Love and Exile

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  I opened a second letter from America. A known American writer and critic had read my novella Satan in Goray and his whole letter was a paean to this work.

  The American consulate demanded one additional document that would be required for the granting of a tourist visa.

  The literary magazine for which I both published and served as a proofreader for a time had forwarded a letter from a reader who castigated me for writing too much about sex, saying it was not in the tradition of Yiddish literature.

  My brother informed me that as soon as I obtained my foreign passport he would send me the money for the fare.

  I had momentarily mislaid the letter from Paris and I searched for it among the others. Soon I discovered that I had inadvertently stuck it into my breast pocket and I now opened it. Inside lay the check for which I had been waiting so long. It was for an amount in excess of a hundred dollars.

  I grew frightened by the plethora of good fortune all at one time. “You haven’t earned it,” someone within me exclaimed. Stefa stood there and looked at me sidelong. She asked, “What are you doing—praying?”

  “Sheba Leah, you’ve brought me luck.”

  “Luck and I are not a pair.”

  4

  Stefa accompanied me to the office of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society where they cashed my checks for American currency. The cashier opened a huge safe crammed from top to bottom with dollar bills. Afterward, we went to a bank where my check from Paris was cashed for nearly a thousand zlotys. I had exchanged my elegant and comfortable room at Mrs. Alpert’s for a tiny cubicle on Nowolipki Street rented to me for thirty zlotys a month by a member (or a guest) of the Writers’ Club, a principal of a Hebrew school and author of a grammar textbook. He and his family were away now on vacation and I actually had the entire apartment to myself, but he, M. G. Haggai, came back to Warsaw each week for a day or two and I could never know when he would show up.

  It was certainly risky to bring Stefa to such a place, but the danger at her home was even greater. Although Leon Treitler pretended that he didn’t even know the meaning of jealousy, one could never foresee how he would react if he caught us together.

  Stefa wouldn’t go to a hotel. Her mother had died, but her father, Isidore Janovsky, was still living and he had a room in a hotel on Milna Street, nearby. He liked to roam through the streets, to chat with other old people in Krasinski’s Gardens, in the Saxony Gardens, or on a bench on Iron Gate Square. Even as Stefa walked with me she kept looking behind. She told me that if her father found out about her behavior, he would have a heart attack. She also had hordes of relatives in Warsaw who envied her good fortune, and who would have loved the chance to malign her. Stefa took my arm, then quickly dropped it. Each time she walked with me in the street she had some pretext ready in case we encountered her husband, her father, or someone from her or her husband’s family.

  We walked into the gate of the house of Mr. Haggai’s apartment and climbed the two flights of stairs. Doors stood open. Children cried; laughed, screamed. This was a respectable family building, not one for illicit loves. Before leaving Stefa’s house, I had telephoned here to make sure M. G. Haggai wasn’t at home. But what guarantee did I have that he hadn’t come in in the interval? For renting me the room so cheaply, M. G. Haggai had stipulated that I behave decently. Tenants of the building enrolled their children in his school and I shouldn’t dare do anything to damage his reputation.

  I now rang the doorbell, but no one came. M. G. Haggai was surely lounging on a folding chair in Falenica reading the London Hebrew magazine Haolam and enjoying the fresh air. His apartment was decorated with pictures of Zionist leaders: Herzl, Max Nordau, Chlenov, Weizmann, Sokolov. There also hung here a portrait of the pedagogue Pestalozzi. Each time Stefa visited my little room she said the same thing: “This isn’t a room but a hole.”

  This time I countered with: “Good enough for two mice.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  I was in a hurry, since I still had to meet Esther. I had to stop by Bresler’s Lending Library and select some books for Lena. I also intended to buy food, which was easier to obtain in Warsaw, as well as a small present for Lena. But Stefa had more than once said that she didn’t equate lovemaking with speed. She had to begin with conversation and the subject was always the same: the reason she couldn’t remain true to Treitler—he had always repelled her. He had won her in a moment of her deepest despair. One could truthfully say that he had bought her with money.

  Stefa sat down on the only chair in my room and crossed her legs. Her knees had remained pointed although not as much as before. I had already had her many times, but I still felt a strong urge for her, since sooner or later we would have to part. She spoke and from time to time she took a drag on her cigarette.

  I heard her say, “If someone had told me five years ago that I would be Mrs. Treitler and conducting an illicit affair with some jargon journalist, I would have considered him mad. Sometimes it seems to me that I’m no longer me but someone else—as if I were possessed by one of your dybbuks.”

  Abruptly, she began to study the walls.

  “What do you see there?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid there are bedbugs here.”

  “They sleep by day.”

  Stefa started to say something, but at that moment there was a sound in the corridor. That which I had feared had occurred—M. G. Haggai had come home on his weekly visit.

  Stefa tensed. Her face twisted momentarily. M. G. Haggai coughed and mumbled to himself. I assumed that he would immediately open the door to my room but apparently he went into the living room. However, he was liable to peek into my room at any moment. It was a miracle that he hadn’t arrived a half hour later.

  Stefa put out her cigarette in a saucer to be used for an ashtray. “Let’s get out of here! This very second!”

  “Sheba Leah, it’s not my fault.”

  “No, no, no! You are what you are, but I had no right to crawl into such a slime. All the evil forces have turned against me. Come, let us go!”

  “Why are you so scared? We’re both dressed. I’ve got a right to have visitors.”

  “How close did we come to being caught without our clothes? These Hebraists know everybody. Leon’s daughter attended a Hebrew Gymnasium. He might have been her teacher there.”

  The door to my room opened and M. G. Haggai stuck his head inside. Outside, a heat wave raged, but he wore his overcoat, a derby (a “melon” as it was called in Warsaw), a high stiff collar, and a black cravat. He had a round face and a gray goatee. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses sat upon his broad nose. He hadn’t even managed to put down the briefcase he was carrying under his arm. Seeing a woman, he recoiled, but soon after he crossed the threshold and said, “Excuse me. I didn’t know you were here and that you had company besides. My name is Haggai,” he said, turning to Stefa. “The name of a prophet among us Jews. But I’m no prophet. I thought that our friend here was away on vacation, not here in the hot city. I must come in every week since I am the principal and owner of a private school and this is the time when the students are being enrolled for the coming term. What is your esteemed name, if one may ask?”

  Stefa didn’t respond. It was as if she had completely lost possession of herself. It was I who replied. “This is Miss Anna Goldsober.”

  “Goldsober, eh? I know three Goldsober families in Warsaw,” Haggai said. “One is Dr. Zygmunt Goldsober, a famous ophthalmologist. Someone told me he is even more distinguished than Dr. Pinnes, or is it Professor Pinnes? The second Goldsober family has a wholesale dry-goods business on Gesia Street. Their son attended my school. He is already a father himself. The third Goldsober is a lawyer. To which of these Goldsobers do you belong?”

  “To neither—” Stefa said.

  “So? You are not a Litvak?”

  “A Litvak? No.”

  M. G. Haggai winked at me. “I have something to discuss with you. If you’ll excuse us, madam, I’d like
a word with him alone.”

  I followed him into the living room. He slowly removed his hat and coat and put down the briefcase. His eyes, through the thick lenses, appeared unnaturally big and stern. He said, “Your visitor is no Goldsober as you have misrepresented her, and she is surely no miss.”

  “How do you know what she is or isn’t?”

  “A miss doesn’t wear a wedding ring. You gave me a promise and you haven’t kept it. I don’t want to be your mentor, but you can’t receive such visitors at my house. You’ll have to move out. I’m sorry. When is your month up?”

  “At the end of the coming week.”

  “You’ll have to find another room.”

  “I’ve committed no sin, but if that’s what you want, I’ll do as you ask.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I went back to my room and Stefa stood there already wearing her hat and holding her bag, ready to go. She asked, “Why did you pick Goldsober of all names? Oh, that one is a pest. The whole time he kept staring at my wedding ring. What did he say to you? Probably asked you to move. If a grave would open for me, I’d jump into it this minute.”

  She said this in Polish, but the expression was pure Yiddish.

  5

  We walked in the direction of Karmelicka Street and Stefa spoke, as if to herself: “This isn’t for me. Warsaw isn’t Paris but a small town. My father lives but a few blocks from here. He is liable to come upon us at any moment. He claims to be half blind, but the things he shouldn’t see, he sees well enough. You know what? Let’s head in the opposite direction. Where does this street lead to?”

  “To Karolkowa, to Mlinarska, to the Jewish cemetery.”

  “Come, let us go there. I don’t want to disappoint my father. He feels that I’ve enjoyed a stroke of great fortune. It’s no trifle to be Mrs. Treitler. The very title makes me nauseous. I envy my mother. She knows nothing anymore. If people knew how happy the dead are, they wouldn’t struggle so hard to hold on to life. The first thing my mother did after my sister died was to use her last few zlotys and buy a plot next to hers. Now they lie side by side. People still go to visit the graves of their parents. They really believe that the dead lie there waiting to be told all the troubles that have befallen those close to them. Here is a droshky …. Hey!”

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked.

  “What’s the difference? Let’s go someplace. You said yourself that your cousin, or whoever she may be, won’t be home until seven. Today belongs to me.”

  “Where do the lady and gentleman wish to go?” the cab driver asked.

  Stefa hesitated for a moment. “To Niecala Street. But don’t turn around. Go by way of Iron Street and from there through Chlodna, Electoralna—”

  “That’s the long way around.”

  “You’ll get double your fare.”

  “Giddy up!”

  “We should have stayed there in the first place,” I said.

  “You had to cash your checks. For me, nothing comes easy. But since you’re going away to America, what difference does it make? To have a maid is to have a spy in the house. I had enough of my parents’ maid spying on me and reporting everything to my mother. If a young man phoned me occasionally, she ran to tell her. She herself was a widow. Her husband died four weeks after their wedding. Strange, she never spied on my sister. Now, I’ve got Jadwiga on my back. She worked for Leon years before he married me. She remembers his first wife and she looks at me as if I had murdered her. His daughters feel that way about me too, as do the neighbors. I’m nothing but an intruder. What will I do after you’re gone? Start an affair with a new liar? Three liars in a lifetime is enough for me. In the morning when I look in the mirror, especially after a good night’s sleep, I see a young person. But when I look at myself in the evenings, I see a broken woman ready for the scrap pile. Mark deserted me physically and shattered me spiritually—that’s the truth. Going to live with Leon Treitler was for me a catastrophe. Then my foul luck directed me to start up with you … You don’t forge promissory notes, but you’re made of the same stuff as he—a timid adventurer.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  The droshky entered Chlodna, passed the fire station with its huge brass bell, the Seventh Police Precinct, then turned into Electoralna Street, where the Hospital of the Holy Ghost was located. Flocks of pigeons soared over the roofs and perched on the heads, shoulders, and arms of the holy statues. Below, some of them ate from the hands of an old woman. Every street we passed, every building, evoked within me memories of my childhood. The Poles still considered us aliens, but the Jews had helped build this city and had assumed an enormous participation in its commerce, finances, and industry. Even the statues in this church represented images of Jews.

  Just as if Stefa could read my mind, she remarked, “We Jews are damned. Why?”

  “Because we love life too much.”

  The droshky came to Niecala Street. Stefa’s maid, Jadwiga, had left a note in the kitchen saying that Mr. Treitler would be detained at his work and would have dinner with his partner at a restaurant. Stefa had told Jadwiga that she would be eating dinner out, and Jadwiga had gone to visit a friend who had given birth to an illegitimate child and had to stay with it.

  Stefa said, “I’m beginning to believe that there is a God.”

  “Since He obliges us, then He exists.”

  “Don’t be so sarcastic. If He is truly our father and we are His children as the Bible states, He should oblige us from time to time.”

  “He is your husband’s father too.”

  “That which I’m doing benefits him too. He wants it subconsciously. Where are my cigarettes?”

  Stefa had become momentarily cheerful. We hadn’t eaten lunch and she went to the kitchen to fix us a quick bite. She put on a short apron that lent her a particularly feminine allure. I sat down at the kitchen table and reread the letters I had received that morning. I also recounted the money. I told myself that this was one of the happiest days of my life. To avoid it being ruined, I offered up a silent prayer to the God whose commandments I was breaking. Actually, this was what thieves, murderers, and rapists did. Even Hitler mentioned the Almighty in his speeches.

  6

  Night had already fallen by the time I said good-bye to Stefa. My wristwatch indicated a quarter to ten. Our mutual desire and our powers had never been as strong as during those long hours. Usually, gratification is contingent upon ennui as Schopenhauer contends, but my satiety that day brought no tedium. Only the worries returned. I had committed a folly in cashing both checks. I was afraid now of being robbed or of springing a hole in my breast pocket and losing my fortune. I no longer had time to visit Bresler’s Lending Library, which was closed by now anyhow. The stores were all closed too and I wouldn’t even be able to buy Lena the delicacies she preferred. There was barely any time left to visit my cousin. What’s more, I had promised Lena to come back early, but I wasn’t sure now whether I could even catch the last train to Otwock, which left at midnight and arrived around 1 A.M.

  Thank God, an empty taxi came by. I was only afraid lest the driver should—through some mysterious power—ascertain that I was carrying a sum amounting to over two hundred dollars and try to rob me. The taxi made the trip to Swietojerska Street in five minutes. I climbed the stairs, which were illuminated by a tiny gaslight. On the second floor I bumped into Esther’s roommate, Tsipele. She was going out, probably in order to leave us alone. She wore a straw hat that Esther had made for her. Tsipele had once been my pupil in an evening course in Hebrew I had taught in Bilgorai. She had learned no Hebrew from me, but just the same, she still called me “moreh”—teacher.

  I had never done this before, but I kissed her. Her face lay completely in shadow. She exclaimed, “Oh, Moreh, what are you doing?”

  Tsipele was blond, taller than Esther, and younger by a year. Esther had told me that Tsipele’s uncle, for whom she worked as an assistant bookkeeper, was in love with her. He gave her money, sen
t her flowers, brought her candy, and took her to the theater, the opera, and to restaurants. Tsipele’s aunt was suspicious that she was trying to steal her husband away, but Esther assured me that Tsipele remained a virgin. The whole world is either crazy with love or crazy with hate, I said to myself. I knocked and Esther opened the door. Her hair was a dark red, her face densely freckled. We had both inherited our coloring from our Grandmother Hannah, the rebbetzin.

  From the day of her wedding at barely twelve years of age, no one, not even Grandfather, had seen her hair, for she shaved her skull. Only her eyebrows were red. Our grandfather, Jacob Mordecai, was a year older than she. As a child he had acquired the reputation of a prodigy. When he was nine he gave a sermon in the house of study and scholars came to debate with him on Talmudic subjects. Grandmother’s father, Isaac, after whom I am named, was a merchant and a man of wealth, who had arranged for Jacob Mordecai to marry his only daughter, Hannah. Grandmother Hannah had a fiery temper and, although her husband became known as a sage and she couldn’t write a Yiddish letter without errors, whenever they quarreled she called him a Litvak pig. This was undeserved, as he had been born in Miedzyrzec, which was in Poland, not in Lithuania.

  Our grandparents were no longer living, but their blood flowed in our veins. When Esther spoke I could hear in her words, and even more so in her intonation, generations of scholars, pious women, as well as something that seemed non-Jewish, even typically goyish. Within our genetic cells, the subjugators and the subjugated were forced to co-exist. I had warned myself not to become involved with Esther. I was honest enough to tell her that I had no intention of getting married. I told her about Stefa and Lena as well as of my efforts to settle in America. But Esther had been influenced by the new concepts. She wasn’t engaged to any man. There was no purpose in saving her virginity for someone she didn’t know or who might never turn up. Her female coworkers at the millinery shop all had lovers. Most young men no longer required that their prospective wives be virgins. The situation in the world was desperate, and that of the Jews in Poland especially. So why wait?