Willy awoke that Friday morning with a fresh resolve. He was going to become a person worthy of Jennie Metzsky. Instead of spending the next two evenings in acts of debauchery, or even in innocent but frivolous pursuit of pleasure which would leave him no better off than he was to begin with, he was going to spend the time improving himself. By Sunday when he’d see Jennie again, he’d already be a better person.
Toward that end, on his way home from work that night he stopped off to buy a book—a simple child’s primer. Each page had a large, colorful picture on it with one word printed below in large block letters. When he bought the book he had no expectation of reading the words because even though he now used many English words in daily conversation, he still hadn’t the slightest idea of how these words would look in print. What he intended was merely to copy the word over and over so that when Jennie told him what the letters were and how they sounded, he’d be able to surprise her by writing them, amazing her with his accuracy and his intelligence.
After dinner he went straight to his room and sat down with a pencil, a notebook and the primer. He opened the book and stared at the first page. It was seconds before he realized that he could read the word! The picture was of an apple—a word he knew very well in English, one he had used not once but many times! The word printed underneath the apple had to be the English word for it. He turned the page quickly. A picture of a ball. And he knew the word for that. The next page—a picture of a cat! What fool didn’t know the English word for cat?
Sunday afternoon he tore up the stairs to the Metzsky apartment and in his eagerness almost beat the door down with his pounding. How proud Jennie would be when he showed her how many words he could actually read! But it was Willy who was amazed when Jennie threw the door open wide and threw her arms around his neck. “I was so worried you weren’t coming! I was afraid you were angry with me—”
Willy was so startled at this reception he dropped the packages he was carrying—the primer and notebook, the box of chocolates. They stared at each other breathlessly for seconds before they both bent down at the same time to pick up the packages and bumped heads. Then they laughed and picked up the fallen articles and closed the door on the outside world.
“I could never not come,” he whispered.
“And I could never not want you to come,” she whispered back. And he kissed her, but this time it was more than a mere brushing of the lips.
The next few weeks were the happiest Willy had ever known. The time he and Jennie spent together was more or less divided between the English lessons and the conversation of two young people getting to know each other intimately, lovingly. Plus, of course, the kissing and embracing, the tenderly whispered endearments, which began when he first entered the apartment and ended when he left. On Thursdays, when they were so acutely aware of not seeing each other again until Sunday, the embraces and endearments intensified. Still, Willy didn’t urge her to let him come Friday evenings or late Saturday afternoons since that would lead to mention of her father, raising a specter he wanted to avoid. Talking about her father, considering his presence, meant allowing disturbing thoughts, even frightening images, into the private paradise they shared for a little while, five times a week. He chose doing with only the five times rather than allowing discordant notes to threaten their heavenly time together. And that also included any thoughts of the future. Didn’t everyone always say the future would take care of itself?
All that mattered for the present was that he was madly in love with Jennie and she with him. He knew this because she had told him so, and she was not a young woman who would ever tell a lie.
Willy was learning English rapidly, spurred on by his desire to be someone of whom Jennie would be proud. At first he had been taken aback when Jennie explained to him that mere recognition of words such as apple and ball and cat—with the visual aid of pictures—was not really reading. It was only that—recognition—and not much more. To begin with, these words represented only the simplest of nouns, and reading was so much more. There were all kinds of things he’d have to learn before he could really read, write, or for that matter, speak English properly. He assured her that he wanted to learn everything—reading, writing and speaking properly. He had to, in order to be worthy of her.
“What I would really like is to speak English like you do—without an accent.”
“I don’t know if I can teach you to do that,” Jennie said doubtfully. “I think, maybe you’d need a special teacher, one who specialized in such things.”
“You speak without an accent ...”
“But I came here when I was only eight. That probably makes the difference.”
“Won’t you even try to help me get rid of my accent?”
“Of course I’ll try. But we have so little time together—”
He wanted to say, “We’ll have the rest of our lives together ... ” but he was afraid. For one thing, his Aunt Miriam would have said that that was tempting fate. For another, he didn’t want to bring up the future with all its possible problems. Rather, he wanted them to go on just as they were, in an almost dreamlike existence where no one else existed but the two of them.
In addition to the lessons and the kissing, there was also teatime when they just talked and laughed and learned new things about each other. Inevitably the time came when Willy told Jennie how it happened that he had come to America, how he’d been a member of an organization that fought against the tyranny of Tsarist Russia, that he’d been a fighter for the oppressed, how he had killed the Governor-General, and how his mother had first buried him in the hole covered by straw and manure, than dug him out and sent him off to America....
At first, Jennie was shocked to learn that he had killed a man. Her upbringing had been such that she couldn’t conceive of an act of such incredible violence under any circumstances. And she couldn’t imagine a world where Jews weren’t as passive as her father and people like him. Not to mention her innate gentleness. It took her some minutes to digest this information before she looked at him with awe! Why, he was David fighting Goliath, a true hero! That’s what she called him, gazing at him with dark, shining eyes. He thought he could die happily at that moment looking into those black pools of admiration.
But then her eyes clouded over. “Your poor mother!” she cried. “How terrible it must have been for her to send you off to America not knowing if she’d ever see you again. How she must have cried after you were gone!”
He protested. “Oh no! Mother was happy. She was thrilled that I was going to America at last. That had always been her dream. She said I would go first and then they’d all follow in my footsteps. In my footsteps ...” he repeated proudly.
But the light in Jennie’s eyes dimmed at the word “footsteps” and his own eyes lost their enthusiastic glow. They both couldn’t help but think where his footsteps had taken him, down such an alien road, and how neither his mother nor his father would ever be able to follow him down that road, much less want to.
Willy realized that he would have to do something about the course his life had taken in America so that not only his mother and father would take pride in it but Jennie would too, would find him as heroic in his new life as she thought him in the old. One of these days, soon, he’d do just that. But for the present, all he could think of was the time he and Jennie spent together.
He told her all about his family, leaving no one out—the aunts, the uncles, the cousins. Most of all, he talked about his parents, telling her all the stories he himself had been told over the years—the exciting tale of how his mother had been claimed as a Markoff bride, how it took some time before she had accepted, then come fiercely to love his father. He related how his mother had rebelled against the tyranny of his grandfather and how she had won out, staking out a rightful place for herself and for her Markoff sisters-in-law as well. He told Jennie about the School and the Clinic and how everyone in that part of the world respected Eve, even the village priest and the Squire.
Jennie was full of admiration. “Oh, she sounds wonderful!”
“She is ... But she’ll be coming to America one of these days and then you’ll see for yourself. You’ll love her just as everyone in Slobodka does. As for my father, I think you’ll like him too.”
He told her all about the printing press and then went on to tell things about his father that he had never even thought about before, certainly never put into words. He said that his father was in many ways an angry man—angry with the Tsar for being insensitive to the needs of his people, both Jew and gentile. And angry with the gentiles for the crimes they perpetrated against the Jews, fellow human beings. But at the same time he was angry with the Jews for their acceptance of their role as scapegoats. “That’s what Father called them—the scapegoats of the universe. And he was angry with God for allowing them to be the scapegoats. He stopped going to synagogue because of this anger. Yet, he’s basically a gentle man. He hardly ever loses his temper as his father did. My grandfather Chaim was famous for his terrible temper. The more I think about it, the more I see that Father is really full of love. For me and for my mother, of course, but for everyone else too. Mother says the real reason he was so mad at God was because it hurt him to see how people suffered so. And he fights back, he keeps fighting back, in his own way. I must admit that I used to get mad at his way. I wanted him to be a terrorist, you see, because I thought that was exciting, that being a terrorist was more heroic than printing up pamphlets and trying to organize peaceful strikes—that sort of thing. He told me that on the few occasions that he perpetrated acts of violence, he tried to be sure in his own heart that these acts were both sensible and just. He told me to be sure to do only those things that brought about real good and to make sure that the cause was just. Mother says that while Father might not always love God, that he gets angry with Him, he always loves justice ...”
“Oh, Yitzhak! How lucky you are to have a father like that ...” They looked at each other in astonishment and laughed. Without thinking she had suddenly called him by his real name, the name given him at birth by a mother and father proud to be the parents of such a wonderful boy. It must have been the stories he was telling her, the stories she was so avid to hear. But oh, how good it sounded to his ears, that name he hadn’t heard in so long a time.
He told her about the bottomless herring barrel. “There was a porch in back of our house where food was stored, and a barrel always stood there, full of herrings pickled in brine. Sometimes, when times were especially hard, or the winter especially long, those herrings were all we had to eat. Mother would say to me or to one of my cousins, ‘Go get a few herring out of the barrel, but be sure not to look inside to see how many are left.’ She told us that as long as no one ever looked to see how many there were left, the barrel would never be empty.”
Jennie was fascinated. “And—”
“And no one ever saw the bottom of that barrel.”
She was incredulous. “You mean it was never empty?”
“Never. No matter who came to our door looking for something to eat, he never went away hungry. There was always the herring barrel. I can’t tell you how good they tasted! A herring or two with a boiled potato ... Now I think that maybe there’s no better dish.”
“Wait a minute. It’s hard to believe that all of you, all the children, never once peeked inside.”
“Of course we didn’t. If Mother said not to look, no one ever dreamed of looking. And when she said the barrel would never be empty, no one ever doubted—”
For a minute, Jennie just sat there as if in a trance, thinking. Then she nodded her head. “It was faith. In God. That He would provide.”
Willy laughed. “No. It was faith, all right, but not in God, in Mother.”
Again she stared at him in silence, then looked away as if she were upset.
He was perplexed. Why had the story distressed her? It was a wonderful story, and true. Then he thought that she was upset about her own mother dying of starvation. She was probably thinking about that, about how her father, with all his unswerving faith in God and in his own righteousness, had let her mother starve to death. That’s what she herself had more or less told him.
When she turned back he saw her eyes filled with tears and he ached for her, tried to think of something to say that would make her feel better. He took her hand and covered it with kisses and then he saw that her teary eyes were also filled with commiseration. With pity! To his amazement she said, “My poor Yitzhak!”
He was amazed. “Why do you say, poor Yitzhak?” he asked softly.
“To have lived as the son of such a mother and father and to live the way you do now ... It’s terribly sad.”
“Sad?” he asked, uncomprehending.
“Oh yes, terribly sad. Don’t you realize, Yitzhak, what you’ve done, wittingly or not? You’ve given up your birthright.”
He stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do, Yitzhak Markoff. You’ve surrendered your wonderful heritage, and for what? What do you have now that can possibly compensate for what you have lost? Oh, Yitzhak, what will become of you?”
He did then what only a few minutes before he would have thought impossible. He put on his coat and left the Metzsky apartment without another word to the girl whom he loved, the girl who meant everything in the world to him.
For the next week Willy followed a strictly ordered regime. He rose each morning to drink several cups of black coffee, mechanically munched on two or three hard rolls, eschewing the lumpy porridge, the hard-fried eggs (whereas in the past he had been known to consume six, eight, even ten), the thickly cut slabs of bacon marbled with fat, the heavily salted and spiced sausages. It was his stomach not his head that dictated the rejection, his head only tried to ignore the noise and clowning of his fellow boarders, pretending they weren’t there at all. He went to work and issued cold, clipped directions to the men under him, where before his tone had been cheerful and friendly. For lunch, he ate four cold meat sandwiches but without thinking about it, sitting by himself away from the others. He also emptied a pint of vodka, a practice strictly forbidden by the company. Although he made no attempt to hide the bottle, no one made any remarks about it since the others had gotten the message that he was not in the mood for talking and was not about to tolerate any wisecracks or comments either. Once he emphasized this point by picking up an axe and driving it into the ground with a vengeance, providing a kind of barrier between himself and the others. At quitting time, he walked back to the boarding house instead of taking the streetcar, hoping to tire himself sufficiently so that he could collapse on his bed, black out and awaken in the morning to live out the next day in exactly the same manner.
Toward this end, he stopped to buy a quart of vodka every evening on his way home, which he began drinking halfway there. Bypassing the dining room completely, he climbed the stairs to his room and lay down on the bed, tipping the bottle of colorless liquid into his mouth every two or three minutes. But it didn’t work. Even after he’d finished the vodka, he was nowhere ready to fall into the stupor he craved. Rather, by this time, he was no longer able to stave off the thoughts he had been pushing away all day.
He hardly knew which caused him more excruciating pain—his longing for Jennie or the contemplation of what she had said to him. Both these subjects took turns crowding his brain until he thought he couldn’t bear it and maybe he would go mad. And if madness meant the wiping out of his consciousness, all the torment, he was just as willing.
The things she had said to him—that he had lost his birthright, that he had surrendered his heritage—how those words stung! Seared! How they tore at his insides! And how much contempt for him they revealed! How could she have said these things to him, she whom he had thought the kindest of persons, the sweetest, the gentlest, the most tender and dearest? He had thought her the most admirable person he had ever known, next to his parents. He never would have believed it possible that she, the very model of what a woman should be, could be so cruel. And to him, of all people! He who had admired her, worshiped her, revered her, held her in such high esteem that he wouldn’t even allow himself to contemplate going farther than those innocent kisses and embraces that led only to the most painful frustration. But he had been willing to endure it, so highly had he regarded her. And for what? So that she could lash out at him so bitterly, so harshly? He’d been a fool! He should have realized what she was—a Delilah tempting him even as she hid behind her piety, her refinement, her shield of innocence ... What he should have done was take her by force, throw her down on the floor and take her, rather than listen to her mealymouthed pretenses of purity. Or he should have dragged her by that beautiful long hair into the bedroom beyond the kitchen and deposited her on the bed, ripped her high-necked modest bodice from neck to waist, exposing her breasts to his view. No, he hadn’t even let himself think of such things before. Oh no, such thoughts were too vile for his virtuous goddess! But it was he who had been the innocent ...
He should have possessed each breast in turn. First, with his hands, and then with his mouth until she grew so aroused that she would abandon all her false pretenses and beg him to go on, to explore her body further with his kisses, to direct his manhood ever lower on her quivering body until he had completely penetrated her and transformed her from a protesting girl to a lustful woman as wanton as any tart! That was what she deserved! That was what she probably wanted even as she pretended to be so pure, even as she repeated her father’s narrow-minded hypocritical mouthings.
But he was unable to keep that vision of her alive. Instead, he buried his face in the pillow, his entire being racked with feelings and images far from carnal. He could see her in his mind’s eye, in the dim light of the oil lamp, her lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones as she so earnestly instructed him. Then he saw her laughing gaily at herself as she bit into a third chocolate, protesting that she really shouldn’t, knowing that her naughty sweet tooth might even entice her into tasting a fourth. He saw her gazing at him with admiration as he told her how one of the workers had managed to get himself pinned under a caboose that day; even as men from several gangs were joining forces to get the fellow out, he, all by himself, quickly and simply tilted the caboose sufficiently to free the fellow. Then he remembered how, as he read from a long passage without a second’s hesitation or a mispronounced word, she positively glowed with satisfaction and approval. And there was the time her eyes shone with perfect understanding as he described the unique pleasure of mounting a horse everyone said was too wild to be broken and riding out into the day, his body as one with the steed’s, and both of them as one with the wind, the land and the whole world ...
Oh Jennie, my darling Jennie!
How he missed her! How he yearned to see her, touch her, even her little finger, hear her voice so sweet and clear ... He soaked the pillow with his tears, past embarrassment, past shame, past caring.
By the end of the week Willy admitted to himself that if Jennie’s words had been biting, even cruel, they were also true. He hadn’t forfeited his birthright by simply having had his name changed by insensitive clowns; rather, he had done it all by himself when he had fallen so quickly and so easily into the life of a non-Jew. As for his heritage, he had denied it, not by word, but by deed. He had done it when he had allowed himself to forget his mother’s admonition: “ ... never forget who you are and from whom you come.” He had forgotten and quickly, without rhyme or reason, too easily. He added another word that Jennie had omitted—betrayal. He had betrayed everyone—his ancestors, his mother and father, most of all, himself.
Somehow, just as Eve had always been able to sense such things, she must have sensed what he had done, what kind of life he was leading; sensed and grown ashamed, even angry. Otherwise, where was her letter in answer to his? It had been three months and no answer had come. She and his father, not to mention the others, had obviously decided to turn their backs on him as surely as he had on them.
And he deserved that even as he deserved Jennie’s contempt and disdain. He was completely alone in the world now, without parents, without a sweetheart, without even a friend. Even his companions and fellow workers, who meant nothing to him but who liked and admired him, liked and admired him as Wilhelm von Marx, not as Yitzhak Markoff.
By Saturday night Willy missed Jennie so much he thought of killing himself. What did he have to live for, anyway? He had no future. And if he had one at all, it was so bleak and dismal as to be worth nothing. A future without the joy and sweetness of Jennie Metzsky was like an eternity in hell.
By the time Sunday morning dawned Willy was exhausted from not having slept all night, but he had a plan. He would redeem himself and at the same time make Jennie Metzsky his own. He’d go to the Metzsky apartment that afternoon and dressed as a gentleman, not a common railroad worker. He would be very formal with her for even though they had been sweethearts, they no longer were. And also because she had no respect for him at present. Not that he could blame her.
Yes, he’d be very formal, pleasant but distant, and he’d say that he’d come to inquire if the letter from Slobodka had possibly arrived. He would keep acting as if they had never been sweethearts. Then he would politely request that she continue giving him his lessons in English. She would most likely say yes. Then he would say that in addition to the English, he would also like to refamiliarize himself with the Hebrew language and the study of the Talmud and the Torah. Undoubtedly, she’d agree. Then as he made progress, he’d write another letter to his parents. In Hebrew. Then they’d be able to see that he was not only still a Jew, but a practicing one. By that time he would have already started to win Jennie back since she would realize that his intentions and goals were not only proper but to be admired. Then she would not only love him but respect him as well. Once he was knowledgeable in the Talmud and the Torah he could begin attending Rabbi Metzsky’s services and only then ask if he could call on the Rabbi’s daughter. By that time, he’d even be able to withstand Rabbi Metzsky’s quizzes. So much so, that he’d not only be acceptable to the Rabbi’s daughter, but to the Rabbi himself. Then they would name the first baby after Jennie’s mother if it was a girl, and if it was a boy—well, perhaps they’d name it after his grandfather, Chaim Markoff. Even if he hadn’t been a very likable man, it probably would please his father.
Willy was dressed and ready to leave by ten o’clock but he wasn’t sure how early he could arrive at the Metzsky apartment. He wasn’t sure when Rabbi Metzsky would be gone. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to run into him! But he was too worked up merely to sit and wait around. He’d just start out, then he could take his time. He’d stroll leisurely. It would take him an hour-and-a-half at least, maybe even two hours if he took his time. And he’d stop to buy Jennie a little present, if he found a store open. Well, if he didn’t find a store on his way, there’d be stores open in Jennie’s neighborhood. Sunday was an ordinary day there. He’d think about what to buy her as he strolled there, taking his time.
He started out forcing himself to walk slowly, taking small steps instead of his usual strides. One street, another. His heart was pounding harder from the effort of restraining himself from running than it would have if he had raced all the way there. What he really wanted was to take flying leaps through the air.
Despite himself, his pace increased steadily. He forgot to look for an open store, forgot to look into the shop windows for an idea of what he could buy her—a scarf, a bottle of cologne, maybe a book. From small steps he went to a jaunty saunter, then to a brisk stride and soon he was running, more or less out of control, his speed accelerating.
Before he knew it, he was there ... on Jennie’s street! He didn’t even know the time! How long had it taken him to get there? Was it possible Rabbi Metzsky was still at home? What time, he wondered, did the Hebrew school classes begin on Sundays? And the gift for Jennie! He’d go buy the present—He looked around wildly for the right store—a dry-goods store for a scarf, a bookstore for a book. What kind of store sold cologne? No, he wouldn’t buy a present! A young man gave his sweetheart gifts, but they were no longer sweethearts. He was paying her a formal, businesslike call. First, he was going to inquire if his letter had arrived, and then he was going to discuss his lessons.
He’d wait in the alley for a while, watching the front door of the apartment house to see if Rabbi Metzsky came out. But he hadn’t ever seen Jennie’s father! How would he be able to tell? Even if a man with a long beard emerged, could he be sure it was he? How many men with long beards lived in the apartment house? Two? five? more?
He waited in the alley anyway, keeping his eye on the door, trying to calm himself, practicing what he’d say when Jennie opened her door to him. Would she be formal too? Or cold? Would she be friendly, as he himself planned to be? Friendly, but still formal. Or would she be friendly but distant? Or maybe she’d pretend she didn’t know him, would pretend that she had already forgotten him. Maybe she’d even have another young man there, giving him both lessons and tea! The idea took hold and he grew frantic. If there was a young man there, one with a covered head and a beard or even one without a hat and a beard, he’d kill him! He’d pick him up with one hand, open the door with the other and hurl him down the stairs, head first; that’s what he would do!
Now, he was unable to contain himself. He ran from the alley and up the stoop, taking the stairs two, three at a time until he was at her door. He pounded on it until it flew open and there stood Jennie, one hand to her mouth and the other holding her heart. Before he could open his mouth she reached out, pulled him inside and slammed the door shut. “Oh Yitzhak!” she cried and threw her arms around him. “I thought I’d never see you again ... I was frantic. I never meant to hurt you, to accuse you—I was just distressed for you ... I—”
“I know, I know ... ” he mumbled. “I was such a fool ...” She was clutching him to her so tightly he couldn’t even think. “I went mad. I’ve been crazy all week.”
When she didn’t release him, his arms went about her as tightly as hers were about him. His senses reeled as she continued to press against him so feverishly his body forgot what it was supposed to remember, that this was his Jennie, pure and innocent, and that it couldn’t respond. He tried to remember, tried even to push her away. Fuzzily, even as their lips clung pressing ever harder, too, he thought that if they parted for a second, separated their bodies and their lips, they would be able to catch their breaths and have a chance to think....
Desperately, he pulled his head away from her open, seeking mouth, wanting to look into her eyes, to warn her ... But her eyes were closed and her mouth still open, her breath coming in great short gasps and he gave up his own struggle. His own eyes closed, his head bent to hers again and his mouth moved over hers hotly.
Mouths clinging, arms not letting go, they moved into the small room beyond the kitchen where he had never been. Blindly their bodies found the daybed and then softly, she cried out....
Afterwards, he was afraid; afraid that she would cry and not be able to stop, afraid she’d be angry and order him from the house, afraid she wouldn’t be angry but repentant and tell him she could never see him again. Or, she’d feel guilty and in her own guilt, turn on him, hating him.
But incredibly she didn’t cry and wasn’t angry and she certainly didn’t order him from the house. Rather, she just smiled at him shyly. His heart sang. Still, he apologized. But she wouldn’t accept his apology, insisted that she herself was at least equally responsible. He was astounded. He couldn’t believe his luck. She was so decent, so beautiful, so sweet, so smart and so fair. Still, that didn’t assuage his own feelings of guilt. He was the man, after all, and it had been up to him to protect her from his male lust and passion, from the demands of both their bodies. She probably hadn’t even known what was inevitable, bound to happen, what the fervent kissing and tight embraces would lead to. She had led such a sheltered life, more sheltered surely than even the most sheltered. She had never had a sweetheart before, had never gone walking with a boy much less sat with one in a park, or at a concert like most American couples. She hadn’t even been alone with a young man in her own house without her father present in the room. Who could be less experienced than she? Clearly, he was to blame and he alone.
“We’ll get married right away,” he blurted, eager to assume his responsibility and then said it again, but this time jubilantly, realizing that it had all happened for the best, that even the weakness of his body was going to make his dream come true. Now, they wouldn’t have to worry about Rabbi Metzsky’s approval. Getting married was the only decent thing to do. Suddenly, the future held out only visions of glory. They’d get married, get their own apartment, have babies, make love every night....
He was astonished to see the smile fade from Jennie’s lips. “That’s impossible,” she said, pushing back the hair from her face nervously.
“But why? We’ve been together like a husband and wife ... ”
Now she was distraught. “And what am I to tell my father? That I’m marrying somebody called Wilhelm von Marx? He’d sit shiva for me, that’s what he’d do, just as if I were dead ...”
He saw immediately that she was right. That was exactly what her father would do. And he couldn’t urge her in her state. He understood her distress. Making love had been beautiful. Rabbi Metzsky praying for her soul in death was not.
“What shall we do then?” he asked.
“About what? About loving one another?”
His heart rejoiced. She had said it—that they loved one another. “Oh, I do! I love you, Jennie, with all my heart and soul. I meant, what will we do about our future?”
The smile appeared on her face again and she kissed him. “We’ll go on loving each other until the end of time.... ”
She said it lightly enough but to him they were the most beautiful words he had ever heard. “But what will we do about your father? About getting married?”
“I have a plan. I’ve been thinking about that all week when I was so desperate, worrying about whether I’d ever see you again. We’ll turn you back again, from Wilhelm von Marx to Yitzhak Markoff!”
It was the same plan as his own. He was going to study Hebrew and the Talmud and the Torah. He would become not only a Jew again but a learned one, and pious, a Jew of whom even Rabbi Metzsky would have to approve.
He was elated and yet still puzzled that their lovemaking hadn’t disturbed Jennie at all. Stumbling over the words, he asked her about this and she seemed genuinely surprised. “But we love each other. What can be wrong about expressing our love?”
He found the simplicity of it exquisite. She was truly wonderful. He laughed with joy. “We love each other—” he repeated. So what could be wrong about that?
Then she giggled and lowered her lashes coquettishly. “And besides, the Scriptures are full of men and women making love and not being married to one another either ...”
Then they both laughed so hard until they were helpless with it, and then they started kissing all over again.
They attempted to adhere to a strict schedule wherein most of their time together was apportioned to the business of study and only a small part to lovemaking and frivolity. They told themselves that the sooner Willy learned what he had to learn in order to be thoroughly acceptable to Jennie’s father, the sooner they’d be able to begin their idyllic life together, without guilt and fear of discovery. Actually, they dido’t share these two emotions equally since Jennie was more plagued by the fear of being found out before they had Willy ready, and he was more filled with guilt. To him, each time they made love it was as if he were luring her, his wonderful angel and paragon of virtue, from her proper path of righteousness for the first time. But even so, even with the feelings of guilt and fear and their avowed dedication to a program of conscientious study, they still couldn’t help but fall into each other’s arms the second the door closed on the outside world, their magnetism for each other being stronger than any commitment to study or pang of conscience or fear.
Still, that late Thursday afternoon when Rabbi Metzsky came home early due to a tail end of winter snowstorm that emptied his classroom, they were not in each other’s arms but sitting at the kitchen table more or less innocently with their heads over a book. Just the same, Willy watched Jennie’s face pale as she jumped up the moment her father entered.
“Father! Is anything wrong?” she asked in Yiddish.
He answered her curtly, his eyes averted from Willy, who nonetheless stood up quickly, almost knocking over his chair in his haste.
Jennie looked from one to the other. Finally she blurted, “Father, this is ... Wilhelm von Marx ... whom I’ve been teaching—”
“How do you do, sir ... Rabbi ... ” Willy was rattled even as he towered over the gnomelike figure whose beard reached down to almost his middle. The Rabbi was so gloweringly self-possessed while Willy felt like an awkward schoolboy whose knuckles were soon to be severely rapped.
But the Rabbi didn’t acknowledge Willy’s words, much less his existence with a word, a nod nor even a scowling glance. He walked through the kitchen and through the curtains that separated that room from the two others beyond. “Tea!” he barked as he disappeared from sight. “Hot tea!”
Jennie rushed to the stove. “You’d better go—”
“Why? We weren’t doing anything but sitting there—”
“Go, please. I’ll see you Sunday,” she whispered.
Reluctantly, he put on his coat and cap, his scarf and gloves. “I’ll be back tomorrow night. We have to talk.”
“No ... Sunday, please.”
Slowly, he walked down the steps and out into the street. He felt anger; more, he felt ridiculous. He had killed an enemy of the people, had licked men ten times as threatening, twenty times, as that little bit of a man and here he was running....
It was dark and the snow was coming down in a heavy blanket. It had only started to fall a little before he had left work but there was already an accumulation of several inches. There was no use looking for a horse and carriage, or waiting for a streetcar. He had had enough experience with snowstorms in St. Paul to know better. He chuckled sourly. His mother would be surprised to learn that the Russian winters had nothing on the Minnesota winters. He hunched into the gusts of icy moisture. The Minnesota winter had nothing on his state of mind. “But I don’t understand why you introduced me as Wilhelm von Marx. Why didn’t you give him my name as Yitzhak Markoff? Then at least he would have known I was a Jew ...”
_________
Jennie’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in surprise. Then she smiled a little, shaking her head from side to side. “You still don’t understand. As Wilhelm von Marx you’re nothing to him. An unbeliever, a zero, someone who doesn’t even exist. But if I introduced you as Yitzhak Markoff who sat there without a beard, and before the Scriptures with his head uncovered, he would know who you were all right. He’d know that you were a Jewish infidel, a heretic. Then he’d point a finger at you, damning you for all time to come as a curse on all Jews all the way back to Abraham! He’d denounce you as a lost soul, one who hadn’t only lost this world but, what’s worse, the one to come.... ”
“But then I could have come back as a penitent, a lost soul who finds his way back, and your father could have been the one to redeem my soul. Then, he’d—”
Jennie shook her head. “No. To some Jews a penitent can even be a holy man, but not to Father. A repentant Jew who had once lost his faith would be forever flawed in his eyes, always suspect.”
Willy sighed. “Well, since you’ve already introduced me as von Marx, there’s no use even talking about it. Now I’ll have to let him think I want to convert to Judaism. But since he’ll be the one to convert me, he might even begin to like me ...”
Jennie broke into laughter at this. The preposterous idea that her father might like him because he converted him was so funny she couldn’t help herself. She shook her head at him again. “The rabbis in Germany don’t mind converts. They even welcome them as the Catholics do Jews who join their fold. But the Jewish orthodoxy isn’t looking for converts. Why, the orthodox rabbis are required to make three separate efforts to discourage gentiles from converting. And those are the ordinary orthodox rabbis—”
“Meaning what?”
She laughed again. “Meaning my father wouldn’t even talk to them in the first place, much less three times.”
Willy stared at her with disbelief, even anger. First she dismissed every solution to their problem he offered as impossible. Nothing, it seemed, would satisfy this fanatic of a father. And to top it all, she laughed! How could she laugh? “All right then, if nothing’s going to work, you tell me what we’re going to do—”
Now she merely smiled. “Nothing. For now. You see, in a way, Father’s attitude toward gentiles—that they don’t exist—is very helpful to us. He never even looked at you. He never saw you. Oh, he didn’t like your being here, but he knows I give lessons. But since he didn’t see you he won’t even remember your being here, much less your face or your name. Then, when we present you as Yitzhak Markoff, a beautifully learned man ... ” She put both her hands on his shoulders. ” ... With your beautiful yellow beard ... ” She kissed him quickly on his chin, “and with a yarmulke on your beautiful yellow curls ... ” She ruffled his hair. “Why, then he’ll love you as much as I do!”
They both laughed at the ridiculous notion, the very idea of Rabbi Metzsky loving him.
“Then, do you know what he’ll do next?”
“No, tell me.” Although he adored the proper, decorous side of her, he couldn’t resist her when she was laughing and carefree, even silly.
“Why, he’ll probably shower you with kisses, like this—” She showed him exactly what she meant, and he was reassured. How could he not be?
Despite Jennie’s lighthearted words that day, they became much more conscious of Rabbi Metzsky’s comings and goings, kept a much more watchful eye on the clock, tried to anticipate any possible change in the order of the Rabbi’s day. At the same time, they stepped up the pace of Willy’s Hebrew lessons, drilling him more and indulging in playfulness less.
Even as Willy’s familiarity with the Talmud and the Torah intensified and his mastery of Hebrew grew more complete, he noticed an increasing nervousness in Jennie. She was as sweet as ever, as demure and compliant, and when they made love as passionate, but there was a change in her. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. Perhaps it was that she laughed less than before. There definitely was a somberness about her now. She even burst into tears unaccountably. Somehow, Willy sensed that their time was running out. They’d have to reveal his existence as a suitor and as a learned, observant Jew very, very soon.
He started examining his face every few days as he shaved before going to work, speculating as to how he’d look with a beard again. It had been almost two years ... Then one morning he put the razor down. It was time to stop shaving. He wondered how long it would be before he had a beard of a decent length.
It was a Friday and he decided not to go to work that day. Instead, he’d go buy a skullcap and a prayer shawl in one of the stores in Jennie’s neighborhood before they closed early for the Sabbath.
Carrying the articles wrapped in brown paper, he stationed himself in the alley, waiting endlessly for Rabbi Metzsky to come out the front door on his way to the synagogue. He was going to surprise Jennie and what a surprise it would be! For one, he had never seen her on a Friday before. When she saw him with the prayer shawl draped across his shoulders and the yarmulke on his head, she’d probably weep with joy.
He tore open the wrapping paper. He couldn’t wait another second. Filled with exhilaration, he put the shawl on and then the yarmulke ... tentatively. Somehow, it didn’t sit right. Maybe it was his hair. Probably, he needed a haircut.
Finally he saw Rabbi Metzsky emerge, walk to the comer and turn left. The synagogue, Willy knew, was two streets up from the corner. He had gone there several days before just to see how long it took to make the walk from the Metzsky house. As soon as the Rabbi disappeared from view Willy came out of his hiding spot. He ran up the stairs, unable to wait another second to surprise Jennie. The yarmulke fell off and he stopped to pick it up and put it back on. He knocked on the door. She’d wonder who it was, never dreaming it would be he on a Friday night.
As soon as she saw him grinning at her she broke into tears but laughing at the same time. He laughed too, exuberantly. He picked her up off the floor even as he pushed the door closed with his foot. The skullcap fell off again as he carried her through the curtains into the bedroom beyond. This time he didn’t bother to pick it up. He laid her down on the bed and the prayer shawl slipped off his shoulders and fell to the floor. Neither of them took notice.
It was only moments later, or so it seemed, that there was a passionate outcry. It was neither Jennie’s nor his. Then immediately after, there was another scream and this time it was Jennie’s. He jumped up. Rabbi Metzsky stood in the curtained doorway clutching his beard with one hand and beating his chest with the other, his fist clenched. He was wailing to God. It was the most tortured lament Willy had ever heard. As the Rabbi turned and ran out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open, Willy could still hear his cries as he stumbled down the stairs. Then, he could only hear Jennie wailing....
She wouldn’t even listen to him, to his pleas that she pack a few things and leave with him right then and there. They’d go to a hotel and in the morning they’d find out where they could be married quickly. Then they’d come back and tell her father that they were man and wife and what could he do then? Either accept them as man and wife and Yitzhak as a penitent or send them both away. But that was highly unlikely since her father needed Jennie more than she needed him. Without her, her father had nobody. But she had him, Willy. Or was it Yitzhak? He no longer could distinguish between the two.
She continued to cry. seemingly unable to stop. She covered her ears with her hands so that she couldn’t hear his pleading. She told him to go. She told him she’d see him on Sunday. She was hysterical. And she wouldn’t listen to him. She screamed at him to leave until finally, he did, although he knew it was the wrong thing for him to do. But he didn’t seem to have any other choice.
He had no intention of waiting until Sunday to see her and find out what had happened between her and her father. Therefore he didn’t go to work that Saturday either and waited once again in the alley for the Rabbi to leave, and was ashamed of himself for doing so. It was a cowardly act, he knew, but he was afraid of seeing the Rabbi, of confronting him. Afraid lest the Rabbi say something so provocative that he, Yitzhak Markoff, would kill him. Or maybe it would be Wilhelm von Marx that would kill him. He was sick of them both, Wilhelm and Yitzhak. He only wanted to take his beloved Jennie away and leave them all behind—Willy, Yitzhak and Rabbi Metzsky.
He waited for what seemed hours. Had the Rabbi stayed away at the synagogue the whole night through, praying for Jennie’s lost soul? He had to be sure. He’d walk down the street and around the comer to the synagogue to see if the Rabbi was there. He’d have to go inside. Without thinking, he felt his head. He couldn’t go inside the synagogue bareheaded. But he had his cap on, his head would be covered. Still, they’d look at him strangely, wondering what he was doing in their midst on Shabbes ... But what did it matter how they looked at him?
But he was wrong. No one even glanced at him. He stood in the entrance way of the synagogue and the backs of the worshipers were facing him, swaying back and forth as they recited their chants, filling the room with the strange and mysterious music. On either side the women sat, curtained off, separated from the men but equally immersed in the magic of the Sabbath.
The atmosphere was redolent of an aroma that came back to him, flooding his nostrils and his senses. It was a blend of burning tallow combined with a hint of miracles and dreamy visions of heaven ...
For a moment Willy’s own body swayed. Overwhelming memories, a sudden dizziness ... Then he saw Rabbi Metzsky leading his congregation and Willy’s spine stiffened as he watched the Rabbi rock to and fro, eyes closed in sublime supplication.
He turned on his heel and left. Jennie was home alone ...
At first she wouldn’t even open the door to him but when he yelled that he’d break it down, she opened it a crack. “I can’t let you in ... I promised I wouldn’t ever see you again ... ” She was crying.
He shoved it open, almost knocking her down. He could see that she hadn’t slept at all. She was wearing the same dress she had worn the night before and it was hanging on her now, limp and dispirited, as if she had lost ten pounds overnight. Her eyes were bloodshot, her ivory skin sallow. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, he thought, as if this was the worst portent of bad things to come.
“You can’t stay ... ” she managed to say through her sobs.
He sat down at the table and ordered her to sit too. She fell into the chair but didn’t stop crying.
“What happened after I left?”
“After a few hours, Father returned.”
“And—” he prompted her. She didn’t answer. “What did he say?”
As the tears rolled down her cheeks she gave him an odd, sickly kind of smile. “That day ... when I introduced you to him ... He said he knew who you were immediately ...”
“What do you mean—he knew who I was?”
“He said he recognized you at once as a Jew who had lost Paradise ... ”
Her words frightened him. He was afraid now that he had lost not Paradise but Jennie. “How could he know anything?” he scoffed bitterly. “He didn’t even look at me. Is he such a holy man that he can see out of the sides of his head?”
“He said that you might fool others but one son of Abraham always knows another, especially one who has sold his birthright. He said that—”
He cut her off by slamming his fist on the table. He didn’t want to hear any more of what Rabbi Metzsky said. He was sick to death of him. What he really wanted was for Rabbi Metzsky to disappear off the face of the earth. Still, he asked, “Did you tell him I’m prepared to do anything he asks? Anything he wants? Did you tell him I’d go to his damned synagogue morning, noon and night, if that’s what he wants?” he shouted.
She began to cry even harder. “I told him everything. But it’s no use, Yitzhak. No use ... He said if I married you I’d be selling my birthright too ... He’d sit shiva for me!”
“But it’s all right if you’re a fallen woman who’s made love to the devil? That he can forgive you? Is that what you’re saying?”
When she only sobbed louder he stood up and shouted, “Pack your things. Or don’t pack your things. But we’re leaving right now. Together!”
She shook her head. “No, Yitzhak! I can’t. I can’t go against him ... ” There was a finality to her words.
He threw himself down in the chair again. Was it possible she really meant not to see him again? He couldn’t believe it. He reached out his hand for hers but she snatched hers away as if his touch would burn her or sully her further. “But you said you loved me,” he whispered harshly. “I believed you ... I didn’t think you could ever lie ... ”
“Oh, Yitzhak, I do love you. I love you more than anything, but—”
“But you love your father more ... Is that it?”
When she didn’t answer he screamed at her, “But you love him more? That crazy narrow-minded bastard? You love him more?”
“No! No! But I have to honor him. I can’t go against him! Oh, Yitzhak, don’t you see? It was always too late for us. It was already too late for us that first day we met. Maybe it was too late for us when we were born. Maybe it was written even then that we weren’t meant for each other.”
“I’m sick of hearing that mumbo jumbo. If you love me, you’ll come away with me—” He got up, knocking his chair over, and pulled her out of her chair. She felt like a limp rag doll. He took her hand in his hands and forced her lips to his. They were warm, as he knew they would be, and unresisting, but they weren’t responsive either. He kissed her again, this time with a brutal fervor, mashing his mouth into hers until he could feel her teeth. But even as her lips finally began to move under his, he looked into her opened black eyes and saw the hopelessness there. He let her go, even pushed her away and back down into her chair.
“All these months you’ve deceived your father, and that was all right. You even laughed about it. And now that you’ve been found out, you’ve become the holy daughter that can’t defy her father. And as for him, he’d rather have you a—” he broke off, searching for a word. “He’d rather have you a whore—” She gasped and he began again, “He’d rather have you a whore than a woman married to a man who loves you, who loves you enough to be any damned thing you two hypocrites want him to be—”
She threw her head down on the table and slammed it against the wood again and again, then cradled it in her arms, moaning softly.
He looked around the room slowly. It was all over. For a second he thought of tearing the room apart, of smashing every stick of furniture in it, every glass and cup. Then he looked at the girl whom he loved, crying so quietly now, and he turned and left the apartment. Rabbi Metzsky had been right about him. He was a Jew who had lost his Paradise.