“Thank you. Maybe later.”
“When blintzes get cold they turn into knishes,” the waiter joked.
Those at the nearby tables who had heard laughed and repeated the joke to others. They wagged their fingers at me. Outside, night had fallen. The lights went on on the marquee over the Yiddish theater across the street. The door to the cafe kept on swinging to and fro. Men and women who apparently weren’t part of the literary establishment or the Yiddish theater came in to catch a glimpse of the writers and actors. They kept on entering and leaving. They pointed to those occupying the tables.
Some of the writers here peddled their own books. They wrote dedications on flyleaves and stuck the money uncounted into their breast pockets. A German-speaking tie salesman came in and tried to display his colorful wares and a waiter chased him. A heavyset woman entered. She was bedecked with jewelry, her cheeks thickly smeared with rouge, her eyes heavy with mascara. She teetered as if about to fall. The women applauded her and the men rose to assist her to her seat. I heard mention of a name that struck me as familiar and murmurs of “Just out of the hospital … A woman past eighty …”
My brother and Zygmunt Salkin returned simultaneously. Joshua glanced at me in reproof. “Why don’t you eat? What’s the matter with you?”
“Really, I can’t.”
Salkin said good-bye. He had an appointment. He promised to phone me. After he left, my brother observed, “He has countless appointments. He has a thousand schemes on how to elevate the so-called culture in America, but nothing ever comes of any of them. He has already divorced three wives and is playing around with a woman who will destroy whatever is left of him.”
We left and walked up Second Avenue toward Fourteenth Street. Boys dashed about hawking the next day’s newspapers in English and Yiddish. Before the Yiddish theaters, crowds had begun to gather. My brother said, “We came to America too late. Even in the nearly two years I’ve been here, three or four Yiddish theaters have gone under. But there are still hundreds of thousands of Jews who know no other language but Yiddish. They are force-fed on kitsch, but that’s what they’re accustomed to. It’s not much better on Broadway. The same mentality prevails there too. Hollywood is one chunk of nonsense, literally an insane asylum. But one talent they all possess—to make money.”
We had come to the subway station and my brother bought a newspaper featuring a picture of Hitler. We rode to Grand Central Station. From there we took a train to Times Square, then transferred to a third train heading downtown to Coney Island. Doors opened and closed on their own. The brick-red linoleum floor of the car was littered with newspapers. All the girls chewed gum. I knew it couldn’t be true, but they all looked alike. Little Negroes shined shoes. A blind man entered on his own, waved a white cane, and collected alms in a paper cup. The bare electric bulbs cast a yellowish glare. The fans whirled and whistled over the heads of those clinging to the leather straps. Past the windows raced black boulders, the violated innards of the earth which bore the yoke of New York City. My brother began reading the English newspaper and read it until we came to Stillwell Avenue. Then we took the Surf Avenue trolley. The lights of Coney Island made the sky glow, darkened the sea, dazzled my eyes. The clang and clamor deafened my ears. A drunk was making a speech praising Hitler, cursing the Jews. I heard my brother say, “Try to describe this! There are hundreds of objects here for which there are no words in Yiddish. They may not even have names in English. All life in America keeps constantly changing. How can such a nation create a real literature? Here, books grow out of date overnight just like newspapers. The newspapers print new editions every few hours. I get an occasional urge to write about America, but how can you describe character when everything around is rootless? Among the immigrants the father speaks one language and the son another. Often, the father himself has already half-forgotten his. There are a few Yiddish writers here who write about America, but they lack flavor. Later on in the summer they’ll all come to Nesha’s and you’ll meet them.”
“Who is Nesha?”
“Oh, hasn’t Genia introduced you to her yet? She rents rooms to writers in her house. She is one of my most fervent admirers. Yours, too. I gave her Globus to read. Whatever happens, you stick to your work. I’ll buy you a Yiddish typewriter.”
“What for? I can’t write on a typewriter.”
“You’ll learn. Abe Cahan is already an old man, and it’s hard for him to read a handwritten text. The linotype operators make fewer errors when they work from typed material. You’ve got your own room and, for the present, you needn’t worry about a thing. Find the right theme. Cahan loves description. He hates commentary. In that aspect, he is on the right path. I often envy scientists. They discover things and aren’t completely dependent upon opinions. Well, but it’s already too late for me to change and for you, too.”
4
No, Genia had not introduced me to Nesha yet, but one day she did. Nesha’s house was just a couple of steps from our house. The writers who were staying there presently would be on the beach after breakfast and no one would disturb us. I didn’t have the slightest urge to go there but I couldn’t go on thwarting Genia. I surmised that she had already promised Nesha to bring me over, and I couldn’t make a liar out of her.
The month of May hadn’t yet passed but the heat had already begun. We walked less than five minutes and came to the house with the turrets where we had paused on the first day of my arrival in America. On the lawn stood a woman watering flowers. I saw her from behind—a slim figure, her black hair done up into a chignon. Genia called her name and she turned to face us, holding the watering can. In a second I saw that hers was a classic beauty, but she was no longer young—in her late thirties or maybe already forty. Her eyes were black, her nose straight, her face narrow, with a delicately shaped mouth and a long neck. She wore a white dress and a black apron. I even managed to notice that her legs were straight and her toes showing through the open slippers weren’t twisted and gnarled as were those of most of the women of her generation.
She too regarded me for a moment, and before my sister-in-law could manage to introduce me, she said, “I know, I know, your brother-in-law. I am a reader of yours. Your brother gave me that magazine—what’s it called?—and I read your novel from beginning to end. My only regret was that it ended so soon.”
“Oh, I thank you very much.”
“Since she already knows you, there’s no sense in introducing you,” Genia said. After a while, she added, “This is Nesha.”
For some reason, my bashfulness had left me and I asked, “Shortened from Nechama?”
The woman put down her watering can. “Yes, right. My parents lost a child before me and when I was born my father named me Nechama—consolation. It’s truly an honor and a pleasure,” she continued. “I was told Mr. Salkin brought you here straight from the ship but unfortunately I was in the city that day. Come in, come in.”
She led us into a hallway which appeared far too elegant for a boardinghouse. The ceiling was high and carved; the walls were hung with old, gilt-framed paintings; an oriental rug covered the floor; the furniture was of the type occasionally seen in museums.
Nesha said, “You’re probably wondering at how richly I live. It’s not my house. This house was built by an American millionaire for his mistress some seventy years ago. He was already then an old man and she was still young. In those days, Jews didn’t live here. Seagate was a summer resort for American aristocrats. After several years, the millionaire died and his mistress became a recluse. She isolated herself from everything and everybody and lived here for over fifty years. After her death, the house stood empty for a long time. Later, a wealthy doctor bought it but he didn’t live long either and a bank took it over. From the bank it went over to the present owner, and soon after, his wife died. I was warned that the house was unlucky, that it was cursed, but I took it over not for myself but as a business venture. But it seems it’s not lucky for business either.”
Nesha smiled and her face grew momentarily girlish.
Genia said, “Since the Yiddish writers became your tenants, it can’t be too lucky.”
“Yes, true. My God, I am thrilled to know you. Let’s go inside. The writers who are here will soon be coming back from the beach, and when they see you they’ll snatch you away. I’ll make coffee. I want the pleasure of spending some time with you. What do you say, Genia?”
“Yes, you entertain him. He’s always alone. We wanted to take him to the beach and to the cafe but he refuses to go anywhere. He was like this in Warsaw too. Aloof and stubborn. I’d sit here with you for a while but I have an appointment at the dentist. You’ll be better off having a chat without me.”
“Why do you say that? No.”
“We’ll see each other later.”
Genia cast a glance at me that seemed to say, “Don’t be in such a hurry to rush away.”
After a while she left and Nesha said, “A noble woman, your sister-in-law. A clever and refined lady. Unfortunately she can’t forget the tragic loss of her child. They’re here two years already and she still can’t get back to herself. As for your brother, you know yourself—a man is stronger, after all. Come.”
Nesha led me down a long corridor. It was half dark and she took my arm. She said, “It must have cost a fortune to build such a house even in those days. But it isn’t at all practical. You can’t live here in the winter. The heat comes up from the cellar through brass pipes and how that woman could have endured the cold is beyond me. It’s a mile to the kitchen. The architect must have been an idiot or a sadist. Practical people won’t move in here, even in the summers. They want their comforts, not art. For the writers, it’s something of an attraction, but they come late in the summer and either can’t pay or won’t pay. They stay up till two A.M. with their discussions. If they were real writers, at least, I would forgive them, but …”
We entered a room with an open entrance to the kitchen—a huge kitchen with an enormous stove. We sat down at a table and Nesha said, “When that millionaire’s mistress died, she apparently left no will and those who took over the house got it along with the library, the paintings, and many other things which were later scattered and stolen. She apparently was interested in ghosts since a large portion of her books deal with this subject. To this day I feel that the house is haunted. Doors open and close by themselves. Sometimes, I hear the stairs creaking. It’s always cold here even on the hottest days. Or maybe I only imagine this. Apparently no one was interested in the paintings that were left behind. Bad pictures, even though the frames should be worth something. I’ve heard that the owner is ready to tear down the house and build a hotel on the site. But why talk about the house? What about you? How do you feel in the new country?”
“Confused.”
“That’s how we all felt when we first came. Uprooted, as if we had dropped down here from some other planet. That feeling has remained with me to this day. I can’t seem to become adjusted. I’m here over twenty years and I’m still torn between America and Russia. In the meantime, Russia has changed too and if I went back, I surely wouldn’t recognize it. You hear such terrible stories. Absolutely unbelievable. And that’s how the years fly by. As far as I know, you aren’t married.”
“No.”
“I had a husband, but he is gone. I have a son of twelve. He is now in school. An exceptional child, a born scientist. He’s won prizes at school and what not. My husband left us nothing. He was an artist, not a businessman, and I had to earn a living for myself and for my child. Someone recommended this house to me but the income from it decreases from season to season. This is my last summer here. I hope you brought some new work along with you. For me, literature isn’t merely a way of passing the time but a necessity. If I don’t have something good to read, I’m twice as miserable.”
5
We drank coffee and nibbled on cake. Nesha questioned me about my life in Warsaw and I gradually told her everything—about Gina, Stefa, Lena, and Esther. I heard her say:
“If someone had told me something like this twenty years ago, I would have considered him promiscuous, but today, for a man of nearly thirty, and a writer besides, to have had four sweethearts is not considered excessive. My husband had six or seven before we got together. He was a highly talented portrait painter and he painted mostly women. American men have no time to sit for portraits. They have to make money so that their wives can have it to squander.”
“Yes, true.”
“You are a different case altogether. You have no idea where this Lena is? Her parents must know.”
“I don’t have their address. They wouldn’t answer me in any case. Her father is a fervent Chassid. Outside of her, her whole family is fanatically pious.”
“Have you heard from Stefa or from your cousin? Actually you couldn’t have in such a short time.”
“I haven’t written them.”
“Why not?”
“Somehow, I have a block about writing letters. It’s even a burden for me to write to my mother. I make solemn vows to write the very next day, but when tomorrow comes, I forget all about it, or I make myself forget. As soon as I remind myself to write, I become as if paralyzed. This is a kind of madness, or the devil knows what.”
“You remind me of my husband. He left parents behind in Europe and he didn’t write them either. They would never have heard from him if I didn’t write them an occasional letter to which he would add a few words. It was even hard for me to get him to write those few lines. At the same time he assured me that he loved his parents. How can that be explained?”
“Nothing can be explained.”
“You speak like him too. Since you have shown me so much trust at our very first meeting—I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it—I can’t hide the truth from you—my husband committed suicide.”
“Why? How?”
“Oh, he was one of those people who can’t bear life, who can’t stand any responsibility. The smallest trifle was for him a burden. He wanted to paint his pictures, not portraits, but we had a child and no income. The truth is that he hadn’t wanted the child either, but I forced him into it. He had one great desire—to be free—and he gradually arrived at the conclusion that life is nothing but slavery and death is freedom. This is true in a sense, but when freedom comes, the one who is free doesn’t know that he is free.”
“Maybe he does. If there is such a thing as a soul, it knows.”
“If. There is no proof whatsoever that it exists. And what does the liberated soul do? Where does it fly around? Oh, I spent night after night begging Boris—that was my husband’s name—to reveal himself to me or to give me some sign of his existence. But he had vanished forever. I still dream of him at times but I forget the dream the moment I waken and all that remains is renewed sorrow.”
“How long is it that he is gone?”
“Nearly four years. There’s a Yiddish writer here who believes in spiritualism and things of that sort. He recommended a medium to me and I went to her even though I knew beforehand that it was all a sham. She turned out to be the worst fake I’ve ever come across. She demanded ten dollars in advance, and when she had the money in her hand, a greeting promptly arrived from my husband. How people can allow themselves to be deceived by such liars is beyond me.”
“That’s no proof that there is no soul,” I said.
“No, but neither is there proof that there is a soul.”
For a long while neither of us spoke. I looked at her and our eyes met. I heard myself say, “You’re a beautiful woman. Men surely run after you.”
“Thank you. No, they don’t run after me. I’m thirty-eight years old and I have a son. Men don’t want to take on responsibilities. Of those who did propose to me, no one appealed to me. After a woman has lived for years with an artist, with all his good and bad characteristics, she can no longer be content with some storekeeper, or insurance agent, or even a dentist. I’m not looking for a husband. S
ometimes it seems to me that I’m one of those old-fashioned souls that can love only once …. Oh, the phone! Excuse me.”
Nesha ran toward the room from which the sound of the telephone came—a muffled ringing. I drank the cold residue of my coffee. That Boris had had courage. He wasn’t the coward I was. I won’t try anything with her, I resolved. One Gina was enough. She needs someone who would support her and her child, not another potential suicide ….
I rose and studied a painting hanging there—mounted hunters and a pack of hounds. Was this an original? A lithograph? What a horrid form of amusement! First they go to church and sing hymns to Jesus, then they chase after some starving fox. Still, great poets wrote odes to hunting, even such a master as Mickiewicz. One could apparently be highly sensitive and utterly callous at the same time. There were undoubtedly poets among the cannibals.
Nesha came back.
“Forgive me. I advertised in the newspaper and people keep on calling me. They arrive in new cars, haggle for hours over every penny, then leave and never come back. They all complain that they lost a fortune in the Wall Street crash. Actually they bargained the very same way before they lost their fortunes. What is man?”
The telephone rang again. “Oh, these idiotic telephones! Please forgive me.”
“Of course.”
I looked at my wristwatch. A half hour had not yet passed since we were introduced. The writer in me has often pondered about how quickly things happen in stories and how slowly in life. But it isn’t always so, I said to myself. Sometimes life is quicker than the quickest description.
Six
1
I showed my brother the first chapter of my novel and his response was favorable. Abe Cahan, the editor of the Forward, had read it too and had published a friendly note about it. I was supposed to get fifty dollars a week as long as the installments were printed—a fantastic amount for someone like me.
Love and Exile Page 29