The Collected Stories

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  Half the town came running. You couldn’t wedge another soul in. Women brought peppered chick-peas, and there was a keg of beer from the tavern. I ate and drank as much as anyone, and they all congratulated me. Then there was a circumcision, and I named the boy after my father, may he rest in peace. When all were gone and I was left with my wife alone, she thrust her head through the bed-curtain and called me to her.

  “Gimpel,” said she, “why are you silent? Has your ship gone and sunk?”

  “What shall I say?” I answered. “A fine thing you’ve done to me! If my mother had known of it she’d have died a second time.”

  She said, “Are you crazy, or what?”

  “How can you make such a fool,” I said, “of one who should be the lord and master?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “What have you taken it into your head to imagine?”

  I saw that I must speak bluntly and openly. “Do you think this is the way to use an orphan?” I said. “You have borne a bastard.”

  She answered, “Drive this foolishness out of your head. The child is yours.”

  “How can he be mine?” I argued. “He was born seventeen weeks after the wedding.”

  She told me then that he was premature. I said, “Isn’t he a little too premature?” She said, she had had a grandmother who carried just as short a time and she resembled this grandmother of hers as one drop of water does another. She swore to it with such oaths that you would have believed a peasant at the fair if he had used them. To tell the plain truth, I didn’t believe her; but when I talked it over next day with the school-master, he told me that the very same thing had happened to Adam and Eve. Two they went up to bed, and four they descended.

  “There isn’t a woman in the world who is not the granddaughter of Eve,” he said.

  That was how it was; they argued me dumb. But then, who really knows how such things are?

  I began to forget my sorrow. I loved the child madly, and he loved me too. As soon as he saw me he’d wave his little hands and want me to pick him up, and when he was colicky I was the only one who could pacify him. I bought him a little bone teething ring and a little gilded cap. He was forever catching the evil eye from someone, and then I had to run to get one of those abracadabras for him that would get him out of it. I worked like an ox. You know how expenses go up when there’s an infant in the house. I don’t want to lie about it; I didn’t dislike Elka either, for that matter. She swore at me and cursed, and I couldn’t get enough of her. What strength she had! One of her looks could rob you of the power of speech. And her orations! Pitch and sulphur, that’s what they were full of, and yet somehow also full of charm. I adored her every word. She gave me bloody wounds though.

  In the evening I brought her a white loaf as well as a dark one, and also poppyseed rolls I baked myself. I thieved because of her and swiped everything I could lay hands on: macaroons, raisins, almonds, cakes. I hope I may be forgiven for stealing from the Saturday pots the women left to warm in the baker’s oven. I would take out scraps of meat, a chunk of pudding, a chicken leg or head, a piece of tripe, whatever I could nip quickly. She ate and became fat and handsome.

  I had to sleep away from home all during the week, at the bakery. On Friday nights when I got home she always made an excuse of some sort. Either she had heartburn, or a stitch in the side, or hiccups, or headaches. You know what women’s excuses are. I had a bitter time of it. It was rough. To add to it, this little brother of hers, the bastard, was growing bigger. He’d put lumps on me, and when I wanted to hit back she’d open her mouth and curse so powerfully I saw a green haze floating before my eyes. Ten times a day she threatened to divorce me. Another man in my place would have taken French leave and disappeared. But I’m the type that bears it and says nothing. What’s one to do? Shoulders are from God, and burdens too.

  One night there was a calamity in the bakery; the oven burst, and we almost had a fire. There was nothing to do but go home, so I went home. Let me, I thought, also taste the joy of sleeping in bed in midweek. I didn’t want to wake the sleeping mite and tiptoed into the house. Coming in, it seemed to me that I heard not the snoring of one but, as it were, a double snore, one a thin enough snore and the other like the snoring of a slaughtered ox. Oh, I didn’t like that! I didn’t like it at all. I went up to the bed, and things suddenly turned black. Next to Elka lay a man’s form. Another in my place would have made an uproar, and enough noise to rouse the whole town, but the thought occurred to me that I might wake the child. A little thing like that—why frighten a little swallow, I thought. All right then, I went back to the bakery and stretched out on a sack of flour and till morning I never shut an eye. I shivered as if I had had malaria. “Enough of being a donkey,” I said to myself. “Gimpel isn’t going to be a sucker all his life. There’s a limit even to the foolishness of a fool like Gimpel.”

  In the morning I went to the rabbi to get advice, and it made a great commotion in the town. They sent the beadle for Elka right away. She came, carrying the child. And what do you think she did? She denied it, denied everything, bone and stone! “He’s out of his head,” she said. “I know nothing of dreams or divinations.” They yelled at her, warned her, hammered on the table, but she stuck to her guns: it was a false accusation, she said.

  The butchers and the horse-traders took her part. One of the lads from the slaughterhouse came by and said to me, “We’ve got our eye on you, you’re a marked man.” Meanwhile, the child started to bear down and soiled itself. In the rabbinical court there was an Ark of the Covenant, and they couldn’t allow that, so they sent Elka away.

  I said to the rabbi, “What shall I do?”

  “You must divorce her at once,” said he.

  “And what if she refuses?” I asked.

  He said, “You must serve the divorce. That’s all you’ll have to do.”

  I said, “Well, all right, Rabbi. Let me think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” said he. “You mustn’t remain under the same roof with her.”

  “And if I want to see the child?” I asked.

  “Let her go, the harlot,” said he, “and her brood of bastards with her.”

  The verdict he gave was that I mustn’t even cross her threshold—never again, as long as I should live.

  During the day it didn’t bother me so much. I thought: It was bound to happen, the abscess had to burst. But at night when I stretched out upon the sacks I felt it all very bitterly. A longing took me, for her and for the child. I wanted to be angry, but that’s my misfortune exactly, I don’t have it in me to be really angry. In the first place—this was how my thoughts went—there’s bound to be a slip sometimes. You can’t live without errors. Probably that lad who was with her led her on and gave her presents and what not, and women are often long on hair and short on sense, and so he got around her. And then since she denies it so, maybe I was only seeing things? Hallucinations do happen. You see a figure or a mannikin or something, but when you come up closer it’s nothing, there’s not a thing there. And if that’s so, I’m doing her an injustice. And when I got so far in my thoughts I started to weep. I sobbed so that I wet the flour where I lay. In the morning I went to the rabbi and told him that I had made a mistake. The rabbi wrote on with his quill, and he said that if that were so he would have to reconsider the whole case. Until he had finished I wasn’t to go near my wife, but I might send her bread and money by messenger.

  III

  Nine months passed before all the rabbis could come to an agreement. Letters went back and forth. I hadn’t realized that there could be so much erudition about a matter like this.

  Meanwhile, Elka gave birth to still another child, a girl this time. On the Sabbath I went to the synagogue and invoked a blessing on her. They called me up to the Torah, and I named the child for my mother-in-law—may she rest in peace. The louts and loudmouths of the town who came into the bakery gave me a going over. All Frampol refreshed its spirits becau
se of my trouble and grief. However, I resolved that I would always believe what I was told. What’s the good of not believing? Today it’s your wife you don’t believe; tomorrow it’s God Himself you won’t take stock in.

  By an apprentice who was her neighbor I sent her daily a corn or a wheat loaf, or a piece of pastry, rolls or bagels, or, when I got the chance, a slab of pudding, a slice of honeycake, or wedding strudel—whatever came my way. The apprentice was a goodhearted lad, and more than once he added something on his own. He had formerly annoyed me a lot, plucking my nose and digging me in the ribs, but when he started to be a visitor to my house he became kind and friendly. “Hey, you, Gimpel,” he said to me, “you have a very decent little wife and two fine kids. You don’t deserve them.”

  “But the things people say about her,” I said.

  “Well, they have long tongues,” he said, “and nothing to do with them but babble. Ignore it as you ignore the cold of last winter.”

  One day the rabbi sent for me and said, “Are you certain, Gimpel, that you were wrong about your wife?”

  I said, “I’m certain.”

  “Why, but look here! You yourself saw it.”

  “It must have been a shadow,” I said.

  “The shadow of what?”

  “Just of one of the beams, I think.”

  “You can go home then. You owe thanks to the Yanover rabbi. He found an obscure reference in Maimonides that favored you.”

  I seized the rabbi’s hand and kissed it.

  I wanted to run home immediately. It’s no small thing to be separated for so long a time from wife and child. Then I reflected: I’d better go back to work now, and go home in the evening. I said nothing to anyone, although as far as my heart was concerned it was like one of the Holy Days. The women teased and twitted me as they did every day, but my thought was: Go on, with your loose talk. The truth is out, like the oil upon the water. Maimonides says it’s right, and therefore it is right!

  At night, when I had covered the dough to let it rise, I took my share of bread and a little sack of flour and started homeward. The moon was full and the stars were glistening, something to terrify the soul. I hurried onward, and before me darted a long shadow. It was winter, and a fresh snow had fallen. I had a mind to sing, but it was growing late and I didn’t want to wake the householders. Then I felt like whistling, but I remembered that you don’t whistle at night because it brings the demons out. So I was silent and walked as fast as I could.

  Dogs in the Christian yards barked at me when I passed, but I thought: Bark your teeth out! What are you but mere dogs? Whereas I am a man, the husband of a fine wife, the father of promising children.

  As I approached the house my heart started to pound as though it were the heart of a criminal. I felt no fear, but my heart went thump! thump! Well, no drawing back. I quietly lifted the latch and went in. Elka was asleep. I looked at the infant’s cradle. The shutter was closed, but the moon forced its way through the cracks. I saw the newborn child’s face and loved it as soon as I saw it—immediately—each tiny bone.

  Then I came nearer to the bed. And what did I see but the apprentice lying there beside Elka. The moon went out all at once. It was utterly black, and I trembled. My teeth chattered. The bread fell from my hands, and my wife waked and said, “Who is that, ah?”

  I muttered, “It’s me.”

  “Gimpel?” she asked. “How come you’re here? I thought it was forbidden.”

  “The rabbi said,” I answered and shook as with a fever.

  “Listen to me, Gimpel,” she said, “go out to the shed and see if the goat’s all right. It seems she’s been sick.” I have forgotten to say that we had a goat. When I heard she was unwell I went into the yard. The nannygoat was a good little creature. I had a nearly human feeling for her.

  With hesitant steps I went up to the shed and opened the door. The goat stood there on her four feet. I felt her everywhere, drew her by the horns, examined her udders, and found nothing wrong. She had probably eaten too much bark. “Good night, little goat,” I said. “Keep well.” And the little beast answered with a “Maa” as though to thank me for the good will.

  I went back. The apprentice had vanished.

  “Where,” I asked, “is the lad?”

  “What lad?” my wife answered.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “The apprentice. You were sleeping with him.”

  “The things I have dreamed this night and the night before,” she said, “may they come true and lay you low, body and soul! An evil spirit has taken root in you and dazzles your sight.” She screamed out, “You hateful creature! You moon calf! You spook! You uncouth man! Get out, or I’ll scream all Frampol out of bed!”

  Before I could move, her brother sprang out from behind the oven and struck me a blow on the back of the head. I thought he had broken my neck. I felt that something about me was deeply wrong, and I said, “Don’t make a scandal. All that’s needed now is that people should accuse me of raising spooks and dybbuks.” For that was what she had meant. “No one will touch bread of my baking.”

  In short, I somehow calmed her.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s enough. Lie down, and be shattered by wheels.”

  Next morning I called the apprentice aside. “Listen here, brother!” I said. And so on and so forth. “What do you say?” He stared at me as though I had dropped from the roof or something.

  “I swear,” he said, “you’d better go to an herb doctor or some healer. I’m afraid you have a screw loose, but I’ll hush it up for you.” And that’s how the thing stood.

  To make a long story short, I lived twenty years with my wife. She bore me six children, four daughters and two sons. All kinds of things happened, but I neither saw nor heard. I believed, and that’s all. The rabbi recently said to me, “Belief in itself is beneficial. It is written that a good man lives by his faith.”

  Suddenly my wife took sick. It began with a trifle, a little growth upon the breast. But she evidently was not destined to live long; she had no years. I spent a fortune on her. I have forgotten to say that by this time I had a bakery of my own and in Frampol was considered to be something of a rich man. Daily the healer came, and every witch doctor in the neighborhood was brought. They decided to use leeches, and after that to try cupping. They even called a doctor from Lublin, but it was too late. Before she died she called me to her bed and said, “Forgive me, Gimpel.”

  I said, “What is there to forgive? You have been a good and faithful wife.”

  “Woe, Gimpel!” she said. “It was ugly how I deceived you all these years. I want to go clean to my Maker, and so I have to tell you that the children are not yours.”

  If I had been clouted on the head with a piece of wood it couldn’t have bewildered me more.

  “Whose are they?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There were a lot … but they’re not yours.” And as she spoke she tossed her head to the side, her eyes turned glassy, and it was all up with Elka. On her whitened lips there remained a smile.

  I imagined that, dead as she was, she was saying, “I deceived Gimpel. That was the meaning of my brief life.”

  IV

  One night, when the period of mourning was done, as I lay dreaming on the flour sacks, there came the Spirit of Evil himself and said to me, “Gimpel, why do you sleep?”

  I said, “What should I be doing? Eating kreplech?”

  “The whole world deceives you,” he said, “and you ought to deceive the world in your turn.”

  “How can I deceive all the world?” I asked him.

  He answered, “You might accumulate a bucket of urine every day and at night pour it into the dough. Let the sages of Frampol eat filth.”

  “What about the judgement in the world to come?” I said.

  “There is no world to come,” he said. “They’ve sold you a bill of goods and talked you into believing you carried a cat in your belly. What nonsense!”

  “
Well then,” I said, “and is there a God?”

  He answered, “There is no God either.”

  “What,” I said, “is there, then?”

  “A thick mire.”

  He stood before my eyes with a goatish beard and horn, long-toothed, and with a tail. Hearing such words, I wanted to snatch him by the tail, but I tumbled from the flour sacks and nearly broke a rib. Then it happened that I had to answer the call of nature, and, passing, I saw the risen dough, which seemed to say to me, “Do it!” In brief, I let myself be persuaded.

  At dawn the apprentice came. We kneaded the bread, scattered caraway seeds on it, and set it to bake. Then the apprentice went away, and I was left sitting in the little trench by the oven, on a pile of rags. Well, Gimpel, I thought, you’ve revenged yourself on them for all the shame they’ve put on you. Outside the frost glittered, but it was warm beside the oven. The flames heated my face. I bent my head and fell into a doze.

  I saw in a dream, at once, Elka in her shroud. She called to me, “What have you done, Gimpel?”

  I said to her, “It’s all your fault,” and started to cry.

  “You fool!” she said. “You fool! Because I was false is everything false too? I never deceived anyone but myself. I’m paying for it all, Gimpel. They spare you nothing here.”

  I looked at her face. It was black; I was startled and waked, and remained sitting dumb. I sensed that everything hung in the balance. A false step now and I’d lose eternal life. But God gave me His help. I seized the long shovel and took out the loaves, carried them into the yard, and started to dig a hole in the frozen earth.

  My apprentice came back as I was doing it. “What are you doing boss?” he said, and grew pale as a corpse.

  “I know what I’m doing,” I said, and I buried it all before his very eyes.

  Then I went home, took my hoard from its hiding place, and divided it among the children. “I saw your mother tonight,” I said. “She’s turning black, poor thing.”