Leib and his cousins cross the East River
in a Lincoln Continental. He tries to teach them
American history and to discover for himself
the hidden meaning of Rübezahl.
A NEW YEAR: 2006. Thus far a cold one. Shall we have a little nip? No, no: not you, dear readers. I am addressing ma famille, with whom I am enclosed within this Lincoln-type limousine: leatherette cushions, one-way windows, and, with all varieties of schnapps, a non-minibar. Absinthe to, alphabetically speaking, Yukon Jack.
No more does this centurian, in order to signal a cabriolet, have to step off the curb into a snowbank. No longer does he have to stretch out his arm, the way his fellow Viennese greeted their liberator. That was—hmmm, the one hops two zeros—sixty-eight years ago: 4/3/38. A day of humiliation for that town’s Israelites. I was then employed at the State Opera. During the performance of Die Zauberflöte, the glockenspiel artist—a.k.a., truly yours—picked up his rubber mallet:
Das klinget so herrlich
das klinget so schön!
How pretty this chiming
How clever my rhyming!
The next thing I knew, I was, with a kick to my swallowtails, thrown out the doors of the Staatsoper and into the Schneeverwehungen, the drifts of spring snow that lined the Ringstrasse. There had been, in that audience, the most astute of critics:
At this Jew’s music the folk are snoring.
Out with him!
—FELDMARSCHALL GÖRING
Taxi! Does one not heil a taxi? Ha-ha. Multilingual pun. But now, friends, in this Lincoln-model, all is first-class.
Did someone say Yukon Jack? One hundred proof. With a hint of honey. Personal favorite, the Crystal Virgin:
1 oz. Yukon Jack, “The Black Sheep of Canadian Liquors”
3/4 oz. Amaretto
2 1/4 oz. cranberry juice
Chill with ice the ingredients above
Strain into “shot” glasses until all is spent
Guaranteed to make you fall in love
Alcohol content: seventeen percent
Or should I, in honor of Hymena, curled up asleep on our “jump” seat, concoct instead a Canadian Pussy:
1 oz. Yukon Jack, “The Black Sheep of Canadian Liquors”
1 oz. peach schnapps
1 oz. orange juice
Mix together in a shaker with ice
Into shot glasses steadily pour
You can’t beat this treat at any price
Alcohol percentage: twenty-four
At sixty miles per hour, and in the middle lane of the Williamsburg Bridge, it might be wiser to manufacture a simple Snakebite. “Hola, friends! May I invite you to partake in this refreshment?”
2 oz. Yukon Jack, “The Black Sheep of Canadian Liquors”
1 dash lime juice
Decant the whiskey o’er these frozen cubes
It’s just as kosher as Passover wine
What? No takers? What a bunch of rubes—
Ach! Who would have thought these Satmars were such teetotalers? Lucky for Leib Goldkorn he’s a non-religious. “Rabbi! Rebbetzin! Dear relations! Mud into your eye!”
Percentage of alcohol—a robust forty-nine!
The abstemious Krupnicks are twisted about, staring through our tinted windows. Who can blame them for wanting to examine this sight? At one time the longest suspensful bridge in the world. Click-click-click: What shutterbugs! Even the rebbetzin possesses a Polaroid-style, which she now points upward toward the westernmost tower.
“Madam, this structure is three hundred thirty-five feet in height, measured from the high-water mark of the river below us.”
Click!
“This fact I learned when preparing for my naturalization exam before his Honor Solomon Gitlitz some, hmmm, sixty-three years ago. Is this not a feat of memorization? Ha-ha! No hint here”—a knock with knuckles on the side of my cranium—“of Uncle Al.”
Out of her machine comes the paper that, unlike her mammary, is not fully developed. Now she aims her instrument again.
“A further fact: at one time there existed rails for trolleys, to wit, the Nostrand Avenue Line.”
Click!
“Ho-ho. How high we are! I feel a touch of the vertigo. Rabbi, would you object if I had another wee drop?”
A long time ago, way back in history
With nothin’ to drink but mere cups o’ tea
Along came a man by the name of Tim Farley
Who made many fine things out o’ plain barley
Rabbi Yitzhak, son of Kaspar, looks up from his Kodak-brand. “Cousin Goldkorn, what may I ask is that train I see from this window?”
I down my dram and lean forward, toward the portside glass. There, running in tandem with our “stretch” limousine, are the linked cars of the Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation, known to sophisticates as the BMT.
“That? That, Rabbi, is the J train, on its appointed rounds to Myrtle Avenue and the world beyond.”
“Interesting. And what is the schedule of this railway?”
“Hmmm. Hmmm. Je pense. The J runs each day at all times, but its companion, the Z train, operates only at rush hours and only in the peak direction. Added fact: these tracks were first known as—”
The Satmar raises his hand. “And when are these so-called rush hours?”
“Oh, to Manhattan mayhaps eight to ten, ante meridiem; and to Brooklyn, which we now approach, maybe four to six, post meridiem.”
“And how many passengers are thus transported?”
“I once heard, on our Philco-brand, this same question. On a challenging Quiz Kids show. Answer: each year, five million.”
“No, No, Leib ben Gaston. I mean how many Jews on this train at that hour?”
“You have made a common error: J is not for Jews. Nor is Z for Zion. But let us deduce the answer to your question. If at, ha-ha, crush hour each person occupies a single square foot, and that each car is, rounding off, fifty feet in length and ten in width, we might say that each wagon carries five hundred souls. If the train has nine cars, that would mean, hmmm, hmmm; let us instead suppose there are ten cars. Ergo, any such train might carry a maximum of five thousand travelers, based on the assumption of girth and that they are non-Nipponese.”
Here Rabbi Yitzhak snaps his fingers. In response, all three of my young cousins—do you remember their names? Arik, Anat, and the dubious Abdi—rush to the inward portals of the limousine and begin to take snapshots of the new attraction. How touching, these greenhorns! Their touristics in New York City began the very moment our flight touched down at airport “Jack” Kennedy, and I turned to address them:
“My dear Kopitshinetsers. How happy I am that we are all here gathered together. Allow me, on behalf of our President, George “W.” Busch, to welcome you to this land. A great task lies before you. Hard study. Much toil. For example, you must learn the capital of each state, including newcomers Alaska and Hawaii. Also, date of the Louisiana Purchase. But at the end of this difficult journey—bicameral, do you know this word?—at the end of this journey there awaits a great reward: Amerikanische Staatsbügerschaft.”
Anat, the endomorph: “I want something to eat.”
“Take us,” said the rebbetzin, “to Statue of Liberty. We want to take pictures.”
“And Empire Thtate Building,” said Abdi.
Arik: “The United Nations.”
That was when Rabbi Yitzhak ben Kaspar, the paterfamilias, threw wide his Kodak-full arms: “G-d project, and G-d bless America, our new home!”
“DRIVER! ACHTUNG! DRIVER! Why are you slowing down? Why have you stopped?” The answer is all too clear. A van for the moving of pianos is in front of us. A yellow cabriolet is just behind. And alongside, painted black, with black curtains, a limousine. Squint: BERNARD KORN FUNERAL HOME. Heavens, a hearse! For the nonce, all is as still as the poor fellow—could it be, at long last, Lester Lanin?—who lies inside it.
A non-Bulova moment goes by. A moment more. Nothing budges. Anat wipes one plump cheek with a handkerchief; Abdi looks musingly down at his sabots. Under his breath Arik hums and re-hums a Hebrew melody. Squint: the Korn-mobile is still beside us. Who lies within? A captain of industry? A concertmaster? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay? Even he must take the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I-278, to Hachilah Hill. Dire thought: Is this curtained chariot a portent of my own fate as well?
Still the livery lingers. As does the van in front. And what does it carry? A Steinway? A Bechstein? An American Chickering? Or—a catch in throat here—a Vopaterny, stand-up or grand? Odd: the humming sound continues, even though Arik is now drinking a Nesbitt’s through a straw. Sudden comprehension: it is the bridge that is humming; the wind blows through its cables as if they were the strings of a harp.
L. Goldkorn: “Snap Quiz! Number seventy-two! Who was fourteenth president? Eh? Eh? You, Anat.”
“Why do I always have to Beat the Clock? Ask someone else.”
“Very well. Cousin Abdi.”
The mesomorph nods. Nods again. I see how the thoughts, in the form of muscles, move over his brow. What a powerful youth. A torso like that of Breitbart, the Strongman of Lodz. The eyes, in concentration, close. The tongue comes out.
Arik: “Why ask him this? Why ask anyone? We will not be Americans. You must wait five years.”
“Exactement. I came to this land in 1938. I have been a citizen since 1943. Did I not in those years study my new nation’s history with the same devotion that you yourselves study the Torah? Result: flying colors! Gold Star!”
Anat: “Who cares what you did? You’ll be dead in 2011.”
The KORN Car! The B.Q.E.! “Of such things we cannot be certain. Like America, constitution is sound.”
Arik: “We never asked to be citizens. It’s your idea.”
A sudden blur, a sudden concatenation. The rebbetzin has struck her son on the side of his head with the classified section of the New York Post. “Do not say this. We want to be real Americans. Like everyone else.”
“Wait. I think I have it.” That is Abdi, who, with his chipped incisors, breaks into a smile. “Franklin Pierth! Ith that Gold Thtar?”
“Bravo! Bravo! F. Pierce. Non-Jew. You have won the Speed Queen washer!”
Outside our vehicle, several automobiles sound their horns, as if joining in the applause. Inside, the Graduate raises a Snakebite “shot”:
“Let us drink, friends! To Cousin Abdi. As they say in Lithuania, I sveikata!”
WHY, THE WHOLE WORLD wishes to know, were we wending our way to Williamsburg? (Whew!) The answer is easily given: I sought to discover, from the greatest of all rabbinical sources, the true meaning of the only opera by my non-putative père, together with the secret of the last words that, as a lad of five, I had heard from his lips.
HERE IS MY LIFE. HERE IS YOUR LIFE.
HERE IS THE LIFE OF OUR PEOPLE.
Why, in brief, did this composer, the equal of Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, choose such a simple fairy tale, fare for Silesian tykes, to reveal the destiny of the Israelites?
Before embarking on this journey to the King of the Satmars, I attempted to solve the mystery on my own at the King of the Sturgeons’. Surrounded by homemade whitefish salads or the occasional roast beef, chicken fat and liver, turkey, coleslaw, Russian dressing, $11.25, I sat day after day and then week after week, reasoning thus:
Rübezahl, in the German, means counter of turnips, and undoubtedly refers to the underground gnome who must add up the root vegetables in his garden before Emma will consent to be his bride. As many have remarked, the turnip, genus Brassica, resembles in shape the male member of a Turk.
Note, in addition, that in the G. Mahler libretto, Emma repeatedly strokes this root with a magic wand. A hint of Selbstbefriedigung here. The observer need not comment at length on the fact that after each of these rub-a-dub-dubbings the turnip withers and dies. During the phase of Schwellung, however, it is transformed: first into innocent playmates and sisters; next into a bee, with its little stinger; then a falcon, with its sharp beak; and finally into a prancing white stallion:
Fliege, Rösslein, fliege fort,
Entführe mich dem bösen Ort!
Noble steed, let’s flee a land that is heinous,
Off we go! Goodness, the size of that penis!
But what do such innuendos have to do with the fate of the Jewish people? We return to the name Rübezahl, turnip counter. Turnip, in German, is Rübe; and the plural, turnips, is Rüben, or, alternatively, Reuben. Aha! Reuben! Firstborn of Jacob! Progenitor of all twelve tribes!
“Mr. Mosk! Mr. Mosk! Eureka! I have found it! Turnips equals Reuben, with lack of umlaut!”
“What’s that?” asked the Lithuanian waiter. “You want a omelet? With lox?”
“Ah, our native of Vilna. Tell me this: In the history of our people, what was the role of Reuben?”
“We got no Reubens. Not on a roll. And not on pumpernickel either.”
Foolish fellow. I dismissed him, even as bits and pieces of ancient lessons swam upward to consciousness. Was not this firstborn son of Jacob deprived of his birthright? Did not his father, while on his deathbed, deliver instead of a blessing a curse?
Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel; because thou wentest up to thy father’s bed; then defiledst thou it.
But why? What was his crime? Goldiamond! S. T. Goldiamond! Help your bar-mitzvah boy! Of a sudden the archenemy, Uncle Al, loosened his grip. Up to thy father’s bed! Defiledst! Did not Reuben, with his lusty mandrake root—yet another troublesome tuber—slip into the bedchamber of Jacob’s Rubenesque concubine? That is to say, did he and his father not engage in congressionals with the very same woman? En court: a ménage à trois, a triangle, a Reuben’s cube. With a hint of Inzesttabu, to boot.
At first the terrible curse of Jacob had little effect. Reuben, his firstborn, became in his turn the father of four sons, who themselves begat lads and lassies, who ditto, until at the time of the Exodus from Egypt their number had reached forty-six thousand five hundred—and those were just the males over the age of twenty. What multipliers! Like Hasen! Not to mention that in those days of yore the Jews lived longer than Bernard Baruch.
But in the course of time Jacob’s words—thou shall not excel—fell upon Israel. The progeny of Reuben were overrun by Shalmaneser V and all those uncountable thousands were spread to wander and to suffer at the four corners of the earth. And where are they now? Who can say? The Ethiopes, the Persians, the Igbo of Nigeria—all claim that because of custom or ancient memory they are the members of that lost tribe. Not to mention the Irish with their gay jigs:
Musha ringum duram da
Whack fol the daddy-o
There’s whiskey in the jar
Also the American Indians and the excellent Mormons, the peace-loving Pashtuns, and even—think of the cry, Tora! Tora! Tora!—our former foes, the Nipponese.
Capital work, Holmes. By jingo, you’ve solved the riddle of Rübezahl. If only that were the case. True, I had made the crucial connection between the opera and the Torah, Rübezahl and Reuben, and discovered what my echt Vater meant when he said that his work would reveal the “life of our people.” But did he not also say, Here is my life. Here is your life? What was that other connection—the one between his life and mine? And what had our two lives to do with the work I was translating and the fate of the Israelites? Here I put, on this bald head, the skullcap of thinking.
G. Mahler had, of course, his own mandrake root, a magic wand. With that baton he seduced all of Vienna. And his son had a magic flute, eine Zauberflöte, that similarly charmed the same Viennese. Yea, and both of us, like the descendants of Reuben, were sent into exile—not by Shalmaneser V but by the youth in salt-and-pepper when, all grown up, he covered himself in brown.
Both Gustav and the Graduate ended in America and—see how the apple tumbles in proximation to the tree—both at the Metropolitan Opera, where the work of the father would be conducted by the son. That work. Rübezahl. What did its composer mean to say at its conclusion? What did he want me to understand? There, at the end, the evil gnome—no longer the harmless figure in a fairy tale but the embodiment of all those demons from Shalmaneser to Haman to the popes of Rome and the tsars of Russia, and indeed those who have carried out the curse upon the Jews down to the present day: there that gnome is defeated and in his pain and misery cries out for the world to hear:
Ich will im Geisterreich genesen
Von der Wunde—die mich quält—der bösen
Lebt wohl, ihr Menschen, in Ewigkeit!
Back in my underground world I shall dwell
Without the comfort of a single tuber
People of flesh, I bid thee farewell!
—Yours truly, A. Schicklgruber
At last I had before me the question of questions. What is the name of that Prince who will restore the Princess to her King and her kingdom? Who is that hero who will gather back to our homeland the far-flung tribes of the Jews? The answer: it was coming to me. It was drawing near. “Yes, yes. I have it! It is on the tip of my tongue!”
“Tongue?” There, splay-footed, stood Mr. Mosk. The waiter. “You want that on the triple-decker? With mustard and Swiss? How about some dessert—maybe a black-and-white cookie?”
A curse on all Lithuanians! All my ruminations were ruined. I rose from the table. I marched to the door. Already a new plan had formed in my mind. Had I not, at 138 West Eightieth Street, greater resources than existed in my own aged head? Or in the teaching of Samuel Taylor Goldiamond? My very own relations! Were they not students of Torah? Disciples of the Wizard of Williamsburg? Surely they, in their wisdom and their learning, could answer that most profound of all spiritual questions: Who would defeat Rübezahl, ruler of the nether kingdom? Who is it that will send the reawakened Golem back to the land of the dead? Who will bring back to their homeland the long-lost Jews?
FOR A MAN at the age of one hundred and four, five flights of steps are not a cake waltz. Thus the sun had almost descended by the time I reached the fifth floor and turned not toward my own abode at Number 5-D, but toward the door of the former dwelling of Madam Schnabel, contralto, at 5-C. What was that sound that came from within? Of course! Rabbi Yitzhak ben Kaspar and his devotees were undoubtedly facing east, in other words toward the Williamsburg section, and, as was their wont each day at sundown, percussing their heads against the floor. Just the type of folks I needed!
I waited, both to catch my breath and to allow the sound of prayers to diminish; then, lightheartedly, to disguise my eagerness, I called out to the Krupnick clan:
“Knock, knock!”
“Who’s there?” responded a voice from within.
“Doris.”
“Doris who?”
“Door is closed. Ha. Ha. Ha. That’s why I knocked.”
At once Reb Yitzhak himself, eyes blazing, beard trembling, flung open the portal. “What do you want, Cousin Goldkorn? Why do you interrupt our evening prayers?”
“I have a question. An important one. One that will change all our lives.”
Before the rabbi could answer, one of his sons pushed into the doorway. “I know!” cried Abdi. “Wethtern meadowlark. Thtate bird of North Dakota.”
“No, no. This is not a snap quiz.”
“No Gold Thtar?”
“My question is about the destiny of the Jewish people. I want to know who will save them. I want to know who, for all these thousands of years, they have been waiting for. And when will he come?”
The other sons crowded into the doorframe. “What’s he want?” asked Anat.
Arik: “The name of the savior.”
“What? The Methiah?”
“And when he will come.”
Reb Yitzhak spread wide his hands. “No one knows the name of Moshiach. Perhaps not even G-d Himself.”
“But what about Rebbe Teitelbaum? Don’t you study with him? Isn’t he your master? The wisest man on earth?”
“True, if any man possesses such knowledge, it is the Rov, may he indeed live to greet Messiah.”
“Then take me with you! To Williamsburg! I shall call J. Volpe! He’ll arrange it! First class! Prima! With maxi-bar! All the way by limousine!”
WHICH IS WHY, friends, we now find ourselves surrounded by a van for pianofortes and a van for corpses, high above the roiling waters of the East River. Traffic jam.
