The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  One Sabbath day, when Reb Mordecai Meir was sitting at the table murmuring, “I shall sing with praise,” he heard the crack of a gun and a hideous scream. In the courtyard there was a din. Windows were thrown open. The sound of a police whistle pierced the air. A neighbor came in to tell Reb Mordecai Meir that the “comrades,” the strikers, had shot one of their own, a bootmaker who was said to have denounced them to the police. Reb Mordecai Meir trembled.

  “Who did it—Jews?”

  “Yes, Jews.”

  “It is the end of the world.” And Reb Mordecai Meir immediately regretted his words. It was not permitted to be sad or utter words of despair on the Sabbath.

  Because Reb Mordecai Meir awoke for midnight prayers, he went to sleep early. At nine o’clock he was already in bed, often not undressed. He took off only his boots. That night he heard the kitchen door open and he recognized Fulie’s steps. He fell asleep again, but at exactly twelve he awoke, got up, performed the ceremony of ritual hand washing, put on a housecoat and slippers, and began to lament on the destruction of the Temple. On his head he smeared a bit of ash, which he kept in a small jar. He intoned a plaintive melody. When Reb Mordecai Meir came to the verse “Rachel laments for her children,” the door opened and Fulie entered barefoot, wearing a pair of dirty underpants, without a head covering. Reb Mordecai Meir raised his eyebrows and motioned to Fulie to leave and let him finish his supplications, but the boy said, “Grandfather, are you praying?”

  Reb Mordecai Meir was not certain whether he was permitted to interrupt his prayers. After some hesitation he said, “I am reciting midnight prayers.”

  “What kind are they?”

  “A Jew must never forget the destruction of the Temple.”

  “And what are you trying to accomplish by this?” Fulie asked.

  Even though Reb Mordecai Meir understood every individual word, he did not grasp their meaning. He wanted to ask Fulie where his fringed undergarment was, but he realized that the question was pointless. He thought a moment and said, “One must pray. With God’s help, the Messiah will come and there will be an end to the exile.”

  “If he hasn’t yet come,” Fulie asked, “why should he come now?”

  “The Messiah wants to come to the Jews more than they want him to come, but the generation must be worth it. The Heavens send plenty of blessings, but we block the channels of mercy with our iniquities.”

  “Grandfather, I must talk to you.”

  “What do you want to talk about? One is not allowed to interrupt midnight prayers.”

  “Grandfather, the world won’t get anywhere from all these prayers. People have prayed for nearly two thousand years, but the Messiah still did not get here on his white donkey. It’s a battle, Grandfather, a bitter war between the exploiters and the exploited. Who incited the peasants to make pogroms on Jews? The Black Hundreds, the reactionaries. If the workers don’t resist, we will be more enslaved. Grandfather, tomorrow there will be a big demonstration and I will be the speaker. If something should happen to me, I want you to give this envelope to a girl by the name of Nekhama Katz.”

  Now, for the first time, Reb Mordecai Meir noticed the boy holding a stuffed envelope.

  He said, “I don’t know any girls. I am an old man. Why are you involved with mutineers? You may be arrested, God forbid, and you will bring suffering on all of us. The czar has many Cossacks and he is stronger than you. Since you don’t believe in the soul and the hereafter, why put yourself in danger?”

  “Grandfather, I don’t want to begin the discussion all over again. All of Europe is free and here the czar is a tyrant. We have no parliament. What he and his satraps want, they do. The war with Japan cost millions. Thousands of soldiers were lost. In the West they worry about the hygiene of the workers, but here a worker is worse than a dog. If we don’t get a constitution, all of Russia will go down in blood.”

  Reb Mordecai Meir put down his prayer book. “Are you a worker?”

  “What I am is not important, Grandfather. We are fighting for something, an ideal. Here is the letter. Put it in the drawer. Perhaps I will be back tomorrow. If not, a girl by the name of Nekhama Katz will come. Give it to her.”

  “Don’t run, don’t rush. He who is above governs the world. He determines that there will be wealthy and poor people. If there were no poor people, no one would want to do the ordinary work. One is a merchant and another a chimney sweeper. If everyone were a shopkeeper, who would sweep the chimneys?”

  “We are striving to give chimney sweeps the same rights and the same means as merchants. Merchants aren’t necessary. In a socialist world, production will be apportioned according to need. We won’t let a middleman skim off the cream for himself.”

  “What! We Jews must not interfere. Whoever rules will persecute Jews.”

  “Anti-Semitism was created by the capitalists to divert the wrath of the masses against the regime. The Zionists want to run to Palestine, to the Tomb of Mother Rachel, but it’s all just fantasy. We Jews must fight, together with all other oppressed people, for a better tomorrow.”

  “All right, all right, give me the letter. Leave me in peace. ‘Except the Lord build a house, they labor in vain that build it.’ It is written: ‘No one should be punished before he is warned.’ The Gemara says: ‘If you go into a spice shop you smell good, and if you go into a tannery the stench stays with you.’ ”

  “Grandfather, what are you calling a stench, the people’s fight for their rights? Are you on the side of the exploiters?”

  “Give me the envelope.”

  “Good night, Grandfather. We’ll never understand each other.”

  Fulie left. Reb Mordecai Meir took hold of the envelope by one corner and put it into a drawer. He began to recite anew: “A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted.” A kerosene lamp was burning and Reb Mordecai Meir’s figure cast a large shadow on the wall. His head climbed the rafters. Reb Mordecai Meir grimaced and swayed back and forth. Can they possibly be made to understand the truth? he asked himself. They read a few books and repeat the gibberish. Constitution, schmonstitution! It’s a battle between good and evil, God and Satan, Israel and Amalek. Esau and Ishmael refused to accept the Torah. The slave enjoys being abandoned. But when Jews cast away the Law, they become like pagans and maybe even worse. How could the Messiah come? Possibly, God forbid, the whole generation would become entirely guilty. He wiped his brow. “Oy, Father. The water reaches up to the very neck!”

  After finishing prayers, Reb Mordecai Meir went back to bed. But this time he could not fall asleep. He heard the boy moving about in the kitchen. He banged the dishes, turned the faucet on. It seemed to Reb Mordecai Meir that he heard a sigh. Could that be Fulie? Who knows, perhaps he had thoughts of repentance. After all, on his mother’s side, he stemmed from righteous men. Even among his Litvak forefathers there were probably some devout Jews. Reb Mordecai Meir could not remain in bed. Maybe the boy could be persuaded to stay home. What he said that evening was like a last testament. Reb Mordecai Meir got out of bed with trembling feet. Once again he put on his slippers and robe. When he opened the kitchen door he saw something so bizarre that he did not believe his own eyes. Fulie was standing completely dressed, holding a revolver in his hand. Reb Mordecai knew what it was. On the Feast of Omer children were given such guns, not real ones, only toys.

  When he noticed his grandfather, Fulie laid the weapon on the kitchen table. “Grandfather, what do you want? Are you spying on me?”

  “What kind of an abomination is this?” he asked. He began to shiver and his teeth chattered.

  Fulie laughed. “Don’t be afraid, Grandfather. It’s not meant for you.”

  “For whom is it?”

  “For those who want to hold back progress, to keep the world in darkness.”

  “What? You will sentence them to death? Seventy judges were required in the Sanhedrin to condemn anyone to die. There had to be admo
nition and at least two witnesses. The Gemara says that a court which sentenced anyone to death even once in seventy years was called a court of murderers.”

  “Grandfather, these people have sentenced themselves. Their time is past, but they refuse to give up peacefully. So they’ll be made to leave by force.”

  “Fulie, Raphael, you are a Jew!” Reb Mordecai Meir choked on the words. “Esau lives by the sword. Not Jacob.”

  “Old wives’ tales. Jews are made of the same stuff as Gentiles. It’s all foolish chauvinism. This business about the Chosen People is sheer nonsense. Grandfather, I’m going.”

  “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! If they catch you, God forbid, they might …”

  “I know, I know. I am not a child.” Fulie put the revolver into the pocket of his pants. He took a package wrapped in newspaper with him. Probably some bread for a bite. He let the door slam as he left. Reb Mordecai Meir remained standing on unsteady feet. He leaned against the wall to keep from falling. “Have things gone so far?” he asked himself. Sleep was out of the question, but it was too early for morning prayers. The morning star was not yet in sight. Night and day still ruled in confusion.

  On wobbling feet, Reb Mordecai Meir walked over to the window. To the right the sky was still black. But to the left, in the east, it had become like daylight. All the stores on the street were shut. A baker’s apprentice passed by, barefoot, in white pants, carrying a tray of cakes or rolls on his head. “Well, baked goods are needed,” Reb Mordecai Meir murmured.

  He expected to see Fulie appear on the sidewalk, but he didn’t come through. The gate was probably still locked. He must have friends here in the yard, Reb Mordecai Meir decided. Woe, woe, what has become of my people! For the first time he was envious of Beyle Teme—she had not lived to see these calamities. By now she was certainly in Paradise. Until today, Reb Mordecai Meir had seldom thought of his wife during prayers. A Jew was supposed to pray directly to God, not to any saintly man or woman. But now Reb Mordecai Meir began to talk to Beyle Teme’s soul. “He is your grandchild. Intercede for him. Let nothing evil happen to him, and let him, God forbid, do no harm to others.”

  To the right, the moon was still visible and Reb Mordecai Meir looked up at it, the lesser light which, according to the Talmud, begrudged the greater light, and as compensation was given the stars. That meant that there was envy on high, Reb Mordecai Meir half asked, half stated. He could not bring himself to leave the window, hoping to see Fulie once more. The thought crossed his mind that Abraham also had an Esau for a grandchild. He had Ishmael for a son and the sons of Keturah. Even the saints couldn’t bring forth only good seeds. Suddenly the street was flooded with a reddish glow. The sun had risen over the banks of the Vistula. There was a clatter of horseshoes on cobblestones and the twittering of birds could be heard. Reb Mordecai Meir saw soldiers, their swords gleaming, riding on horses. The riders kept glancing at the upper floors.

  Is it against them that Fulie went to wage war? Reb Mordecai Meir pondered. He felt cold and shuddered. Never before had he wished to be rid of this world. But now he was ready to die. How much longer would he have to wander in the valley of tears? Better to go through the pains of Gehenna than to see this futile turmoil.

  The shouting and confusion began in the early morning. Right here in the street, it seemed, the rebels tried to conquer the forces of the Russian czar. Youths stormed out of every gate, shouting, waving their fists, and singing. Policemen, their swords bared, chased them and fired shots. A red flag was raised with more singing and shouting. The stores remained shut. Gates were closed. The shrill sound of police whistles could be heard. First-aid wagons appeared, and for a while the street became empty. The red flag, which someone had just held aloft, now lay in the gutter, torn and dirty. The street soon began to fill up again. Another flag fluttered. There was renewed shouting and the stampeding of many feet.

  Reb Mordecai Meir could not bear to watch any more. God’s light certainly had to be dimmed and His face hidden before there could be free will, reward and punishment, redemption; but couldn’t the Almighty find another way to reveal His power? These youths with their shaven beards and short coats bellowed like peasants. Once in a while the sound of female shrieks came through. A policeman was beaten up, a horse had fallen and lay on the pavement, apparently with broken legs. In what way was the poor animal guilty? Unless it was a soul in reincarnation, atoning for some transgression committed in a former life.

  Reb Mordecai Meir began to pray. There was no possibility of going to the synagogue on such a day. He wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, kissed the fringes, placed the phylacteries on his arm and head. He could hardly stand through the Eighteen Benedictions. While he prayed, the din in the street grew louder. He heard the cries of those who were hit and injured. Blood was spattered on the wall across the way. Children, whom mothers had carried, borne, nursed, worried over their slightest whim, now lay in the mud writhing in the agonies of death. “Woe, my punishment is greater than I can bear!”

  Usually after morning prayers Reb Mordecai Meir washed his hands, had a bite to eat: a piece of bread, a slice of cheese, sometimes a bit of herring, a glass of tea. But today he could not eat; the food would stick in his throat. He reminded himself of the passage in the Midrash: “When the Egyptians drowned in the Red Sea, the angels wanted to sing songs of praise, but the Almighty said to them, ‘My creatures sink into the sea and you want to sing!’ ” The Creator had pity even on the Egyptian oppressors.

  Reb Mordecai Meir felt dizzy and lay down on the couch. To keep the light of day out he put the hat with the big brim over his eyes. For a time he was neither awake nor asleep. Finally he fell into the deep sleep of those who have not rested for many nights and are utterly exhausted. He dreamed, but later could not recall his dreams.

  The tumult from the outside became even wilder. He awoke with a start. Screams and shots reverberated. Reb Mordecai Meir imagined that multitudes of women were wailing and dogs were howling. During a moment’s lull, Reb Mordecai Meir heard the singing of birds, which in the midst of this total madness fulfilled their mission. These creatures ignored the humans with their schemes and ambitions even while they built their nests under man’s eaves, ate his leftovers, hopped about on his telephone wires. People too are helped by beings they cannot comprehend.

  Reb Mordecai Meir got up with the intention of brewing himself a cup of tea. He went into the kitchen, found some matches, filled a kettle of water from the spout. There was a quarter of a loaf of bread which Fulie must have bought last night, as well as a piece of stale cake. The old man was about to strike a match when he suddenly remembered that he had decided to fast. “Today it is Tishe b’Av for me. I’ll eat and drink nothing,” and he put the match down.

  The living room had a book closet and he began to rummage through it. He had no strength to study the Talmud, but he wanted to look through a Hasidic volume. Maybe The Generations of Jacob Joseph? He pulled out a thin little book, The Waters of Shiloh, written by the first of the Radzym dynasty. He was surprised; he didn’t even know he owned this book. Reb Mordecai Meir turned to a page in the middle. There he read that the way to grasp the greatness of the Creator was to recognize one’s own nothingness. As long as man considers himself important, his eyes are blinded to Heaven. Reb Mordecai Meir took hold of his beard. The flesh forgets. The Evil Spirit and the Lord of Forgetfulness band together. Perhaps they are one and the same?

  Suddenly it occurred to him that it was strangely quiet outside. Were they tired? He went to the window and saw that the street was empty, the shops still closed. Dusk was setting in. “Have they already gotten, what do they call it, the constitution?” he wondered. It was weird to see the stores closed on an ordinary weekday. The square, which was usually teeming with boys, girls, assorted peddlers, and urchins, was as empty as in the middle of the night.

  Then he heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs and in an instant knew that they were coming to him, and that it was with
bad news. He trembled and his lips began to move in prayer, even though he realized that it was too late now to ward off what had already happened. For a few moments there was no sound and the thought flashed through his mind that maybe he was mistaken. Then the thumping on the door and the bang of a boot made his legs buckle. It seemed to him he would not be able to reach the door. But he opened it and saw what he expected to see: four men were carrying a body on a stretcher, a dead man—Fulie. They entered without speaking, with the sullenness of pallbearers.

  “The murderers killed him,” one of them shouted. “Where should we put him down?” a second one asked. Reb Mordecai Meir pointed to the floor. The dead man was bleeding. A puddle of blood formed on the floor. A hand stuck out from under the cover—a lifeless hand, limp and pale, which no longer could take anything, no gift, no favor, no constitution …

  Reb Mordecai Meir’s belly swelled up like a drum. “Great God, I don’t want to live any longer. Enough!” He was angry with God for the punishment which He had visited upon him in his old age. He had to vomit and dragged himself to the toilet, where he retched as if he had eaten and drunk all day and not fasted. Fires leaped before his eyes. Never in his life had he complained to God. He murmured, “I don’t deserve this affliction!” And he knew that he was blaspheming.

  Late that night there was again a knocking at his door. “Who is it, another corpse?” Reb Mordecai Meir asked himself in his anxiety. He was sitting beside Fulie’s body reciting psalms. When he opened the door, first a policeman entered, followed by a civilian, and then by two more policemen and the janitor. They were saying something in Russian, but Reb Mordecai Meir did not understand their language. He pointed to the corpse but they turned away.

  A search began. Drawers were opened, papers thrown around. From the dresser the person in civilian clothes took Fulie’s thick envelope for Nekhama Katz. He opened it and removed several sheets of paper, a notebook, a nickel watch, other objects. He read a part of the letter to the others—in Russian. One of them smiled. Another stared silently. He then said to Reb Mordecai Meir in broken Yiddish, “Grandfather, come.”