Shosha

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  I felt an urge to tell Betty Slonim my idea that very moment. I knew she was staying at the Hotel Bristol, but I couldn’t bring myself to drop in on a lady at a hotel unexpectedly. I lacked even the courage to telephone her. I decided to go to the Writers’ Club. Feitelzohn might be there and I could describe my plot to him. Although I was tired, a spark of interest in Betty Slonim kindled in me. I had already indulged in a fantasy in which we enjoyed fame together – she as an actress, and I as a playwright. But Feitelzohn wasn’t at the club. In the first room two unemployed journalists played chess and I stopped for a while to look on. The one who was winning – Pinie Machtei, a little man who had only one leg – swayed over the chess board, pulled at his goatee, and sang a Russian song:

  ‘Happy or not happy

  As long as there is vodka and wine

  Let us not whine.’

  He said to me, ‘You may look, but don’t kibitz.’

  He had put his knight in such a situation that his opponent, Zorach Leibkes, had to give up his queen for a castle. If not, he would have been checkmated in two moves. Zorach Leibkes was a temporary replacement in the Yiddish press when the proofreaders were on vacation. He was small and round like a barrel. He too swayed, and he was saying, ‘Machtei, stop singing. Your castle is nothing but an idiot. I’m afraid of him as much as I’m afraid of last year’s frost. You have been a botcher and a botcher you’ll remain until the tenth generation.’

  ‘Where does the queen go?’ Machtei asked.

  ‘She will go. She will go. Don’t worry your silly head over it. Once she goes she will shatter your pieces to smithereens.’

  I went into the main room. There were only three writers there. At a small table sat Shloimele, a folk-poet who signed his poems only with his first name. He was writing a poem in a ledger like those used in grocery stores. He was known to write in almost microscopic letters that only he could decipher. While he wrote, he chirped a monotonous tune. At another table sat Daniel Liptzin, nicknamed the ‘Messiah.’ In 1905 he had taken part in the revolution against the Czar and was sent to Siberia. But there he became religious and began to write mystic stories. Nahum Zelikowitz – tall, thin, black like a gypsy, a pipe in his mouth – was pacing back and forth. He belonged to a minority in the Writers’ Club that believed Hitler was bluffing and there would be no war. He had published twenty novels and all on the same subject: his love for the actress Fania Ephros, who betrayed him and married a union leader. Fania Ephros had been dead for ten years, but he continued to brood about her many treacheries. Zelikowitz had a continuing war with the Warsaw critics, who all put him down. He had slapped one of them across the face. I greeted him, but he didn’t answer me. He was angry with young writers and considered them intruders.

  I went back to the first room. Perhaps the Maiden should be possessed by two dybbuks, I thought, one a slut, the other a whoremonger? I had written a story of a girl possessed by both a whore and a blind musician. I was seized with boldness. From a phone booth I called information for the number of the Hotel Bristol, and when the hotel answered, I asked to be connected with Miss Betty Slonim. The telephone rang once and I heard her voice: ‘Hello?’

  I was momentarily speechless. Then I said, ‘I’m the young man who had the honor of being with you at Gertner’s Restaurant last night.’

  ‘Tsutsik?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been sitting here thinking about you. What’s new with the play?’

  ‘I have an idea I would like to talk over with you and Mr Dreiman.’

  ‘Sam has gone to the American consulate, but come over, and you and I can discuss it.’

  ‘I won’t be disturbing you?’

  ‘Come right over!’ She gave me her room number. I thanked her and hung up. I was tingling with delight over my own courage. Forces stronger than I propelled me. I wanted to take a cab but three zlotys might be too little to pay for it. Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t shaved, and fingered my stubble. I would have to visit a barber. I couldn’t call on an American lady unshaven.

  7

  A doorman in livery guarded the entrance of the Hotel Bristol, and going inside felt almost like entering a police station or a courtroom. But everything went off without a hitch. Although there was an elevator, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The steps were made of marble and along the middle ran a carpet. Betty answered my knock at once. Her room had a huge window and was brighter than any room I had ever seen. The snow had stopped and the sun shone in. I seemed to have been transported to a different climate.

  Betty wore a long houserobe and slippers with pompons. Having red hair and having been tormented by nicknames through my childhood – red dog, red cheater, red carrot – I had an aversion to redheads, but Betty’s hair didn’t repel me. In the sun it seemed a blend of fire and gold. Only now did I observe how white her skin was – as white as my own. Her eyebrows were brown.

  A moment after I came in, the telephone rang and she conversed for a few minutes in English. How grand and worldly this language sounded! Betty was shorter than I but she carried herself with pride. She hung up and invited me to take off my coat and make myself comfortable. Even her Yiddish smacked of sophistication. She took my coat and hung it on a wooden hanger. This struck me as novel – so much respect for an old rag that was missing a button. When I was with Dora I felt like a mature man, but here I reverted to a youth. Betty waved me to a sofa and sat down in an easy chair facing me. Her robe parted, and for a fraction of a second I saw her dazzling legs. She offered me a cigarette. I didn’t smoke but I wouldn’t think of refusing her. She brought me a lighter. I took one puff and became intoxicated by the aroma.

  She said, ‘Now tell me more about the play.’

  I began to talk and she listened. The expression in her eyes kept changing from anticipation to amazement. ‘This means I’ll have to conduct a love affair with myself?’

  ‘Yes, but in a sense we all do.’

  ‘True. I could easily play a man and a woman. Why didn’t you bring the script along?’

  ‘Everything is too rough to show.’

  ‘Couldn’t you recall a few lines for me? I’d like to try it out right now. I’ll give you paper and pen and you can write a few lines – some words for the musician and some for the harlot. Wait!’ She stood up and from her purse that lay on the dresser took out a lady’s fountain pen and a notebook.

  I began to write as if automatically:

  MUSICIAN

  Come, girl, be mine. You’re a corpse and I’m a corpse, and when two corpses dance the bedbugs prance. I’ll make you a present of a pouch of earth from the Land of Israel and the shards that covered my eyelids. With the myrtle between my fingers I’ll dig you a pit reaching from Tishevitz to the Mount of Olives. On the way, we’ll do like Zimri the son of Solu, and Cozby the daughter of Zur.

  HARLOT

  Hold your tongue, foul whelp of a musician! I left the world a pure virgin while you wallowed with every whore from Lublin to Leipzig. A band of angels awaits me, while myriads of demons lie in ambush for you.

  I handed Betty the pen and notebook and she began to read slowly. Her thin eyebrows lifted and remained raised. Her lips formed an inquisitive smile. She read through to the end, then asked, ‘Is this taken from your play?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You composed it right here and now?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Well, you’re a strange young man. You have an exceptional imagination.’

  ‘That’s about all I do have.’

  ‘What else do you need? Wait, I’ll try to play this.’

  She began to mumble into the notebook, halting here and there over some word. Suddenly she began acting out the parts in two voices. I clenched my teeth to stop them from chattering. The powers that ruled the world had brought me together with a superb actress. It was hard to conceive that talent like this spent night after night in bed with Sam Dreiman. My cigarette had gone out. Betty walked up
and down the room, repeating the dialogue over and over. It struck me that she was better as the musician than as the girl. The girl’s voice sounded half masculine. Each time Betty concluded, she glanced at me and I nodded.

  Finally she came up and said, ‘This is good to recite, but a play must have a plot. One of the Hasidim, a rich one, must be in love with me.’

  ‘I’ll write it in.’

  ‘He should have a wife and children.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Let him offer to divorce his wife and marry the girl.’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘But she won’t be able to decide between the dead musician and the live Hasid.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What then?’ she asked.

  ‘She’ll marry the Hasid.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘But on her wedding night the musician won’t let her be with her husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’ll go off with the musician.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To be with him in the grave.’

  ‘How long will it take you to write the play? Mr Dreiman is ready to rent a theater. You could become a famous playwright overnight.’

  ‘As it is fated, so shall it be,’ I said.

  ‘You believe in fate?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So do I. I’m not religious – you see how I live – but I do believe in God. Before I go to sleep I say a prayer. On board ship I prayed to God each night to send me the right play. All of a sudden, along comes a young fellow, a Tsutsik, with a play that can express my soul. Isn’t that miraculous?’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Don’t you have faith in yourself?’

  ‘How can one have faith in anything?’

  ‘You must believe in yourself. That’s my tragedy – I never have had that belief. As soon as something good begins to happen, I foresee nothing but difficulties and mishaps and I spoil whatever there is. That’s how it’s been in love and that’s how it’s been in my career. Do you have a director to suggest?’

  ‘There’s no point looking for a director until the play is finished.’

  ‘You’re still doubtful, eh? This time I won’t allow doubt. The play has to turn out well. Stick to the outline we put together just now. Sam Dreiman will give you a five-hundred-dollar advance and that’s a lot of money here in Poland. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘I had a girl, but we’ve broken up.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘She’s a Communist and is going away to Stalin’s land.’

  ‘Why didn’t you marry?’

  ‘I don’t believe two people can make a contract to love each other forever.’

  ‘Do you have a comfortable apartment?’

  ‘I have to move. I’m being dispossessed.’

  ‘Rent a nice room. Put aside any other work you’re doing and concentrate on our play. What do you intend to call it?’

  ‘The Ludmir Maiden and Her Two Dybbuks.’

  ‘Too long. Leave it to me to decide on the title. How much time will the rewriting take?’

  ‘If it goes well, three weeks – a week for each act.’

  ‘How do you see the three acts?’

  ‘In the first act, the Ludmir Maiden will become what she is and the rich Hasid will fall in love with her. In the second act, the dead musician must emerge and establish the conflict.’

  ‘In my opinion, the dead musician should appear in the very first act,’ Betty said after some hesitation.

  ‘You’re absolutely correct.’

  ‘Don’t agree with me so quickly. Think it over first. A playwright shouldn’t be so compliant.’

  ‘I’m no playwright.’

  ‘If you write a play, then you’re a playwright. If you don’t take yourself seriously, no one else will either. Forgive me for speaking to you this way, but I’m a few years older. Actually, everything I tell you I should tell myself as well. Sam Dreiman believes in me. He believes too much. He is perhaps the only person who believes in me and in my talent. That’s why—’

  ‘I believe in you, too.’

  ‘You do? Eh? Well, thank you. What did I do to deserve that? Apparently someone up there doesn’t want my end just yet. Some sort of providence directed you to me.’

  Three

  1

  Sam Dreiman offered me the five-hundred-dollar advance he had spoken of, but I refused to accept such a big sum. We agreed I would take two hundred dollars for now, and I traded them at a currency exchange for over eighteen hundred zlotys. This was a real windfall. I found a new place on Leszno Street that cost eighty zlotys a month. I put down three months’ rent and got a wallpapered room with central heating, solid furniture, and an Oriental carpet. My landlord, Isidore Katzenberg, a former manufacturer, told me he had been ruined by exorbitant taxes. The apartment house lay close to Iron Street and was relatively new and modern. One floor was a Gymnasium, and there was an elevator at the front entrance, for which I was given a key.

  Everything happened quickly. One evening Sam Dreiman handed me the money and the next day I moved into my new place. I had only to pack my possessions in two valises and carry them over. The maid, Tekla, a young country girl with brown hair and ruddy cheeks, had polished the floor until it gleamed. There was a bed in my room, a sofa, upholstered chairs, and in the long, wide corridor a telephone I was permitted to use at eight groschen a call. God in heaven, I had been thrown into the lap of luxury! I went to a tailor to be fitted for a suit. I lent Feitelzohn fifty zlotys. He demurred, but I forced them on him. I invited him to dinner at a café on Bielanska Street. I had told him the theme of the play and he offered suggestions. Feitelzohn was going to earn money from this venture as well – Sam had asked him to do the ‘publicity.’ I had never heard this word, and it had to be explained to me.

  Feitelzohn sipped his tea, puffed his cigar, and said, ‘What kind of publicity man will I make, anyway? If I don’t like the play, I won’t praise it. But Sam Dreiman is apparently a multimillionaire. He is seventy or more, he has a nasty wife and estranged children who are rich in their own right – what else does he have to do with the money? He wants to spend it as long as he can. This Betty must have brought back his potency. I didn’t know either of them in America, but I heard about him. It seems I even met him once at the Café Royal. He is a carpenter by trade. He went to America in the 1880s and became a builder in Detroit. When Ford built his automobile factories there and began to pay his workers five dollars a day, men came flocking from all over America – from the whole world, in fact. Sam Dreiman built houses and he built factories. In America when the money starts flowing toward someone, there is no limit to it. In 1929 he lost a fortune but enough remained. You should have taken the whole five hundred. To him that’s a trifle. He’ll think you’re a shlemiel.’

  ‘I can’t accept money for goods that don’t exist yet.’

  ‘Well then, write a good play. The American believes in paying. You can give him mud, but if he pays a lot for it, in his mind it becomes gold.’

  I was anxious to go home and get to work, but Feitelzohn had begun to expound on a ‘soul expedition’ he was preparing to launch. Psychoanalysis wasn’t the answer, he said. The patient comes to the analyst to be cured – that is, to become like everyone else. He wants to be rid of his complexes, and the analyst is supposed to help him in this effort. But where is it written that the cure is better than the disease? Those who would take part in his soul expedition wouldn’t be bound by any restrictions. We would assemble in a room on an evening, with the lights off, and give our souls free rein. Man has to be granted the courage to reveal to himself and others what it is he truly desires. The real tyrants weren’t those who repressed the body (which is confined anyhow) but those who enslaved the spirit. Alleged liberators, they have all been subjugators of the soul! Feitelzohn said, ‘Moses and Jesus, the author of the Bhagavad-Gita, a
nd Spinoza, Karl Marx, and Freud. The spirit is a game uncontrolled by rules and laws. If Schopenhauer is right – if blind will is really the thing-in-itself, the essence of all – why not let the wanter want?’

  ‘What’s the purpose of only wanting?’ I asked.

  ‘Where is it written that there must be a purpose? Maybe chaos is the purpose. You’ve glanced into the cabala, and you know that before Ain Sof created the world He first dimmed His light and formed a void. It was only in this void that the Emanation commenced. This divine absence may be the very essence of creation.’

  Evening had fallen but still Feitelzohn talked. By the time we went outside, it was night. The street lights were on in Bielanska Street, and a thin snow was falling. As usual after speaking at length, Feitelzohn grew silent and cranky, ashamed of his own verbosity. He shook my hand and went off in the direction of Dluga Street. I walked toward Leszno. It felt strange to have a pocketful of money suddenly, an elegant room, even a maid who would make my bed and bring me breakfast. Feitelzohn’s words had stirred me. Yes, what was it, actually, that I wanted? I felt drawn to Betty Slonim. Celia’s kiss and confession presaged a new affair. I did not want Dora to leave. But was I in love with these women? Well, what else did I want? I had dreamed of writing a perfect book and now I wanted a perfect play, too. The snow grew denser. It made my eyelids blink and caused spearlike beams to radiate from lamp posts and show windows. Feitelzohn’s constant insinuations that Celia desired me were puzzling. Was he trying to palm her off on me, or to share her with me? I had heard him say that man was on the verge of trading the instinct of jealousy for the instinct of participation.