Yoineh Meir broke into a wail that echoed through the wood in many voices. He raised his fist to Heaven: “Friend! Murderer! Devouring beast!”
For two days the butchers searched for him, but they did not find him. Then Zeinvel, who owned the watermill, arrived in town with the news that Yoineh Meir’s body had turned up in the river by the dam. He had drowned.
The members of the Burial Society immediately went to bring the corpse. There were many witnesses to testify that Yoineh Meir had behaved like a madman, and the rabbi ruled that the deceased was not a suicide. The body of the dead man was cleansed and given burial near the graves of his father and his grandfather. The rabbi himself delivered the eulogy.
Because it was the holiday season and there was danger that Kolomir might remain without meat, the community hastily dispatched two messengers to bring a new slaughterer.
Translated by Mirra Ginsburg
The Dead Fiddler
I
IN the town of Shidlovtse, which lies between Radom and Kielce, not far from the Mountains of the Holy Cross, there lived a man by the name of Reb Sheftel Vengrover. This Reb Sheftel was supposedly a grain merchant, but all the buying and selling was done by his wife, Zise Feige. She bought wheat, corn, barley, and buckwheat from the landowners and the peasants and sent it to Warsaw. She also had some of the grain milled and sold the flour to stores and bakeries. Zise Feige owned a granary and had an assistant, Zalkind, who helped her in the business and did all the work that required a man’s hand; he carried sacks, looked after the horses, and served as coachman whenever Zise Feige drove out to a fair or went to visit a landowner.
Reb Sheftel held to the belief that the Torah is the worthiest merchandise of all. He rose at dawn and went to the study house to pore over the Gemara, the Annotations and Commentaries, the Midrash, and the Zohar. In the evenings, he would read a lesson from the Mishnah with the Mishnah Society. Reb Sheftel also devoted himself to community affairs and was an ardent Radzymin Hasid.
Reb Sheftel was not much taller than a midget, but he had the longest beard in Shidlovtse and the surrounding district. His beard reached down to his knees and seemed to contain every color: red, yellow, even the color of hay. At Tishe b’Av, when the mischiefmakers pelted everyone with burs, Reb Sheftel’s beard would be full of them. At first Zise Feige had tried to pull them out, but Reb Sheftel would not allow it, for she pulled out the hairs of the beard too, and a man’s beard is a mark of his Jewishness and a reminder that he was created in the image of God. The burs remained in his beard until they dropped out by themselves. Reb Sheftel did not curl his sidelocks, considering this a frivolous custom. They hung down to his shoulders. A tuft of hair grew on his nose. As he studied, he smoked a long pipe.
When Reb Sheftel stood at the lectern in the synagogue in his prayer shawl and phylacteries, he looked like one of the ancients. He had a high forehead, and under shaggy eyebrows, eyes that combined the sharp glance of a scholar with the humility of a God-fearing man. Reb Sheftel imposed a variety of penances upon himself. He drank no milk unless he had been present at the milking. He ate no meat except on the Sabbath and on holidays and only if he had examined the slaughtering knife in advance. It was told of him that on the eve of Passover he ordered that the cat wear socklets on its feet, lest it bring into the house the smallest crumb of unleavened bread. Every night, he faithfully performed the midnight prayers. People said that although he had inherited his grain business from his father and grandfather he still could not distinguish between rye and wheat.
Zise Feige was a head taller than her husband and in her younger days had been famous for her good looks. The landlords who sold her grain showered her with compliments, but a good Jewish woman pays no attention to idle talk. Zise Feige loved her husband and considered it an honor to help him serve the Almighty.
She had borne nine children, but only three remained: a married son, Jedidiah, who took board with his father-in-law in Wlodowa; a boy, Tsadock Meyer, who was still in cheder; and a grown daughter, Liebe Yentl. Liebe Yentl had been engaged and about to be married, but her fiancé, Ozer, caught a cold and died. This Ozer had a reputation as a prodigy and a scholar. His father was the president of the community in Opola. Although Liebe Yentl had seen Ozer only during the signing of the betrothal papers, she wept bitterly when she heard the bad news. Almost at once she was besieged with marriage offers, for she was already a ripe girl of seventeen, but Zise Feige felt that it was best to wait until she got over her misfortune.
Liebe Yentl’s betrothed, Ozer, departed this world just after Passover. Now it was already the month of Heshvan. Sukkoth is usually followed by rains and snow, but this fall was a mild one. The sun shone. The sky was blue, as after Pentecost. The peasants in the villages complained that the winter crops were beginning to sprout in the fields, which could lead to crop failure. People feared that the warm weather might bring epidemics. In the meantime, grain prices rose by three groschen on the pood, and Zise Feige had higher profits. As was the custom between man and wife, she gave Reb Sheftel an accounting of the week’s earnings every Sabbath evening, and he immediately deducted a share—for the study house, the prayer house, the mending of sacred books, for the inmates of the poorhouse, and for itinerant beggars. There was no lack of need for charity.
Since Zise Feige had a servant girl, Dunya, and was herself a fine housekeeper, Liebe Yentl paid little attention to household matters. She had her own room, where she would often sit, reading storybooks. She copied letters from the letter book. When she had read through all the storybooks, she secretly took to borrowing from her father’s bookcase. She was also good at sewing and embroidery. She was fond of fine clothes. Liebe Yentl inherited her mother’s beauty, but her red hair came from her father’s side. Like her father’s beard, her hair was uncommonly long—down to her loins. Since the mishap with Ozer, her face, always pale, had grown paler still and more delicate. Her eyes were green.
Reb Sheftel paid little attention to his daughter. He merely prayed to the Lord to send her the right husband. But Zise Feige saw that the girl was growing up as wild as a weed. Her head was full of whims and fancies. She did not allow herring or radishes to be mentioned in her presence. She averted her eyes from slaughtered fowl and from meat on the salting board or in the soaking dish. If she found a fly in her groats, she would eat nothing for the rest of the day. She had no friends in Shidlovtse. She complained that the girls of the town were common and backward; as soon as they were married, they became careless and slovenly. Whenever she had to go among people, she fasted the day before, for fear that she might vomit. Although she was beautiful, clever, and learned, it always seemed to her that people were laughing and pointing at her.
Zise Feige wanted many times to talk to her husband about the troubles she was having with their daughter, but she was reluctant to divert him from his studies. Besides, he might not understand a woman’s problems. He had a rule for everything. On the few occasions when Zise Feige had tried to tell him of her fears, his only reply was, “When, God willing, she gets married, she will forget all this foolishness.”
After the calamity with Ozer, Liebe Yentl fell ill from grieving. She did not sleep nights. Her mother heard her sobbing in the dark. She was constantly going for a drink of water. She drank whole dippers full, and Zise Feige could not imagine how her stomach could hold so much water. As though, God forbid, a fire were raging inside her, consuming everything.
Sometimes, Liebe Yentl spoke to her mother like one who was altogether unsettled. Zise Feige thought to herself that it was fortunate the girl avoided people. But how long can anything remain a secret? It was already whispered in town that Liebe Yentl was not all there. She played with the cat. She took solitary walks down the Gentile street that led to the cemetery. When anyone addressed her, she turned pale and her answers were quite beside the point. Some people thought that she was deaf. Others hinted that Liebe Yentl might be dabbling in magic. She had been seen on a moonlit night walking in
the pasture across the bridge and bending down every now and then to pick flowers or herbs. Women spat to ward off evil when they spoke of her. “Poor thing, unlucky and sick besides.”
II
Liebe Yentl was about to become betrothed again, this time to a young man from Zawiercia. Reb Sheftel had sent an examiner to the prospective bridegroom, and he came back with the report that Shmelke Motl was a scholar. The betrothal contract was drawn up, ready to be signed.
The examiner’s wife, Traine, who had visited Zawiercia with her husband (they had a daughter there), told Zise Feige that Shmelke Motl was small and dark. He did not look like much, but he had the head of a genius. Because he was an orphan, the householders provided his meals; he ate at a different home every day of the week. Liebe Yentl listened without a word.
When Traine had gone, Zise Feige brought in her daughter’s supper—buckwheat and pot roast with gravy. But Liebe Yentl did not touch the food. She rocked over the plate as though it were a prayer book. Soon afterwards, she retired to her room. Zise Feige sighed and also went to bed. Reb Sheftel had gone to sleep early, for he had to rise for midnight prayers. The house was quiet. Only the cricket sang its night song behind the oven.
Suddenly Zise Feige was wide awake. From Liebe Yentl’s room came a muffled gasping, as though someone were choking there. Zise Feige ran into her daughter’s room. In the bright moonlight she saw the girl sitting on her bed, her hair disheveled, her face chalk-white, struggling to keep down her sobs. Zise Feige cried out, “My daughter, what is wrong? Woe is me!” She ran to the kitchen, lit a candle, and returned to Liebe Yentl, bringing a cup of water to splash at her if, God forbid, the girl should faint.
But at this moment a man’s voice broke from Liebe Yentl’s lips. “No need to revive me, Zise Feige,” the voice called out. “I’m not in the habit of fainting. You’d better fetch me a drop of vodka.”
Zise Feige stood petrified with horror. The water spilled over from the cup.
Reb Sheftel had also wakened. He washed his hands hastily, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and came into his daughter’s room.
The man’s voice greeted him. “A good awakening to you, Reb Sheftel. Let me have a schnapps—my throat’s parched. Or Slivovitz—anything will do, so long as I wet my whistle.”
Man and wife knew at once what had happened: a dybbuk had entered Liebe Yentl. Reb Sheftel asked with a shudder: “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Who I am you wouldn’t know,” the dybbuk answered. “You’re a scholar in Shidlovtse, and I’m a fiddler from Pinchev. You squeeze the bench, and I squeezed the wenches. You’re still around in the Imaginary World, and I’m past everything. I’ve kicked the bucket and have already had my taste of what comes after. I’ve had it cold and hot, and now I’m back on the sinful earth—there’s no place for me either in heaven or in hell. Tonight I started out flying to Pinchev, but I lost my way and got to Shidlovtse instead—I’m a musician, not a coachman. One thing I do know, though—my throat’s itchy.”
Zise Feige was seized by a fit of tembling. The candle in her hand shook so badly it singed Reb Sheftel’s beard. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but her voice stuck in her throat. Her knees buckled, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
Reb Sheftel pulled at his sidelock as he addressed the dybbuk. “What is your name?”
“Getsl.”
“Why did you choose to enter my daughter?” he asked in desperation.
“Why not? She’s a good-looking girl. I hate the ugly ones—always have, always will.” With that, the dybbuk began to shout ribaldries and obscenities, both in ordinary Yiddish and in musician’s slang. “Don’t make me wait, Feige dear,” he called out finally. “Bring me a cup of cheer. I’m dry as a bone. I’ve got an itching in my gullet, a twitching in my gut.”
“Good people, help!” Zise Feige wailed. She dropped the candle and Reb Sheftel picked it up, for it could easily have set the wooden house on fire.
Though it was late, the townsfolk came running. There are people everywhere with something bothering them; they cannot sleep nights. Tevye the night watchman thought a fire had broken out and ran through the street, knocking at the shutters with his stick. It was not long before Reb Sheftel’s house was packed.
Liebe Yentl’s eyes goggled, her mouth twisted like an epileptic’s, and a voice boomed out of her that could not have come from a woman’s throat. “Will you bring me a glass of liquor or won’t you? What the devil are you waiting for?”
“And what if we don’t?” asked Zeinvl the butcher, who was on his way home from the slaughterhouse.
“If you don’t, I’ll lay you all wide open, you pious hypocrites. And the secrets of your wives—may they burn up with hives.”
“Get him liquor! Give him a drink!” voices cried on every side.
Reb Sheftel’s son, Tsadock Meyer, a boy of eleven, had also been awakened by the commotion. He knew where his father kept the brandy that he drank on the Sabbath, after the fish. He opened the cupboard, poured out a glass, and brought it to his sister. Reb Sheftel leaned against the chest of drawers, for his legs were giving way. Zise Feige fell into a chair. Neighbors sprinkled her with vinegar against fainting.
Liebe Yentl stretched out her hand, took the glass, and tossed it down. Those who stood nearby could not believe their eyes. The girl didn’t even twitch a muscle.
The dybbuk said, “You call that liquor? Water, that’s what it is—hey, fellow, bring me the bottle!”
“Don’t let her have it! Don’t let her have it!” Zise Feige cried. “She’ll poison herself, God help us!”
The dybbuk gave a laugh and a snort. “Don’t worry, Zise Feige, nothing can kill me again. So far as I’m concerned, your brandy is weaker than candy.”
“You won’t get a drink until you tell us who you are and how you got in here,” Zeinvl the butcher said. Since no one else dared to address the spirit, Zeinvl took it upon himself to be the spokesman.
“What does the meatman want here?” the dybbuk asked. “Go on back to your gizzards and guts!”
“Tell us who you are!”
“Do I have to repeat it? I am Getsl the fiddler from Pinchev. I was fond of things nobody else hates, and when I cashed in, the imps went to work on me. I couldn’t get into paradise, and hell was too hot for my taste. The devils were the death of me. So at night, when the watchman dropped off, I made myself scarce. I meant to go to my wife, may she rot alive, but it was dark on the way and I got to Shidlovtse instead. I looked through the wall and saw this girl. My heart jumped in my chest and I crawled into her breast.”
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“Forever and a day.”
Reb Sheftel was almost speechless with terror, but he remembered God and recovered. He called out, “Evil spirit, I command you to leave the body of my innocent daughter and go where men do not walk and beasts do not tread. If you don’t, you shall be driven out by Holy Names, by excommunication, by the blowing of the ram’s horn.”
“In another minute you’ll have me scared!” the dybbuk taunted. “You think you’re so strong because your beard’s long?”
“Impudent wretch, betrayer of Israel!” Reb Sheftel cried in anger.
“Better an open rake than a sanctimonious fake,” the dybbuk answered. “You may have the Shidlovtse schlemiels fooled, but Getsl the fiddler of Pinchev has been around. I’m telling you. Bring me the bottle or I’ll make you crawl.”
There was an uproar at the door. Someone had wakened the rabbi, and he came with Bendit the beadle. Bendit carried a stick, a ram’s horn, and the Book of the Angel Raziel.
III
Once in the bedroom, the rabbi, Reb Yeruchim, ordered the ram’s horn to be blown. He had the beadle pile hot coals into a brazier, then he poured incense on the coals. As the smoke of the herbs filled the room, he commanded the evil one with holy oaths from the Zohar, The Book of Creation, and other books of the Cabala to leave the body of the woman
Liebe Yentl, daughter of Zise Feige. But the unholy spirit defied everyone. Instead of leaving, he played out a succession of dances, marches, hops—just with the lips. He boomed like a bass viol, he jingled like a cymbal, he whistled like a flute, and drummed like a drum.
The page is too short for a recital of all that the dybbuk did and said that night and the nights that followed—his brazen tricks, his blasphemies against the Lord, the insults he hurled at the townsfolk, the boasts of all the lecheries he had committed, the mockery, the outbursts of laughing and of crying, the stream of quotations from the Torah and wedding jester’s jokes, and all of it in singsong and in rhyme.
The dybbuk made himself heard only after dark. During the day, Liebe Yentl lay exhausted in bed and evidently did not remember what went on at night. She thought that she was sick and occasionally begged her mother to call the doctor or to give her some medicine. Most of the time she dozed, with her eyes and her lips shut tight.
Since the incantations and the amulets of the Shidlovtse rabbi were of no avail, Reb Sheftel went to seek the advice of the Radzymin rabbi. On the very morning he left, the mild weather gave way to wind and snow. The roads were snowed in and it was difficult to reach Radzymin, even in a sleigh. Weeks went by, and no news came from Reb Sheftel. Zise Feige was so hard hit by the calamity that she fell ill, and her assistant Zalkind had to take over the whole business.