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Authors: Isaac Bashevis Singer
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Goray acquired a new deserted wife and a new orphan. The crows cawed the bad news from the rooftops; Reb Itche Mates was the only one not to be informed of it, for certainly the news would have made him unhappy. The wife of Leib Banach the Messenger sat for seven days of mourning. Rechele cried her eyes out and the good women of the town looked after her. They prepared delicacies for her in small pots, made over old garments for her to wear, and came to console her and to talk away the evil spirits. Chinkele the Pious spent the night with Rechele, that demons might not attach themselves to her.
Rechele was sick. Of the delicacies that were brought her she tasted almost nothing, and she missed her period. Hour after hour she moved aimlessly about the house like one in a cage, and peered into every crack and crevice. Sometimes, for no reason, tears began to drop from her eyes, as from a tree after rain. At other moments she would suddenly fall to laughing, so loud that the echo resounded through all the corridors and alcoves of the ruined house. At night, before going to sleep, she draped the window of her room with all kinds of old clothes, out of dread of moonlight. But the bright night spied through the cracks, light stained the faded walls, trembling in long pearl strands. Rechele crawled down from bed in her night dress, listening to the scratching of the mice and the dry crackle of the firewood behind the stove. Sometimes a crow outside her window would awaken with a throaty cry. One day Rechele imagined that the snowcovered chestnut tree across the way had begun to blossom.
For a few days Rechele had heard the sound of a man laughing and braying in the middle of the night.
As often as Chinkele the Pious fell asleep, Rechele would wake her with a tug at the shoulder.
"Chinkele, don't be angry," she would say guiltily. "Somehow, I can't rest."
"Be patient--soon you'll be married to Reb Itche Mates, and nothing bad will come near you," Chinkele would say. "He is a holy man sent by Heaven to save you."
"Chinkele, darling, I'm so afraid of him!" remonstrated Rechele, and her voice broke. "He has dead eyes!"
"You mad creature!" Chinkele cried, infuriated. "God send your enemies such nightmares! Come, lie down near me, and I'll drive off the evil spirit."
Rechele lay near Chinkele, who whispered an incantation. Then Chinkele the Pious began to snore and whistle through her thin nose. Suddenly the old clothes dropped from the window and the room became bright as day. Now Rechele could distinguish everything: pots on the hearth, cobwebs on the walls, and the lions on the eastern wall tapestry, with their heads averted and tongues protruding. One of Chinkele's eyes was half open and glazed, the other shut tight, shrunken as though the liquid had run out of it. There were so many wrinkles in the corners of Chinkele's eyes that she seemed to be laughing in her sleep. Raising herself, Rechele rested her head on her knees, waiting for the cock's crow. Her arms and legs ached, the brains in her skull crumbled like grains of sand, and thought buzzed about in her head like flies. Lifting her gaze, she stared into the dazzling snowy landscape and shuddering, as from many pinpricks, murmured: "I've no strength left! Merciful God, take me!"
11
A Letter from Lublin
An emissary came from Lublin to Goray bearing a letter for Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi. Written in the holy tongue, in small ornate characters, with the sig-nature ending in a flourish, it read thus: "To the master of the holy teachings, the righteous one, the foundation of the universe, like unto Joachin and Boaz, he that is the pillar of our house, for whom the doors of the fear of the Lord and wisdom are never shut, the pride of our generation and its glory, the strong hammer whose learning smashes mountains and grinds them fine, our rabbi and leader, the man of God--that is to say, to Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi, may his light shine forever and forever, and may he live many
Rechele was sick. Of the delicacies that were brought her she tasted almost nothing, and she missed her period. Hour after hour she moved aimlessly about the house like one in a cage, and peered into every crack and crevice. Sometimes, for no reason, tears began to drop from her eyes, as from a tree after rain. At other moments she would suddenly fall to laughing, so loud that the echo resounded through all the corridors and alcoves of the ruined house. At night, before going to sleep, she draped the window of her room with all kinds of old clothes, out of dread of moonlight. But the bright night spied through the cracks, light stained the faded walls, trembling in long pearl strands. Rechele crawled down from bed in her night dress, listening to the scratching of the mice and the dry crackle of the firewood behind the stove. Sometimes a crow outside her window would awaken with a throaty cry. One day Rechele imagined that the snowcovered chestnut tree across the way had begun to blossom.
For a few days Rechele had heard the sound of a man laughing and braying in the middle of the night.
As often as Chinkele the Pious fell asleep, Rechele would wake her with a tug at the shoulder.
"Chinkele, don't be angry," she would say guiltily. "Somehow, I can't rest."
"Be patient--soon you'll be married to Reb Itche Mates, and nothing bad will come near you," Chinkele would say. "He is a holy man sent by Heaven to save you."
"Chinkele, darling, I'm so afraid of him!" remonstrated Rechele, and her voice broke. "He has dead eyes!"
"You mad creature!" Chinkele cried, infuriated. "God send your enemies such nightmares! Come, lie down near me, and I'll drive off the evil spirit."
Rechele lay near Chinkele, who whispered an incantation. Then Chinkele the Pious began to snore and whistle through her thin nose. Suddenly the old clothes dropped from the window and the room became bright as day. Now Rechele could distinguish everything: pots on the hearth, cobwebs on the walls, and the lions on the eastern wall tapestry, with their heads averted and tongues protruding. One of Chinkele's eyes was half open and glazed, the other shut tight, shrunken as though the liquid had run out of it. There were so many wrinkles in the corners of Chinkele's eyes that she seemed to be laughing in her sleep. Raising herself, Rechele rested her head on her knees, waiting for the cock's crow. Her arms and legs ached, the brains in her skull crumbled like grains of sand, and thought buzzed about in her head like flies. Lifting her gaze, she stared into the dazzling snowy landscape and shuddering, as from many pinpricks, murmured: "I've no strength left! Merciful God, take me!"
11
A Letter from Lublin
An emissary came from Lublin to Goray bearing a letter for Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi. Written in the holy tongue, in small ornate characters, with the sig-nature ending in a flourish, it read thus: "To the master of the holy teachings, the righteous one, the foundation of the universe, like unto Joachin and Boaz, he that is the pillar of our house, for whom the doors of the fear of the Lord and wisdom are never shut, the pride of our generation and its glory, the strong hammer whose learning smashes mountains and grinds them fine, our rabbi and leader, the man of God--that is to say, to Rabbi Benish Ashkenazi, may his light shine forever and forever, and may he live many
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