by Ezra Glinter
At first people went down to the park in droves to breathe the fresh air and enjoy performances by the philharmonic. Later, when we had a little butter or sausage to go with our bread, we went less often, especially on weekdays, and we skipped the free concerts. Most of the benches in front of the stage just sat there empty, in spite of the hardworking musicians all dressed up in their tuxedos with flowers in their lapels. They were required to play, whether or not anyone was listening. The whole thing was painful for them—artists don’t like sawing away for no applause. But eventually they got used to it and even came to find the situation somewhat amusing, especially since not all the benches were actually unoccupied. Every day, their devoted listener, the one and only Mona Bubbe, took her place in the front row.
Who knows? Maybe the concerts became part of her daily routine for no particular reason, or maybe she was a classical music fan. In any event, she never missed a concert. Every day the musicians put a white flower on her seat, just like the ones in their buttonholes, and waited for her before starting to play.
As befitted a lady entering a concert hall, Mona Bubbe arrived dressed to the nines, every detail reflecting her personal sense of style. Over a white blouse she wore a checkered jacket adorned with tucks and pleats. She had a round black hat perched on top of her head, with a checkered ribbon tangled up in her long, loose hair—very fetching. Her white gloves were cheap but spotless, and she carried a black purse with the kind of fringe that was fashionable about fifty years ago.
What stood out most, though, wasn’t her clothing. The poor woman really went to town with her makeup. She covered her moon face with a thick layer of powder, outlined her eyes with coal-black pencil, and smeared cheap red lipstick like a clown’s all over her lips. People couldn’t stop staring at her, but none of us said anything. No one wanted to get involved—not that she would have paid attention anyway.
On the bandstand, none of it mattered. When the musicians saw her coming, they’d strike up a march. She’d lower her eyes coquettishly, and the corners of her painted lips would turn up with pleasure. She’d sniff at her flower, take her seat, and gracefully signal that she was ready to listen.
Then the concert would begin. Fool or not, Mona Bubbe knew exactly how to behave when she felt accepted rather than pushed away. What an honor it was to be entertained by such renowned virtuosos! When it came time to applaud, she pulled off her gloves and made as much noise as she could in the empty space. Which side got more out of the encounter—she or the ensemble—was an open question.
So a year passed, then another. As the violinists grew older, they were not replaced. Most of the players were Jews, though some Moldovans, onetime wedding musicians, could also be found among the basses, the big horns, and maybe the cymbals and the kettledrums.
Our Mona Bubbe wasn’t getting any younger either. A distinct web of wrinkles could be seen around her mouth, even under the thick layer of powder.
ONE DAY WHEN Mona Bubbe arrived in the garden, a violinist and a cellist were missing. She noticed right away but didn’t feel she had the right to ask, so she said nothing. After the concert she lingered by the gate but still couldn’t bring herself to approach anyone. She went home upset and on edge. Not long after, two more cellists and the principal clarinetist disappeared. Mona Bubbe nearly fell ill. She stopped going to the garden. Let them manage without her. By the time she learned the whole story, it was too late. Now, in the evenings, the bandstand in the Summer Park stood empty, except for the boys who fooled around on stage before going to the cinema.
Mona Bubbe had lost her anchor. All of her beloved musicians were leaving the country. She couldn’t begin to understand why. It felt like a personal blow. How could they abandon her after all her years of devotion? She took to snarling and spouting profanities in the streets again, then went back to the Summer Park, hoping for news. It was unbelievable to her that they would just run off without even saying goodbye. She ached, she agonized, and then she made up her mind.
On a Wednesday, Mona Bubbe screwed up her courage and set off for the train station. The platform was jammed—so many traitors all in one place! Trembling, she kept close to the wall. She knew that when people were in a festive mood they tended to pay more attention to her. Best to stay safely out of sight.
Everything was in such an uproar that no one even noticed the train pulling in on platform one. Then the real crush began. People screamed and hollered and climbed on top of one another to toss their luggage through the windows. Why such a rush? Mona Bubbe wondered sourly. Was life here so unbearable—even with the philharmonic and the summer park? What was the matter with them all? Then, suddenly, three violinists caught her eye. They were already on the train, standing at the window and saying goodbye to their companions. Mona Bubbe felt faint. She lowered her eyes. Better not to look, not to see the loathsome world that had forgotten her so easily, abandoned her so casually to the likes of drunken Vaska, wobbling and tottering with the cymbals in his hands. Who now would welcome her to the park with a march? Where now would she find refuge? Choking back tears, she turned her face to the wall. It was then that they recognized her by the ribbon in her long hair. Mona Bubbe—here, for them! Deeply moved, they waved and smiled, but she wasn’t looking.
“What’s her name?” one of them asked the others.
“You know—Mona Bubbe!”
“Not that—what’s her real name?”
No one knew.
“Try it—maybe she’ll answer.”
“Mona Bubbe!” Their voices rang out on the platform.
She didn’t turn. And when a young man nearby tapped her on the shoulder, she only bared her teeth and shoved him away.
“You crazy thing, what are you hitting me for? Can’t you hear them?” He pointed at the train. She turned then and saw the three violinists beaming and waving goodbye.
Everyone on the platform was gawking at her. Mona Bubbe lifted her head and seemed about to speak, but instead her face twisted. The tears that were caught in her throat spilled out over her cheeks, mingling together the moon-white of her face, her coal-black eyes, and the wine-dark red of her lips.
Mikhoel Felsenbaum
1951–
MIKHOEL FELSENBAUM IS among the most prominent contemporary Yiddish writers.
Born in Vasylkiv, in Soviet Ukraine, he grew up and spent most of his life in the Moldovan city of Floresti. In the 1960s he studied stage directing, theater, and art history in Leningrad, and worked as a theater director in the Moldovan city of Balti (known in Yiddish as Belts) between 1969 and 1973.
Felsenbaum began publishing his work in Yiddish in the 1980s, in the journal Sovetish heymland (Soviet Homeland). In 1988 he founded the Jewish theater of Balti, where he staged his works in Yiddish.
Since 1991, Felsenbaum has lived in Israel, where he has published numerous poetry collections, plays, and short stories, and became a regular contributor to the Forward. His 2001 novel, Shabesdike shvebelekh, has been translated into Russian and German, and an English translation, The Sabbath Lights, is in progress.
“Hallo” appeared in the Forward from October 24 to November 13, 2008. With its irreverent style, dissolute narrator, and contemporary setting, the story illustrates the continued development of Yiddish fiction in the twenty-first century.
Hallo
(OCTOBER 24–NOVEMBER 13, 2008)
Translated by Eitan Kensky
I
HER DAILY EARLY morning “hallo” makes me crazy. And even before she moves on to her usual “Good morning. How did you sleep?” I’m a mess and more than mystified about where to start my answer. To say that I slept like I was lying on top of a sack filled with sharp stones is really not that important. But how do I tell her what does matter, that every night I get to sleep with her is like a holiday? One that only falls, unfortunately, as the saying goes, once in a Purim. So it is that during these regular days of our lives, really every single morning, the voice in the receiver wakes me from somewhere faraway: “Hallo. Good
morning. How did you sleep?” I mean, the time will come when I finally answer her: “May my enemies live through such a year!”
In short, we met completely by accident, in Basel, at the annual Book Fair, one fine, warm spring. Truth be told, a different representative of our publishing house was supposed to attend the fair. I myself am an expert in advertising and have nothing to do with publishing books. But my colleague was laid up in the hospital with two broken legs, plastered over with casts to his belly button. No one was eager to schlep all that way with hundreds of books and booklets, then shmooze fair attendees nonstop for three days—no such eager people existed. And, in general, our collective is very small, almost everyone who works there is a retiree, and they can’t lift their behinds off the chair without aching. My usual excuse—that I don’t have anyone to watch my sheepdog, Melekh—didn’t help this time. Each one of my coworkers was ready to take Melekh in, as long as he didn’t have to schlep to Basel. I never had much work at the publisher’s, that is true. So it was determined that I would travel to Basel and my dog Melekh would stay with my boss’s children, a guest in their village.
Faced with no other choice, my dog traveled to the village and I traveled to Basel, though my head was preoccupied with completely different things, none of them any good at all. First, about a month before this all took place, my wife packed her suitcases and went to her mother’s. She didn’t, God forbid, divorce me. She simply gave me an ultimatum: her or wine; they won’t go together anymore. And when I kept drinking, she just left for her mama’s. “I’ll come back,” she said, “but only if you stop drinking.” I can’t say that I was happy with her “and-there-I-go.” On the contrary: my heart almost exploded, my soul cried, but my hand was still drawn to the glass. What can you do? I love to drink, and I can’t turn down the pleasure I feel that extraordinary moment when liquor enters my veins and I carry myself into another world.
The children and the Mrs. called me almost every day, because, lately, I felt god-awful—I couldn’t sleep or eat and I suffered terrible stomach pains. Finally, I went to the doctor. The test results were bad, very bad. They discovered that I had “the good disease,” and they demanded that I stop drinking right away: the sooner I could have an operation, the better chance I had to stay alive. The first few days I went around dazed and had no clue what to do. Meanwhile, I hadn’t told my wife and kids anything. Who knows how anyone’s going to react to the “good news?” So I was truly happy when my colleague shattered his legs and I had to take his place at the book fair in Basel.
There really wasn’t much work to do at the fair. You have to stand around the publisher’s display all day long. Occasionally you have to tell some salivating, cloying yuppie about postmodern Yiddish literature. Even more boring were the meet-and-greets with well-known authors—especially the presentations of their idiotic books. But the banquets were extraordinary, with fine wines and tasty hors d’oeuvres. At one of these severe “à la fourchettes” 168 I stood off to the side and chatted with Thomas Weizner, a really great writer from Geneva, when suddenly my eyes fell on a middle-aged woman approaching us: she was a tall, picture-perfect aristocrat with green-blue eyes, dressed with impeccable taste, simple and elegant, with expensive diamonds on her finger, neck and ears.
“Herr Lazar, allow me to introduce my friend from Germany, Frau Maria Koenig. Frau Koenig, allow me to introduce my comrade from Israel, Herr Jan Lazar.”
My hands and feet grew cold. For a while I stood there motionless, like clay. What can I tell you? My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I felt like I was choking and going to lose myself. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve seen and known many women in my lifetime. But I’d never met a woman like that before. And besides, a kind of thump in my heart let me know—that’s her, your one and only, your fate, your life and death.
“A pleasure, Frau Koenig,” I said quietly after an idiotic pause, and suddenly I gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Jan, don’t be so formal. Call me Maria,” she said peacefully, exactly as if we’d already kissed before.
“Oh, I didn’t know that you knew each other!” Thomas Weizner said, astounded.
“Doch. I’ve read Jan’s love poems in a couple of anthologies, in French and German translations,” Maria answered with a peculiar womanly smile. “I believe that I can feel Jan’s soul inside of me, even from far away.”
I stood there with my mouth wide open and I felt my head start to spin.
Thomas Weizner perceived the delicateness of the situation, kissed Maria’s hand, tapped me on the shoulder and said goodbye. “My dear Maria, forgive me, but I have to go to my readers. I leave you in good company. We’ll see each other later.” And Thomas left and joined a group of idlers on the other side of the hall.
I stood near Maria, caressed her hand, and kept caressing her hand. I forgot everything in the world, my problems and disease. I had simply fallen in love with this woman, whoever she was, she who stood by me, and let me caress her hand.
“Jan,” Maria said ever so quickly, caressing me with her slightly crossed eyes. “I know an excellent Greek restaurant not far from here. I am inviting you. There is nothing more to do here.”
II
IT WAS A magnificent night. We sat in a small restaurant, ate a Greek salad with salty cheese and loads of olives, drank a crisp village wine and talked. To tell the truth, I talked and drank. Maria didn’t speak or drink; she just ate and stuck in a short “aha,” or “ja, doch” every now and then. But with only that, she still managed to tell me that she was a journalist and, as far as writing goes, she writes about the relationships between different ethnic groups in Europe, and also about the relationships between Jews and non-Jews after the Holocaust. Her still and peaceful voice matched the murmurs of the Rhine at night, which flowed somewhere near the restaurant’s half-open window.
It was almost midnight when we left the restaurant. It was drizzling, and Maria invited me over to her room. The second she opened the door to her hotel suite, her cat—male, hairy, red, and as big as a dog—pounced on me.
“That’s my Basilio. And this, Basilio, is Jan,” Maria said, petting the cat on its head. “He is my beloved and he always accompanies me on my travels.”
“I have a beloved at home; a sheep dog.”
“What’s his name?”
“You’re going to laugh, Frau Koenig, but my dog is named Melekh, ‘king,’ the same as your German name, ‘Koenig.’”
“Oh, is that so? Though I’ve never seen him, do tell him that I love him like a member of my ‘Koenig family.’”
We sat at the small table, drank juice and made out like ravenous high school students. Maria’s lips became hard and hot, her breasts heaved under her blouse and her fingers kneaded my shoulders. It was like we’d gone crazy.
In bed it was cold. Maria was inflamed, I was drenched in hot sweat and whispered nonstop:
“Maria, I love you, I really love you.”
“I also love you. Your smell makes me crazy . . .”
The last thing I remember: a beastly scream tore out of me and Maria, half-faint, tightly pressed her palm to my mouth and hushed the words, “Quieter, my love; the neighbors are going to call the police.”
III
STRANGE NOISES WOKE me in the middle of the night. At first I didn’t understand where I was, and what kind of beast was lying on my chest, snoring like a healthy peasant.
“Don’t be afraid,” I made out Maria’s calming voice. “It’s Basilio. You’re lying in his spot. Don’t wake me so early, I am tired and happy.”
“Very interesting,” I tried to joke, “I’ve never slept with a male cat before.”
Maria didn’t answer, but she petted Basilio on his head and went back to sleep.
“Thank God she doesn’t travel with an ox,” I thought, and moved the pasturing cat to the side, lying half-awake, half-asleep until the early morning. We left the hotel in the late morning and took breakfast at a small coffee house in the old city.
It was the last day of the fair, and the next morning I had to travel to Zurich since my flight to Tel Aviv was from there. I sensed that I had to tell Maria about the “happiness” waiting for me in Israel.
“Maria, I have to tell you two very important things.”
“Ja, tell.”
“First, I love you very much and you are very dear to me.”
“I too love you and you are dear to me.”
“And second, I am not healthy. I have to undergo an operation, the sooner the better. I’m giving you my word: if I stay alive, I’m going to come to you as soon as I can.”
“I will wait for you. I’m in need of you.”
“I’ll come visit you tonight. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving.”
“No, I have a lot of work today. You are going to sleep at your place, and I will sleep at mine. But tomorrow morning I will come to the station and I will accompany you. Don’t be angry. Believe me, on my word: you are very dear to me, I felt it right away, from the first moment I saw you. And that’s enough for me. For today, that’s enough.”
Maria gave me her calling card and we said goodbye. I spent the whole day packing up books and, between you and me, calling Maria, but her cell phone was silent, all day, evening and night. The thought came to me: this bright aristocratic woman had played with me like a doll and thrown me away like something she no longer needed. It was a kind of accidental intrigue heavy on feelings and passion, nothing more. All night I tossed in bed and I sought out my beloved in every corner of my visions. She was right there in front of my eyes, but I couldn’t reach her. I didn’t fall asleep until it was morning and I almost missed the train.
I saw her from the distance. Tall, in a light pelerine, she stood on the platform near the Zurich-bound train and waited for me.
“Hallo. Good morning. How did you sleep?
“Maria, I really love you.”
“I love you too.”