“Thief! Pickpocket!”
“Atheist! Infidel! Lecher!”
It soon became clear that the partners were not only thieves but wily thieves as well. They raked it in in such a fashion that they were perfectly right in the eyes of the law. They had come to the rabbinic judgment because they wanted to continue on in the store. Their arbitrator argued, “We want peace, but if you want war, there’s going to be war.”
“Give back what you’ve stolen!”
“Atheist! Sinner of Israel!”
“It is absolutely beneath our dignity to continue talking with them,” declared one of the partners, a man with a wide yellow beard and gold-rimmed glasses.
Father gazed at him in astonishment. His blue eyes seemed to ask, Since you’re a thief, why is talking to them beneath your dignity? Instead, he said, “I don’t have Cossacks or policemen here—I can render a decision only according to the Torah.”
“We know the law …”
Father beckoned the partners’ arbitrator to speak to him privately.
The man said, “We have to tell them to come to terms.”
“Are the partners ready to return the money?” Father asked.
“Nothing returns from the cemetery,” the arbitrator answered cleverly.
“Then how can they come to terms?”
“We have to find some kind of ruse …”
“What kind of ruse?”
“Here’s the situation. If the partnership is dissolved, both sides will be denied a livelihood. One needs the other. So we have to find a device to pacify them.”
“What kind of device?”
“We want the wolf to remain whole and the sheep to remain whole …”
“How can Jews do something like that?”
“Oh, Rabbi, you’re so naïve.”
Later, Father called the heirs’ arbitrator for a private talk. “What can be done here?”
“What can one do? Every one of them is a veteran thief. Each one of these partners can put the best pickpockets to shame. They have swindled so much that years will pass and we still won’t be able to come to an understanding …”
“Didn’t they make a living?”
“They made plenty.”
“Then why did they do it?”
“They just did.”
“Well, well, it’s time for the Messiah to come,” Father declared. “Ah woe, it’s time … it’s high time!”
“They did it so cleverly that the only ones who’ll be jailed are the bookkeeper and the cashier,” the arbitrator said. “But what will the upshot of all this be? Just like each one of them goes to see the rebbe, so each one of them can steal with his eyes closed.”
“How do we know they won’t keep doing the same thing?” Father asked.
“There’s no guarantee …”
The lawsuit dragged on and on. Now they yelled, and now they spoke amicably. The man with the black beard described the beautiful wedding he had given for his youngest daughter. The Viennese hall was full. The young couple got a pile of wedding presents. Two klezmer orchestras provided music. The rebbe himself officiated at the ceremony.
Then Father exclaimed, “It must have cost you a fortune!”
“Maybe we put aside so much every week.”
Father looked at me and seemed to ask, Does it pay to be a swindler for this?
No, these people did not steal or swindle because they needed money for bread. They stole in order to travel to the spas and stroll along on the promenades, to give huge dowries to their daughters and buy jewelry for their wives, to stay in fancy hotels and travel second class on the trains.
Late at night, when all were gone, I asked Father, “How can pious Jews behave like this?”
“Little silly, if they behave like this, they are not pious.”
“But they take trips to see their rebbe.”
“So they go.”
“But everyone thinks of them as pious.”
“Never mind what everyone thinks. The Master of the Universe cannot be fooled.”
“Perhaps God, too, can be fooled?”
“Rascal!”
The next morning when the heirs and the partners returned, Father told them, “You’ve sat here for days and your idle chatter has prevented me from studying the holy texts—but I cannot render a decision. You don’t have to pay me. I don’t want to be involved in this case any longer!”
“Then why did you start?”
“I thought it was just a simple dispute … but since the matter is as it stands, how can you come to terms? The first thing to be done is—as the Torah states—return that which is stolen. If one steals, one must return the theft—even if it’s a penny.”
“But, Rabbi, I didn’t realize how naive you are!” the partners’ arbitrator called out.
“I don’t want to take the responsibility for such things … If you want to come to terms, come to terms on your own.”
The partner with the black beard glared at Father, seeming to stab him with his black eyes. The partner with the yellow beard made a face as though he had tasted something sour.
The other arbitrator suggested that Father have a private talk with him, but Father said: “I’m not discussing this matter anymore.”
Everyone departed, leaving behind smoke and little saucers full of ashes and cigarette butts. Mother came in to clean up. Her face was aflame.
“So what did you gain by doing this?” she asked.
“I couldn’t continue. The entire matter is thoroughly disgusting,” Father replied.
“How will the children eat?”
“If there’s nothing to eat, they’ll fast,” Father answered, annoyed.
The litigation upset Father. He said to me, “Don’t think that all Jews are like this, God forbid. For every thief there are lots of honest people. But one doesn’t hear about them. These people are out-and-out hypocrites. The Talmud states that seven years after a hypocrite’s death he becomes a bat.”
“Are these Hasidim going to become bats?”
“If the Talmud says so, that’s what they’ll become.”
“When?”
“Don’t be in such a rush. The Master of the Universe has time.”
I imagined how the partners would become bats. The first one to become a bat would be the partner with the black beard; then the partner with the yellow beard would become a bat. They would fly about at night and girls would be frightened lest the bats fly into their hair … I began to lose my respect for these people who speak beautifully, smoke expensive cigars, make expensive weddings for their daughters, and travel to spas. Secretly, they are thieves. They will end up as bats.
THE GIFT
My thoughts return to my father’s courtroom and I remember a lawsuit which I should have written about long ago.
The door opened and a woman came in who looked both Hasidic and secular. She wore a long coat and high-heeled shoes. She was in her thirties, with a pale face, blue eyes, and regular , features. Her curled marriage wig was artfully combed into her own hair. She looked like someone who lived in what we called the “other streets”—she was not from our poor street. A respectable tidiness encompassed her. My father didn’t see her, but he already knew it was a woman by her footsteps, and so he turned aside so as not to look at her.
“What can I do for you?”
The woman did not reply at once. Her mouth moved like someone who wants to speak but is choking on the words. Finally, she uttered, “I need some advice … I mean, I want to institute a lawsuit.”
“Against whom?”
The woman seemed to swallow something. “My husband.”
“Where is he?”
“At home.”
Father began asking her questions. The woman’s responses were so muddled that Father sent me to call the husband, who lived on Khlodna Street. The woman gave me money for a droshky. It was one of the few times that I rode all by myself in a droshky without packages. But it was a shame that Khlodna Street was so close
—the ride was over before I had a chance to enjoy it.
I rang the bell to a well-to-do apartment. The door was opened by a short man with a pointy little beard wearing a Western-style suit but no tie. He looked at me in astonishment. I knew that I shouldn’t break the news to him all at once but, rather, prepare him in a sensitive manner. But I didn’t know how, so I said, “Your wife is calling you to a rabbinic judgment.”
The man looked askance at me.
“Who are you?”
I started telling him everything. He heard me out and screwed up his face as though he’d tasted something sour. A shudder ran through him. He took hold of his pointy little beard and for a while stood there stunned, indecisive, embarrassed. Then he declared, “Well, it’s too late.”
“Your wife is in a hurry. She wants you to take a droshky.”
“What? Oh, all right.”
The man went to another room and returned wearing a tie and a derby. In his hand he held a narrow walking stick. Outside, he took a droshky, but he didn’t say one word to me during the entire trip. He sat shrunken into himself, looking like someone who had suffered a terrible humiliation, a wrong that could never be made right. A sort of sadness came over me, too. What could this woman possibly want from him? I asked myself. It seemed that the young man was angry at me for being the messenger, and again I could not enjoy the droshky ride.
I brought the defendant to our apartment and stood in a corner waiting to see what would unfold.
“What’s the problem the two of you have?” Father asked.
“I don’t know anything about it,” the man said with a wave of his hand, as if to say that he knew nothing of either the problem or the solution.
“Who is suing whom?”
“Clearly, she’s suing me.”
“What’s your complaint?” Father asked the woman, and turned his face away from her even more.
Again the woman began choking on her words—she looked as if she had swallowed something. “Rabbi, I want a divorce.”
“Tell me why.”
“Rabbi, you can’t call what we have a life. In good families a man pays attention to his wife. But he doesn’t pay attention to me.”
“What do you mean by ‘attention’?”
“For a woman support is not enough. A woman wants to have a good time once in a while, to get some pleasure out of life. In good families couples go places—to the theater, to the movies, to a dance. They come, they go, they invite people to their house. They visit others. A woman wants to be seen. But with him I sit like a bird in a cage. All day long he’s in the store. And as soon as he comes home, he starts working on his account books. Our store is closed on Saturday and Sunday, but we don’t go anywhere Saturday or Sunday either. And that’s how the years fly by, and life becomes boring. Sometimes I feel so suffocated I just want to put an end to my miserable life …”
Now the woman could no longer suppress her anguish. She burst into a hoarse cry, just like one of the common women of our street. While the woman spoke, the husband stood and gazed at her, stunned and confused. He looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Occasionally he cast a glance at the door as if prepared to flee without replying.
“Do you have children?” Father asked.
“No children, none,” the woman replied. “But I don’t even want to talk about that. That’s God’s will, even though all my sisters have children and I’m the only one chastised that way. The doctor told me it’s his fault. I able to have children!”
And the woman burst into tears again.
Father rubbed his forehead. “So, then, what is it you want?”
“Rabbi, this is no life. I pace back and forth in my apartment as if in a prison cell. There’s a story about a bird who was put into a gilded cage—and that’s me. One day is like another. Holy Rabbi, I’ll give you an example: In good families men occasionally give their wives a present. You would think it’s foolishness—after all, I can buy myself whatever I wish. But it’s nice when a man brings something home. It’s not so much the present but the fact that the man thinks of you. My brothers-in-law always bring my sisters presents. We have a telephone and they call me and say, ‘Guess what I got today.’ They got this, that, and the other thing. Even if it’s a trifle, for a woman it’s important. But with us years go by and I don’t get even a penny’s worth of gifts. I’m ashamed to say it, but since we got married I’ve never gotten a thing from him—so rather than live such a life … I’d rather …”
Now the woman began crying even more bitterly. She pulled out a little handkerchief and blew her nose. Her weeping made her body tense up and twitch. It seemed to me that this tension would cause all her clothes to split at the seams, her corset would pop open, and she’d stand there stark naked. It dawned on me that my father, too, never brought home any presents. I didn’t even know that a husband is supposed to give his wife gifts. Presents were given to a bride or a groom, not to one’s wife.
I looked at the man; he stood there open-mouthed. His face expressed anguish, astonishment, and something else that could not be named. Despite his anxious state, there still was a touch of laughter within him, which I couldn’t understand. Father covered his eyes with his hand. He rocked back and forth as if unsure of himself. He apparently didn’t grasp what the woman wanted and why she was crying so bitterly.
“And what do you say?” he finally asked.
“Do you mean me, Rabbi?” the man said.
“Yes.”
“Rabbi, I’m going to tell you something interesting.”
“All right.”
“Rabbi, it’s true that we don’t go the theater or to the movies, but it’s not because I’m stingy. I provide her with the best and finest of everything. The money drawer isn’t locked; it’s wide open for her. She can buy herself whatever she pleases. But what does one get out of the theater? A couple of fools dress up like Purim players and that costs you several rubles. In the movies you see absolutely nothing. Just something that looks like a fiery rain and small people running around moving their lips as if mute. I always tell her, if you want to go to the movies, go with your sisters.”
“I want to go with you, not with my sisters,” the woman groaned.
“I don’t like it. It’s sheer torture for me. If I have time, I prefer picking up a newspaper and reading an article that deals with practical matters, current events, politics, and so on. What good is the theater? You come home late, and then you can’t get up in the morning. And I don’t go dancing either. I’m not a dancer, and standing there watching others dance is not my idea of fun. If she wants to go dancing, she can go. Her brothers-in-law run to these dances and they’d take her along. I don’t dance and I don’t leap. I like to sit in my chair and read the newspaper and do my accounts. So what are we left with? Only her complaint about presents. And now, Rabbi, I’d like to tell you something that will amaze you.”
“What is it?”
“It so happens that just today I bought her a gift. Well, actually, I bought it a week ago, but the jeweler delivered it today. It’s true that I’m not a big gift giver, because I hate those cheap trinkets which you buy today and four weeks later are already broken or rusty. I’ve wanted to buy her a present for the longest time but didn’t know what to get. Recently, I had a talk with her about jewelry and discovered what she liked. In short, I went to a jeweler, a fellow from my hometown whom I trust, and ordered a brooch from him for three hundred rubles. Do you hear, Rabbi, for three hundred rubles? Today I come home from lunch and am surprised to see that my wife isn’t there. I fix myself something to eat and am about to return to my store when this little boy suddenly comes in and tells me my wife is summoning me to the rabbi. Precisely today, when I bought her the brooch for three hundred rubles, which is actually worth four hundred—” The man broke off.
Just then I understood the slight amusement in his glance. The woman fell silent. She raised her eyes, stared, gaped. An unearthly silence reigned in the room.
“Well, in that case, everything is fine now,” Father said.
“If only she had waited one day,” the man murmured.
“Rabbi, there comes a time when one’s patience bursts!”
And the woman broke into tears again. It was the weeping of a broken heart, the weeping of someone who has lost everything.
Then Father said, “Well, since he has bought you such a gift, it’s a sign that he’s devoted to you …”
“Now he’s really going to lace into me,” the woman said, choking on her words.
“Go home. Go home. Let there be peace. It is on peace that the world is founded,” Father said.
“Well, I’m going,” the man said.
“How much do I owe you, Rabbi?” the woman asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then I’ll give the boy something,” the woman said, looking at me.
“Don’t give him anything. He buys candies and ruins his teeth,” Father said.
Now tears came to my eyes, too. With these words Father robbed me of a great treasure and many pleasures. The woman surely would have given me a big coin. As I ran to the kitchen to cry, the man and his wife left, walking apart from each other with heads bowed and bearing the burden of humiliation that can never be expunged.
FREIDELE
The following happened in our apartment:
The man’s name was Yechiel and his wife’s Freidele. They had a shop on our street and I knew them both. He was tall, thin, swarthy, with a long neck, a pointy Adam’s apple, a high forehead, and a long nose. Even his beard was long and narrow. Were the store his alone, no one would have come to shop there, because he was grumpy and absentminded. People spoke to him, but he didn’t hear.
If a customer told him, “Reb Yechiel, give me a pound of sugar,” he would bring a pound of flour.
“What are you doing? I wanted sugar!”