Job

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “I want to go to America – where do I have to go?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mendel Mechelovich Singer.”

  “Why do you want to go to America?”

  “To earn money, I’m doing badly.”

  “You go to number eighty-four,” said the porter. “Many are already waiting there.”

  They sat in a large, arched, ocher-washed corridor. Men in blue uniforms stood guard outside the doors. Along the walls were brown benches – all the benches were occupied. But whenever a newcomer arrived, the blue men made a hand motion; and those who were already sitting moved together, and each newcomer took a seat. They smoked, spat, cracked squash seeds and snored. Here the day was no day. Through the milk glass of a very high, very distant skylight, a pale intimation of the day could be glimpsed. Clocks were ticking somewhere, but they went, so to speak, alongside time, which in these high corridors stood still. Sometimes a man in blue uniform called out a name. All the sleepers awoke. The one who had been called rose, staggered toward a door, adjusted his suit and stepped through one of the high double doors, which instead of a latch had a round white knob. Mendel considered how he would handle this knob so as to open the door. He stood up; from sitting for a long time wedged between the people, his limbs were hurting him. But no sooner had he risen than a blue man approached him. “Sidai!” cried the blue man, “sit down!” Mendel Singer no longer found a seat on his bench. He remained standing next to it, pressed himself against the wall and wished he could become as flat as the wall.

  “Are you waiting for number eighty-four?” asked the blue man. “Yes,” said Mendel. He was convinced that they now intended to throw him out for good. Deborah will have to come here again. Fifty kopecks and fifty kopecks make a ruble.

  But the blue man had no intention of sending Mendel out of the building. For the blue man the most important thing was that all the people waiting kept their seats and that he could survey them all. If one stood up, he could throw a bomb.

  “Anarchists disguise themselves sometimes,” thought the doorkeeper. And he beckoned Mendel over to him, patted down the Jew, asked for his papers. And because everything was in order and Mendel no longer had a seat, the blue man said: “Listen! See the glass door? Open it. There is number eighty-four!”

  “What do you want here?” shouted a broad-shouldered man behind the desk. The official sat directly under the picture of the Tsar. He consisted of a mustache, a bald head, epaulets and buttons. He was like a beautiful bust behind his broad inkwell of marble. “Who permitted you to enter here just like that? Why don’t you announce yourself?” a voice roared from the bust.

  Mendel Singer meanwhile bowed deeply. He had not been prepared for such a reception. He bowed and let the thunder glide away over his back, he wanted to become tiny, level with the ground, as if he had been surprised by a storm in an open field. The folds of his long coat parted, and the official saw a bit of Mendel Singer’s threadbare pants and the scuffed leather of his boot shafts. This sight made the official milder. “Come closer!” he commanded, and Mendel moved closer, his head bent forward as if he wanted to push his way to the desk. Only when he saw that he was approaching the edge of the carpet did Mendel Singer lift his head a little. The official smiled. “Give me the papers!” he said.

  Then it was quiet. One heard the clock ticking. Through the blinds broke the golden light of a late afternoon. The papers rustled. Occasionally the official mused for a while, gazed into the air, and suddenly snatched a fly with his hand. He held the tiny animal in his gigantic fist, opened it carefully, pulled off a wing, then the other, and continued to watch a bit as the crippled insect crawled on the desk.

  “The application?” he asked suddenly, “where’s the application?”

  “I can’t write, your Excellency!” Mendel apologized.

  “I know that, you fool, that you can’t write! I wasn’t asking for your school certificate, but for the application. And why do we have a clerk? Huh? On the ground floor? In number three? Huh? Why does the state employ a clerk? For you, you idiot, just because you can’t write. So go to number three. Write the application. Say I sent you, so that you don’t have to wait and are attended to at once. Then come to me. But tomorrow! And tomorrow afternoon, as far as I’m concerned, you can leave!” Once again Mendel bowed. He walked backwards, he dared not turn his back to the official, the path from the desk to the door seemed to him infinitely long. He believed he’d already been walking for an hour. Finally he felt the nearness of the door. He turned around quickly, grabbed the knob, turned it first left, then right, then he gave another bow. Finally he stood again in the corridor.

  In number three sat an ordinary official without epaulets. It was a musty low room, many people surrounded the table, the clerk wrote and wrote, he pushed the quill impatiently each time into the bottom of the ink container. He wrote nimbly, but he was never finished. New people always came. Nonetheless, he still had time to notice Mendel.

  “His Excellency, the gentleman from number eighty-four, sent me,” said Mendel.

  “Come here,” said the clerk.

  The people cleared the way for Mendel Singer.

  “One ruble for the stamp!” said the clerk. Mendel fished a ruble out of his blue handkerchief. It was a hard, shiny ruble. The clerk didn’t take the coin, he expected at least another fifty kopecks. Mendel understood nothing of the clerk’s rather clear wishes.

  Then the clerk became angry. “Are those papers?” he said. “They’re scraps! They crumble in one’s hand!” And he tore one of the documents, as if unintentionally, it ripped into two equal pieces, and the official reached for the gum arabic to stick it together. Mendel Singer trembled.

  The gum arabic was too dry, the official spat into the little bottle, then he breathed on it. But it remained dry. He suddenly had an idea, one saw by looking at him that he suddenly had an idea. He opened a drawer, put Mendel Singer’s papers into it, closed it again, tore from a pad a little green slip of paper, stamped it, gave it to Mendel, and said: “You know what? Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, you come here! Then we’ll be alone. Then we can talk calmly with each other. Your papers are here with me. You fetch them tomorrow. Show the slip of paper!”

  Mendel left. Sameshkin was waiting outside, he was sitting next to the horses on the stones, the sun was setting, the evening was coming.

  “We’re not leaving until tomorrow,” said Mendel, “at nine o’clock I have to come back.”

  He searched for a temple where he could spend the night. He bought a piece of bread, two onions, put everything in his pocket, stopped a Jew and asked him about the temple. “Let’s go together,” said the Jew.

  On the way Mendel told his story.

  “In our temple,” said the Jew, “you can meet a man who will deal with the whole matter for you. He’s already sent many families to America. Do you know Kapturak?”

  “Kapturak? Of course! He sent my son away!”

  “Old clients!” said Kapturak. In late summer he stayed in Dubno, he held his meetings in the temples. “That time your wife came to me. I still remember your son. He’s doing well, eh? Kapturak has a lucky hand.”

  It turned out that Kapturak was willing to take over the matter. For the time being it cost ten rubles per head. Mendel couldn’t pay an advance of ten rubles. Kapturak knew a way out. He got the address of young Singer. In four weeks he’ll have a reply and money, if the son really intends to bring over his parents. “Give me the green slip of paper, the letter from America, and rely on me!” said Kapturak. And the onlookers nodded. “Go home today. In a few days I’ll come by. Rely on Kapturak!”

  A few onlookers repeated: “You can rely on Kapturak!”

  “It’s lucky,” said Mendel, “that I met you here!” All offered him their hands and wished him a good journey. He returned to the marketplace where Sameshkin was waiting. Sameshkin was just about to lie down to sleep in
his wagon.

  “With a Jew only the devil can arrange something certain!” he said. “So we’re leaving after all!”

  They set off.

  Sameshkin tied the reins around his wrist, he intended to sleep a little. He actually nodded off, the horses shied at the shadow of a scarecrow that some rascal had carried out of a field and put on the roadside. The animals broke into a gallop, the cart seemed to rise into the air, soon, Mendel thought, it would begin to flutter, it seemed to him as if his heart was galloping too, it wanted to leave his breast and leap into the distance.

  Suddenly Sameshkin uttered a loud curse. The cart slid into a ditch, the horses’ forelegs were still jutting into the road, Sameshkin was lying on Mendel Singer.

  They climbed out again. The shaft was splintered, a wheel had come loose, another was missing two spokes. They had to spend the night here. Tomorrow they would see.

  “So your journey to America begins,” said Sameshkin. “Why do you people always roam around so much in the world! The devil sends you from one place to another. Our sort stays where he’s born, and only when there’s a war, we move to Japan!”

  Mendel Singer was silent. He was sitting on the roadside next to Sameshkin. For the first time in his life Mendel sat on the naked earth, in the middle of the wild night, next to a peasant. He saw above him the sky and the stars and thought, they conceal God. All this the Lord created in seven days. And when a Jew wants to go to America, it takes years!

  “Do you see how beautiful the country is?” asked Sameshkin. “Soon the harvest will come. It is a good year. If it is as good as I imagine, I’ll buy another horse in autumn. Do you hear anything from your son Jonas? He knows something about horses. He’s completely different from you. Has your wife ever deceived you?” “Everything is possible,” replied Mendel. He felt suddenly very light, he could comprehend everything, the night freed him from prejudices. He even snuggled up to Sameshkin, as to a brother.

  “Everything is possible,” he repeated, “women are no good.”

  Suddenly Mendel began to sob. Mendel wept, in the middle of the strange night, next to Sameshkin.

  The peasant pressed his fists against his eyes, because he felt that he too would weep.

  Then he put his arm around Mendel’s thin shoulders and said softly:

  “Sleep, dear Jew, sleep well.”

  He stayed awake for a long time. Mendel Singer slept and snored. The frogs croaked until morning.

  VIII

  Two weeks later a small, two-wheeled wagon rolled in a great dust cloud in front of Mendel Singer’s house and brought a guest: it was Kapturak.

  He reported that the papers were ready. Should a reply come from America in four weeks from Shemariah, known as Sam, the departure of the Singer family would be assured. That was all Kapturak had wanted to say; and that an advance of twenty rubles would be more agreeable to him than having to deduct the money later from Shemariah’s sum.

  Deborah went into the storeroom made of rotten wooden boards, which stood in the courtyard, pulled her blouse over her head, took a knotted handkerchief from her bosom and counted eight hard rubles into her hand.

  Then she pulled the blouse back on, went into the house and said to Kapturak: “This is all I could scrape up from the neighbors. You have to be content with it.”

  “For an old client one lets some things pass,” said Kapturak, jumped onto his small feather-light yellow wagon, and disappeared immediately in a dust cloud.

  “Kapturak was at Mendel Singer’s house!” cried the people in the little town. “Mendel is going to America.”

  Indeed, Mendel Singer’s journey to America had already begun. All the people gave him advice against seasickness. A few buyers came to view Mendel’s little house. They were prepared to pay a thousand rubles for it, a sum for which Deborah would have given five years of her life.

  But Mendel Singer said: “You do know, Deborah, that Menuchim must stay behind? With whom will he stay? Next month Billes is marrying his daughter to Fogl the musician. Until they have a child, the young people can keep Menuchim. For that we will give them the house and take no money.”

  “Is the matter already settled for you, that Menuchim is staying behind? There are still at least a few weeks until our departure, by then God will surely perform a miracle.”

  “If God wants to perform a miracle,” replied Mendel, “He won’t let it be known beforehand. One must hope. If we don’t go to America, a misfortune will occur with Miriam. If we go to America, we leave Menuchim behind. Shall we send Miriam to America alone? Who knows what she will do, alone on the way and alone in America. Menuchim is so sick that only a miracle can help him. But if a miracle helps him, he can follow us. Because America is indeed very far; but it doesn’t lie outside this world.”

  Deborah remained silent. She heard the words of the rabbi of Kluczýsk: “Do not leave him, stay with him, as if he were a healthy child!” She was not staying with him. Long years, day and night, hour after hour, she had waited for the promised miracle. The dead in the beyond didn’t help, the rabbi didn’t help, God refused to help. She had wept a sea of tears. Night had been in her heart, sorrow in every pleasure, ever since Menuchim’s birth. All festivals were torments, and all holidays days of mourning. There was no more spring and no summer. All seasons were winter. The sun rose, but it did not warm. Hope alone refused to die. “He will remain a cripple,” said all the neighbors. For no misfortune had befallen them, and he who has no misfortune does not believe in miracles.

  Nor does he who has misfortune believe in miracles. Miracles happened very long ago, when the Jews still lived in Palestine. Since then there have been no more. And yet: hadn’t people told with good reason of strange deeds of the rabbi of Kluczýsk? Hadn’t he made blind people see and saved the lame? How was it with Nathan Piczenik’s daughter? She had been mad. They brought her to Kluczýsk. The rabbi looked at her. He said his words. Then he spat three times. And Piczenik’s daughter went home free, light and rational. Other people have luck, thought Deborah. For miracles one also has to have luck. Mendel Singer’s children have no luck! They’re a teacher’s children!

  “If you were a reasonable man,” she said to Mendel, “you would go to Kluczýsk tomorrow and ask the rabbi for advice.” “I?” asked Mendel. “Why should I go to your rabbi? You were there once, go again! You believe in him, he will give you advice. You know that I think nothing of all that. No Jew needs an intermediary to the Lord. He hears our prayers if we do nothing unrighteous. But if we do something unrighteous, He can punish us!”

  “Why is He punishing us now? Have we done wrong? Why is He so cruel?”

  “You blaspheme Him, Deborah, leave me in peace, I can’t talk with you any longer.” And Mendel buried himself in a pious book.

  Deborah reached for her shawl and went out. Outside stood Miriam. She stood there, reddened by the setting sun, in a white dress that now shimmered orange, with her smooth, shiny black hair, and looked straight into the setting sun with her large black eyes, which she held wide open, though the sun must have blinded them. She is beautiful, thought Deborah, I was once that beautiful, as beautiful as my daughter – what has become of me? I have become Mendel Singer’s wife. Miriam is going with a Cossack, she is beautiful, perhaps she is right.

  Miriam seemed not to see her mother. She observed with passionate concentration the glowing sun, which was now about to sink behind a heavy violet bank of clouds. For a few days this dark mass had stood every evening in the west, had portended storm and rain and had disappeared again the next day. Miriam had noticed that, at the moment the sun went down, over there in the cavalry barracks the soldiers began to sing, a whole sotnia began to sing, always the same song: polyubil ya tebya za tvoyu krasotu. Their duty was done, the Cossacks greeted the evening. Miriam repeated, humming, the lyrics of the song, of which she knew only the first two verses: I’ve fallen in love with you, because of your beauty. The song of a whole sotnia was meant for her! A hundred men were sing
ing to her. Half an hour later she was meeting one of them, or even two. Sometimes three came.

  She caught sight of her mother, remained standing calmly, knew that Deborah would come over. For weeks her mother no longer dared call Miriam. It was as if part of the terror that surrounded the Cossacks emanated from Miriam herself, as if the daughter already stood under the protection of the strange and wild barracks.

  No, Deborah no longer called Miriam. Deborah came to Miriam. Deborah, in an old shawl, stood old, ugly, anxious before the gold-gleaming Miriam, stopped at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, as if she were following an old law that commanded ugly mothers to stand half a verst lower than beautiful daughters. “Your father is angry, Miriam!” said Deborah. “Let him be angry,” replied Miriam, “your Mendel Singer.”

  For the first time Deborah heard the name of the father from the mouth of one of her children. For a moment it seemed to her that a stranger was speaking, not Mendel’s child. A stranger – why should she say “Father”? Deborah wanted to turn around, she had made a mistake, she had spoken to a stranger. She began to turn. “Stay!” commanded Miriam – and it struck Deborah for the first time how hard her daughter’s voice was. “A copper voice,” thought Deborah. It sounded like one of the detested and feared church bells.

  “Stay here, Mother!” repeated Miriam, “leave him alone, your husband, come with me to America. Leave Mendel Singer and Menuchim, the idiot, here.”

  “I’ve asked him to go to the rabbi, he refuses. I’m not going alone again to Kluczýsk. I’m afraid! He has already forbidden me once to leave Menuchim, even if his illness should last for years. What should I tell him, Miriam? Should I tell him that we have to leave on your account, because you, because you–––”

  “Because I run around with Cossacks,” Miriam completed, without moving. And she went on: “Tell him what you please, it won’t matter to me at all. In America I’ll do what I want all the more. Because you married a Mendel Singer, I don’t have to marry one too. Do you have a better man for me, huh? Do you have a dowry for your daughter?”