A Simple Story

by S. Y. Agnon

  Yet Toyber’s and Mazal’s paths never crossed. Had Blume Nacht’s father been alive and rich and looking for a wealthy match for his daughter, Toyber would surely have sought Mazal out, since Blume lived in his house. As it was, though, Blume was simply a poor orphan who once had worked as a housemaid for the Hurvitzes and was now employed by the Mazals.

  Toyber and Hirshl would walk the streets of Szybusz with their cigarettes in their mouths, Toyber’s slenderly glowing and Hirshl’s absentmindedly unlit. Although it amazed Hirshl how Yona Toyber could let his cigarette burn down until the flame practically touched his lips, each time he was about to warn him of the danger Toyber seized the burning stub with two fingers, flung it at his feet, and stood there regarding it as though it were an unfinished thought. Perhaps he was thinking that had he cadged it from Ziemlich rather than from Hirshl it would have borne the coat of arms of a count.

  Though he was careful to speak no ill of Szybusz when talking to Mina, Toyber was more candid with Hirshl. Neither of the two men were Zionists; yet both agreed with the Zionists that an entire people could not subsist on buying and selling, and that Jews must be made to return to tilling the land. This was one reason that Toyber thought highly of Gedalia Ziemlich, who lived on a farm and did well there, while as for Mina—well, Mina was a cultured young lady.

  Had anyone else linked Mina with Culture his listeners might have wondered which came first, but with Toyber there was no room for doubt that Culture gained most from the liaison. In a word, Zionistically speaking, it was all to the good that Mina’s father ran a farm; culturally speaking, there was no denying that she was cultured; and if there were things in Hirshl’s life that neither Zionism nor Culture had anything to do with, he should count his blessings nonetheless, since no one could ever have everything.

  Hirshl was being outfitted for his wedding. Before he could sit down to breakfast, the tailors would arrive to measure him up, down, and across, in the collar, the shoulders, and the chest. Tsirl was clothing him not only for God and man, that is, for both the Sabbath and weekdays, but for halfway between them too, so that, for example, should Hirshl wish to go for a casual Saturday afternoon stroll he would not be in the position of certain other stylish young men in Szybusz who, having only two kinds of outfits, could not possibly wear either, their Sabbath clothes being too formal to be casual and their weekday clothes too casual for the Sabbath, and so ended up sitting at home like mourners.

  Mina too was busy assembling her trousseau. Though Bertha had wanted to order everything from Stanislaw, when Gedalia pointed out to her that no one from Stanislaw ever came to buy in Szybusz, and that if people like them did not support local merchants no one would, she agreed to make her purchases in town. If any item was a large one she made sure to consult Tsirl about it, not because she needed Tsirl’s advice, but for Tsirl to see that money was no object with her. Indeed, neither of the Ziemlichs was sparing of expenses, Bertha because she wanted a grand wedding and Gedalia because he wished to propitiate his latest stroke of good fortune. Every day the couturiers arrived with new samples of velvets, satins, fine silks, and fancy tweeds, over which Bertha fussed while Gedalia watched and wondered how his baby daughter, whose bones were barely strong enough to bear the skin upon them, was going to wear such mountains of clothing.

  As it was not the custom for a betrothed couple to spend time together, Mina no longer visited the Hurvitzes. Whenever she came to Szybusz she stayed with Sophia Gildenhorn, who was more than happy to have her because her husband was away on a long trip. The two of them spent the days shopping with Bertha, while at night Mina slept in Yitzchok Gildenhorn’s bed.

  It was peaceful at the Gildenhorns’. The pretty flowerpots in the windows gave off a fresh fragrance, so different from the liquor and tobacco smells of the men. The house and its contents were quietly resting from Gildenhorn and his crowd, as was Sophia herself, an old, girlish nightgown over her slim shoulders as she lay in her bed. A tired Mina lay next to her, for it had been a hectic day, full of dresses, sweaters, and coats to try on. The clock ticked loudly. In fact, since the day of Gildenhorn’s departure it had been ticking more loudly all the time.

  Sophia turned to look at Mina. “It’s ten o’clock already,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  “Didn’t you count?” asked Sophia.

  “No,” said Mina.

  “You must have been thinking.”

  “There isn’t a thought in my head.”

  “You can’t tell me that,” said Sophia. “I know just what you were thinking about.”

  “You know what I was thinking about?”

  “I know you were thinking about him.”

  “About whom?”

  “Come closer and I’ll whisper it to you.”

  “I’m as close as I can get.”

  “You were thinking about him.”

  “You already said that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I still don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “If I have to spell it out for you, I will.”

  “Because I wasn’t thinking about him at all.”

  “About whom?”

  “About Heinrich Hurvitz.”

  “Then who were you thinking about?”

  “Why don’t you let me go to sleep?”

  “Wait, there’s something I want to show you.”

  “You can show it to me tomorrow.”

  “No. It has to be now.”

  Mina sat up without a word and stared at her friend, who was behaving very strangely.

  Sophia had gotten out of bed and was changing into another nightgown, the likes of which Mina had never seen. It was, Sophia informed her, unable to restrain herself any longer, the gown that she wore whenever Gildenhorn was at home. Mina could hardly look at it. Whatever had possessed Sophia suddenly to start modeling nightgowns?

  What had possessed Sophia was the irresistible desire to share certain facts of life with her friend, and when Mina turned angrily away from her she did not know which to feel more, amusement at her anger or amazement at her innocence. Though Mina was only two years younger than Sophia, Sophia had been married for that period of time and knew things that Mina did not. Indeed, sometimes she wished that she too did not know them, which was partly why she liked being with Mina. Yet Mina was turned the other way. It was already past eleven. The clock ticked more loudly than ever. Neither of the two friends heard it, however, because one was fast asleep and the other was deep in thought.

  Sophia’s thoughts were mostly of an intimate nature. She was still in her teens when she married Gildenhorn, who could pick her up in one arm and carry her about the house from room to room. How she had loved his stylish checked pants and swooned at the sound of his voice! Now, however, his voice had grown worn from selling too much life insurance, while no sooner was he home than the house filled up with his friends. Nor, though Sophia was a good wife and wanted to make him happy, did he himself always know how this might be done. From feeling that she lacked nothing in life she soon had gone to feeling that she lacked everything. After two years of marriage she still had no children.

  It was not like Sophia to think only of herself. Sometimes, even when she was not in the mood, she put her problems aside to think of other people’s. There were thoughts one did not even want, and others one had a craving for, like that she once felt in the Hurvitzes’ store when she saw a woman buying shelled almonds and immediately went to tell Hirshl that she must have shelled almonds too.

  The clock ticked away. It was the only thing in the house that never rested. It had just chimed eleven, and here it was already chiming twelve. In eight more hours it would be time to rise. Yet Sophia was still not sleepy. It was good to be alone with her thoughts, and she did not want them to end. Next to her Mina was sleeping soundly. Nothing ever troubled her. She had the mind of a schoolgirl.

  Another hour went by. Sophia looked at her friend. She was still sleeping peacefully, as people so
metimes do when, though their lives are about to undergo a great change, they as yet have no inkling of it.

  Though Hirshl was a modern young man, the old ways were still observed with him. On the Sabbath before his wedding his well-wishers gathered at his home and escorted him to the synagogue. There Boruch Meir presided over the Torah blessings, and when the bridegroom’s turn came Hirshl was showered with almonds and raisins from the women’s gallery while the cantor and the leading male voices sang, “He Who blessed our fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” When the service was over the entire congregation was invited to the Hurvitzes’ for refreshments, after which Hirshl’s friends remained with him until nightfall, serenaded with hymns and Psalms by the cantor and his choir. As soon as the Sabbath ended the charity warden came and received a large donation to distribute to the poor. Then all of Hirshl’s former teachers arrived to congratulate him, and each one was presented with a gift.

  “The wedding contract without discord has yet to be written,” said the ancient rabbis. In the case of the Hurvitzes and the Ziemlichs this adage was refuted, yet the discord broke out somewhere else. In the Little Synagogue there was a seat of honor in the easternmost corner, facing Jerusalem, that was customarily reserved for bridegrooms. This seat was not synagogue property but belonged to a certain old man who was generally happy to yield it. When Hirshl was led up to it, however, the seat owner refused to budge and declared, “He doesn’t look like a bridegroom to me.” He was referring to Hirshl’s lack of a shtreimel, the traditional round fur hat customarily worn on such occasions. Fortunately, a Jew standing by, who was as clever as he was learned, said to the old man, “Why, you yourself know that it is written that a bridegroom should be treated like a king. Does anyone tell a king what to wear?” To which the anxious sexton added, “If you’ll be kind enough to forgive the shtreimel, I’m sure that Mr. Hurvitz will be happy to donate a new Ark to the synagogue.” Boruch Meir nodded and the old man gave up his seat.

  More serious was the disagreement between the two families over where the wedding should be held, for though the common practice was to have it in the bride’s house, Tsirl insisted that it be in hers. In this she was supported by a number of prominent citizens, who argued that, since there were several weddings being held that day in town, they would have to miss all the others if the Hurvitzes’ was held in Malikrowik, which would cause bad blood between families. The rabbi and the cantor seconded the point, for they could not possibly manage to officiate in one day both in Szybusz and in Malikrowik. “Besides which,” put in the sexton of the Great Synagogue, “there’s only one wedding canopy in all of Szybusz, and I can’t have it sent out of town when brides and grooms need it here.” When Bertha and Gedalia saw what they were up against, they agreed to hold the wedding in Szybusz.

  Chapter sixteen

  On the night that Hirshl and Mina were married, several other couples in Szybusz were married as well. Yet the most special wedding was Hirshl and Mina’s, for while the others too had singers, musicians, and guests from far places, only Mina and Hirshl’s had a guest from abroad. And though Jews from Germany were not a total rarity in Szybusz, one seldom saw them at a wedding.

  Money did not grow on trees anywhere, not even in Germany, but if proof was needed that anyone with wits and ambition enough could make it there too, it was provided in the person of this royally dressed son of Gedalia Ziemlich’s cousin whose fortune was found in an unknown grave. A wholesale poultry and egg dealer with outlets in many cities who had often considered a business trip to Galicia, young Herr Ziemlich had finally come on one. On the day that he happened to be in Szybusz he heard that another Mr. Ziemlich was marrying off his daughter. Any Ziemlich, he thought, must be a relative of mine—and so, dressed in his best, off to the wedding he went.

  The fact that Gedalia and Bertha were happy to meet their rich cousin from Germany must not be taken to mean that they were ashamed of their poorer relations. On the contrary, any down-at-the-heel members of their families wishing to attend the wedding had their tickets sent to them by Bertha, who also bought them a new set of clothes and a wedding present in their name. After all, not all of the Hurvitzes’ guests were rich either. Rothschild, in fact, was a good deal richer than any of them. What sizable wedding gifts Hirshl received came entirely from merchants and manufacturers who did business with the firm of Hurvitz, while as for Boruch Meir’s family, you could add its presents to those of Tsirl’s and tie both to the tail of a mouse without giving the cat an unfair advantage. The one exception was a long green bill called a dollar, which was worth a good many of the other gifts combined. True, its exchange rate was only five Austrian crowns, but it came with a poem attached.

  While a coin remains the same coin no matter what Kaiser minted it, and a president’s face on a dollar does not make it worth a cent more, a few lines of poetry have a value-enhancing effect. As Boruch Meir’s brother Meshulam could not afford to come to his nephew’s wedding, he took a sheet of paper, composed a poem on it, clipped it to the bottom of a dollar bill, and sent it off in his stead. Indeed, though Boruch Meir and Meshulam may have been brothers, the resemblance ended right there, for while Boruch Meir owned a large store Meshulam owned a small one, and while Boruch Meir was always busy with his customers Meshulam had time to spare, which he passed by writing verses for each holiday and special occasion.

  The Jewish prayer book has no room for more prayers; the Jewish heart, however, is infinitely big, and when a Jew pours it out in Hebrew verse the very angels and seraphs break off their song to listen and bring it before the Mercy Seat, where the Holy One Blessed Be He adds it to His own private breviary and has mercy on His people when He reads it. In a word, if Meshulam Hurvitz did not own a store like his brother’s, or measure and weigh as much goods, he was no less occupied weighing words, measuring meters, and being wrapped up in his verse. These poems did not appear in HaMaggid, Otsar HaSifrut, or any other Hebrew publication. They were kept in a straw basket beneath Meshulam’s bed, and when his wife went out shopping for a few pennies’ worth of vegetables and found them there, she put them under the pillow and replaced them in the basket when she returned. The only poems of Meshulam’s to have an audience were his New Year’s greetings. An ordinary person might rather have received one of Boruch Meir’s greeting cards, which had gold letters and gilt edging around them, but connoisseurs of literature preferred his brother Meshulam’s, written though they were on plain paper and in ordinary ink.

  What did Hirshl’s Uncle Meshulam write on the note that he clipped to the bottom of the dollar? He wrote:

  Many a mile came this dollar,

  E’en from a distant land.

  Share its good luck with each other,

  Underwritten by my hand.

  Long may you be happy together,

  And remember me, for I am,

  Your Uncle Meshulam.

  Right timing is all. Though Meshulam Hurvitz had written reams of poetry and never acquired a reputation, he was made famous overnight by these few lines, which were explicated word by word, rhyme by rhyme, and even letter by letter. Why, for instance, did they begin with an “M”? One school of critics held that this was because “M” was the first letter of Mina. A second school argued that “M” was the first letter of Mazel Tov. A third school insisted that both of these opinions were wrong and that Hirshl’s uncle had meant to write his own name, using the first letter of each line. Where then, asked the first and second schools scornfully, was the final “M” of Meshulam? It was, came the triumphant answer, in the last letter of the poem’s last line.

  But Hirshl did not remember his Uncle Meshulam, neither before his wedding nor after it. If anything, he thought of his mother’s family, that is, of her brother who went mad and of her grandfather, who was said to have once put a chamber pot on his head and worn it instead of a skullcap.

  Hirshl and Mina were married amid a great throng of guests, some in shtreimels and some in top hats, some more distinguished and
some less so, some truer friends than others. The rooms of the house were filled to overflowing, and the tables were heaped high with wines and cakes. Even the room with the pile furniture was used for the occasion, its white slipcovers having been removed and its smell of mothballs admixed with that of food. The waiters ran back and forth, scanning those present as if in the hope of discovering a hidden tipper among them. The guests sat talking in groups, Gildenhorn on a couch with young Herr Ziemlich from Germany, with whom he was discussing affairs of note. Though the German wore a beaver and Gildenhorn an ordinary hat, the latter, being a good head taller, had to keep bending down; still, the German seemed no shorter than he, for there was something about being German that made even a little man look big.

  “You know,” said Gildenhorn’s father-in-law Eisy Heller, who was Tsirl’s age and had grown up next door to her, “I can still remember Hirshl’s maternal grandfather, the one he was named after. A strange man that was. He never seemed to enjoy life much, but he never complained to anyone either, and in fact he had little use for people. I don’t think he had a real friend in the world. All he cared about were the pigeons he kept on his roof. You should have seen with what love he took care of them. Once, while I was watching him climb a ladder to bring them food and water, one of them fell off the roof. I felt sorry for the old man having to climb all the way back down for it, and so I stood there waiting for him to ask me to bring it up to him. Well, he didn’t, so finally I asked him if he’d like me to. He didn’t even bother to answer. He just looked at me, climbed down the ladder, picked up the bird, smoothed out its feathers, and climbed back up with it.”

  “Are you sure that’s really what happened?” asked Hayyim Yehoshua Bleiberg. He was not in a particularly good mood that day and was for some reason irritated by Eisy’s story.

  “Of course I am,” said Eisy Heller.