5

The Folklorist

The Vilna fish market was packed. Housewives from the entire region were running through the narrow aisles between the rows of tubs. When the women from the neighborhoods of Poploves and Zaretshe heard there were cheap smelts from the Broslav Lakes, they came running to grab what they could. The market was jumping. The fishwives moved as quick as lightning. They didn’t have to lift the gills of each fish to prove the flesh was red and therefore fresh. They just threw a bunch of little fish into each basket and told the customer to move on.

On that day, Rubinshteyn the Folklorist set off for the fish market to collect material. He’d come from a town that was further away than Bialystok to gather folklore in the Jerusalem of Lithuania. People in the Yiddish Scientific Institute had told him if he wanted to hear the genuine language of the people, he should hang around the fish market. Even though Rubinshteyn limped, he was willing to walk to the edge of the city for the sake of a witty saying. He got up very early that morning. It wasn’t easy for him to drag his crippled leg all the way from Savitsher Street, where he had his little room, to the fish market. But was there anything he wouldn’t do for folklore?

Rubinshteyn thought the Vilna sayings had to be documented as quickly as possible. If, God forbid, they were forgotten, it would be a great loss for the culture. Because of his love of folklore, Rubinshteyn was still a bachelor. No matter how many matches were proposed to him (and good matches at that), he always declined. In the Institute, they wanted to pair him up with Zelda the researcher, an old maid who specialized in Jewish cuisine all the way back to the twelfth century. But in his imagination, Rubinshteyn saw Zelda the researcher striding to the Institute on legs that were as long and thin as a stork’s, while he limped behind her. This picture certainly didn’t appeal to him. Vilna would make a mockery of them.

Figure 1. “On that day, Rubinshteyn the Folklorist set off for the fish market to collect material.” By Yosl Bergner from Avrom Karpinovitsh, Baym Vilner durkhhoyf (Tel Aviv: I. L. Peretz, 1967). Courtesy of the artist.

Rubinshteyn stood in the fish market, waiting for folklore. He didn’t have the courage to walk closer to the tubs. He was afraid the fishwives might humiliate him, especially because it was slippery near the tubs and he could easily fall. So he stood at the edge of the row of tables. But he could barely contain himself. Ruzshke the Fishwife let fly with a real string of curses. From the distance, Rubinshteyn could only hear one out of every ten words, but even that made him salivate. Ruzshke was giving a housewife what for and was about to hit her with the tail of a carp.

The crowd around the tubs thinned out, and the fishwives started taking off their aprons that were caked with fish scales. The market would soon be empty.

Chana-Merka was the first to notice Rubinshteyn. Her tub stood at the very edge of the market. “Why is that man standing around without a basket? What’s he doing here?” she wondered. It was as clear as day that he hadn’t come to buy fish. He’d obviously been sent by City Hall to spy. Why would he have a pencil in his hand if not to check the weights? Of all the fishwives, Chana-Merka was the most likely to weigh high. Every Yom Kippur at the Yizkor service, she would wail loudly, pouring out her bitter heart. Yoel the shammes always reprimanded her. “Chana-Merka, wail less and give the correct weight.”

Chana-Merka didn’t just stand there. She smiled flirtatiously at Rubinshteyn, revealing the gold crown on her front tooth. “My dear man, I’ll give you a kilo of tench that are so frisky, you’ll have trouble carrying them home.”

Rubinshteyn was befuddled and didn’t know what to say. He looked foolishly at Chana-Merka. Her face was partly covered by the fringes of her woolen kerchief. Her cheeks were burning from her recent sales and her merry eyes left Rubinshteyn feeling uneasy. He stayed silent.

Chana-Merka didn’t stop. “My dear man, what if I add a few barbels? Your wife won’t know what to do with you.”

Finally the folklorist showed some life and stammered, “I . . . I’m not looking for fish.”

“That’s all I have to offer. What are you looking for?”

Rubinshteyn blurted out, “Some good curses.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain. I collect curses. Sayings also. I was just listening to all of you talk.”

A stone fell from Chana-Merka’s heart. “So that means you’re not from City Hall? Because I thought . . . if that’s where you’re from, I hope you find yourself lying face down in hell.”

Chana-Merka was happy she’d escaped unscathed. Pointing to Rubinshteyn, she shouted across the entire market, “Hey, this man is collecting curses. Who wants to give him some merchandise?” A crowd immediately formed around the folklorist. The fishwives wanted to have a closer look at the amazing sight. Rubinshteyn tried to explain folklore to them, but they didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. The fishwives, especially Ruzshke and Pale Tsirl, made fun of him and drowned out his words.

After that rebuff, Rubinshteyn quickly left the market. Chana-Merka felt her heart tighten. She hadn’t noticed that he dragged one leg. Was she responsible for what had happened in the market? She reproached herself, “Maybe this is how he earns his living.”

Rubinshteyn swallowed his pride and returned to try his luck with the fishwives. Not so much with all the fishwives as with one in particular, Chana-Merka. He really should have been angrier with her than any of the others, but he couldn’t stay angry, no matter how hard he tried. His temperature rose when he thought of her rosy cheeks and her eyes that glittered like gold. During the previous few nights, while lying on his narrow bed, Rubinstein had remembered that he wasn’t only a folklorist, but also a man.

For years, Rubinshteyn had been absorbed in collecting folk wisdom. He was literally soaked in aphorisms, curses, invectives, and fables. From early in the morning until late at night, he was up to his eyeballs in his collections. He’d felt secure in his defense against all temptation. But then along came Chana-Merka. A single smile from her had pushed him off his path.

The folklorist tried as hard as he could to bury his feelings and to arrive at the market with dry, scientific objectives, but it didn’t work. Thoughts of Chana-Merka whirled around in his head and stopped him from thinking about anything else. Chana-Merka greeted him. “Oh, the gentleman with the curses is here. I’ll chop up the little door for firewood and fry you some flea giblets. What a guest.”

Rubinshteyn felt warm all over. He’d caught a whiff of folklore. He unbuttoned his raincoat, unobtrusively took out his notebook, and immediately started writing. “Say something else,” Rubinshteyn asked Chana-Merka. “Talk and I’ll write.”

“Write what you want. Aren’t there enough crazy people in Vilna already? I just want to know if this is how you earn your living or if you do it for fun.”

Wasting no time, Rubinshteyn began to explain the lofty aims of folklore to Chana-Merka. She nodded her head while he talked. She didn’t grasp everything he said, but some things made sense to her. The other fishwives edged up to Chana-Merka’s tub to listen. Pale Tsirl was about to start her routine again, but this time Chana-Merka wouldn’t stand for it and shouted, “If you want to give the man merchandise, that’s good. If not, you can go and. . . .” She was tempted to really lay into them, but she held her tongue. She was embarrassed in front of Rubinshteyn.

The folklorist didn’t collect many treasures that day, but he was as happy as could be. Chana-Merka had asked him to meet her on Shabbes morning at the little park on Troker Street for a chat.

Zelda the researcher was sitting in one of the small rooms in the Institute. She was writing about a Jewish dish called shleyskes and chewing on the end of a loaf of bread thinly spread with cottage cheese. Both the chewing and the writing were difficult. One of her molars was raging, and she couldn’t figure out exactly what shleyskes were. One book she’d found implied that they were dough pellets kneaded with honey and poppy seeds. A pamphlet said they were a kind of cookie sprinkled with almonds. She had no idea which version was correct. She was depressed. She would have loved a tasty dish at that point, even modern fare.

Zelda the researcher had had a streak of bad luck. She’d bought a new coat at Tsalke the Nose’s ready-made clothing store. Not for herself, but for Rubinshteyn. She’d hoped it would occur to him to take her to one of Mr. Gershteyn’s choir concerts. But what had happened? Rubinshteyn hadn’t even glanced in her direction. They sat in the same room with their desks touching, but all he ever said was “Good morning.” He walked from one room to the next with his lists of folklore, boasting about his treasures.

Everyone clucked over his findings and patted him on the back. Dr. Weinreich, the director of the Institute, congratulated him. Apparently Rubinshteyn had gotten to know some sort of fishwife, a backward element who’d supplied him with information. “If only he’d investigated scientifically, without mixing up his work with his personal feelings,” Zelda thought. People in the Institute said that the pair had been seen sitting together near Castle Hill on Shabbes.

Zelda got up from her desk and walked across the room, nudging her molar with her tongue as she went. She sighed loudly. The final result of all her studying and rummaging around in books was that some simple woman got more pleasure from life than she did, even with all her knowledge. Rubinshteyn’s notes lay on his desk. Zelda peeked furtively at them, like a hen at its oats. Rubinshteyn had written in florid handwriting on a large piece of white paper:

Material from folklore investigation, taken from Mrs. Chana-Merka Solodukhin, a fish seller in the Vilna fish market.

Sayings:

You’re already a dog, don’t be a pig.

When a shlimazl tries to kill a chicken, it’s the chicken who walks away.

Eating matzoh balls is better for your health than reading the Haggadah.

From love she gets . . .

Reading the material had enflamed Zelda’s sore tooth, but she still took a look at the list of curses.

May they carry you and sing.

May a weak balcony fall on your head.

May they use your guts to hang laundry.

Zelda couldn’t bear to read any further. She spat at the floor and returned to her desk to search for a source to explain shleyskes.

Chana-Merka started coming to the market in a clean apron. She didn’t want to be embarrassed if Rubinshteyn showed up. She really wanted to please the folklorist. Her Shabbes meetings with him had unsettled her.

Chana-Merka had been a widow for close to two years. Orke the Net Caster had certainly been a good man, not a drinker. But what difference did that make now that he was no longer around? No one from Broslav could forget him. He’d been one of the best fishermen. His net casting was legendary. He’d brought in several nets full of fish every night, without fail.

To this day, no one knows exactly what happened. Did Krigude the blonde mermaid, who lives at the bottom of the lake and needs a different man each season, seduce him into her darkened chamber? Or did Orke’s partner, Clumsy Iserke, argue with him and push him overboard while they were casting their nets? No one knows. The water failed to spit him out. Iser swore on his mother that Orke hadn’t shown up that night to fish, but can you believe a clumsy oaf like Iser?

A number of the fishermen who’d been good friends with Orke spoke with the Broslav rabbi on Chana-Merka’s behalf. The rabbi wanted to declare her an agune, rendering her ineligible for remarriage. Everyone in the trade had their eye on her, especially Iserke. But could anyone make her happy after Orke? Perhaps a man like Rubinshteyn. Everyone in the fish market knew that he was a real gentleman who wrote books.

Chana-Merka was in a tizzy. She walked around in a daze. “Even though he drags one of his legs, the folklorist is definitely not a repulsive man,” she thought. “To say nothing of the honor.” Her friends, the other fishwives, spoke to her differently than before.

“You should realize, Mr. Rubinshteyn, that everything that wriggles needs a place to hide. Just take a silly little fish like a minnow. Before she starts to have her fun and spawn, she clears out a spot in the river bottom, swishing her tail back and forth, back and forth. Then it’s done. She has a humble home. All the more so with a person. Being alone doesn’t even work in the bath. Who will rub your shoulders? I know an intellectual like you can obviously get—how can I say it—a woman with a tinch of the aristocratic in her blood. And just look at Clumsy Iserke. He’s such a . . . I won’t even say the word out loud.”

The little park on Troker Street was deserted. Chana-Merka sat beside Rubinshteyn on a bench covered with yellow leaves that had fallen from the chestnut trees. She was all dressed up. He hung on her every word. The weather was cool, so Chana-Merka snuggled into her cat-hair coat. The folklorist didn’t even have the sense to move a little closer. Chana-Merka was beaming. She’d powdered her face and styled her hair with a little curl on her pale forehead. She smiled at Rubinshteyn and waited. Anyone else would have put an arm around her shoulder or tried something even naughtier. But Rubinshteyn was only worried about one thing: how to keep track of what she was saying so he didn’t forget even the tiniest word that might contribute to his great collection. It was generally inappropriate to write things down on the spot. He stretched out his stiff leg like an impassable highway between himself and Chana-Merka.

Chana-Merka said, “Three things never hurt: a snooze, a bath, and a good piece of fish. I’m being blunt. What’s the point of sitting in the park and freezing your ribs? I have goodies at home fit for a kaiser. I’ll boil some tea and give you a piece of marinated pike.”

Rubinshteyn tried to discourage her, “No, thank you. You really shouldn’t put yourself out.”

“I’m not putting myself out. Everything’s ready. Our enemies should have bumps on their foreheads as large as the babka I baked yesterday. Come, Mr. Rubinshteyn, let’s have a little something to eat. If you want to know what matters most, look at what’s sitting on the dinner plate.”

The folklorist hesitated another moment, but he was convinced by her juicy expression that it made perfect sense to go to her place for a piece of fish. For the sake of folklore, Rubinshteyn gave in and went home with Chana-Merka. She walked on his healthy side, taking his arm every so often. Rubinshteyn felt his heart open. He didn’t look at her, nor did he hear what she said. An autumnal sadness accompanied him to Chana-Merka’s.

Chana-Merka took on an air of gentility. She began to watch her language. The market women barely recognized her. She even started giving more accurate weights. All because of Rubinshteyn.

Ruzshke the Fishwife explained to Chana-Merka that if she wanted to please the folklorist, she should control her language in public. “Rubinshteyn is a refined man and you sometimes say things that are better left unsaid.” All the fishwives knew that Rubinshteyn had become a regular guest at Chana-Merka’s. Things like that happened in Vilna. Bizdun the actor got involved with one of Leybe the Chicken Seller’s daughters.

Chana-Merka starting coming to the market with her hair combed, wearing a pair of pumps rather than Orke’s boots. Everyone knew an engagement was in the offing. But Pale Tsirl wasn’t impressed. She said that Rubinshteyn would, in time, turn into a frog. He was no fisherman. He never hung out at Itske’s bar. He had to be in the business of sending women to Argentina. There was no other explanation.

Ruzshke went to the Institute to ask about Rubinshteyn. She returned looking radiant. “People didn’t know what to do with me. Except for one woman,” she added, “a dried up old maid. A long thin noodle of a woman who scowled all the time.”

But Rubinshteyn stopped coming to the market. He hardly ever went to Chana-Merka’s. He’d gathered enough material for the time being and spent his evenings working on his collection. Chana-Merka didn’t understand. When she’d been covered in dirt from head to toe, the folklorist had shown up at her tub every day. Now that she’d started to wish every customer a healthy appetite and to add an extra fish to each purchase, Rubinshteyn was waxing cold.

She did what she could to appeal to the folklorist. She kept her house done up for Shabbes all week, with a tablecloth on the table and a flowered bedspread covering the bed. She bought a picture in the passageway of Adam and Eve being forced out of paradise, barefoot. But the more intelligent she tried to appear, the less interested Rubinshteyn was. She spent an entire evening at home. Each scrape of the door tore at her heart. She waited for him, but he didn’t come.

The next day Rubinshteyn came upon Chana-Merka at the entrance to the Institute. She’d been embarrassed to go upstairs, so she’d stood outside for half a day waiting for him. Rubinshteyn was bewildered. Had he given Chana-Merka false hope?

“Mr. Rubinshteyn,” Chana-Merka began, puffed up with anger, “Do you think that Chana-Merka is a sack of curses and sayings that you open, shove your hand in, and grab what you want for your books? Chana-Merka also has a heart.” With that she indicated her full left breast. “This is not the way to treat a woman when you see she has a soft spot for you. If only you’d said at the beginning that all you wanted from this silly fishwife was her curses.” Chana-Merka paused for a moment and then continued, “Forget it. Use them in good health.”

Rubinshteyn had never felt the emptiness of his bachelor life so acutely. He wanted to tell Chana-Merka that she’d misunderstood, but before he could open his mouth, she disappeared behind the corner of Vivulske Street.

Rubinshteyn accepted his bitter fate, bought a green backpack, and limped away from Vilna to gather folklore in another city.