail. Generals and counts have joined this movement.”

  “Perhaps one crazy general did. The rich don’t need justice. The peasants starve while the rich send their darling sons to Paris to carouse. Why would they want to become equal with peasants?”

  Father gave all kinds of answers, but the notion that the rich could simply be forced did not occur to him. “Force” and “might” were words that my father never considered. The core of all his remarks was that once everyone understood the benefits, all would agree.

  Father finished supper quicker than usual and asked for the fingerbowl to dip his fingers before saying grace. He rarely spent time on the balcony, but that night he asked me to bring a chair out for him. I took one for myself as well. Outside it was hot, noisy, full of chimney smoke. Father sat and described the anarchists’ plans to me. Everyone would work and everyone would have an income. At age thirteen every boy would learn a trade. No line of work would be disgraceful. Nowadays people are ashamed of a trade because a worker is poor and also because workers are considered common. They have no time to study, but with a four-hour day everyone would be a scholar. In the Talmud we learn about the sages Rabbi Yochanan the shoemaker and Rabbi Joshua the blacksmith. In ancient times it wasn’t shameful to be a laborer. Our forefather Jacob was a shepherd, and so were Moses and King David.

  “Father, what will I be?”

  “You’re also going to be a shoemaker. We’ll work together. And after work we’ll sit and study.”

  “Where will we work?”

  “At home.”

  “In the living room?”

  “Why not?”

  “Father, you can’t be a shoemaker.”

  “Why not? It’s an easy line of work.”

  I always loved my father but that evening I loved him even more. Of all the news that he brought from the shtibl I liked this item best. I kissed him and combed his beard with my fingers. Father sat on the balcony until late at night, depicting the happy times to come, when there would be no need for money and everyone would work and study Torah. Then he began reciting the bedtime prayer “Hear O Israel.” I hoped that this plan would quickly come true. I could already see my father sitting at a cobbler’s bench holding a hammer, an awl, and shoemaker’s thread, and me sitting next to him. People still come to us with lawsuits, but they don’t pay for the service. I go to Esther’s candy store and they give me everything free: chocolate, ice cream, cookies, caramels.

  However, days passed and we did not hear anything about anarchism. Every time Father returned from the Radziminer shtibl, I asked him what was happening with the anarchists. Each time he replied, “Things like that don’t happen overnight.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A while.”

  I realized then that Father’s enthusiasm for the matter had cooled considerably. Apparently someone in the Radziminer shtibl had told him that this entire philosophy was incompatible with Judaism. He no longer wanted to discuss it. When I asked him, he responded, “Be a Jew and the Messiah will come.”

  The Messiah had to come, because our poverty at home was worsening. All kinds of troubles beset us. My sister in Antwerp sent us a depressing eight-page letter. The paper was tear-stained. She had already given birth to a boy, Moishele. But there was a crisis among the diamond cutters and polishers. Her husband had been out of work for weeks and months. Other young people took on different jobs, but her husband knew no other line of work. He hadn’t brought home a franc, and she and her child were in dire straits.

  As poor as we were, we had to send money to Belgium. There were very few lawsuits, and when somebody did come for one, Father would be in the Hasidic shtibl or at the ritual bath. I would go to call him, but the litigants rarely wanted to wait.

  I remember one such incident very well. Just after Father left the house to go to the ritual bath on Gnoyna Street, some people came who were willing to wait for Father. I ran to the ritual bath, but getting there was tricky. One had to go down a staircase and pass all kinds of apartments with half-painted walls and protruding pipes in which either hot water or steam flowed. This wasn’t just a ritual bath but an entire labyrinth.

  I stumbled about lost, as if in a dream. I opened one door and saw a naked woman who started screaming. I got scared, worrying that I wouldn’t make it out of all these corridors and passageways alive. Finally, I found the men’s ritual bath. Father was not there. Men walked about naked. How weird they looked with their wet beards, dripping sidecurls, and hairy and sagging limbs. And they were bareheaded to boot. Only one man stood in the water, and all the others looked at him in astonishment, wagging their fingers at him. The water was boiling hot. No one else dared set foot in it. But this one man with a black beard and bright red skin was soaking in it. Every once in a while he dunked his head; when he surfaced he cried out breathlessly, “Oh, it’s delicious! May no goy ever feel how good it is!”

  I returned home and saw that the men were no longer there—they couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Did you find him, that insufferable shlimazel?” Mother said. Both she and I knew that one was forbidden to speak that way about Father. But our poverty was oppressive. We were supposed to have paid twenty-four rubles in rent on the eighth of the month. But now the eighth was coming again and we still hadn’t paid. Reb Mendl, the landlord, always sent the janitor to demand pa
yment. He threatened to inventory our belongings and put them up for public auction. We owed money in every shop. We looked bedraggled and couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. Mother said bitterly, “Where did he disappear to? Among normal people the man of the house thinks of livelihood, but he spends days on end in the study houses. What’s going to become of us?”

  And then out of the blue she remarked, “Ah, woe, I’ve been asked to divorce him!”

  The idea that my parents might get divorced and become strangers was unimaginably horrible. It was almost as wild as the fact that my parents had once been strangers and a matchmaker had brought them together. Our world was full of awful truths. The older I got, the more these truths tore open my eyes, increasing the turmoil that encompassed me.

  MY FATHER’S FRIEND

  I often hear Yiddish writers talking about publishing and distributing books. They’ll speak of typesetting, matrices, plates, sheets of paper. But I’m probably one of the few writers who have known the terminology of printing from very early childhood. My father wrote commentaries on sacred texts and had his books printed. Early on, I knew about typesetting a book with lead font, correcting galleys, handling matrices, pouring lead, printing, and binding. Despite my father’s meager income, he saved money in order to publish his books. Father would say, “A book remains forever.”

  Aside from publishing his own books, he also edited a manuscript by Rabbi Joseph Shor, author of Pri Megadim. I remember that manuscript as if it were before me. It was bound and had faded letters on yellowish-gray paper. Nevertheless, the handwriting, which even then was one hundred and fifty years old, was still legible. The title of the book was Notrikon, and like everything else that Rabbi Joseph Shor had written, its style was obtuse. Father worked on this old manuscript with a good friend, known in rabbinic circles for his books and whom I will call Reb Nachman.

  It was a great joy for me to stand by the table and listen to Father talking with Reb Nachman. Both had reddish beards and blue eyes, but Reb Nachman was an elegant Hasid. His alpaca gaberdine always sparkled. On his nose rested a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, which hung on a black string. His boots were polished to a bright shine. Smart and gentle, he came from a fine family and was a former student of Reb Tzodik Lubliner, who during his lifetime had written several hundred books, which Reb Nachman kept reprinting. Father enjoyed Reb Nachman’s bon mots, and Reb Nachman enjoyed Father’s bold talk. They hit it off very well. Although I heard Reb Nachman call the Radziminer Rebbe by some nasty names, Reb Nachman’s entire behavior was that of a scholar and an aristocrat.

  But woe unto Jewish aristocrats!

  For despite all the books that Reb Nachman published, he didn’t earn a penny from them—and so his son had to make cigarettes. Apparently this was not a kosher line of work. It was contraband, because packs of cigarettes were supposed to bear a customs tax stamp proving that the duty had been paid. But, after all, what could a scholarly Jew with a wife and children do? His son peddled these cigarettes to stores, and this was a supplement to their earnings, perhaps their sole income.

  One day my father sent me to Reb Nachman’s house, but I don’t remember why. His apartment was somewhat different from ours. They had more children and also more furniture. He sat at his desk wearing an old vest and a little cap. Spread out before him were colored slate pencils and bottles of ink and India ink. Reb Nachman not only had a beautiful handwriting but, with the talent of a graphic artist, he could also “print” letters to decorate title pages with all kinds of little flowers, wheels, and circles.

  Since Reb Nachman often came to us and my father rarely went to visit him, I was given a royal welcome. Reb Nachman talked to me as if I were his equal. Since he had already heard that my older brother, Israel Joshua, had strayed from the path, he spoke to me about the heretics. He showed me a sheet of paper on which he had drawn all manner of flowers, small birds, and eagles.

  “Have a look,” he said. “If somebody told you that all this came about of its own accord, you’d say that man is crazy. But the heretics say that the world was created by itself. Isn’t that madness?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And man, they say, is descended from monkeys. But where did the monkey come from? Can a monkey create itself?”

  “No.”

  “And the earth, they say, was torn from the sun. Well then, where did the sun come from? They’ll babble all kinds of nonsense as long as they don’t have to admit the truth that there is a Creator.”

  Reb Nachman’s remarks made me blush. In our house I wasn’t spoken to with such respect. There I was just a little boy. But here they treated me like a young man and served me a glass of tea and a cookie. A girl my age with dark hair and long braids came into the room, followed by another girl. I could smell cutlets frying in the kitchen. Reb Nachman’s apartment was not as bare as ours. Here everything mingled: Torah, clever talk, girls, good cooking, and a table full of pencils, inks, brushes, and stencils. Reb Nachman even discussed the heretics, whose views I had wanted to know for a long time.

  Then I heard loud banging on the front door. There was an uproar; gentiles were talking. Reb Nachman jumped up from his chair. I too stood and witnessed a bizarre scene: the kitchen was full of police. I saw a detective, an investigating officer, and other officials with gilt-button uniforms bedecked with little crowns. The janitor followed them, hat in hand. Even a man dressed in civilian clothes came with them, a secret agent. I didn’t understand their Russian, but from the way the officials yelled, stomped their boots, and held their swords, I realized that this was an inspection. Reb Nachman’s face turned as white as paper. The frightened little girls shrank into a corner. His wife pleaded with the men, but they shouted at her. I was very frightened and began to tremble.

  “Can I go home?” I asked Reb Nachman.

  He looked at me in confusion. “If they let you.”

  I moved toward the door, but a policeman stopped me. “Where are you going?”

  I either didn’t know about Reb Nachman’s business or didn’t know that he dealt in illicit goods. I stood there shaking. A while back, my friend Boruch Dovid and I had seen the Warsaw prison, its yellow walls, barred windows covered with iron mesh netting, behind which stood sallow-faced prisoners, and the black gates through which the prisoners were brought in police wagons.

  I was certain that my time had come and I would be put in jail. I would rot there between the thick walls along with Reb Nachman and his family and no one would come to save me. But why did I deserve this? And what did they want from Reb Nachman and his little girls? Was he the victim of a false accusation? Had a decree been issued against him?

  I recalled the story of Rabbi Akiva, who had been tortured with iron combs and whose soul departed with the words “Hear O Israel.” Would I come to a similar end? Had the Khmelnitski period returned, or the era of the destruction of the Holy Temple?

  Oh, if only I could jump out the window! Oh, if only I could suddenly sprout wings and fly off like an eagle! Oh, if I could suddenly become as strong as the mighty Samson and grab a jawbone and begin beating these Philistines! Or if I had the sort of hat that could make me invisible, I’d walk out the door and they’d see only emptiness.

  I hadn’t yet been arrested, but such a strong desire to be free came over me that I thought, What have I lacked till now? What was there to worry about when I could walk down the streets freely? The summer day, the Warsaw streets, our own home suddenly became dear and precious to me. I looked fearfully at the swords, the epaulets, the whistles, the medals. A thought ran through my head: If there was a God, why was He silent? How could He permit such wicked men to torment Jews?

  After some discussion the policemen began searching the apartment. One remained standing by the door. At first they found nothing; then suddenly from somewhere they began pulling out boxes of cigarettes and cigarette paper, tobacco, and, I think, other merchandise as well, wrapped in all kinds of paper and tissue paper. And if that wasn’t enou
gh, the civilian brought a crowbar and they started breaking open the floorboards. They opened the floor at the proper spot, under which they found more boxes and paper-wrapped goods.

  “Someone informed on us!” Reb Nachman exclaimed.

  “Be quiet! No talking!” ordered a policeman.

  The inspection lasted about three hours. Perspiration poured out of me and I nearly melted. It threaded down my back, over my belly, over my entire body. My shirt was soaking wet. Even the policemen noticed and joked about it. One of them grabbed one of my sidecurls, but his hand got wet. I felt myself being overwhelmed by fear. I felt everything in me melting away; soon, I thought, there’d be nothing left.

  Reb Nachman’s girls looked at me, and even though the family was in trouble, they smiled. After a while, it appeared that all the perspiration had run out of me. But I still stood there trembling and quaking with fear and shame. These gentiles, with their swords, revolvers, Russian talk, peasant jokes, awoke in me a hatred that I had never before felt toward any other person. I stood face-to-face with the evil ones.

  I don’t recall exactly how it ended, but when Reb Nachman’s son finally arrived, he took some of the officials into a bedroom, spoke confidentially, and made a deal with them. All my fear had been in vain. Neither he nor any other member of his household was dragged off to jail.

  After the policemen left, Reb Nachman took hold of his beard and said, “What a life for Jews! I swear, it’s high time for the Messiah to come.”

  They wanted to give me some more snacks and invited me to stay for a meal, but I wanted to leave this apartment. What had happened here not only frightened me but troubled me greatly. I had already heard plenty of my brother’s complaints that Jews were little shopkeepers, business agents, idlers, and nondescripts. There were more shopkeepers than customers. Fathers-in-law gave their sons-in-law free board for several years, but they themselves had nothing to eat. My brother spoke of the Land of Israel, where Jews had taken up farming and were becoming a normal people. He also insinuated that those who toiled bitterly had nothing to eat for the Sabbath, while those who walked about with nothing to do were loaded with gold. He had spoken with Mother about the Bilgoray sievemakers, who slaved away in the workshops all week long and on Fridays went begging from door to door.