The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  Because she had nothing to occupy her time with, Akhsa spent all day and part of the night in her husband’s library. Ludwik had not added to it, and the books were old, bound in leather, in wood, or in moth-eaten velvet and silk. The pages were yellow and foxed. Akhsa read stories of ancient kings, faraway countries, of all sorts of battles and intrigues among princes, cardinals, dukes. She pored over tales of the Crusades and the Black Plague. The world crawled with wickedness, but it was also full of wonders. Stars in the sky warred and swallowed one another. Comets foretold catastrophes. A child was born with a tail; a woman grew scales and fins. In India, fakirs stepped barefooted on red-hot coals without being burned. Others let themselves be buried alive, and then rose from their graves.

  It was strange, but after the night Akhsa found the crown of feathers in her pillow she was not given another sign from the powers that rule the universe. She never heard from her grandfather or grandmother. There were times when Akhsa desired to call out to her grandfather, but she did not dare mention his name with her unclean lips. She had betrayed the Jewish God and she no longer believed in the Gentile one, so she refrained from praying. Often when Zelig Frampoler came to the estate and Akhsa saw him from the window, she wanted to ask him about the Jewish community, but she was afraid that he might hold it a sin to speak to her, and that Gloria would denounce her for associating with Jews.

  Years rolled by. Gloria’s hair turned white and her head shook. Ludwik’s goatee became gray. The servants grew old, deaf, and half blind. Akhsa, or Maria, was in her thirties, but she often imagined herself an old woman. With the years she became more and more convinced that it was the Devil who had persuaded her to convert and that it was he who had fashioned the crown of feathers. But the road back was blocked. The Russian law forbade a convert to return to his faith. The bit of information that reached her about the Jews was bad: the synagogue in Krasnobród had burned down, as well as the stores in the marketplace. Dignified householders and community elders hung bags on their shoulders and went begging. Every few months there was an epidemic. There was nowhere to return to. She often contemplated suicide, but how? She lacked the courage to hang herself or cut her veins; she had no poison.

  Slowly, Akhsa came to the conclusion that the universe was ruled by the black powers. It was not God holding dominion but Satan. She found a thick book about witchcraft that contained detailed descriptions of spells and incantations, talismans, the conjuring up of demons and goblins, the sacrifices to Asmodeus, Lucifer, and Beelzebub. There were accounts of the Black Mass; and of how the witches anointed their bodies, gathered in the forest, partook of human flesh, and flew in the air riding on brooms, shovels, and hoops, accompanied by bevies of devils and other creatures of the night that had horns and tails, bat’s wings, and the snouts of pigs. Often these monsters lay with the witches, who gave birth to freaks.

  Akhsa reminded herself of the Yiddish proverb “If you cannot go over, go under.” She had lost the world to come; therefore, she decided to enjoy some revelry while she had this life. At night she began to call the Devil, prepared to make a covenant with him as many neglected women had done before.

  Once in the middle of the night, after Akhsa had swallowed a potion of mead, spittle, human blood, crow’s egg spiced with galbanum and mandrake, she felt a cold kiss on her lips. In the shine of the late-night moon she saw a naked male figure—tall and black, with long elflocks, the horns of a buck, and two protruding teeth, like a boar’s. He bent down over her, whispering, “What is your command, my mistress? You may ask for half my kingdom.”

  His body was as translucent as a spider web. He stank of pitch. Akhsa had been about to reply, “You, my slave, come and have me.” Instead, she murmured, “My grandparents.”

  The Devil burst into laughter. “They are dust!”

  “Did you braid the crown of feathers?” Akhsa asked.

  “Who else?”

  “You deceived me?”

  “I am a deceiver,” the Devil answered with a giggle.

  “Where is the truth?” Akhsa asked.

  “The truth is that there is no truth.”

  The Devil lingered for a while and then disappeared. For the remainder of the night, Akhsa was neither asleep nor awake. Voices spoke to her. Her breasts became swollen, her nipples hard, her belly distended. Pain bored into her skull. Her teeth were on edge, and her tongue enlarged so that she feared it would split her palate. Her eyes bulged from their sockets. There was a knocking in her ears as loud as a hammer on an anvil. Then she felt as if she were in the throes of labor. “I’m giving birth to a demon!” Akhsa cried out. She began to pray to the God she had forsaken. Finally she fell asleep, and when she awoke in the pre-dawn darkness all her pains had ceased. She saw her grandfather standing at the foot of her bed. He wore a white robe and cowl, such as he used to wear on the eve of Yom Kippur when he blessed Akhsa before going to the Kol Nidre prayer. A light shone from his eyes and lit up Akhsa’s quilt. “Grandfather,” Akhsa murmured.

  “Yes, Akhsa. I am here.”

  “Grandfather, what shall I do?”

  “Run away. Repent.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “It is never too late. Find the man you shamed. Become a Jewish daughter.”

  Later, Akhsa did not remember whether her grandfather had actually spoken to her or she had understood him without words. The night was over. Daybreak reddened the window. Birds were twittering. Akhsa examined her sheet. There was no blood. She had not given birth to a demon. For the first time in years, she recited the Hebrew prayer of thanksgiving.

  She got out of bed, washed at the basin, and covered her hair with a shawl. Ludwik and Gloria had robbed her of her inheritance, but she still possessed her grandmother’s jewelry. She wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it in a basket, together with a shirt and underwear. Ludwik had either stayed the night with one of his mistresses or he had left at dawn to hunt. Gloria lay sick in her boudoir. The maid brought Akhsa her breakfast, but she ate little. Then she left the estate. Dogs barked at her as if she were a stranger. The old servants looked in amazement as the squiress passed through the gates with a basket on her arm and a kerchief on her head like a peasant woman.

  Although Malkowski’s property was not far from Krasnobród, Akhsa spent most of the day on the road. She sat down to rest and washed her hands in a stream. She recited grace and ate the slice of bread she had brought with her.

  Near the Krasnobród cemetery stood the hut of Eber, the gravedigger. Outside, his wife was washing linen in a tub. Akhsa asked her, “Is this the way to Krasnobród?”

  “Yes, straight ahead.”

  “What’s the news from the village?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a relative of Reb Naftali Holishitzer.”

  The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “Not a soul is left of that family.”

  “Where is Akhsa?”

  The old woman trembled. “She should have been buried head first, Father in Heaven.” And she told about Akhsa’s conversion. “She’s had her punishment already in this world.”

  “What became of the yeshiva boy she was betrothed to?”

  “Who knows? He isn’t from around here.”

  Akhsa asked about the graves of her grandparents, and the old woman pointed to two headstones bent one toward the other, overgrown with moss and weeds. Akhsa prostrated herself in front of them and lay there until nightfall.

  For three months, Akhsa wandered from yeshiva to yeshiva, but she did not find Zemach. She searched in community record books, questioned elders and rabbis—without result. Since not every town had an inn, she often slept in the poorhouse. She lay on a pallet of straw, covered with a mat, praying silently that her grandfather would appear and tell her where to find Zemach. He gave no sign. In the darkness, the old and the sick coughed and muttered. Children cried. Mothers cursed. Although Akhsa accepted this as part of her punishment, she could not overcome her sense of indignity. Community leaders scol
ded her. They made her wait for days to see them. Women were suspicious of her—why was she looking for a man who no doubt had a wife and children, or might even be in his grave? “Grandfather, why did you drive me to this?” Akhsa cried. “Either show me the way or send death to take me.”

  On a wintry afternoon, while Akhsa was sitting in an inn in Lublin, she asked the innkeeper if he had ever heard of a man called Zemach—small in stature, swarthy, a former yeshiva boy and scholar. One of the other guests said, “You mean Zemach, the teacher from Izbica?”

  He described Zemach, and Akhsa knew she had found the one she was looking for. “He was engaged to marry a girl in Krasnobród,” she said.

  “I know. The convert. Who are you?”

  “A relative.”

  “What do you want with him?” the guest asked. “He’s poor, and stubborn to boot. All his pupils have been taken away from him. He’s a wild and contrary man.”

  “Does he have a wife?”

  “He’s had two already. One he tortured to death and the other left him.”

  “Does he have children?”

  “No, he’s sterile.”

  The guest was about to say more, but a servant came to call for him.

  Akhsa’s eyes filled with tears. Her grandfather had not forsaken her. He had led her in the right direction. She went to arrange conveyance to Izbica, and in front of the inn stood a covered wagon ready to leave. “No, I am not alone,” she said to herself. “Every step is known in Heaven.”

  In the beginning, the roads were paved, but soon they became dirt trails full of holes and ditches. The night was wet and dark. Often the passengers had to climb down and help the coachman push the wagon out of the mud. The others scolded him, but Akhsa accepted her discomfort with grace. Wet snow was falling and a cold wind blew. Every time she got out of the wagon she sank over her ankles in mud. They arrived in Izbica late in the evening. The whole village was a swamp. The huts were dilapidated. Someone showed Akhsa the way to Zemach the teacher’s house—it was on a hill near the butcher shops. Even though it was winter, there was a stench of decay in the air. Butcher-shop dogs were slinking around.

  Akhsa looked into the window of Zemach’s hut and saw peeling walls, a dirt floor, and shelves of worn books. A wick in a dish of oil gave the only light. At the table sat a little man with a black beard, bushy brows, a yellow face, and a pointed nose. He was bending myopically over a large volume. He wore the lining of a skullcap and a quilted jacket that showed the dirty batting. As Akhsa stood watching, a mouse came out of its hole and scurried over to the bed, which had a pallet of rotting straw, a pillow without a case, and a moth-eaten sheepskin for a blanket. Even though Zemach had aged, Akhsa recognized him. He scratched himself. He spat on his fingertips and wiped them on his forehead. Yes, that was he. Akhsa wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. In a moment she turned her face toward the darkness. For the first time in years, she heard her grandmother’s voice. “Akhsa, run away.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back to Esau.”

  Then she heard her grandfather’s voice. “Akhsa, he will save you from the abyss.”

  Akhsa had never heard her grandfather speak with such fervor. She felt the emptiness that comes before fainting. She leaned against the door and it opened.

  Zemach lifted one bushy brow. His eyes were bulging and jaundiced. “What do you want?” he rasped.

  “Are you Reb Zemach?”

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “Akhsa, from Krasnobród. Once your fiancée …”

  Zemach was silent. He opened his crooked mouth, revealing a single tooth, black as a hook. “The convert?”

  “I have come back to Jewishness.”

  Zemach jumped up. A terrible cry tore from him. “Get out of my house! Blotted be your name!”

  “Reb Zemach, please hear me!”

  He ran toward her with clenched fists. The dish of oil fell and the light was extinguished. “Filth!”

  The study house in Holishitz was packed. It was the day before the new moon, and a crowd had gathered to recite the supplications. From the women’s section came the sound of pious recitation. Suddenly the door opened, and a black-bearded man wearing tattered clothes strode in. A bag was slung over his shoulder. He was leading a woman on a rope as if she were a cow. She wore a black kerchief on her head, a dress made of sackcloth, and rags on her feet. Around her neck hung a wreath of garlic. The worshippers stopped their prayers. The stranger gave a sign to the woman and she prostrated herself on the threshold. “Jews, step on me!” she called. “Jews, spit on me!”

  Turmoil rose in the study house. The stranger went up to the reading table, tapped for silence, and intoned, “This woman’s family comes from your town. Her grandfather was Reb Naftali Holishitzer. She is the Akhsa who converted and married a squire. She has seen the truth now and wants to atone for her abominations.”

  Though Holishitz was in the part of Poland that belonged to Austria, the story of Akhsa had been heard there. Some of the worshippers protested that this was not the way of repentance; a human being should not be dragged by a rope, like cattle. Others threatened the stranger with their fists. It was true that in Austria a convert could return to Jewishness according to the law of the land. But if the Gentiles were to learn that one who went over to their faith had been humiliated in such a fashion, harsh edicts and recriminations might result. The old rabbi, Reb Bezalel, approached Akhsa with quick little steps. “Get up, my daughter. Since you have repented, you are one of us.”

  Akhsa rose. “Rabbi, I have disgraced my people.”

  “Since you repent, the Almighty will forgive you.”

  When the worshippers in the women’s section heard what was going on, they rushed into the room with the men, the rabbi’s wife among them. Reb Bezalel said to her, “Take her home and dress her in decent clothing. Man was created in God’s image.”

  “Rabbi,” Akhsa said, “I want to atone for my iniquities.”

  “I will prescribe a penance for you. Don’t torture yourself.”

  Some of the women began to cry. The rabbi’s wife took off her shawl and hung it over Akhsa’s shoulders. Another matron offered Akhsa a cape. They led her into the chamber where in olden times they had kept captive those who sinned against the community—it still contained a block and chain. The women dressed Akhsa there. Someone brought her a skirt and shoes. As they busied themselves about her, Akhsa beat her breast with her fist and recounted her sins: she had spited God, served idols, copulated with a Gentile. She sobbed, “I practiced witchcraft. I conjured up Satan. He braided me a crown of feathers.” When Akhsa was dressed, the rabbi’s wife took her home.

  After prayers, the men began to question the stranger as to who he was and how he was connected with Reb Naftali’s granddaughter.

  He replied, “My name is Zemach. I was supposed to become her husband, but she refused me. Now she has come to ask my forgiveness.”

  “A Jew should forgive.”

  “I forgive her, but the Almighty is a God of vengeance.”

  “He is also a God of mercy.”

  Zemach began a debate with the scholars, and his erudition was obvious at once. He quoted the Talmud, the Commentaries, and the Responsa. He even corrected the rabbi when he misquoted.

  Reb Bezalel asked him, “Do you have a family?”

  “I am divorced.”

  “In that case, everything can be set right.”

  The rabbi invited Zemach to go home with him. The women sat with Akhsa out in the kitchen. They urged her to eat bread with chicory. She had been fasting for three days. In the rabbi’s study the men looked after Zemach. They brought him trousers, shoes, a coat, and a hat. Since he was infested with lice, they took him to the baths.

  In the evening, the seven outstanding citizens of the town and all the important elders gathered. The wives brought Akhsa. The rabbi pronounced that, according to the law, Akhsa was not married. Her union with the squire was nothing but an act of lech
ery. The rabbi asked, “Zemach, do you desire Akhsa for a wife?”

  “I do.”

  “Akhsa, will you take Zemach for a husband?”

  “Yes, Rabbi, but I am not worthy.”

  The rabbi outlined Akhsa’s penance. She must fast each Monday and Thursday, abstain from meat and fish on the weekdays, recite psalms, and rise at dawn for prayers. The rabbi said to her, “The chief thing is not the punishment but the remorse. ‘And he will return and be healed,’ the prophet says.”

  “Rabbi, excuse,” Zemach interrupted. “This kind of penance is for common sins, not for conversion.”

  “What do you want her to do?”

  “There are more severe forms of contrition.”

  “What, for example?”

  “Wearing pebbles in the shoes. Rolling naked in the snow in winter—in nettles in summer. Fasting from Sabbath to Sabbath.”

  “Nowadays, people do not have the strength for such rigors,” the rabbi said after some hesitation.

  “If they have the strength to sin, they should have the strength to expiate.”

  “Holy Rabbi,” said Akhsa, “do not let me off lightly. Let the rabbi give me a harsh penance.”