The Entertainer and the Dybbuk

by Sid Fleischman

  “I doubt it.”

  “You remember SS Colonel Gerhard Junker-Strupp? Maybe someone has seen him. I am offering a cash reward!”

  “A what?”

  Not only did Freddie come close to jumping out of his socks, but his glistening patent-leather shoes, as well. After a moment to collect himself, he said, “You don’t have any money for a reward. Not a franc to your name.”

  “But you do.”

  The audience roared out a laugh.

  Almost at once when they reached the dressing room, Freddie folded his arms. He gazed hard into the mirror as if he could see the dybbuk through the glass. “So now I am to pay your reward if anyone actually finds the German.”

  “Why not? Have I ever asked for a franc? A mark? A ruble? Am I slave labor?”

  Freddie immediately felt on the defensive. “It never occurred to me that you needed money. Where would you keep your francs and marks and rubles? In my pocket?”

  “Just don’t get your pocket picked,” said the dybbuk, dismissing the matter.

  At every performance, Avrom Amos refreshed the details. The former SS colonel had a nose as sharp as a meat cleaver. He bit his nails. He smoked Egyptian cigarettes. He had so many dueling scars, he looked as if he had plaid cheeks. His eyes were a pale and ghostly blue.

  If Freddie had resented the dybbuk’s choosing to possess him, he had to hand it to the kid. The stage was Avrom Amos’s billboard. He would spread the news, like a village crier, and he might find his murderer.

  Might. While Freddie said nothing to discourage the dybbuk, he figured that a needle in a haystack would be easier to turn up.

  Night after night, audience after audience, the needle was not found.

  Meanwhile, Polly could generally be seen hanging on to Freddie’s arm. She was already bubbling with plans.

  “Of course we’ll have a Jewish wedding,” she said. “Don’t you think we’ll look heavenly under that canopy thing? And you’ll have to stamp on the wineglass in a silk handkerchief. I wonder if it’s filled with wine. We’ll want a good year. Maybe a Lafitte Rothschild.”

  “You’ve been reading up,” said Freddie, both amused and dismayed. He was feeling more and more like an imposter. How could he marry her with a dybbuk under his skin? She’d scream her southern head off if she found out there were three of them on the honeymoon. “No need to rush things,” he said.

  “Of course, there is, you darling man,” she exclaimed. “Love? Have you heard of it? We’ll make a quick trip home to meet the family. Wait until my uncle Wimble in Mobile lays eyes on a Jew. He’s the family Klansman. He’ll have a heart attack! It’ll do him good.”

  CHAPTER 17

  It was while shaving that Freddie told the dybbuk for the first time that sometimes he could be heard crying in his sleep.

  “It’s against the law?” replied the dybbuk. He sounded surprised.

  “I’m sure you have plenty to give you nightmares. Sulka was your sister, wasn’t she?”

  The dybbuk was slow to answer. “I spoke her name in my sleep?”

  “Every night.”

  “I saw how they killed her. Did I tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Why waste good German bullets on trashy little Jews, eh? The Nazis figured out a new way to rid Europe of us vermin. It was cheaper to rub poison on our lips, the lips of kids and babies.

  “I saw it with my own eyes, on the road from Lvov, SS men on motorcycles chasing Sulka and me. We hid in a ditch and then burrowed like mice into moldy haystacks.”

  “You told me.”

  “Sulka had lost a shoe running in the mud and the vultures followed her one-shoe footprints. They pulled her from her hiding place and burst out laughing like shikkers.”

  “Shikkers?”

  “Drunks. They were SS child killers. They got a thick glass bottle from one of the motorcycle’s leather bags. While one soldier held Sulka down, the other rubbed a liquid from the bottle on her lips. They forced her to drink water out of a canteen. She began to scream in pain. She died, screaming for me. Me. I couldn’t rush out of hiding. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t hug her. I dream about it.”

  Freddie was dead wrong about finding a needle in the haystack. A glint of polished steel flashed up at the Thursday late show. A Swiss rare-stamp dealer was sitting in the audience at the cabaret. Just before noon the next morning, he turned up in the lobby of the Grand Hotel. Freddie came down in the elevator, and they took overstuffed chairs off the vast lobby.

  “My name’s Haim Galicia,” he said. “Maybe your Nazi murderer was in my shop in Zurich. He was trying to sell me valuable stamps. He said he had an Inverted Jenny.”

  “A what, sir?”

  “An American airmail stamp. Extremely rare, eh? Much sought after, yes? It shows an American airplane. A Jenny, it was called. One sheet of stamps was printed upside down. So you have a great error. Only one hundred Inverted Jennies exist on the face of the earth. Can you imagine how expensive?”

  “Very,” replied Freddie.

  “More than very.”

  “You bought it?”

  “No,” said the stamp dealer. “I assumed it was stolen. I could see from the numbers on the man’s wrist that he was a concentration-camp survivor. The first letter, the J, told me at once he was a Jew. So I began talking to him in Yiddish. He didn’t even seem to know ‘nu’ and ‘shlemiel.’ I smelled a rat. I suspected he was trying to sell stolen stamps. I said I’d need time to raise such a great amount of money if I chose to buy it. He said I’d better get busy, as he’d be leaving for New York in a few days, and he might sell it there.”

  Freddie paused briefly. “Did he smoke Egyptian cigarettes?”

  “Yes. What Jew after the war could afford Egyptian cigarettes?”

  Freddie’s stomach tightened. Or was that the dybbuk doing handsprings? He’d found his man!

  “He was an SS officer,” said Freddie. “Do you know where he’ll be staying in New York?”

  “Me? No. But he won’t be hard to find.”

  “Really?” Freddie thought the dybbuk must be holding his breath.

  “Two months later, the stamp was sold in New York, big news in our world. The buyer was well known. Look up Dr. Jameson T. Wixson in San Francisco, yes? I have seen in the press that he continues to buy rarities from the counterfeit Jew. He undoubtedly knows your man’s whereabouts.”

  Freddie nodded, smiling. “Leave your card, sir. I’ll make sure you receive a reward.”

  “Feh,” he said, a grin on his lips. “I’m not tempted by your reward. Give it to a Jewish charity, eh?”

  Within an hour, Freddie had posted a cable to the doctor in San Francisco. The following evening he received a cable in return. The German dealer in rare stamps was standing trial for murder in Phoenix, Arizona.

  CHAPTER 18

  When Freddie told his girlfriend that he had bought a ticket on the Mauritania to New York, her face blossomed into a sunflower smile. “You darling man, we can have the captain marry us!”

  Freddie averted his eyes. How could he face her? “Polly, I love you like in that Portuguese sonnet, but we can’t get hitched yet.”

  “Freddie, what kind of a stall is this?”

  How do you break the news that you are possessed? She’d be marrying the dybbuk without knowing it. When she found out, live steam would shoot out of her ears.

  “I should be back in a month or so.”

  “Why can’t we marry now?”

  “Trust me.”

  There was no mistaking Polly’s look of distress. “Freddie, I think you’re a dog that won’t hunt! Another woman? Here’s your ring back.”

  “No other woman. I didn’t give you a ring.”

  “Well, if you had, here it is back!” And, lifting her chin like the prow of a ship, Polly sailed away.

  Freddie watched her go and spiraled down into a funk. He stood on a trafficky corner, unsure which way to turn. A wind off the river blew his hair about like a head
of snakes. Taxi horns blew him across the street. What should he do?

  He loved Polly. She needed to know about the dybbuk. He must tell her before he left. Okay. He’d risk it. He’d do it.

  For ten days Freddie was unable to reach her by phone. She was even avoiding their restaurants and cafés. She seemed to have vanished in an angry puff of smoke. Had she slipped out of town? Not even her friends had a clue.

  Packing for the trip, he said in mournful tones, “Dybbuk! See what a mess you’re making of my life? Why am I going to New York for you? What a sap I am!”

  “You wouldn’t let me down,” said the dybbuk.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a mensch.”

  “Don’t give me that Jewish stuff. I can get along without you in the act.”

  “Almost, yes. Have you looked in a mirror lately, Professor? I see you are now talking without moving the lips.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The steamship picked up its last passengers in Ireland and set out across the Atlantic Ocean. A sea wind was blowing up whitecaps like dollops of meringue. It was going to be a choppy crossing.

  The third day, just before Freddie left his cabin for breakfast, the dybbuk spoke up. “Please, Professor, no bacon with your eggs this morning. Ask for the kosher meals.”

  Freddie’s mouth dropped. “Kosher. No!”

  “Do us a favor and eat kosher, yes.”

  Freddie pulled open the stateroom door. “Us?”

  “I’m feeling a little seasick.”

  Freddie let his breath whistle out. How was someone possessed by a demon supposed to live? Like a prisoner? But what was he going to do if he discovered a seasick dybbuk under his skin? The thought almost turned him green. “Okay, Avrom Amos. Kosher for a couple of days, until we land. Boy, it’s not easy to be a Jew.”

  “You just finding out?” remarked the dybbuk. “Did I tell you what I used to carry in my pocket?”

  “A kosher slingshot?”

  “A bottle of carbolic acid.”

  “Nothing about you surprises me.”

  “I was hiding from the Nazis, eleven years old. When I heard them getting close I’d sprinkle carbolic on my sister’s clothes and mine. We’d curl up like dead. Oh, how we stunk of sickness! We’d hear the SS killers yell warnings. ‘Typhus! Don’t touch them!’ Until the bottle ran dry, the carbolic saved our lives. Yes, it’s hard to be one of the chosen people. Did we volunteer? Did the Almighty ask for a show of hands?”

  Freddie had blintzes for breakfast.

  Of course it was Polly. That showgirl with her hair cut gamine short. That figure in the deck chair wrapped in a blanket against the cold. She had followed him and now was busy hiding her face behind a book.

  Freddie barked in astonishment. “Polly! Sweetheart! How did you get here?”

  She lowered the book. “Do I know you?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Polly.”

  “Some other time. I’m going home for a visit. There are people there who love me.”

  “I adore you!” Freddie declared. “I’ve missed you. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll tell you everything. But hang on to your hat.”

  “Tell me what? You’ve got a wife in Toledo?”

  “Worse.”

  “Your doctor has given you only twenty minutes to live?”

  “Much worse.” Freddie pushed aside her feet and sat on the edge of the lounge chair. “I’ve been possessed.”

  He waited for a reaction. She turned a page of her book. “Imagine.”

  “You’re not taking this very seriously,” he protested. “I’m possessed by a demon. It’s not just part of my act.”

  “Oh, come on,” Polly said.

  “A Jewish demon. A dybbuk. I tried to have it exorcised, but it didn’t take.”

  “Did you try Epsom salts?”

  “Polly, please.”

  She put down her book. “Freddie, this is not the dark ages. Someone turned on the lights. Who believes in that possessed-by-demon stuff anymore? I don’t.”

  “I don’t either. Didn’t. But the dybbuk is here. So I couldn’t let you marry me. Understand?”

  “Freddie, have you talked to a psychiatrist?”

  “You can talk to him yourself.”

  “A psychiatrist?”

  “The dybbuk. Avrom Amos Poliakov, meet Polly Marchant. Polly, meet the dybbuk. He’s just a kid, but he’s older’n God. He’ll tell you so himself.”

  Polly peered at Freddie. “Do you take me for a nitwit?”

  Freddie felt the breath rise through his throat. “Good afternoon,” said the dybbuk. Very civil.

  Polly’s breath caught. Then she exhaled like a steam whistle. “You just threw your voice. That’s what you do. You’re a ventriloquist. You threw your voice!”

  “I swear I didn’t!”

  “I swear he didn’t, too,” said the dybbuk. “It’s me, in person.”

  “Listen, Polly,” Freddie exclaimed. “Avrom and I can sing a duet. That’ll prove there are two of us!”

  “Do you know ‘Yankee Doodle’?” asked the dybbuk.

  “Go.”

  The Great Freddie and the dybbuk broke into a few bars in harmony. Polly gazed into Freddie’s mouth, past his teeth, and down his throat as far as she could see. Yes, there was another voice down there. She was far from cheered by the discovery.

  “You expect me to marry a guy with a demon down his gullet?”

  “I’m not a demon,” protested the dybbuk.

  Polly dropped the book and folded her arms. “Cough him up or leave me alone, Freddie.”

  “It’s not that simple. Just give me a couple more weeks to straighten this thing out, Polly darling. Things are happening and I made promises.”

  “You made promises to me! Remember? I’m not going to go on my honeymoon with you and that spooky tapeworm. Out, spirit! Out, ghostie, and right now!”

  “Polly—”

  “Don’t ask me to be patient!”

  “Be patient. You’re getting excited about nothing.”

  Polly exploded. “Nothing!”

  “Give me a week,” Freddie said.

  “How about five minutes?” Her eyes began to tear. “If you loved me—”

  Freddie straightened and waited. Then he turned his head as if the dybbuk were hovering at his left. “Avrom Amos, you heard Polly. You know about love, don’t you? I promised to hang in for you, but love is trump. No messing with that. You were listening to every word, huh? Polly didn’t mean that bit about the tapeworm. But the time has come. Five minutes. Pack your socks and sweater, kid. It was a great bother knowing you, but no hard feelings. Now take a walk and good luck!”

  It was a moment before the dybbuk answered. “The Great Freddie, be kind enough to look over the rail. What do you see? Oy, you expect me to walk on water?”

  “It’s been done.”

  “I can’t even swim.”

  “So long, Avrom Amos.”

  “And what would you do for a stage act?”

  “I’ll work up some new tricks.”

  “Do you think I like being under your skin? It’s crowded in here. And do you think it’s fun for me when you lift weights?”

  “Dybbuk, see the tears in Polly’s eyes? We want to get married. Be a mensch. Get lost.”

  “If you have a wedding, count on me. You won’t know I’m there. Until then, if you don’t mind, I’ll curl up for a long nap. I’ll need all my strength for Arizona.”

  And the dybbuk clammed up, silent as a mouse, until the ship docked in New York. Polly felt triumphant.

  CHAPTER 20

  Polly’s family had driven up from Alabama to greet Polly as she stepped off the ship. They threw handfuls of confetti as if it were rice.

  Polly disentangled herself from relatives and turned to Freddie. “This is my mother, Belle Marchant, and my two younger sisters, Twayla and Eva.” All three women wore big floppy hats and summer dresses. They looked fetching, Freddie thought, but were we
t as goldfish. It was late August and full of lightning and warm rain.

  “Charmed to meet you, dear boy,” said Mrs. Marchant, anointing him with damp confetti as freely as holy water. “Polly wrote that you’re Jewish. We’ll be the scandal of Mobile.”

  Freddie gave an inward sigh. Wait till they learned about the dybbuk.

  Polly indicated a man chewing tobacco in a dark suit and tight vest and a gray Stetson hat. “And this is my horrible uncle Wimble. He’s the family racist. I’m sure he’s never shaken hands with a Jewish man before. Do assure him it’s not catching.”

  Uncle Wimble kept his hands stuck in his pockets as if by glue. It surprised Freddie that he felt so offended. For Avrom’s sake, or his own? At any rate, he couldn’t resist the moment. As they were walking away from the ship, The Great Freddie threw his voice, angrily, to a nearby trash bin. “The Hebrews are coming! It’s payback time, brothers! Run for your lives.”

  Uncle Wimble jerked around as if struck by a bolt of lightning. He swallowed a mouthful of chewing tobacco.

  Mrs. Marchant cut in smartly with a nod to Polly. “Have you two darlings set a date?”

  “Of course,” said Polly. “As soon as possible.”

  “Good. That leaves us plenty of time to make the arrangements.”

  After a shopping day in New York, Freddie confessed to Polly that the dybbuk hadn’t really fled, but soon would. Positively. Absolutely. Honestly. Truly. I promise. I swear. On my honor!

  Leaving her in tears, Freddie hopped a train out west. He settled back for a three-day trip. It was only after the delay in Chicago to change trains that the dybbuk chose to speak up. “Are we there yet?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’re overstaying your welcome.”

  “What’s a day or two?”

  “It’s been months!” Freddie exclaimed. “Here are the new house rules. I’ll see you through Phoenix, but that’s where you get off. We split. If not, I’ll make your time in my skin miserable.”