The Entertainer and the Dybbuk (6 page)

W
hen Freddie told his girlfriend that he had bought a ticket on the
Mauritania
to New York, her face blossomed into a sunflower smile. “You darling man, we can have the captain marry us!”

Freddie averted his eyes. How could he face her? “Polly, I love you like in that Portuguese sonnet, but we can't get hitched yet.”

“Freddie, what kind of a stall is this?”

How do you break the news that you are possessed? She'd be marrying the dybbuk without knowing it. When she found out, live steam would shoot out of her ears.

“I should be back in a month or so.”

“Why can't we marry now?”

“Trust me.”

There was no mistaking Polly's look of distress. “Freddie, I think you're a dog that won't hunt! Another woman? Here's your ring back.”

“No other woman. I didn't give you a ring.”

“Well, if you had, here it is back!” And, lifting her chin like the prow of a ship, Polly sailed away.

Freddie watched her go and spiraled down into a funk. He stood on a trafficky corner, unsure which way to turn. A wind off the river blew his hair about like a head of snakes. Taxi horns blew him across the street. What should he do?

He loved Polly. She needed to know about the dybbuk. He must tell her before he left. Okay. He'd risk it. He'd do it.

For ten days Freddie was unable to reach her by phone. She was even avoiding their restaurants and cafés. She seemed to have vanished in an angry puff of smoke. Had she slipped out of town? Not even her friends had a clue.

Packing for the trip, he said in mournful
tones, “Dybbuk! See what a mess you're making of my life? Why am I going to New York for you? What a sap I am!”

“You wouldn't let me down,” said the dybbuk.

“Why not?”

“Because you're a mensch.”

“Don't give me that Jewish stuff. I can get along without you in the act.”

“Almost, yes. Have you looked in a mirror lately, Professor? I see you are now talking without moving the lips.”

T
he steamship picked up its last passengers in Ireland and set out across the Atlantic Ocean. A sea wind was blowing up whitecaps like dollops of meringue. It was going to be a choppy crossing.

The third day, just before Freddie left his cabin for breakfast, the dybbuk spoke up. “Please, Professor, no bacon with your
eggs this morning. Ask for the kosher meals.”

Freddie's mouth dropped. “Kosher. No!”

“Do us a favor and eat kosher, yes.”

Freddie pulled open the stateroom door. “Us?”

“I'm feeling a little seasick.”

Freddie let his breath whistle out. How was someone possessed by a demon supposed to live? Like a prisoner? But what was he going to do if he discovered a seasick dybbuk under his skin? The thought almost turned him green. “Okay, Avrom Amos. Kosher for a couple of days, until we land. Boy, it's not easy to be a Jew.”

“You just finding out?” remarked the dyb
buk. “Did I tell you what I used to carry in my pocket?”

“A kosher slingshot?”

“A bottle of carbolic acid.”

“Nothing about you surprises me.”

“I was hiding from the Nazis, eleven years old. When I heard them getting close I'd sprinkle carbolic on my sister's clothes and mine. We'd curl up like dead.
Oh
, how we stunk of sickness! We'd hear the SS killers yell warnings. ‘Typhus! Don't touch them!' Until the bottle ran dry, the carbolic saved our lives. Yes, it's hard to be one of the chosen people. Did we volunteer? Did the Almighty ask for a show of hands?”

Freddie had blintzes for breakfast.

 

Of course it was Polly. That showgirl with her hair cut gamine short. That figure in the deck chair wrapped in a blanket against the cold. She had followed him and now was busy hiding her face behind a book.

Freddie barked in astonishment. “Polly! Sweetheart! How did you get here?”

She lowered the book. “Do I know you?”

“I've got to talk to you, Polly.”

“Some other time. I'm going home for a visit. There are people there who love me.”

“I adore you!” Freddie declared. “I've missed you. I don't want to lose you. I'll tell you everything. But hang on to your hat.”

“Tell me what? You've got a wife in Toledo?”

“Worse.”

“Your doctor has given you only twenty minutes to live?”

“Much worse.” Freddie pushed aside her feet and sat on the edge of the lounge chair. “I've been possessed.”

He waited for a reaction. She turned a page of her book. “Imagine.”

“You're not taking this very seriously,” he protested. “I'm possessed by a demon. It's not just part of my act.”

“Oh, come on,” Polly said.

“A Jewish demon. A dybbuk. I tried to have it exorcised, but it didn't take.”

“Did you try Epsom salts?”

“Polly, please.”

She put down her book. “Freddie, this is not the dark ages. Someone turned on the lights. Who believes in that possessed-by-demon stuff anymore? I don't.”

“I don't either. Didn't. But the dybbuk is here. So I couldn't let you marry me. Understand?”

“Freddie, have you talked to a psychiatrist?”

“You can talk to him yourself.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“The dybbuk. Avrom Amos Poliakov, meet Polly Marchant. Polly, meet the dybbuk. He's just a kid, but he's older'n
God. He'll tell you so himself.”

Polly peered at Freddie. “Do you take me for a nitwit?”

Freddie felt the breath rise through his throat. “Good afternoon,” said the dybbuk. Very civil.

Polly's breath caught. Then she exhaled like a steam whistle. “You just threw your voice. That's what you do. You're a ventriloquist. You threw your voice!”

“I swear I didn't!”

“I swear he didn't, too,” said the dybbuk. “It's me, in person.”

“Listen, Polly,” Freddie exclaimed. “Avrom and I can sing a duet. That'll prove there are two of us!”

“Do you know ‘Yankee Doodle'?” asked the dybbuk.

“Go.”

The Great Freddie and the dybbuk broke into a few bars in harmony. Polly gazed into Freddie's mouth, past his teeth, and down his throat as far as she could see. Yes, there was another voice down there. She was far from cheered by the discovery.

“You expect me to marry a guy with a demon down his gullet?”

“I'm not a demon,” protested the dybbuk.

Polly dropped the book and folded her arms. “Cough him up or leave me alone, Freddie.”

“It's not that simple. Just give me a couple
more weeks to straighten this thing out, Polly darling. Things are happening and I made promises.”

“You made promises to me! Remember? I'm not going to go on my honeymoon with you and that spooky tapeworm. Out, spirit! Out, ghostie, and right now!”

“Polly—”

“Don't ask me to be patient!”

“Be patient. You're getting excited about nothing.”

Polly exploded. “Nothing!”

“Give me a week,” Freddie said.

“How about five minutes?” Her eyes began to tear. “If you loved me—”

Freddie straightened and waited. Then he
turned his head as if the dybbuk were hovering at his left. “Avrom Amos, you heard Polly. You know about love, don't you? I promised to hang in for you, but love is trump. No messing with that. You were listening to every word, huh? Polly didn't mean that bit about the tapeworm. But the time has come. Five minutes. Pack your socks and sweater, kid. It was a great bother knowing you, but no hard feelings. Now take a walk and good luck!”

It was a moment before the dybbuk answered. “The Great Freddie, be kind enough to look over the rail. What do you see? Oy, you expect me to walk on water?”

“It's been done.”

“I can't even swim.”

“So long, Avrom Amos.”

“And what would you do for a stage act?”

“I'll work up some new tricks.”

“Do you think I like being under your skin? It's crowded in here. And do you think it's fun for me when you lift weights?”

“Dybbuk, see the tears in Polly's eyes? We want to get married. Be a mensch. Get lost.”

“If you have a wedding, count on me. You won't know I'm there. Until then, if you don't mind, I'll curl up for a long nap. I'll need all my strength for Arizona.”

And the dybbuk clammed up, silent as a mouse, until the ship docked in New York. Polly felt triumphant.

P
olly's family had driven up from Alabama to greet Polly as she stepped off the ship. They threw handfuls of confetti as if it were rice.

Polly disentangled herself from relatives and turned to Freddie. “This is my mother, Belle Marchant, and my two younger sisters, Twayla and Eva.” All three women wore big
floppy hats and summer dresses. They looked fetching, Freddie thought, but were wet as goldfish. It was late August and full of lightning and warm rain.

“Charmed to meet you, dear boy,” said Mrs. Marchant, anointing him with damp confetti as freely as holy water. “Polly wrote that you're Jewish. We'll be the scandal of Mobile.”

Freddie gave an inward sigh. Wait till they learned about the dybbuk.

Polly indicated a man chewing tobacco in a dark suit and tight vest and a gray Stetson hat. “And this is my horrible uncle Wimble. He's the family racist. I'm sure he's never shaken hands with a Jewish man
before. Do assure him it's not catching.”

Uncle Wimble kept his hands stuck in his pockets as if by glue. It surprised Freddie that he felt so offended. For Avrom's sake, or his own? At any rate, he couldn't resist the moment. As they were walking away from the ship, The Great Freddie threw his voice, angrily, to a nearby trash bin. “The Hebrews are coming! It's payback time, brothers! Run for your lives.”

Uncle Wimble jerked around as if struck by a bolt of lightning. He swallowed a mouthful of chewing tobacco.

Mrs. Marchant cut in smartly with a nod to Polly. “Have you two darlings set a date?”

“Of course,” said Polly. “As soon as possible.”

“Good. That leaves us plenty of time to make the arrangements.”

 

After a shopping day in New York, Freddie confessed to Polly that the dybbuk hadn't really fled, but soon would. Positively. Absolutely. Honestly. Truly. I promise. I swear. On my honor!

Leaving her in tears, Freddie hopped a train out west. He settled back for a three-day trip. It was only after the delay in Chicago to change trains that the dybbuk chose to speak up. “Are we there yet?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Shoot.”

“You're overstaying your welcome.”

“What's a day or two?”

“It's been months!” Freddie exclaimed. “Here are the new house rules. I'll see you through Phoenix, but that's where you get off. We split. If not, I'll make your time in my skin miserable.”

“You think it's a picnic?” asked the dybbuk.

“I'll gorge like a pig on trayf!” Freddie had already learned the Yiddish word for pork and shellfish and other forbidden food. “I'll move to Mobile and retire the act. And I'll join the Ku Klux Klan!”

“Oy gevalt!”

“No options. No loopholes. That's the deal. Got it?”

“We'll see,” remarked the dybbuk, and went back to sleep.

 

In Phoenix, Freddie checked into the Biltmore Hotel. He began telephoning Polly in Mobile every day, and every day she refused to come to the phone. But he was confident she'd soften when he could tell her the dybbuk had fled.

He bought a newspaper moments after checking into the hotel. Once in his room overlooking desert and cactus, he found the news he was hoping for. “Wake up, Avrom Amos,” he said, folding his newspaper.
“Listen to this. Your SS man is charged with killing a young assistant in his stamp business. He thought the employee was stealing from him—and get this. The assistant was a mere kid of fifteen. Right in character, for a child killer.”

The dybbuk remained profoundly silent. It seemed to Freddie that, now that they were so close to Avrom Amos's murderer, the dybbuk had frozen up. Unsure of himself. By dinnertime, Freddie began to wonder if the dybbuk had bailed out. There seemed to be nobody in.

Had the dybbuk lost his grit? How, after all, could he hope to achieve his biblical revenge? Freddie wasn't going to pick up a knife or a gun and do some murderous deed.

No, the dybbuk had something else less lethal but more mortifying up his sleeve. He'd tipped his hand after his bar mitzvah.

 

The trial resumed at ten the following morning. Freddie came early and commandeered a freshly polished oak chair in the second row. The courtroom filled rapidly and heated up. The wooden blades of a ceiling fan stirred the desert air in slow motion. A couple of newspapermen arrived at the last moment, seating themselves at a desk for the press.

The bailiff introduced the Honorable Harold O. Fanshaw, judge of the Superior Court, who settled himself in his black robe like a thundercloud. He banged his gavel and the
courtroom went silent. “Open for business,” the judge declared. “Where's the defendant?”

The defendant arrived moments later. He took the witness stand, all but clicking his heels. Freddie gave the former SS officer's face a hard, piercing gaze. So this was the face of a killer. This was the man who had shown such enthusiasm for child murder? The former German officer who had shot Avrom Amos six times?

The German was no longer wearing his vulture black uniform with its death's-head insignia. He was no longer smoking Egyptian cigarettes, but the dueling scars and hatchet-sharp nose still had their arrogant presence.

The defense attorney rose to continue his case. A portly man, he pulled off his horn-
rimmed glasses and threw them angrily on the table.

“So what do you see? A kindly old refugee with numbers tattooed on his wrist. J for Jew. A survivor of the Nazi death factories. Years pass. An unfortunate child chooses to take poison. And my client is charged with murder? Preposterous! What motive? May I remind you that poison residue was detected on the young man's lips? Does that sound like murder? The rat poison was self-administered. That is clear! Suicide, open and shut, shut, shut.”

Freddie looked around as if he might spot the dybbuk hiding among the spectators.

The defense attorney blew hot and hotter until the judge banged his gavel and ordered
a break for lunch. But not before the attorney announced defiantly that he would put his client on the witness stand to remove all doubt of any guilt.

Freddie wasn't hungry and wandered outside to find a stone bench and sit in the desert sun. It was then that the dybbuk seemed to shake off his sullen lethargy and come to life.

“Thank you, Mr. Freddie. Thank you, Mr. Yankee Doodle. You were a good Jew when I needed you.”

“What are you talking about? Where have you been?”

“This is when we shake hands. Now we go our separate ways.”

“You're leaving just when you have the
monster in your sights? Isn't it him? Wrong SS officer?”

“It's him.”

“And you're backing out?”

“You're free of me. That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“I'm no longer possessed?”

“So long, Mr. Yankel Doodle,” said the dybbuk. “Don't forget to pay the charity for the Swiss stamp dealer.”

“Of course. What are you going to do?”

“Don't ask questions.”

“What am I going to do?” asked Freddie.

“You can work up an act without moving your lips. A showstopper!”

Me, work solo? Me, The Great Freddie?
He could see nothing but disaster waiting in the wings. He was going to have to walk out into the spotlight practically naked. The dybbuk wasn't going to be there with his sharp tongue to make The Great Freddie sound like a top attraction.

The act was finished. His young partner would vanish. Turn to smoke. Be forever gone.

The entertainer straightened his shoulders. Freddie, he thought, you're hopeless. Can't you even talk to yourself without moving your lips? Did you ever once stop to realize how much you'll miss that war-wounded kid? Remember when he was your only real knockabout friend? Ingrate! Did it ever occur to you to say thanks?

“Thanks. I'll miss you, Avrom Amos.”

“Like a toothache, eh? It's been a pleasure, Mr. Freddie T. Birch. So, now you are free to rush back and marry that girl,” said the dybbuk. “Mazel tov! Maybe I'll find a way to send a wedding gift.”

“I'll take it out of your salary,” said Freddie, trying to soften the moment with a green-eyed smile. “I guess I won't see you again—ever?”

“L'chaim,” said the dybbuk. “To life, eh? I'll put in a good word for you if you decide to visit our heaven. You are a righteous mensch. The door'll be wide open. Break a leg.”

“Not so fast!” Freddie protested. “Avrom Amos, hold on! What's the big rush?”

But the dybbuk was gone.