Love and Exile

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  “Yes, I remember! What a pleasant surprise. Such guests!”

  I wanted to extend my hand to my visitors but my palm was wet. I was wet all over. Anita said, “What a heat in here! Like a steel plant in Pittsburgh.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  As I said these words, it struck me that I had only one chair in my room and it was broken and strewn with papers, shirts, socks, underwear. The bed was unmade and the sheet showed traces of bedbugs. Across the cracked linoleum lay newspapers, magazines, and books I had taken out of the public library along with those I had bought on Fourth Avenue for a nickel each. Both Salkin and Anita had changed. Salkin’s hair had grayed around the temples. He wore a light suit and white shoes. Anita was the daughter of a Yiddish poet, Zalman Komarov. Anita had attended a drama school. I had made her acquaintance when still in Seagate. She was petite, thin to the point of emaciation, with black hair that she kept as short as a boy’s. She had a pointed Adam’s apple also like a boy’s. Her face was narrow, her cheeks sunken, her nose snub. She suffered from acne.

  I heard Zygmunt Salkin say, “We didn’t come here to sit. I’ve been looking for you for weeks. Where have you been hiding? Anita and I had a talk and it turned out that she knows you. We decided to find you at any price and here you are. Such heat as is in this room is rare even in Africa.”

  “I’m not shaved, and besides—”

  “Come, come. You can melt here, and then it’ll be too late. You may be aware that I’ve founded a group for young actors, and for old ones as well, if they have the talent. Something has to be done for the theater in America. There was a time when I dreamed about reviving the Yiddish theater, but I’ve convinced myself that this was a waste of time. If something can be done for the English theater, this may help the theater in other languages. The theater is like a body. If you help one part, it influences the other parts. Besides, this gives me an opportunity to meet young and pretty girls. Isn’t that so, Anita?”

  Zgymunt Salkin smiled and winked, and Anita winked back and said, “All men, without exception, are egotists.”

  Anita had told me her life story. At the age of seventeen, she had been involved in an affair with a Morris Katzenstein, a philosophy student at City College, son of the Yiddish actor Shamai Katzenstein. Anita (her parents called her Hannele) moved in with Morris and became pregnant. The parents on both sides demanded that the couple marry and they arranged a quick wedding, but during the honeymoon in Bermuda, Anita miscarried. Morris later became a Communist and gave up his studies. He also left Anita and went to live with a female activist among the Reds who was ten years older than he. Anita, an only daughter, moved back in with her parents. I had met her at Nesha’s house.

  I had forgotten that Salkin had his own car; it was now parked outside of the decrepit building in which I lived. Actually, it was the same car in which he picked me up the day I arrived in America. My brother told me that Salkin lived with a mistress in the area called Greenwich Village.

  I had assumed that he would take Anita and me to a restaurant, but he let me know that he was taking us to his place where there would be a party. Had he told me this sooner, I would have changed my suit and shaved as well. Now, he had presented me with a fait accompli.

  I was far from in the mood for meeting strangers. I had an urge to tell Salkin sharply that I wasn’t some kind of rare animal to be put on exhibit at will, and to demand that he leave me alone, yet at the same time I knew that Salkin was out to help me, not humiliate me. He seemed to be in a cheerful mood. He was humming some song and he joked with Anita. He had turned into Fifth Avenue and he pointed out to me buildings, a hotel, a restaurant—all of which were connected with famous American writers or painters of whom I had never heard.

  Soon we entered the narrow streets of Greenwich Village. Both the men here and the women appeared to me half naked. I saw youths with beards and long hair, in sandals on bare feet, in yellow, green, red trousers. One smoked a long pipe, another carried a monkey in a cage, a third had a placard draped over his back and as he walked he drank some liquid from a bottle and shouted slogans. The women displayed their independence in their own fashion. One walked about barefoot, a second led a huge dog on a leash and pushed a carriage containing a Siamese cat, a third wore a straw hat the size of an umbrella. Artists exhibited paintings on the narrow sidewalks. A poet sold his mimeographed poems. The neighborhood reminded me of Paris and of Purim.

  The car stopped before a house with a dark, narrow entrance. We climbed up four flights and Salkin opened a door into a large, dim room filled with men and women. Apparently the party had already started. On a long table covered with a red tablecloth red candles burned in holders. It smelled here of whiskey, wine, meat, perspiration and of the lotions women use to subdue the odors of the flesh. The people were all talking, laughing, expressing interest in some bit of news that seemed to raise everyone’s spirits. Out of the crowd pushed Salkin’s mistress—blond, blue-eyed, wearing a white blouse and a long skirt embroidered in gold and silver. Her red fingernails were long and pointed. A cigarette in a long holder extended from between her red lips. On one of her fingers was a ring resembling a spider. Salkin introduced her as Lotte. For a moment she appeared to be young, a girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, but then I saw the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the slackness in her neck that no makeup could hide. When Salkin announced my name and added whose brother I was, over her face came that sweet smile and glow of confidence that worldly women can evoke at any time and under any circumstance. She tried to speak to me in Yiddish and soon switched over into English: “Your brother talks of you whenever we meet. Salkin, too. He’s read your book—what’s its name?—and he was enchanted. Unfortunately, I can’t read Yiddish, but my grandmother used to read the Yiddish newspaper every day. Zygmunt tells me that you hide from everyone. But today he vowed that he would nab you. What are you drinking?”

  “Oh, nothing. Maybe some soda.”

  “That’s all? At a party you have to drink. Wait a minute, the phone is ringing.”

  How odd, but I had forgotten all about my bashfulness. It was almost dark in here and no one would be able to tell whether my suit was pressed or wrinkled, whether I was shaved or not. After a while, Salkin and Anita drifted away and I was left alone. I walked over to a table on which bottles of liquor were standing. I noticed that the guests poured drinks for themselves. I knew what I had to do—get drunk. I picked up one of the bottles and poured myself a half glassful. It was cognac. I took one large gulp and drained the glass. A burning blazed up in my throat and soon after in my stomach. A bowl of rolls stood on the table and I quickly bit into one. I felt the fumes of the alcohol rushing to my brain. My head began to spin and my legs wobbled. Since everyone was drinking, I mused, they probably weren’t so sure of themselves either. Apparently, they too suffered from inferiority complexes. I wasn’t drunk, nor was I sober. I poured myself a little more of the liquor. I noted that the guests were walking around with the drinks in their hands and I did the same. A black maid carrying a tray came up and spoke to me but I didn’t hear what it was. After a while, I caught on that she was offering me something to eat from the tray. I wanted to pick up a half of hard-boiled egg with a toothpick, but it slipped from my hand. Instead, I took something with cheese. The maid handed me a red paper napkin. She smiled at me, showing a mouthful of white teeth. I pushed my way through the crowd of strangers. Someone trod on my foot, excused himself, apparently made a joke, since he himself laughed at what he had said. Salkin came up and soon Anita joined us. Salkin said, “Let’s go into the bedroom. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  The bedroom had a bed so wide that not one couple but two or even three could have slept in it comfortably. A painting of some red smudges hung here and a lithograph of people standing on their heads, flying through the air. There was a figure of a man with horns and the snout of a pig, and of a female with breasts in front and behind, all apparently painted by the s
ame artist. Salkin and Anita sat down on the bed and I settled in a wicker chair. Salkin said, “We, Anita and I, have a plan to propose to you, but before you say no, hear me out first. I’ve already told you about our theater troupe. We leased a place in the Catskills in which to rehearse and talk over all our problems. None of us gets a penny. On the contrary, we contribute to the effort. We plan—not this year but a year from now—to put on a play that will infuse new life into the theater. What we have there is not a theater but a hotel casino. The hotel itself burned down, or the owner set it on fire. The casino was far removed from the hotel and it remained in one piece. There is a small stage there and benches and that’s all we need. Anita’s parents live not far away. It was actually through her that I learned about this casino. There is a Yiddishist summer colony nearby, with bungalows named after Yiddish writers and Socialist leaders—Peretz, Shalom Aleichem, Mendele, Bovshover. Anarchists stay there too, that is to say, ex-anarchists who are now businessmen, some of them even millionaires, and have bungalows with names like Rosa Luxemburg, Peter Kropotkin, Emma Goldman. Some of these ex-revolutionaries help our group with small donations. It would pay you to see the whole setup. You would have something to write about. I spoke with your brother about you and he is irked because you have isolated yourself from everything and everybody. This may be good for an elderly writer whose career is over, D’Annunzio or Knut Hamsum, not for a young man. I normally wouldn’t take a place in the Catskills for the summer, but since I am the founder of the group and basically responsible for everything that happens there, we, my friend Lotte and I, rented a house in that area and we’ll be spending the rest of the summer there, at least until Labor Day. We have a lot of rooms in this house, more than we can use, and we would like for you to come stay with us. First of all, you’ll save the rent you’re paying. Second, you’ll get some fresh air, not sit, if you’ll excuse me, in a stinkhole. Third, you can help us.”

  “How?”

  “We’ve been a long time searching for a suitable play for an experimental theater and it occurred to me that Peretz’s At Night in the Old Marketplace wouldn’t be a bad idea. You undoubtedly know the thing. It’s not for the general audience. As often as it has been staged, it has inevitably been a flop—in Poland and here, too. It’s play full of symbolism and mysticism. That’s the very reason it would be good for us. I’ve translated the thing into English and I’ve read it to the group and although three quarters of them aren’t Jewish—American young men and girls from Texas, Missouri, and Ohio, and what have you—they understood the play and were enraptured by it. The play could draw a number of the native-born Jews who are interested in Yiddish art—but only if it is done in English, not in Yiddish. The play, as you know, has a lot to do with the cabala and Jewish mysticism, and those are unfamiliar areas for me. I want to direct the play and you could be of great help to me.

  “I want to tell you something else. I read your Satan in Goray and I have a high opinion of it. I told this to your brother and he fully agrees with me. If At Night in the Old Marketplace should turn out a success—I mean an artistic success not a financial one—sooner or later we would be able to dramatize your work and I could even get you an advance of a few hundred dollars. In brief, Anita, Lotte, and I want to drag you out of the rut into which you’ve fallen or thrown yourself. And I ask you—don’t be too quick to say no. Our group has no money, no experience, and no name, but all things start out small. Where Times Square is now was a farm where goats grazed a hundred years ago. Isn’t that so, Anita?”

  “If not a hundred years ago, then a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “What’s your answer?”

  “I’m not sure that I can help you.”

  “I’m sure that you can. Simply to discuss with you the various attitudes would be helpful to us. You’ll be able to go on writing your articles. There is a library not far from us and a store where you can get the magazines from which you gather your so-called facts.”

  “Is there a cafeteria there?”

  “What do you need with a cafeteria? Lotte is a woman with a lot of education and she’s a talented actress besides, but she’s also a splendid cook. She’ll prepare your vegetarian dishes for you. We have other girls to cook as well. We live there actually in a kind of commune. Each person contributes whatever he or she can. Several of the girls come from wealthy homes. Your brother has promised to come stay with us for a few days.”

  “My mother and father would like to meet you, too,” Anita said. “Normally they are busy all year but they take time out for vacations. We actually live there in that Yiddishist colony. Ours is the David Frishman bungalow. We are sunk in Yiddishism up to here—”

  And Anita pointed to her chin.

  2

  From extreme isolation I was transported into extreme sociability. On one side was the theater group under the leadership of Zygmunt Salkin, and on the other the Yiddish poet Zalman Komarov, his wife, Bessie, and the colony of Yiddishists. I couldn’t believe that such an abrupt transformation was possible. Zygmunt Salkin gave me the English translation of At Night in the Old Marketplace as well as the Yiddish text. I found many errors in the translation and Salkin promptly corrected them.

  Even before, I had known that this play was too lacking in dramatic action to interest a theater audience and I proposed that it be played in conjunction with a dramatized short story of Peretz’s. Salkin and his group seized upon this notion and they decided as one that I should be the one to choose the right story and to dramatize it in collaboration with Salkin.

  When Zalman Komarov and the other Yiddishists heard that I was getting ready to dramatize something by Peretz—the spiritual leader and founder of Yiddishism—I became an overnight target of their interest. Yiddishism in America suffered a lack of young forces. I was comparatively young and my book had already received some notice among the Yiddishists even though the critics complained that I failed to follow in the path of the Yiddish classicists and gave myself over excessively to sex, as well as demonstrating a lack of concern with social problems.

  I was now surrounded by people all day and sometimes half the night. Bessie Komarov, Anita’s mother, often invited me for lunch, for dinner, sometimes even for breakfast. Lotte cooked my vegetarian meals. The group had many more women than men. Everyone was young and full of amateurish enthusiasm; I was to them an expert in Jewishness, which already at that time had begun to make inroads into American literature and theater.

  Zygmunt Salkin and Anita Komarov took every opportunity to speak of my talent and to predict that I would do great things in the future. I often told myself at that time that I should be overjoyed. In the rare times when I was left alone, I posed the same question to myself: Are you happy now or at least satisfied? But the answer was always—no.

  At that time I hardly ever read a newspaper, but Zygmunt Salkin received Yiddish newspapers from America, Poland, France, and even Russia, and a day didn’t go by that I didn’t learn of the deaths and all kinds of tragedies suffered by people who had been known or been close to me, or whom I knew through reading. And what about those whom I didn’t know? What about the thousands, hundreds of thousands, actually millions of victims of Stalin’s terror, Hitler’s murders? What about the innocent people who had perished in Spain, in Ethiopia, in Mongolia, and who knows where else? What about the millions who suffered from cancer, consumption, or who starved to death? Even in America gangs of criminals killed and tortured their victims while phony liberals, cunning lawyers, and callous judges tolerated it all and actually helped the criminals with all sorts of pretexts and senseless theories. One would have to be totally indifferent toward man and beast to be able to be happy.

  The Yiddishist colony seethed with those offering ready-made remedies for all the world’s ills. Some still preached anarchism—others, socialism. Some placed all their hopes in Freud while others hinted that Stalin was hardly as bad as the capitalist lackeys painted him. Surely, no one in the colony considered th
e evils perpetrated daily upon God’s creatures by the millions of hunters, vivisectionists, and butchers.

  I had gained companionship, but my isolation from everything and everybody remained the same. All that was left were means of temporary forgetfulness. In order to get myself through the days and nights, I had to somehow muffle my senses. There were days when it seemed that Anita might provide this opportunity to me. However, something was holding us back—no moral inhibition but, one might say, a chemical one. In the course of my life I had often encountered these inhibitions. Although both sides were ready, some force that is stronger than their resolves said no. There were in the group girls who would gladly have had an affair with me, but despite my eagerness, the male within me demanded devotion and old-fashioned love.

  For a while it appeared that our plan to put on At Night in the Old Marketplace was on its way. Zygmunt Salkin had gotten promises from alleged theater patrons that they would support the project with cash contributions. There was talk of leasing a theater in New York, if not on Broadway, then off-Broadway. But I was less deceived by these hopes than the others. Most of the boys and girls in the group had been left penniless. Zygmunt Salkin was actually the only patron of the organization and he was far from wealthy. To rent a theater required a contract and a deposit. The play needed scenery, the actors and actresses had to get enough to at least pay their rent and eat. At the rehearsals, I saw that Zygmunt Salkin lacked the skills of a director and that most of the boys and girls had little talent. Peretz’s words emerged false, awkward, and often ridiculous from their mouths.

  The month of August was almost over, and Labor Day—which signifies the end of many summer affairs, dreams, promises, and projects—was fast approaching. The Yiddishist colony began slowly to empty out. A number of those who in the heat of summer had preached socialism, the dictatorship of the proletariat, anarchism, atheism, even free love, went back to New York for the Days of Awe along with their elderly wives. They all offered excuses for observing the holidays. Nearly all of them had religious relatives whose feelings they didn’t want to hurt.