East of Time (8 page)

Father was stunned. ‘But why? You hardly know me. And how can I ever match an amount like that?'

‘My dear partner, you forget that I'm a social worker,' Haskel replied, ‘and a social worker must have a good nose for people. If you can't match my contribution, chip in as much as you can scrape together. The rest you can settle later, to the tune of our singing machines!'

Next morning father left early for the nearby town of Zgierz, where he hoped to purchase the textile machines. The journey was quite pleasant, though it was a drizzly day and the tram was packed with happy young people, predominantly men. As he was about to disembark, he found himself abruptly squeezed and jostled, and virtually carried to the footpath — where to his horror he quickly noticed the razor-cut in his breast pocket.

When father returned home, an impatient, radiant-faced Haskel was already awaiting him. ‘
Nu
, partner,
nu
? How did it go?' Instead of answering, father showed him the slit in his pocket. ‘Well,' said Haskel, looking disappointed. ‘I may or may not believe you, but I must have my money.'

Father nodded despondently. ‘I understand,' he said, ‘but I haven't got it at the moment. You'll have to give me some time.'

‘Of course, of course,' Haskel rushed to reassure him. ‘And trust me, I do feel for you — though I'm afraid the going rate of ten percent will have to apply.' Father did not respond. ‘You see, dear neighbour,' the social worker went on, more sternly, ‘in order not to be ruined in the field of communal activities, one must be forever mindful of one's priorities.'

 

 
The Dream of a Fool
 

Berl Sokol, our local electrician, was a known fool. Why? Because, although he was seldom unemployed, not only was he rarely paid for his labours but, in many instances, he would leave a coin or two on the table of a family in strife — while his wife Dvora sat at home, her arms folded, gazing aimlessly at the vacant ceiling. Yet come evening, without fail she would greet her husband with the same words every time: ‘And how is my beautiful fool today?'

The wise contributed little to the wellbeing of mankind, Berl would explain to his wife, adding that they often just caused trouble. ‘Look,' he said, with some passion, spreading his strong arms. ‘There is none wiser than God, and see what
He
has done! Personally, I pray for the Messiah's
non
-coming, because they say his arrival will bring an end to foolishness, and God knows what sort of world such a professional, self-appointed sage would create for us!'

Needless to say, Berl the fool was our local atheists' delight, especially when he mocked what he called the ‘empty rabbinical ceremony of words', and the way the rabbis had always dismissed out of hand, indeed ridiculed, the importance of the fool in the cosmic scheme.

‘Last Sabbath,' Berl remarked to his companions on one occasion, ‘I heard the learned leader of our congregation telling his worshippers the story of Sodom — of how Lot's wife looked back and was thereupon turned into a pillar of salt. “No, no!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “That wasn't her sin. Her sin was that she was longing for the evil she was leaving behind, and for those who knew how to do evil!” The rabbi, incensed, screamed back at me: “I'll have you excommunicated, you silly dreamer!” I smiled at him. “Where dreams end,” I retorted, quietly but firmly, “there wickedness begins.”'

That night, Berl had had a vision of the rabbi, cane in hand, chasing him from the town. He told his wife about the dream. ‘I took to the road in search of a new place,' he explained. ‘I walked through winter and summer, crossed many forests, fields and rivers, until finally I reached the famous town of Chelm...'

‘And where was
I
?' his beloved cut in.

‘Ah, you're too smart to be in a dream like that, sweetheart!... Anyway, there I was, at the iron gates of the town, it was just before dinnertime. I banged my fist against the rusty metal, and immediately heard a voice.
Who are you, stranger
, said the voice,
and what do you want?
“I am Berl the fool,” I replied, “and I'm looking for a place to rest my head, for I am weary of the world of sages.”
Entry can be granted only on the following condition
, said the voice.
You must answer three questions. If you are a true fool, you will not have any problems. Here are the questions:

‘
What is a life at birth? What is a life at maturity? What is a life at death?

‘I answered at once. “Sir,” I called back, “a life at birth is an enigma; at maturity it is an impostor; and at death, a fool!”

‘No sooner had I uttered the word
fool
than the gates swung apart and, accompanied by a fanfare from a row of golden trumpets, I was escorted to the king himself. “I've heard you're quite a fellow, Berl,” said the king. “Thank you, sir,” I replied. He waved his hand to silence me. “. . . But you cannot stay here for ever. There is a time limit. You see, our own fools are quite xenophobic, I'm afraid, especially seeing as you came here without a permit.”

‘Well, you can imagine my surprise. I was about to protest but he raised his hand again. “When you leave us,” said his royal highness, “please take a message to the outside world.” And for the first time he smiled, almost foolishly, before continuing. “Wise men are incomplete,” he said at last. “They lack that which makes us fools — envy and hope.”'

 

 
Natasha's Fire
 

Another of the many backyard stories that shaped our microcosm concerned Rachmiel, alias Romain, orphaned at the age of two when both his parents died in a fire. He was brought up by his wise but strictly religious grandfather, Aron the tailor. After Rachmiel graduated from primary school, his grandfather said, ‘Enough. A trade is better than book-learning. There is just as much wisdom in a swift needle with a whispering yarn in its ear. Remember, son,' he urged, ‘a needle behind the lapel and a thimble in the pocket are a passport to the whole wide world.'

But Rachmiel had no head for tailoring; his head was in books, journals, papers, and yet more books. In fact, it was his infatuation with the novel
Jean-Christophe
by Romain Rolland which prompted him to adopt his cherished writer's name. Yet his devoted grandfather wouldn't give up — he knew what lay in store for a man without trade, family or money. And so, after many trials and tribulations, many verbal and at times even physical admonitions, young Romain somehow managed to make the grade, not as a fully-fledged tailor but as a mender.

Come autumn, when the rainy winds had laid Aron low with a peculiar cough, the old man called his grandson to his bedside. ‘Rachmiel,' he said, ‘you're my only heir. Once I go, the workroom and all its treasures — shoulder-pads, linings, canvas, rolls of cotton, needles and thimbles — all of it will be yours. I am giving you bread and a knife: take it, son, take it and use it wisely.'

Seven days after Aron went the way of all flesh, the young man reverently took down his grandfather's sign, EXPERT TAILOR, and replaced it with his own more modest MENDER. To his surprise he did quite well: within a short time he had become known as the Mender of Bałuty. And as it happened, the daughter of his neighbour Yosl the cobbler was walking God's earth with a soul that was in dire need of mending.

Nacha had a white face as pure as virgin snow, but the glitter in her big black eyes could set any man on fire. Like many young girls of her time, she longed for education, knowledge, and love. And there, right across the yard, was Romain. Although his grandfather's religious teachings never really left him, Romain already belonged to a revolutionary party of free-thinkers. This made him a more than desirable mentor to Nacha — who, free spirit that she was, overnight became Natasha. Each day after work, Romain taught her the history
of the October Revolution, and also the art of dialectic and debate which he had acquired among his political comrades. The best way to defeat an opponent, he would tell Natasha, was to make him think. The girl was swept off her feet, and after a few short lessons became a permanent pupil in Romain's academy. At day's end, as the fiery sun set the horizon aflame, Romain would draw the curtains, cradle her to him, and croon into her eager ear a song popular with our street singers:

Natasha, oh my dark Natasha

Kiss my hair, my burning lips. . .

Then they would breathlessly shed their clothes and entwine themselves in each other's passion. The neighbourhood looked askance on this unholy union, but could do nothing about it. ‘I don't need a rabbi's blessing,' Natasha would declare, ‘to sleep with my beloved.'

The winter of 1928 was a bitterly cold one. Mountains of insurmountable snow lay everywhere — in the mornings, people inhabiting ground-floor dwellings had to jump out through their windows, since the snow was up to their door-handles. As daylight began to dim and evening shadows climbed our walls, a white frost with a thousand weird and fearful images would invade the windowpanes. It grew murderously cold; to make matters worse, the coalminers went on strike.

One Friday morning Natasha awoke earlier than usual. She decided to light the stove before Romain began his day's work. All at once — no one will ever know how — the whole room was engulfed in flames.

Ousted from their paradise, the two lovers — barefooted and clad only in their underwear — stood shivering in the snow-white yard, surrounded by their bewildered neighbours. Everyone was convinced that the fire was punishment for
their ungodly behaviour. Later, over a plate of hot porridge, Yosl the cobbler, who had divorced his wife for promiscuity soon after their daughter Nacha's birth, pleaded with the couple to mend their ways, as heaven was clearly against them. Romain remained silent. How could he convince Yosl that he had divorced heaven for the same reason the cobbler had divorced his wife?

‘Well, Reb Yosl,' the young man said at last, ‘you know the old saying:
meshane mokom, meshane mazal
— a change of place, a change of luck ...'