He is a fine man, thought Skovronnek. And he unbuttoned, without saying a word, the stranger’s coat. The man bowed and said: “My name is Alexei Kossak. I beg your pardon. I sincerely beg your pardon. I was told that a certain Mendel Singer from Zuchnow is staying with you. I would like to speak to him.”
“That is I,” said Mendel, approached the guest and lifted his head. His forehead reached to the stranger’s shoulder. “Mr. Kossak,” Mendel went on, “I’ve heard about you. You are a relative.”
“Take off your coat and sit down with us at the table,” said Skovronnek.
Mrs. Skovronnek rose. Everyone pushed together. They made space for the stranger. Skovronnek’s son-in-law brought another chair to the table. The stranger hung his coat on a nail and sat down opposite Mendel. A cup of wine was set before the guest. “Don’t let me hold you up,” implored Kossak, “go on praying.”
They continued. Quiet and slender the guest sat in his place. Mendel gazed at him incessantly. Tirelessly Alexei Kossak looked at Mendel Singer. Thus they sat opposite each other, enveloped by the singing of the others but separated from them.
They both found it pleasant that, because of the others, they could not yet speak to each other. Mendel sought the eyes of the stranger. If Kossak lowered them, the old man felt as if he had to implore the guest to keep them open. In that face everything was strange to Mendel Singer, only the eyes behind the rimless glasses were close to him. To them his gaze strayed again and again, as if in a homecoming to familiar lights hidden behind windows, from the foreign landscape of the thin, pale and youthful face. Thin, closed and smooth were the lips. If I were his father, thought Mendel, I would tell him: “Smile, Alexei.” Softly he pulled out of his pocket the poster, unfolded it under the table to avoid disturbing the others, and handed it to the stranger. He took it and smiled, thinly, delicately and for only a second.
The singing stopped, the feast began, Mrs. Skovronnek pushed a bowl of hot soup before the guest, and Mr. Skovronnek invited him to eat with them. The music supplies salesman began a conversation in English with Kossak, of which Mendel understood nothing at all. Then the salesman declared to everyone that Kossak was a young genius, was staying only another week in New York and would take the liberty of sending everyone here free tickets to the concert of his orchestra. Other conversations could not start. They ate in barely festive haste to the end of the celebration, and every other bite was accompanied by a polite word from the stranger or his hosts. Mendel didn’t speak. To please Mrs. Skovronnek he ate still faster than the others, so as not to cause any delays. And everyone welcomed the end of the meal and eagerly continued the singing of the miracles. Skovronnek struck an ever-faster rhythm, the women couldn’t follow him. But when he came to the psalms, he changed his voice, the tempo and the melody, and so beguiling sounded the words he now sang that even Mendel, at the end of each verse, repeated “Hallelujah, hallelujah!” He shook his head so that his long beard swept over the open pages of the book and a soft rustle was audible, as if Mendel’s beard wanted to participate in the prayer, because Mendel’s mouth celebrated so sparingly.
Now they were almost finished. The candles had burned down halfway, the table was no longer smooth and ceremonial, there were stains and food scraps on the white tablecloth, and Skovronnek’s grandchildren were already yawning. They stopped at the end of the book. Skovronnek said with a raised voice the traditional wish: “Next year in Jerusalem!” Everyone repeated it, closed the books and turned to the guest. It was now Mendel’s turn to question the visitor. The old man cleared his throat, smiled and said: “Well, Mr. Alexei, what do you want to tell me?”
In a low voice the stranger began: “You would have heard from me long ago, Mr. Mendel Singer, if I had known your address. But after the war no one knew it any longer. Billes’s son-in-law, the musician, died of typhus, your house in Zuchnow stood empty, because Billes’s daughter had fled to her parents, who were then living in Dubno already, and in Zuchnow, in your house, were Austrian soldiers. Now, after the war I wrote to my manager here, but the man was not skilled enough, he wrote to me that you could not be found.”
“A shame about Billes’s son-in-law!” said Mendel, and he thought of Menuchim.
“And now,” Kossak went on, “I have pleasant news.” Mendel lifted his head. “I’ve bought your house, from old Billes, before witnesses and on the basis of an official appraisal. And I want to pay you the money.”
“How much is it?” asked Mendel.
“Three hundred dollars!” said Kossak.
Mendel grasped his beard and combed it with spread trembling fingers. “I thank you!” he said. “And as for your son Jonas,” Kossak went on, “he has been missing since 1915. No one could say anything about him. Neither in Petersburg nor in Berlin, nor in Vienna, nor at the Swiss Red Cross. I have inquired and had inquiries made everywhere. But two months ago I met a young man from Moscow. He had just come as a refugee across the Polish border, for as you know, Zuchnow now belongs to Poland. And this young man had been Jonas’s comrade in the regiment. He told me that he once heard by chance that Jonas is alive and is fighting in the White Army. Now it has certainly become very hard to learn anything about him. But you must not give up hope yet.”
Mendel was about to open his mouth to ask about Menuchim. But his friend Skovronnek, who anticipated Mendel’s question, regarded a sad answer as certain and was anxious to avoid gloomy conversations that evening or at least to postpone them as long as possible, preempted the old man and said: “Now, Mr. Kossak, since we have the pleasure of having such a great man as yourself with us, perhaps you will also give us the joy of hearing something about your life. How has it come about that you have survived the war, the revolution and all the dangers?”
The stranger had apparently not been expecting that question, for he did not answer immediately. He lowered his eyes, like someone who feels ashamed or has to think, and only answered after a long while: “I haven’t experienced anything special. As a child I was sick for a long time, my father was a poor teacher, like Mr. Mendel Singer, to whose wife I am related. (Now is not the time to explain the relation in more detail.) In short, due to my illness, and because we were poor, I ended up in a big city, in a public medical institute. They treated me well, a doctor was particularly fond of me, I recovered, and the doctor kept me in his house. There,” here Kossak lowered his voice and his head, and it was as if he were speaking to the table, so that all held their breath so as to hear him clearly, “there I sat down one day at the piano and played from my head my own songs. And the doctor’s wife wrote the notes to my songs. The war was my good fortune. For I came to military music and became the conductor of a band, stayed the whole time in Petersburg and played a few times for the Tsar. After the revolution my band went abroad with me. A few left, a few new ones joined, in London we signed a contract with a concert agency, and thus my orchestra came to be.”
Everyone was still listening, even though the guest had long since finished his story. But his words still hovered in the room, and the listeners were only now struck by them. Kossak spoke the jargon of the Jews poorly, he mixed half Russian sentences in his story, and the Skovronneks and Mendel did not comprehend them individually, but only in the whole context. Skovronnek’s sons-in-law, who had come to America as small children, only understood half of it and had their wives translate the stranger’s story into English for them. The music supplies salesman then repeated Kossak’s biography so as to memorize it. The candles were still burning only as short stumps in the candlesticks, it grew dark in the room, the grandchildren were sleeping with inclined heads in their chairs, but no one made a move to go, indeed Mrs. Skovronnek even fetched two new candles, stuck them on the old stumps and thus reopened the evening. Her old respect for Mendel Singer awakened. This guest, who was a great man, had played for the Tsar, wore a remarkable ring on his little finger and a pearl in his tie, was dressed in a suit of good European fabric – she knew about that because her father h
ad been a clothier – this guest could not go with Mendel into the back room of the shop. Indeed she said to her husband’s surprise: “Mr. Singer! It is good that you have come to us this evening. Usually,” and she turned to Kossak, “he is so humble and tactful that he declines all my invitations. Nonetheless, he is like the oldest child in our house.” Skovronnek interrupted her: “Make us some more tea!” And as she stood up, he said to Kossak: “We’ve all known your songs for a long time. ‘Menuchim’s Song’ is by you, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Kossak. “It is by me.” It seemed that this question displeased him. He quickly looked at Mendel Singer and asked: “Your wife is dead?” Mendel nodded. “And as far as I know, you have a daughter, don’t you?” Instead of Mendel Skovronnek now answered: “Unfortunately the deaths of her mother and her brother Sam drove her mad, and she is in the asylum.” The stranger lowered his head again. Mendel rose.
He wanted to ask about Menuchim, but he did not have the courage. He knew the answer already. He put himself in the guest’s place and answered himself: Menuchim is long dead. He died miserably. He impressed this sentence on himself, tasted in advance its whole bitterness, so that, when the sentence should actually sound, he could remain calm. And because he still felt a shy hope stirring deep in his heart, he sought to kill it. If Menuchim were alive, he said to himself, the stranger would have told me right at the outset. No! Menuchim is long dead. Now I will ask him, so that this stupid hope will come to an end! But he still didn’t ask. He took a pause, and the noisy activity of Mrs. Skovronnek, who was busy with the tea maker in the kitchen, prompted him to leave the room, so as to help the housewife, as he was accustomed.
But today she sent him back into the room. He had three hundred dollars and a noble relative. “It isn’t proper for you, Mr. Mendel,” she said. “Don’t leave your guest alone!” She was already finished anyhow. With the full tea glasses on the broad tray she entered the room, followed by Mendel. The tea steamed. Mendel was finally determined to ask about Menuchim. Skovronnek too felt that the question could no longer be postponed. He preferred to ask it himself, Mendel, his friend, should not, on top of the pain the answer would cause him, have to take on himself the torment of asking.
“My friend Mendel had another poor sick son named Menuchim. What has happened to him?”
Again the stranger didn’t answer. He poked around with the spoon on the bottom of his glass, ground the sugar, and as if he wanted to read the answer in the tea, he looked at the light brown glass and, the spoon still between his thumb and forefinger, his slender brown hand gently moving, he finally said, unexpectedly loudly, as if with a sudden resolution:
“Menuchim is alive!”
It doesn’t sound like an answer, it sounds like a cry. Immediately a laugh bursts from Mendel Singer’s breast. Everyone is startled and stares at the old man. Mendel is sitting in the chair, leaning back, shaking and laughing. His back is so bowed that it cannot entirely touch the backrest. Between the backrest and the nape of Mendel’s old neck (little white hairs curl over the shabby collar of his coat) is a wide gap. Mendel’s long beard moves violently, almost flutters like a white flag and seems itself to be laughing. From Mendel’s breast roars and giggles come alternately. Everyone is startled, Skovronnek rises somewhat laboriously from the swelling pillows, hampered by the long white robe, and walks around the whole table, approaches Mendel, bends down to him and takes Mendel’s two hands in his. Then Mendel’s laughter turns into weeping, he sobs, and the tears flow from the old half-veiled eyes into the rampant beard, lose themselves in the wild underbrush, others get caught for a long time, round and full like glass drops, in the hair.
Finally Mendel is calm. He looks straight at Kossak and repeats: “Menuchim is alive?”
The stranger looks at Mendel calmly and says: “Menuchim is alive, he is healthy, and he is even doing well!”
Mendel folds his hands, he lifts them as high as he can toward the ceiling. He would like to stand up. He has the feeling that he should now stand up, straighten up, grow, become taller and taller, rise above the house and touch the sky with his hands. He can no longer unclasp his folded hands. He looks at Skovronnek, and his old friend knows what he now has to ask in Mendel’s stead.
“Where is Menuchim now?” asks Skovronnek.
And slowly Alexei Kossak replies:
“I myself am Menuchim.”
All rise suddenly from their seats, the children, who were already asleep, awake and burst into tears. Mendel himself stands up so violently that behind him the chair falls down with a loud crash. He walks, he runs, he hastens, he skips to Kossak, the only one who has remained sitting. There is a great uproar in the room. The candles begin to flicker as if they were suddenly stirred by a wind. On the walls flutter the shadows of standing people. Mendel sinks down before the sitting Menuchim, he seeks with anxious mouth and waving beard the hands of his son, his lips kiss whatever they meet, the knees, the thighs, the vest of Menuchim. Mendel stands up again, lifts his hands and begins, as if he had suddenly gone blind, with eager fingers to touch his son’s face. The blunt old fingers glide over Menuchim’s hair, his smooth broad forehead, the cold lenses of his glasses, the thin closed lips. Menuchim sits calmly and doesn’t move. All the guests surround Menuchim and Mendel, the children weep, the candles flicker, the shadows on the wall amass into heavy clouds. No one speaks.
Finally Menuchim’s voice sounds. “Stand up, Father!” he says, and grasps Mendel under his arms, lifts him up and sits him on his lap, as if he were a child. The others withdraw again. Now Mendel sits on his son’s lap, smiles all around, in everyone’s face. He whispers: “Pain will make him wise, ugliness kind, bitterness gentle, and illness strong.” Deborah said that. He still hears her voice. Skovronnek leaves the table, takes off his robe, puts on his coat and says: “I’ll be right back!” Where is Skovronnek going? It is not yet late, not even eleven o’clock, their friends are still sitting at their tables. He goes from house to house, to Groschel, Menkes and Rottenberg. They can all still be found at their tables. “A miracle has happened! Come with me and see it!” He leads all three to Mendel. On the way they meet Lemmel’s daughter, who was accompanying her guests. They tell her about Mendel and Menuchim. Young Frisch, who is going for a little walk with his wife, also hears the news. Thus a few people learn what has occurred. Down below outside Skovronnek’s house stands, as proof, the automobile in which Menuchim has come. A few people open their windows and see it. Menkes, Groschel, Skovrennek and Rottenberg enter the house. Mendel comes to meet them and silently squeezes their hands.
Menkes, the most thoughtful of them all, spoke. “Mendel,” he said, “we have come to see you in your good luck as we have seen you in misfortune. Do you remember how you were beaten? We consoled you, but we knew it was in vain. Now you are experiencing a miracle in the living flesh. As we were sad with you then, today we are joyful with you. Great are the miracles that the Eternal One performs, still today, as several thousand years ago. Praised be His name!” All stood. Skovronnek’s daughters, the children, the sons-in-law and the music supplies salesman were already in their coats and said goodbye. Mendel’s friends didn’t sit down, because they had come only to offer their brief congratulations. Smaller than all of them, with a hunched back, in a green shimmering coat, Mendel stood in their midst like an inconspicuously disguised king. He had to stretch to look into their faces. “I thank you,” he said. “Without your help I would not have lived to see this hour. Look at my son!” He pointed to him with his hand, as if one of his friends might not observe Menuchim thoroughly enough. Their eyes felt the fabric of the suit, the silk tie, the pearl, the slender hands and the ring. Then they said: “A noble young man! One sees that he is special!”
“I have no house,” Mendel said to his son. “You come to your father, and I don’t know where to offer you a bed.”
“I would like to take you with me, Father,” the son replied. “I don’t know whether you are allowed to drive, because it is a holiday.
”
“He’s allowed to drive,” said everyone, as if with one mouth.
“I believe that I am allowed to drive with you,” declared Mendel. “I have committed grave sins, the Lord has closed his eyes. I have called him an ispravnik. He has covered his ears. He is so great that our badness becomes very small. I am allowed to drive with you.”
All accompanied Mendel to the car. At this window and that neighbors stood and looked down. Mendel fetched his keys, unlocked the shop again, went into the back room and took the little red velvet sack from the nail. He blew on it to free it from the dust, rolled down the shutters, locked up and gave Skovronnek the keys. Holding the sack, he climbed into the car. The engine rattled. The headlights shone. From this window and that voices called: “Goodbye, Mendel.” Mendel Singer grasped Menkes by the sleeve and said: “Tomorrow, at the prayer, you will announce that I am donating three hundred dollars to the poor. Farewell!”