The writers who rented rooms from Nesha were already jealous of me, but somehow I knew that there was something wrong with this work. I had marked down in my notebook three characteristics a work of fiction must possess in order to be successful:
1. It must have a precise and a suspenseful plot.
2. The author must feel a passionate urge to write it.
3. He must have the conviction, or at least the illusion, that he is the only one who can handle this particular theme.
But this novel lacked all three of these prerequisites, especially my urge to write it.
As a rule, almost everything I had written had come easy to me. Often, my pen couldn’t keep up with what I had to say. But this time, every sentence was difficult. My style was usually clear and concise, but now the pen seemed, as if of its own volition, to compose long and involved sentences. I had always had an aversion for digressions and flashbacks, but I now resorted to them, amazed over what I was doing. A strange force within me, a literary dybbuk, was sabotaging my efforts. I tried to overcome my inner enemy, but he outwitted me with his tricks. The moment I began writing, a sleepiness would come over me. I even made errors in spelling. I had begun the novel on the Yiddish typewriter my brother had bought for me. However, I made so many mistakes that no one would be able to make out the mess. I had to go back to my fountain pen, which suddenly started to leak and leave ugly blots. There was an element of suicide in this self-sabotage, but what was the source of it? Did I yearn for Lena? Stefa? Did I miss the Writers’ Club? My coming to America has demoted me in a way, thrown me back to the ordeal of a beginner in writing, in love, in my struggle for independence. I had a taste of what it would be for someone to be born old and to grow younger with the years instead of older, diminishing constantly in rank, in experience, in courage, in wisdom of maturity.
The Forward had not yet started to print my novel, although I had already sent along a number of pages to them, through my brother, and had received an advance. My picture had been shown in the rotogravure section. Almost everyone in Seagate was a Forward reader, and when I went out into the street, passers-by stopped me and congratulated me. Nearly everyone used the same cliché—that I had gotten off “on the right foot in America” while other writers had had to wait years to get their names and pictures in the paper. Some of those who envied me added that I owed it all to my brother. Without his intercession, the Forward wouldn’t have opened its doors to me. I knew full well how true this was.
I was allegedly a success, but in a short while, following the appearance of the second or third chapter, my downfall would come. I couldn’t delay publication of the novel because its date had already been announced. A number of columns had been set in type and I had proofread the galleys. In the works on mental hygiene I had read, it said there was no sin or error that couldn’t be righted, but in my case, this was far from being true.
During the first weeks after my arrival in America, I used to stroll the streets of Seagate, but now when I wanted to take a walk I took a side street to the Neptune Avenue gate and walked along that avenue or on Mermaid Avenue. I avoided the boardwalk since that was where the Yiddish writers took their walks. I would walk as far as Brighton Beach or even Sheepshead Bay. Here no one knew me. I already had money in my pocket and I tried eating at my brother’s as infrequently as possible since they would never let me pay for anything. Sometimes I devoted long hours to these walks and when I came back after dark I sneaked into my room without seeing my brother and his family. My table was strewn with heaps of papers so high that I no longer knew where I stood with my pagination, which had grown as involved as my writing.
My sister-in-law would knock on my door and ask, “Where do you go off to for days at a time? Where do you eat? I prepare meals for you, they get cold, and I have to throw them out. You’re causing us a lot of grief.”
“Genia, I can’t remain a burden to you and Joshua forever. Now that I am earning money, I want to be independent.”
“What’s the matter with you? What kind of burden are you? If I prepare something there’s enough for you too. The food in those cafeterias where you eat is junk. Really, you’re not behaving right. Even Yosele is asking ‘Where is Uncle Isaac? Has he gone back to Poland?’ He never sees you.”
I promised Genia to eat all my meals with them, but after a few days I again started going to the cafeterias. I was afraid that my brother would ask me how I was progressing with my novel. I neither wanted to deceive him nor could I tell him the truth. He would demand to see what I had written and I knew that he would be shocked. I had but one urge—to hide myself from everyone.
One day as I sat in a cafeteria on Surf Avenue eating lunch, Nesha came in. I had the impulse to leave my plate and flee, but she had already spotted me and she came right over to my table. She wore a green dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I rose and greeted her. Her face expressed the joy of an unexpected encounter with someone close. She said, “I stood in front of the cafeteria debating whether or not to go in for a cup of coffee. I drink too much coffee as it is. Well, I never expected to meet you here. You eat here rather than at your brother’s?”
“I took a walk and I got hungry. Have a seat. I’ll bring you coffee. Something to go with it?”
“No, thanks. Nothing at all. May I smoke?”
“Certainly. I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Oh, I had stopped already but I started again. Let me get my own coffee.”
“No, I’ll get it for you.”
I went to the counter and brought back two cups of coffee and two pieces of cake. Nesha’s eyes filled with laughter. “A true gentleman!” We drank coffee and Nesha tasted the cake. She said, “If I stop smoking, I begin putting on weight immediately. I had never smoked before but I began after what happened to Boris. I even began to drink. But the situation was such that I had to think about paying the rent and getting a piece of bread for my child and myself. That was how I got myself involved in that debacle of a house. All the writers are there now and they often ask about you. ‘Why doesn’t he show his face?’ ‘Where is he hiding?’ You’re probably occupied full-time with your novel. I’m already awaiting the day when it will appear in print. The newspapers are all so void of anything good.”
“I’m not sure my novel will appeal to you,” I said.
“You’re modest. Everything of yours I read in the magazines was interesting.”
“Oh, I thank you, but there are no guarantees. Good writers have written bad things.”
“I’m sure that it will be good. You’re looking somewhat pale. Are you working too hard? You’re not at all sunburned. One never sees you on the beach.”
“The sun is bad for my skin.”
“Redheads have unusually white skin. They burn quickly. As long as you don’t overdo it, a little is healthy. Really, you remind me of Boris. I could never persuade him to go to the seashore for the summer. He claimed to prefer the mountains. But when we went one time to the Adirondacks, he sat inside all day drawing. He tried to reach the unreachable in his art. This was his misfortune. Your brother does go bathing, but with no particular pleasure. He walks into the water and just stands there and muses.”
“We don’t swim.”
“The others don’t either but they splash around and make noise. They keep on discussing literature, quote this critic, that critic, but what they write themselves seldom has any flavor. Have you heard anything from your friends in Warsaw?”
“Yes, two letters came addressed to the Forward.”
“What’s the situation in Warsaw?”
“It worsens from day to day.”
2
We strolled down the boardwalk. Black and white men were pushing rickshaw-like rolling chairs toward us and away from us. I had seen this often before but somehow I could never get used to seeing people harnessed like horses. The day was a hot one and a large crowd overflowed the boardwalk, Surf Avenue, and the beach from Seagate to Brighton Beach. The ocean teem
ed with bathers and swimmers. A din rose up from the throng, a roar that muffled the sound of the waves. I saw so many faces that they all assumed the same appearance. Nesha spoke to me but I could barely hear what she was saying. Airplanes flew low towing signs advertising suntan lotions, laxatives, and seven-course meals both kosher and non-kosher. An airplane wrote an advertisement in the sky for a beverage. The mass of people flowed by chewing hot dogs with mustard, cotton candy, ice cream that melted from the heat, hot corn, greasy knishes, gulping down from the bottle all sorts of sodas and lemonade. Foreheads were burned, noses peeling, eyes bedazzled by the sun and by the wonders displayed here—two-headed freaks, Siamese twins, a girl with fins and scales. For a dime one could see the guillotine that had beheaded Marie Antoinette, as well as Napoleon’s sword, the gun with which President Lincoln was assassinated, a facsimile of the electric chair used by New York State, and models of the murderers who had died in it. A small black-bearded man broke chains and sold bottles of the tonic which had endowed him with the strength to do it. He interspersed broken Hebrew words into his English.
Nesha took my arm. “If we should bump into one of the Yiddish writers, they’ll have something to gossip about.”
“What can they do to you?”
“Nothing, but we’re better off on Mermaid Avenue.”
We headed toward Mermaid Avenue, where there was another cafeteria. I proposed to Nesha that we go in for some rice pudding. She smiled and said, “I won’t get anything done at home today anyhow.”
“What do you have to do?”
“A thousand things. But if you don’t get them done, it’s all right too. Inanimate objects can’t complain.”
We ate rice pudding and washed it down with iced coffee. We chatted for so long that I finally revealed to Nesha that I had reached a dead end with my novel. She asked me the reason I didn’t seek my brother’s assistance and I replied, “I’m ashamed before him. I also know that he’s busy with his own work.”
“Maybe you’d be better off dictating it?”
“I’ve never tried this.”
“Try it. You can dictate to me. I can type on a Yiddish typewriter. I still have one. For a while, I supported myself this way. The writers gave me their manuscripts to type. That’s the reason they know me, and when I took over the house they all rented rooms from me. You won’t believe this, but some of them don’t even know Yiddish well. English, certainly not. They don’t have an inkling of syntax or punctuation. In this aspect, your brother is a rare exception.”
“Have you typed for him too?”
“One short piece only. Try it. You won’t have to pay me.”
“Why would you do this for me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You seem like a lost soul in America. I idolize your brother but I somehow grow tongue-tied when he speaks to me. He is so smart and has such a rare sense of humor. At times it seems to me that he’s laughing at the whole female gender, actually at the whole human species. He was once sitting with the writers on my porch and whatever he said evoked laughter. He can mimic people better than all the comedians. Since Boris’s death, I’ve simply forgotten that there is such a thing as laughter. But I couldn’t help but laugh that evening. If you like, you can begin dictating even today. The quicker a crisis is brought to a head, the better.”
“When the writers see that I’m dictating to you, they will start—”
“They won’t see. Half the house is empty. We’ll keep it a secret. I myself would feel embarrassed, especially before your brother and your sister-in-law. The third floor is unoccupied so far and the typewriter won’t be heard. I’ll try to help you. We can go in through the kitchen. No one uses that entrance. I have typed manuscripts, but no one has ever dictated to me before. I’ve heard of writers doing this, especially here in America. They even use Dictaphones.”
“May I ask if you’ve ever tried writing yourself?”
“Yes, and I know the feeling of beginning a work and not knowing how to continue. I also know how it feels to come to the realization that the main ingredient required is lacking—talent.”
“Maybe we can arrange it that I’ll dictate to you and you’ll dictate yours to me?”
Nesha flushed. “You come up with such weird notions. You’re a writer and I’m an amateur, maybe not even that. No, I’ve resolved to sooner be a good reader than a bad writer.”
We sat without speaking for a while. I studied her and she regarded me in return. Her gaze displayed a mixture of female submissiveness and boldness, maybe even a touch of arrogance, or the self-assuredness of those who follow the dictates of their fate. I liked older women, and the forces that guided the world had sent her to me, I mused. Somewhere within the universe, the destiny of every human being, perhaps even of every creature, is constantly being decided. According to the Gemara: Every blade of grass has an angel that tells it, “Grow.” Apparently the same angel also orders the blade of grass to wither or be eaten by an ox.
“If we are to begin today,” I said, “I must go home and get my manuscript.”
“Yes, do that. Then come to my kitchen entrance. You remember where that is? The door will be open. And if I’m not there, go right upstairs to the third floor. The number of the room is thirty-six. I’ll bring up my typewriter and the paper. You once told me of your romantic conspiracies. Well, this will be a purely literary conspiracy.”
And I imagined that she winked at me.
3
We parted not far from the Surf Avenue gate. It wouldn’t be good for Nesha or me if we were seen entering together. Most of all, I was eager to avoid my brother. But the moment I crossed the border separating Seagate from Coney Island, I saw him. He stood for a moment contemplating me with a half-mocking, half-reproachful gaze, then said, “Where do you vanish to for days at a time? You got a call from the Forward. The proofreader has found a number of errors and contradictions in your work and he demands that you come to the office and straighten out the ‘copy.’ That’s what they call a manuscript here. There were some other calls, too. Some landsman of yours called; actually he is my landsman also, although I don’t remember him. His name is Max Pulawer. He told me that he is a close friend of yours. He left his phone number. Your book also came. Not bad for a Warsaw edition but full of typographical errors. In Zeitlin’s Introduction they printed ‘occulist’ for ‘occulist’ I hope that you’re proceeding with your work. You’ve stopped eating with us altogether. If you’re not hungry, let’s take a little walk. If you haven’t eaten yet, we’ll stop at some restaurant.”
“I’ve eaten.”
“Where did you eat? Come, I must have a word with you. Zygmunt Salkin has been looking for you. In about two months you’ll have to apply for an extension of your visa and he is an expert in such things. If you don’t extend your visa in time, that makes you an illegal alien and you can be deported to Poland. These days, it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“No, you don’t understand. What’s happened to you? I read the beginning of your novel and it reads well, but I want to see what happens next. They seldom start to publish an unfinished work, but they made an exception in your case. If the subsequent chapters don’t come out right, it will be a disappointment to us all. You know this yourself.”
“Yes.”
“What’s the situation? Tell me the truth.”
“The truth is that I can’t remain here,” I blurted out, astounded at my own words.
My brother stopped. “You want to go back to the Nazis? They’ll be in Poland any day now.”
“Not to the Nazis, but I can’t breathe here. I can’t even die here.”
“One can die anywhere. What is it—did you leave someone behind there? Even if so, make the effort to bring her here rather than go back to perish together. Really, I didn’t know you were such a romantic. You always kept secrets from me and I didn’t mind, but to go back to Poland now, one would have to be completely mad. What’s with your novel
?”
“I can’t go on with it. It’s a physical impossibility.”
“Well, that is bad news. I’m the one who’s at fault. I had no right to let them begin printing it until you had the whole thing finished. I did it because you told me that this was the way you wrote the book for the Globus. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think? Perhaps I can help you? How much of it have you got written? Let’s go home and you’ll give me the manuscript. Sometimes you can improve a thing by just eliminating what’s bad.”
“It’s all bad.”
“Let’s go home. How many pages approximately have you got done?”
“It’s all so tangled you won’t be able to make sense out of it.”
“I’ll make sense out of it. Don’t panic. Even if it’s all as bad as you say, they’ll print the first chapters as a part of a larger work. It’s no calamity. It’s happened to me too that I’ve hit a dry spell, but I always had material ready for at least three months in advance. You had enough time to do the same. Come, we’ll see what you have there.”
I wanted to tell my brother that I couldn’t show him my work, but I didn’t dare cross him. We walked silently and we soon entered my room. Seeing the pile of papers on my table, my brother gave me a disdainful look. He had switched on the ceiling light and, with brows arched, began to glance through the papers. He asked, “What kind of numbering is this?”
I didn’t answer. He took a long time trying to put my manuscript in order, then gave up and stacked the pages in a pile. He said, “I may read this tonight, and if not, then tomorrow. All literature isn’t worth a pinch of snuff anyway. Come in and Genia will give you something to eat. You don’t look at all well.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, it’s up to you. God knows I’m only thinking of your well-being.”
“I know, I know. But I’ve lost the bit of talent I had.”
Love and Exile Page 30