Today Mrs. Skovronnek was hostile toward Mendel for a particular reason. “Imagine,” she said to her husband, “a few days ago my chopping knife disappeared. I can swear that Mendel took it. But when I ask him, he knows nothing about it. He’s getting older and older, he’s like a child!” In fact Mendel Singer had taken Mrs. Skovronnek’s chopping knife and hidden it. He had long been secretly preparing a great plan, the last of his life. One evening he believed that he could carry it out. He pretended to fall asleep on the sofa while the neighbors talked at Skovronnek’s. But in reality Mendel wasn’t sleeping at all. He was lying in wait and listening with closed eyelids until the last of them had left. Then he pulled out the chopping knife from under the pillow of the sofa, stuck it under his caftan and slipped into the evening street. The streetlamps were not yet lit, from some windows yellow lamplight already shone. Opposite the house in which he had lived with Deborah, Mendel Singer stood and peered at the windows of his former apartment. The young married couple Frisch now lived there, downstairs they had opened a modern ice cream parlor. Now the young people emerged from the house. They closed the parlor. They were going to a concert. They were frugal, stingy, one might say, industrious, and they loved music. Young Frisch’s father had conducted a wedding band in Kovno. Today a concert was being given by a philharmonic orchestra, just come from Europe. Frisch had already been speaking about it for days. Now they were going. They didn’t see Mendel. He crept across the street, entered the house, felt his way up the old familiar banister and pulled all the keys out of his pocket. He got them from the neighbors, who entrusted him with watching their apartments when they went to the movies. Without difficulty he opened the door. He locked the bolt, lay down flat on the floor and began to knock on one floorboard after another. It took a long time. He grew tired, granted himself a short break and then went back to work. Finally there came a hollow sound, just at the place where Deborah’s bed once had stood. Mendel removed the dirt from the gaps, loosened the board at all four edges with the chopping knife and pried it up. He hadn’t been mistaken, he found what he was looking for. He grasped the tightly knotted handkerchief, hid it in his caftan, replaced the board and left soundlessly. No one was in the stairwell, no one had seen him. Earlier than usual he locked the shop, he rolled down the shutters. He lit the large hanging lamp, the round burner, and sat down in its beam of light. He unknotted the handkerchief and counted its contents. Sixty-seven dollars in coins and bills Deborah had saved. It was a lot, but it was not enough and disappointed Mendel. If he added his own savings, the alms and small payments for his work in the houses, then he had exactly ninety-six dollars. That was not enough. “A few more months then!” Mendel whispered. “I have time.”
Yes, he had time, he must go on living for quite a long time! Before him lay the great ocean. Once again he had to cross it. The whole great sea waited for Mendel. All of Zuchnow and its environs wait for him: the barracks, the pine forest, the frogs in the swamps and the crickets in the fields. If Menuchim is dead, he is lying in the small cemetery and waiting. Mendel too will lie down. First he will enter Sameshkin’s farm, he will no longer fear the dogs, give him a wolf from Zuchnow, and he is not afraid. Heedless of the bugs and the worms, the tree frogs and the grasshoppers, Mendel will be able to lie down on the naked earth. The church bells will sound and remind him of the listening light in Menuchim’s foolish eyes. Mendel will answer: “I have come home, dear Sameshkin, let others wander through the world, my worlds have died, I have returned to fall asleep here forever!” The blue night is stretched over the land, the stars are shining, the frogs are croaking, the crickets are chirping, and over there, in the dark forest, someone is singing Menuchim’s song.
Thus Mendel falls asleep, in his hand he holds the knotted handkerchief.
The next morning he went to Skovronnek’s apartment, lay the chopping knife on the cold kitchen stove and said: “Here, Mrs. Skovronnek, the chopping knife has turned up!”
He wanted to leave again quickly, but Mrs. Skovronnek began: “It has turned up! That wasn’t hard, you hid it after all! By the way, you were fast asleep yesterday. We were outside the shop again and knocked. Did you hear? Frisch from the ice cream parlor has something very important to tell you. You should go over to him immediately.”
Mendel was frightened. So someone had seen him yesterday, perhaps someone else had plundered the apartment, and they suspected Mendel. Or perhaps those weren’t Deborah’s savings at all, but Mrs. Frisch’s, and he had robbed her. His knees trembled. “Permit me to sit down,” he said to Mrs. Skovronnek. “For two minutes you can sit,” she said, “then I have to cook.” “What sort of important matter is it?” he probed. But he already knew that the woman would reveal nothing to him. She reveled in his curiosity and was silent. Then she thought the time had come to send him away. “I don’t get involved in other people’s business! Just go to Frisch!” she said. And Mendel left and resolved not to set foot in Frisch’s. It could only be something bad. It would come on its own soon enough. He waited. But in the afternoon Skovronnek’s grandchildren came to visit. Mrs. Skovronnek sent him for three portions of strawberry ice cream. Timidly Mendel entered the shop. Luckily Mr. Frisch wasn’t there. His wife said: “My husband has something very important to tell you, you must come in the afternoon!”
Mendel acted as if he hadn’t heard. His heart raced wildly, it wanted to flee him, with both hands he held it back. Something bad definitely threatened him. He wanted to tell the truth, Frisch would believe him. If no one believed him, he’d go to jail. Well, there was no harm in that. In jail he will die. Not in Zuchnow.
He couldn’t leave the vicinity of the ice cream parlor. He walked up and down in front of the shop. He saw young Frisch return home. He wanted to wait longer, but his feet hastened by themselves into the shop. He opened the door, which set off a shrill bell, and no longer found the strength to close the door, so that the alarm incessantly sounded, and Mendel, deafened, remained trapped in its violent noise, captive to the ringing and incapable of moving. Mr. Frisch himself closed the door. And in the silence that now ensued, Mendel heard Mr. Frisch say to his wife: “Quick, a raspberry soda for Mr. Singer!”
How long had it been since anyone had called Mendel “Mr. Singer”? Not until that moment did he feel that people had long been calling him only “Mendel” so as to insult him. It is a mean joke of Frisch’s, he thought. The whole neighborhood knows that this young man is stingy, he himself knows that I will not pay for the raspberry soda. I won’t drink it.
“Thanks, thanks,” said Mendel, “I won’t have anything to drink!”
“You won’t turn us down,” the woman said with a smile.
“You won’t turn me down,” said young Frisch.
He pulled Mendel to one of the small thin-legged cast-iron tables and pushed the old man into a broad wicker chair. He himself sat down on an ordinary wooden chair, moved close to Mendel and began:
“Yesterday, Mr. Singer, I was, as you know, at a concert.” Mendel’s heart skipped a beat. He leaned back and took a sip, so as to keep himself alive. “Well,” Frisch went on, “I’ve heard a lot of music, but there’s never been anything like this before! Thirty-two musicians, you understand, and almost all of them from our region. And they played Jewish melodies, you understand? It warms the heart, I wept, the whole audience wept. At the end they played ‘Menuchim’s Song,’ Mr. Singer, you know it from the gramophone. A beautiful song, isn’t it?”
What does he want? thought Mendel. “Yes, yes, a beautiful song.”
“During the intermission I go to the musicians. It’s crowded. Everyone’s pushing to the musicians. This person and that finds a friend, and I do too, Mr. Singer, I do too.”
Frisch paused. People entered the shop, the bell rang shrilly.
“I find,” said Mr. Frisch, “but drink, Mr. Singer! I find my cousin by blood, Berkovich from Kovno. The son of my uncle. And we kiss. And we talk. And suddenly Berkovich says: Do you know here an old man name
d Mendel Singer?”
Frisch waited again. But Mendel Singer didn’t move. He took note of the fact that a certain Berkovich had asked after an old Mendel Singer.
“Yes,” said Frisch, “I answered him that I know a Mendel Singer from Zuchnow. That’s the one, said Berkovich. Our conductor is a great composer, still young and a genius, he wrote most of the pieces we play. His name is Alexei Kossak, and he is also from Zuchnow.”
“Kossak?” Mendel repeated. “My wife was born a Kossak. He is a relative!”
“Yes,” said Frisch, “and it seems that Kossak is looking for you. He probably wants to tell you something. And I am supposed to ask you whether you want to hear it. Either you can go to his hotel or I will write Berkovich your address.”
Mendel felt light and heavy at the same time. He drank the raspberry soda, leaned back and said: “I thank you, Mr. Frisch. But it is not so important. This Kossak will tell me all the sad things I already know. And besides – I want to tell you the truth: I’ve already been meaning to consult with you. Your brother has a ship ticket agency, right? I want to go home, to Zuchnow. It is no longer Russia, the world has changed. What does a ship ticket cost these days? And what sorts of papers do I need? Talk to your brother, but don’t tell anyone else.”
“I’ll inquire,” replied Frisch. “But you certainly don’t have enough money. And at your age! Maybe this Kossak will tell you something! Maybe he’ll take you with him! He’s only staying for a short time in New York! Shall I give Berkovich your address? Because, if I know you, you won’t go to the hotel!”
“No,” said Mendel, “I won’t go. Write to him if you wish.”
He rose.
Frisch pushed him back into the chair. “One moment,” he said, “Mr. Singer, I’ve brought along the program. Here is the picture of this Kossak.” And he pulled from his breast pocket a large program, unfolded it and held it before Mendel’s eyes.
“A good-looking young man,” said Mendel. He gazed at the photograph. Even though the picture was worn, the paper dirty, and the portrait seemed to dissolve into a hundred thousand tiny molecules, it came alive from the program before Mendel’s eyes. He wanted to give it back immediately, but he kept it and stared at it. Broad and white was the forehead under the black of the hair, like a smooth sunlit stone. The eyes were large and bright. They looked straight at Mendel Singer, he could no longer free himself from them. They made him joyful and light, Mendel believed. He saw their intelligence shining. They were at once old and young. They knew everything, the world was reflected in them. Mendel Singer felt as if he himself became younger at the sight of those eyes, he became a youth, he knew nothing at all. He had to learn everything from those eyes. He has already seen them, dreamed them, as a small boy. Years ago, when he began to study the Bible, they were the eyes of the prophets. Men to whom God himself has spoken have those eyes. They know everything, they reveal nothing, the light is in them.
For a long time Mendel looked at the picture. Then he said: “I will take it home with me, if you permit, Mr. Frisch.” And he folded up the paper and left. He went around the corner, unfolded the program, looked at it and pocketed it again. A long time seemed to have passed since the hour he entered the ice cream parlor. The few thousand years that shone in Kossak’s eyes lay between, and the years since Mendel had still been so young that he had been able to imagine the faces of prophets. He wanted to turn around, ask about the concert hall where the orchestra played and go there. But he felt ashamed. He entered the Skovronneks’ shop and told them that a relative of his wife’s was looking for him in America. He had given Frisch permission to pass on his address.
“Tomorrow evening you will eat with us, as you do every year,” said Skovronnek. It was the first Easter evening. Mendel nodded. He would rather stay in his back room, he knew the sidelong glances of Mrs. Skovronnek and the calculating hands with which she portioned out to Mendel the soup and fish. “It is the last time,” he thought. “A year from now I will be in Zuchnow, alive or dead, preferably dead.”
He was the first guest to arrive the next evening, but the last to sit down at the table. He came early to avoid offending Mrs. Skovronnek, he took his seat late to show that he regarded himself as the lowliest among those present. They already sat around the table: the housewife, both of Skovronnek’s daughters with their husbands and children, a strange traveling music supplies salesman and Mendel. He sat at the end of the table, on which a planed board had been laid to extend it. Mendel was worried not only about the preservation of peace but also about the balance between the tabletop and its artificial extension. Mendel held the end of the board with one hand when someone had to put a plate or a tureen on it. Six thick snow-white candles burned in six silver candlesticks on the snow-white tablecloth, the starched glow of which reflected back the six flames. Like white and silver guards of equal height the candles stood before Skovronnek, the man of the house, who sat in a white robe on a white pillow, leaning on another pillow, a sinless king on a sinless throne. How long ago had it been when Mendel had reigned over the table and the feast in the same costume, in the same fashion? Today he sat bowed and beaten, in his green shimmering coat at the farthest end, the lowliest among the guests, anxious about his own humility and a pitiful support for the celebration. The Easter bread lay covered under a white napkin, a snowy hill next to the lush green of the herbs, the dark red of the beets and the bitter yellow of the horseradish root. The books with the accounts of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt lay open before each guest. Skovronnek began to sing the legend, and everyone repeated his words, caught up with him and sang harmoniously in chorus that cozy, smiling melody, an enumeration in song of the individual miracles that were tallied again and again and yielded again and again the same qualities of God: the greatness, the goodness, the mercifulness, the grace for Israel and the wrath against Pharaoh. Even the music supplies salesman, who could not read the scripture and did not understand the customs, could not escape the melody, which with each new verse wooed, ensnared and caressed him, so that he began to hum along without knowing it. And even Mendel it made mild toward heaven, which four thousand years ago had generously bestowed joyful miracles, and it was as if, through God’s love for the whole people, Mendel was almost reconciled with his own small fate. Still he didn’t sing along, Mendel Singer, but his upper body swung forward and back, rocked by the singing of the others. He heard Skovronnek’s grandchildren singing with high voices and remembered the voices of his own children. He still saw the helpless Menuchim on the unfamiliar raised chair at the ceremonial table. Only the father, from time to time during the singing, had cast a quick glance at his youngest and poorest son, seen the listening light in his foolish eyes and felt how the little one strove in vain to convey what sounded in him and to sing what he heard. It was the only evening in the year when Menuchim wore a new coat, like his brothers, and the white collar of the shirt with the brick red pattern as a festive border around his flabby double chin. When Mendel held out the wine to him, he drank half the cup with a greedy gulp, gasped and snorted and contorted his face in a failed attempt to laugh or to cry: who could know.
Mendel thought of that as he rocked to the singing of the others. He saw that they were already far ahead, turned a few pages and prepared to stand up, to disburden the corner of the plates so that no accident would occur when he let go. For the moment was approaching when the red goblet would be filled with wine and the door opened to let in the prophet Eliyahu. The dark red glass was already waiting, the six lights were reflected in its curve. Mrs. Skovronnek lifted her head and looked at Mendel. He stood up, shuffled to the door and opened it. Skovronnek now sang the invitation to the prophet. Mendel waited until it was over. For he didn’t want to make the trip twice. Then he closed the door, sat back down, braced the supporting fist under the table board, and the singing went on.
Scarcely a minute after Mendel had sat down, there was a knock. Everyone heard the knock, but everyone thought it was an illusion. On t
hat evening all their friends were sitting at home, the streets of the neighborhood were empty. At that hour no visit was possible. It was surely the wind knocking. “Mendel,” said Mrs. Skovronnek, “you didn’t close the door correctly.” Then there was another knock, distinct and longer. Everyone paused. The smell of the candles, the pleasure of the wine, the yellow unfamiliar light and the old melody had brought the adults and the children so close to the anticipation of a miracle that they stopped breathing for a moment and looked at one another, helpless and pale, as if they wanted to ask whether the prophet wasn’t really demanding admittance. Thus it remained silent, and no one dared move. Finally Mendel stirred. Again he pushed the plates into the middle. Again he shuffled to the door and opened it. There stood a tall stranger in the half-dark hallway, wished him a good evening and asked whether he might enter. Skovronnek rose with some difficulty from his pillows. He went to the door, observed the stranger and said: “Please!” – as he had learned to do in America. The stranger entered. He wore a dark coat, his collar was turned up, he kept his hat on his head, apparently out of reverence for the ceremony he had come upon, and because all the men there sat with covered heads.