The Magic Barrel

by Bernard Malamud

  ‘Because you never go any place,’ Bessie spat out. ‘Because you live always in the shop. Because it means nothing to you to have friends.’

  Lieb solemnly agreed.

  ‘Now she is sick,’ he announced. ‘The doctor must operate. This will cost two hundred dollars. I promised Kobotsky –’

  Bessie screamed.

  Hat in hand, Kobotsky got off the stool.

  Pressing a palm to her bosom, Bessie lifted her arm to her eyes. She tottered. They both ran forward to catch her but she did not fall. Kobotsky retreated quickly to the stool and Lieb returned to the sink.

  Bessie, her face like the inside of a loaf, quietly addressed the visitor. ‘I have pity for your wife but we can’t help you. I am sorry, Mr Kobotsky, we are poor people, we don’t have the money.’

  ‘A mistake,’ Lieb cried, enraged.

  Bessie strode over to the shelf and tore out a bill box. She dumped its contents on the table, the papers flying everywhere.

  ‘Bills,’ she shouted.

  Kobotsky hunched his shoulders.

  ‘Bessie, we have in the bank –’

  ‘No –’

  ‘I saw the bankbook.’

  ‘So what if you saved a few dollars, so have you got life insurance?’

  He made no answer.

  ‘Can you get?’ she taunted.

  The front door banged. It banged often. The shop was crowded with customers clamoring for bread. Bessie stomped out to wait on them.

  In the rear the wounded stirred. Kobotsky, with bony fingers buttoned his overcoat.

  ‘Sit,’ sighed the baker.

  ‘Lieb, I am sorry –’

  Kobotsky sat, his face lit with sadness.

  When Bessie finally was rid of the rush, Lieb went into the shop. He spoke to her quietly, almost in a whisper, and she answered as quietly, but it took only a minute to start them quarreling.

  Kobotsky slipped off the stool. He went to the sink, wet half his handkerchief and held it to his dry eyes. Folding the damp handkerchief, he thrust it into his overcoat pocket, then took out a small penknife and quickly pared his fingernails.

  As he entered the shop, Lieb was pleading with Bessie, reciting the embittered hours of his toil, the enduring drudgery. And now that he had a cent to his name, what was there to live for if he could not share it with a dear friend? But Bessie had her back to him.

  ‘Please,’ Kobotsky said, ‘don’t fight. I will go away now.’

  Lieb gazed at him in exasperation, Bessie stayed with head averted.

  ‘Yes,’ Kobotsky sighed, ‘the money I wanted for Dora, but she is not sick, Lieb, she is dead.’

  ‘Ai,’ Lieb cried, wringing his hands.

  Bessie faced the visitor, pallid.

  ‘Not now,’ he spoke kindly, ‘five years ago.’

  Lieb groaned.

  ‘The money I need for a stone on her grave. She never had a stone. Next Sunday is five years that she is dead and every year I promise her, “Dora, this year I will give you your stone,” and every year I gave her nothing.’

  The grave, to his everlasting shame, lay uncovered before all eyes. He had long ago paid a fifty-dollar deposit for a headstone with her name on it in clearly chiseled letters, but had never got the rest of the money. If there wasn’t one thing to do with it there was always another: first an operation; the second year he couldn’t work, imprisoned again by arthritis; the third a widowed sister lost her only son and the little Kobotsky earned had to help support her; the fourth incapacitated by boils that made him ashamed to walk out into the street. This year he was at least working, but only for just enough to eat and sleep, so Dora still lay without a stone, and for aught he knew he would someday return to the cemetery and find her grave gone.

  Tears sprang into the baker’s eyes. One gaze at Bessie’s face – at the odd looseness of neck and shoulders – told him that she too was moved. Ah, he had won out. She would now say yes, give the money, and they would then all sit down at the table and eat together.

  But Bessie, though weeping, shook her head, and before they could guess what, had blurted out the story of her afflictions: how the Bolsheviki came when she was a little girl and dragged her beloved father into the snowy fields without his shoes; the shots scattered the blackbirds in the trees and the snow oozed blood; how, when she was married a year, her husband, a sweet and gentle man, an educated accountant – rare in those days and that place – died of typhus in Warsaw; and how she, abandoned in her grief, years later found sanctuary in the home of an older brother in Germany, who sacrificed his own chances to send her, before the war, to America, and himself ended, with wife and daughter, in one of Hitler’s incinerators.

  ‘So I came to America and met here a poor baker, a poor man – who was always in his life poor – without a penny and without enjoyment in his life, and I married him, God knows why, and with my both hands, working day and night, I fixed up for him his piece of business and we make now, after twelve years, a little living. But Lieb is not a healthy man, also with eyes that he needs an operation, and this is not yet everything. Suppose, God forbid, that he died, what will I do alone by myself? Where will I go, where, and who will take care of me if I have nothing?’

  The baker, who had often heard this tale, munched, as he listened, chunks of white bread.

  When she had finished he tossed the shell of a loaf away. Kobotsky, at the end of the story, held his hands over his ears.

  Tears streaming from her eyes, Bessie raised her head and suspiciously sniffed the air. Screeching suddenly, she ran into the rear and with a cry wrenched open the oven door. A cloud of smoke billowed out at her. The loaves in the trays were blackened bricks – charred corpses.

  Kobotsky and the baker embraced and sighed over their lost youth. They pressed mouths together and parted forever.

  THE MAGIC BARREL

  NOT LONG AGO there lived in uptown New York, in a small, almost meager room, though crowded with books, Leo Finkle, a rabbinical student in the Yeshivah University. Finkle, after six years of study, was to be ordained in June and had been advised by an acquaintance that he might find it easier to win himself a congregation if he were married. Since he had no present prospects of marriage, after two tormented days of turning it over in his mind, he called in Pinye Salzman, a marriage broker whose two-line advertisement he had read in the Forward.

  The matchmaker appeared one night out of the dark fourth-floor hallway of the graystone rooming house where Finkle lived, grasping a black, strapped portfolio that had been worn thin with use. Salzman, who had been long in the business, was of slight but dignified build, wearing an old hat, and an overcoat too short and tight for him. He smelled frankly of fish, which he loved to eat, and although he was missing a few teeth, his presence was not displeasing, because of an amiable manner curiously contrasted with mournful eyes. His voice, his lips, his wisp of beard, his bony fingers were animated, but give him a moment of repose and his mild blue eyes revealed a depth of sadness, a characteristic that put Leo a little at ease although the situation, for him, was inherently tense.

  He at once informed Salzman why he had asked him to come, explaining that his home was in Cleveland, and that but for his parents, who had married comparatively late in life, he was alone in the world. He had for six years devoted himself almost entirely to his studies, as a result of which, understandably, he had found himself without time for a social life and the company of young women. Therefore he thought it the better part of trial and error – of embarrassing fumbling – to call in an experienced person to advise him on these matters. He remarked in passing that the function of the marriage broker was ancient and honorable, highly approved in the Jewish community, because it made practical the necessary without hindering joy. Moreover, his own parents had been brought together by a matchmaker. They had made, if not a financially profitable marriage – since neither had possessed any worldly goods to speak of – at least a successful one in the sense of their everlasting devotion
to each other. Salzman listened in embarrassed surprise, sensing a sort of apology. Later, however, he experienced a glow of pride in his work, an emotion that had left him years ago, and he heartily approved of Finkle.

  The two went to their business. Leo had led Salzman to the only clear place in the room, a table near a window that overlooked the lamp-lit city. He seated himself at the matchmaker’s side but facing him, attempting by an act of will to suppress the unpleasant tickle in his throat. Salzman eagerly unstrapped his portfolio and removed a loose rubber band from a thin packet of much-handled cards. As he flipped through them, a gesture and sound that physically hurt Leo, the student pretended not to see and gazed steadfastly out the window. Although it was still February, winter was on its last legs, signs of which he had for the first time in years begun to notice. He now observed the round white moon, moving high in the sky through a cloud menagerie, and watched with half-open mouth as it penetrated a huge hen, and dropped out of her like an egg laying itself. Salzman, though pretending through eyeglasses he had just slipped on, to be engaged in scanning the writing on the cards, stole occasional glances at the young man’s distinguished face, noting with pleasure the long, severe scholar’s nose, brown eyes heavy with learning, sensitive yet ascetic lips, and a certain, almost hollow quality of the dark cheeks. He gazed around at shelves upon shelves of books and let out a soft, contented sigh.

  When Leo’s eyes fell upon the cards, he counted six spread out in Salzman’s hand.

  ‘So few?’ he asked in disappointment.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me how much cards I got in my office,’ Salzman replied. ‘The drawers are already filled to the top, so I keep them now in a barrel, but is every girl good for a new rabbi?’

  Leo blushed at this, regretting all he had revealed of himself in a curriculum vitae he had sent to Salzman. He had thought it best to acquaint him with his strict standards and specifications, but in having done so, felt he had told the marriage broker more than was absolutely necessary.

  He hesitantly inquired, ‘Do you keep photographs of your clients on file?’

  ‘First comes family, amount of dowry, also what kind promises,’ Salzman replied, unbuttoning his tight coat and settling himself in the chair. ‘After comes pictures, rabbi.’

  ‘Call me Mr Finkle. I’m not yet a rabbi.’

  Salzman said he would, but instead called him doctor, which he changed to rabbi when Leo was not listening too attentively.

  Salzman adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles, gently cleared his throat and read in an eager voice the contents of the top card:

  ‘Sophie P. Twenty four years. Widow one year. No children. Educated high school and two years college. Father promises eight thousand dollars. Has wonderful wholesale business. Also real estate. On the mother’s side comes teachers, also one actor. Well known on Second Avenue.’

  Leo gazed up in surprise. ‘Did you say a widow?’

  ‘A widow don’t mean spoiled, rabbi. She lived with her husband maybe four months. He was a sick boy she made a mistake to marry him.’

  ‘Marrying a widow has never entered my mind.’

  ‘This is because you have no experience. A widow, especially if she is young and healthy like this girl, is a wonderful person to marry. She will be thankful to you the rest of her life. Believe me, if I was looking now for a bride, I would marry a widow.’

  Leo reflected, then shook his head.

  Salzman hunched his shoulders in an almost imperceptible gesture of disappointment. He placed the card down on the wooden table and began to read another:

  ‘Lily H. High school teacher. Regular. Not a substitute. Has savings and new Dodge car. Lived in Paris one year. Father is successful dentist thirty-five years. Interested in professional man. Well Americanized family. Wonderful opportunity.’

  ‘I knew her personally,’ said Salzman. ‘I wish you could see this girl. She is a doll. Also very intelligent. All day you could talk to her about books and theyater and what not. She also knows current events.’

  ‘I don’t believe you mentioned her age?’

  ‘Her age?’ Salzman said, raising his brows. ‘Her age is thirty-two years.’

  Leo said after a while, ‘I’m afraid that seems a little too old.’

  Salzman let out a laugh. ‘So how old are you, rabbi?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘So what is the difference, tell me, between twenty-seven and thirty-two? My own wife is seven years older than me. So what did I suffer? – Nothing. If Rothschild’s a daughter wants to marry you, would you say on account her age, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leo said dryly.

  Salzman shook off the no in the yes. ‘Five years don’t mean a thing. I give you my word that when you will live with her for one week you will forget her age. What does it mean five years – that she lived more and knows more than somebody who is younger? On this girl, God bless her, years are not wasted. Each one that it comes makes better the bargain.’

  ‘What subject does she teach in high school?’

  ‘Languages. If you heard the way she speaks French, you will think it is music. I am in the business twenty-five years, and I recommend her with my whole heart. Believe me, I know what I’m talking, rabbi.’

  ‘What’s on the next card?’ Leo said abruptly.

  Salzman reluctantly turned up the third card:

  ‘Ruth K. Nineteen years. Honor student. Father offers thirteen thousand cash to the right bridegroom. He is a medical doctor. Stomach specialist with marvelous practice. Brother in law owns own garment business. Particular people.’

  Salzman looked as if he had read his trump card.

  ‘Did you say nineteen?’ Leo asked with interest.

  ‘On the dot.’

  ‘Is she attractive?’ He blushed. ‘Pretty?’

  Salzman kissed his finger tips. ‘A little doll. On this I give you my word. Let me call the father tonight and you will see what means pretty.’

  But Leo was troubled. ‘You’re sure she’s that young?’

  ‘This I am positive. The father will show you the birth certificate.’

  ‘Are you positive there isn’t something wrong with her?’ Leo insisted.

  ‘Who says there is wrong?’

  ‘I don’t understand why an American girl her age should go to a marriage broker.’

  A smile spread over Salzman’s face.

  ‘So for the same reason you went, she comes.’

  Leo flushed. ‘I am pressed for time.’

  Salzman, realizing he had been tactless, quickly explained. ‘The father came, not her. He wants she should have the best, so he looks around himself. When we will locate the right boy he will introduce him and encourage. This makes a better marriage than if a young girl without experience takes for herself. I don’t have to tell you this.’

  ‘But don’t you think this young girl believes in love?’ Leo spoke uneasily.

  Salzman was about to guffaw but caught himself and said soberly, ‘Love comes with the right person, not before.’

  Leo parted dry lips but did not speak. Noticing that Salzman had snatched a glance at the next card, he cleverly asked, ‘How is her health?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Salzman said, breathing with difficulty. ‘Of course, she is a little lame on her right foot from an auto accident that it happened to her when she was twelve years, but nobody notices on account she is so brilliant and also beautiful.’

  Leo got up heavily and went to the window. He felt curiously bitter and upbraided himself for having called in the marriage broker. Finally, he shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’ Salzman persisted, the pitch of his voice rising.

  ‘Because I detest stomach specialists.’

  ‘So what do you care what is his business? After you marry her do you need him? Who says he must come every Friday night in your house?’

  Ashamed of the way the talk was going, Leo dismissed Salzman, who went home with heavy, melancholy eyes.

  Though he had fe
lt only relief at the marriage broker’s departure, Leo was in low spirits the next day. He explained it as arising from Salzman’s failure to produce a suitable bride for him. He did not care for his type of clientele. But when Leo found himself hesitating whether to seek out another matchmaker, one more polished than Pinye, he wondered if it could be – his protestations to the contrary, and although he honored his father and mother – that he did not, in essence, care for the matchmaking institution? This thought he quickly put out of mind yet found himself still upset. All day he ran around in the woods – missed an important appointment, forgot to give out his laundry, walked out of a Broadway cafeteria without paying and had to run back with the ticket in his hand; had even not recognized his landlady in the street when she passed with a friend and courteously called out, ‘A good evening to you, Doctor Finkle.’ By nightfall, however, he had regained sufficient calm to sink his nose into a book and there found peace from his thoughts.

  Almost at once there came a knock on the door. Before Leo could say enter, Salzman, commercial cupid, was standing in the room. His face was gray and meager, his expression hungry, and he looked as if he would expire on his feet. Yet the marriage broker managed, by some trick of the muscles, to display a broad smile.

  ‘So good evening. I am invited?’

  Leo nodded, disturbed to see him again, yet unwilling to ask the man to leave.

  Beaming still, Salzman laid his portfolio on the table. ‘Rabbi, I got for you tonight good news.’

  ‘I’ve asked you not to call me rabbi. I’m still a student.’

  ‘Your worries are finished. I have for you a first-class bride.’

  ‘Leave me in peace concerning this subject.’ Leo pretended lack of interest.

  ‘The world will dance at your wedding.’

  ‘Please, Mr Salzman, no more.’

  ‘But first must come back my strength,’ Salzman said weakly. He fumbled with the portfolio straps and took out of the leather case an oily paper bag, from which he extracted a hard, seeded roll and a small, smoked white fish. With a quick motion of his hand he stripped the fish out of its skin and began ravenously to chew. ‘All day in a rush,’ he muttered.