The Riddle

The day before Yom Kippur, Oyzer-Dovidl opened his eyes even before the morning star had appeared. On its perch the white rooster, soon to be slaughtered in atonement for his owner's sins, started crowing fiercely, sorrowfully. Nechele's hen clucked softly. Nechele got out of bed and lit a candle. Barefoot and in her nightgown, she opened squeaky bureau drawers, flung open closets, burrowed around in trunks. Oyzer-Dovidl watched with astonishment as she puttered about laying out petticoats, linen, odds and ends. No one airs out clothing on the day before Yom Kippur. But when Nechele wanted something, she didn't ask permission. It was months now since she had stopped shaving her head. Strands of black hair stuck out from under her kerchief. One strap of her nightgown had slipped down, revealing a breast white as milk with a rosy nipple. True, she was his wife, but such behavior ends in evil thoughts.

Lately, Oyzer-Dovidl had no idea how he stood with his wife. She had not gone to the ritual bath as she ought. She had baffled him with constant evasions, with different counts of the days of the month. "Well, today's the day before Yom Kippur!" he warned himself. There was a time when he would have lectured her, tried to win her over with tender words and parables, as the holy books advise. But he had given up. She remained stubborn. Sometimes it seemed as if she simply wanted to make him angry. But why? He loved her, he was faithful to her. When they had married, instead of his boarding with her parents as was customary, she had lived at his parents' expense. And now that they were no longer alive, he supported her from his inheritance. What made her defy him? Why did she bicker with him constantly about meaningless trifles? May the Lord in heaven grant her pardon, he thought. May her heart this Yom Kippur be changed for the better.

"Nechele!"

She turned to face him. She had a short nose, lips that parted over pearly teeth, brows that grew together. In her black eyes an angry light burned constantly.

"What do you want?"

"It's the day before Yom Kippur!"

"Well? What do you want? Leave me alone!"

"Hurry and finish what you're doing. A day is soon gone. You'll profane the holiday, God forbid."

"Don't worry. You won't roast for my sins."

"Nechele, one must repent."

"If someone has to--you do it."

"Oy, oy. Nechele. We don't live forever."

She laughed insolently. "The little life we have . . . it's still too much!"

Oyzer-Dovidl threw up his hands. It was impossible to talk to her. She answered everything with mockery. He was determined, for his part, to keep his mouth shut. He thought of excuses for her. She must be angry because she did not become pregnant, because after their first child died--might he intercede for them in heaven--her womb had closed. "Well, repentance and prayer and charity are a help in everything!" he told himself.

Oyzer-Dovidl was a puny man. Though he would be 24 next Hoshana Rabbah, he still did not have a proper beard; only here and there a few hairs had sprouted. His earlocks were scant, thin and blond as strands of flax. He was still slight as a schoolboy, with a scrawny neck, pointed chin, sunken cheeks. The clothes his parents had ordered for his wedding, expecting him to grow to fit them, were still too long and baggy. His caftan reached to his ankles; his fringed undervest was loose; even his prayer shawl with its braided silver collarband was too large.

And his thoughts were still childish, too. He imagined all kinds of things. He wondered, for example, what would happen if he should sprout wings and begin to fly like a bird. What would Nechele say? Would she want to be his wife just the same, or would she marry someone else? Or suppose he found a cap that would make him invisible! He was constantly remembering adventures from stories his aunts had read or told him, though now Nechele was involved in all of them. At night he dreamed of gypsy women, of robbers in caves, of sacks full of gold coins. Once it seemed to him that Nechele was male, that he saw under her lace drawers the fringed garment of a boy; but when he had tried to kiss her, she had clambered to the roof, nimble as a chimney sweep, and yelled down at him:

Kitchen-cleaver,Pudding eaterTumble downCrack your crown.

Oyzer-Dovidl did not have a free minute once he got up. He had first to wash his hands and recite the early-morning prayers. Next he had to perform the sacrificial rite. Seizing the white rooster, he gripped it by its trembling feet and whirled it about his head. Then he sent it to the slaughterer to be killed in atonement for his sins. He found this ceremonial an ordeal: What fault was it of the rooster's?

After that he went to the Trisker prayerhouse. Starting to pray, he felt ready to drive away all his foolish ideas, but they fell on him like flies. As he prayed, he sighed. He wanted to be a man of standing, but his head was full of distractions. A man should love his wife, but to think of her night and day was not right. He couldn't get her out of his mind. He remembered her playful words when he had come to her in bed on those days she was ritually pure, and the outlandish nicknames she had called him as she curled his earlocks, tickled him, bit him, kissed him. The truth was he should never have tolerated such loose behavior. If he had stopped it at the start, he would not have slid into evil thought.

Should a Jewish wife babble to her husband of garters and laces and crinolines? Did she have to tell him of the long stockings she had bought that reached all the way up to her hips? Of what benefit were her descriptions of the naked women she saw at the ritual bath? She aped them all, describing their hairy legs, flabby breasts, swollen bellies, mocking the older ones, slandering the younger. She simply wanted to prove that she was the prettiest. But that had been months ago. Of late, she wouldn't let him near her. She claimed she had cramps, or heartburn, or back pains, or that she had discovered stains on her linen. She used all kinds of pretexts and fine points of law to keep him away. But he could not blot out the images of the past, and her playful words had dug into his brain like imps.

Oyzer-Dovidl prayed hard, swaying back and forth, waving his hands, stamping his feet. Occasionally he bit his lips or his tongue in his excitement. When the prayers had ended, the Hasidim refreshed themselves with honeycake and brandy. Oyzer-Dovidl did not usually touch hard liquor but today he took some, for it is considered a good deed to eat and drink on the day before Yom Kippur. The brandy burned his throat and made his nostrils tingle. His mood brightened. He thought of what the Tchernobiler rabbi had said: Turn up your nose at the evil one. Don't be like the misnagdim, those dour scholars who tremble before hell. Sammael does what is required of him. You do what is required of you. Oyzer-Dovidl grew resolute. "I won't deny myself a drink of brandy ever again," he decided. "In heaven, the lowest joy is preferred to the most sublime melancholy."

Oyzer-Dovidl started home for his holiday dinner. At noon on the day before Yom Kippur, Nechele always prepared a feast: white rolls with honey, stewed prunes, soup and dumplings, meat with horseradish. But today when he got there, there was actually nothing to eat. Nechele even grudged him some warmed-over gruel and a dry bread crust. Oyzer-Dovidl was not one to complain about his comfort, but such a meal on the day before Yom Kippur was a slap in the face. "What does she want? To destroy every-thing?" he thought. The house smelled of dust and moth flakes, unpleasant odors that made him want to sneeze. Nechele, in a red petticoat, was piling clothes on the sofa, the way she did before Passover when the walls were whitewashed. "Is she out of her mind?" Oyzer-Dovidl asked himself. He couldn't control his tongue any longer.

"What's going on, eh?"

"Nothing's going on. Don't meddle in household affairs."

"Who does such things on the day before Yom Kippur?"

"Whoever does, does."

"Do you want to ruin everything?"

"Maybe----"

Oyzer-Dovidl tried not to look at his wife, but his eyes were constantly drawn to her. Her calves shone under the short petticoat, and it irritated him to see her wearing a red one. Red stands for judgment, says the cabala; but Yom Kippur is the time of mercy. It was clear she was acting this way out of spite. But how had he sinned against her?

Although he was still hungry, Oyzer-Dovidl rinsed his hands and said the concluding grace. As he was reciting the blessing, he looked out the window. Peasant wagons were driving by. A Gentile boy was flying a kite. He had always felt sorrow for those peoples of the world who had not accepted the Torah when the Lord approached them on Mount Seir and Mount Paran. During the Days of Awe, he was more than ever aware that the Gentiles were damned.

Across the street was a pig butcher's house. The hogs were slaughtered in the yard right behind the fence and scalded with boiling water. Dogs were always hanging around there barking. Bolek, one of the butcher's sons, who had become a petty clerk in the town hall, always used to pull the earlocks of the schoolboys, shouting obscenities after them. Today, the day before Yom Kippur, the men over there were carrying out hunks of pork through a gate in the fence and loading them onto a wagon. Oyzer-Dovidl shut his eyes. "Until when, O Lord, until when?" he murmured. "Let there finally be an end to this dark Exile. Let the Messiah have come. Let it grow light at last!"

Oyzer-Dovidl bowed his head. Ever since childhood he had absorbed himself in Jewish matters and yearned to be a saintly man. He had studied the Hasidic books, the morality books, and had even tried to find his way in the cabala. But Satan had blocked his path. Nechele and her wrath were an unmistakable sign that heaven was not pleased with him. A desire took hold of him to talk things out with her, to ask what she had against him, to remind her that the world endures through peace alone. But he knew what would happen: She would shriek and call him names. Nechele was still dragging out bundles of clothing, muttering angrily to herself. When the cat tried to rub against her ankles, she kicked it so that it scrambled away meowing. No, it was better to keep still.

Suddenly Oyzer-Dovidl clapped his hands to his forehead: The day was almost gone!

• • •

Oyzer-Dovidl went to the synagogue. To have oneself flogged on the day before Yom Kippur, though typical of the misnagdim, was not customary among the Hasidim. But Oyzer-Dovidl, after the afternoon prayers, asked Getzl the sexton to flog him. He stretched himself out in the vestibule like a boy. Getzl stood over him with a leather strap and began to strike him the 39 times that the rule prescribes. It didn't hurt. Whom was he fooling? thought Oyzer-Dovidl. The Lord of the universe? He wanted to ask Getzl to beat him harder, but was ashamed to. "Oh, I deserve to be scourged with iron rods," he moaned to himself.

While he was being flogged, Oyzer-Dovidl counted up his sins. He had lusted after Nechele on her unclean days, had unwittingly touched her with pleasure. He had listened to her tales of events at the pork butcher's; to her stories about the naked women at the ritual bath and at the river, where the younger ones bathed in the summertime. Nechele had boasted to him constantly of how firm her breasts were, how white her skin was, of how the other women envied her. She had even remarked that other men made eyes at her. "Well, 'Women are frivolous,'" thought Oyzer-Dovidl, and he recalled the saying in the Gemara: "A woman is jealous only of the thigh of another."

After the flogging, he paid the sexton 18 groschen for the redemption of his soul, then started home for the last meal before the fast. The sun was flaming in the west. Beggars lined the streets behind their alms plates. Sitting on boxes, logs, footstools were deformed persons of all kinds: blind ones, dumb ones, cripples without hands, without feet, one with his nose rotted away and a gaping hole instead of a mouth. Though Oyzer-Dovidl had filled his pockets with coins, he was soon without a cent. Still the beggars asked, demanded, called out after him, showing their wounds and (continued on page 253) The Riddle (continued from page 166) holding up their plates. He was sorry he had not changed a bank note. "Why should I have money when some people live in such poverty?" he reproached himself. He made his excuses to the beggars, promising to return shortly.

He hurried toward home. Before his eyes he saw the scale in which his good deeds and his bad deeds were being weighed. On one side stood Satan piling up his sins; on the other the Good Angel. But all his prayers, the pages of the Gemara, the money he had given for charity, all this wasn't enough to outweigh the other side. The pointer did not budge. Well, it was still not too late to repent. For that very reason Yom Kippur was provided. A strident wailing rang out through the town: In the court of the synagogue the women were praying for their helpless babes. Oyzer-Dovidl's eyes filled with tears. He had no children. Surely it was a punishment. That was why Nechele was so unstrung. Who knew? Maybe it was his fault; maybe he was the barren one, not she. Entering his house, he called out:

"Nechele, have you got some money?"

"I have nothing."

He looked at her, astounded. She was standing ironing a dress, dampening it by spraying water through her teeth. "God forbid, is she out of her mind?" he thought. "It's almost time to light the candles!" Clothing covered the chairs and bench. Her whole wardrobe was spread about. Skirts, blouses, stockings were piled in disarray. On a small table, her jewelry glittered. "It's all spite, spite," he told himself. "Before Kol Nidre on Yom Kippur she wants to start a fight. This is the Devil's handiwork. But I'm not going to quarrel."

"What is there to eat?" he asked. "This is the last meal before the fast."

"There's hallah on the table."

A jar of honey, an apple and half a hallah lay on the table. He glanced at Nechele: Her face was wet and drawn. She, who rarely shed a tear, was crying. "I'll never figure her out," Oyzer-Dovidl muttered. She was a riddle; she always had been a riddle to him. Ever since their wedding day he had wanted her to open her heart to him, but it was sealed with seven seals.

Today wasn't the time to think about it, though. He sat down at the table, swaying back and forth in his place. Oyzer-Dovidl was often depressed, but this year on the eve of Yom Kippur he was much more depressed than usual. Some kind of trouble was brewing, some punishment decreed in heaven. A melancholy deeper than any he had ever known was overtaking him. He could not control himself, but blurted out:

"What's the matter with you?"

Nechele did not answer.

"What wrong did I ever do you?"

"Make believe I'm dead."

"What? What are you saying? I love you more than anything else in the world!"

"You'd be better off with a wife who could bear you children."

Sunset was only three quarters of an hour away, yet the candles were still not fastened in their holders, nor did he see the box of sand in which the large memorial candle would be set. In other years, by now Nechele would have put on her silk cape and holiday kerchief. And the house would be redolent with the odors of fish and meat, rich cakes, apples stewed with ginger. "May I only have the strength to endure this fast!" Oyzer-Dovidl implored. He bit into the apple, but it was too tart and acrid to eat. He finished chewing the stale hallah. His stomach felt bloated, nevertheless he swallowed 11 mouthfuls of water as a precaution against thirst.

He completed the blessings and looked out. A Yom Kippur sky was spreading over the world. A mass of clouds, sulphur-yellow at the center, purple-red at the edges, was changing shape constantly. At one moment it looked like a fiery river, at the next like a golden serpent. The sky was radiant with an otherworldly splendor. Suddenly Oyzer-Dovidl was seized by impatience: Let her do what she wanted. He must hurry to the prayerhouse. Removing his shoes, he put on slippers, wound a sash round his waist, put on his white holiday robe and fur hat. Prayer shawl and prayer book in hand, he went up to Nechele:

"Hurry, now! And pray that you have a good year!"

Nechele muttered something that he didn't hear. She lifted the iron abruptly with her slender hand. Oyzer-Dovidl went out, shutting the door behind him. "A riddle, a riddle," he murmured.

In front of the pig butcher's house a wagon was standing, the horse munching oats from a sack, a sparrow pecking at its dung. "The Gentiles don't even know that it's Yom Kippur," thought Oyzer-Dovidl. He felt a wave of pity for these people who had surrendered themselves wholly to the flesh. They were as blind as their horses.

The streets swarmed with people, men in fur hats, women in shawls, kerchiefs, bonnets. Lights gleamed at every window. Though Oyzer-Dovidl, to ward off temptation, avoided the sight of females, nevertheless he noticed their beaded capes, trailing dresses, ribbons, chains, brooches, earrings. On all sides mournful cries arose. Faces laughed and cried, exchanged greetings, kissed each other. Young women who had lost a child or a husband in the past year ran by with outstretched arms, shrieking as if in prayer for the sick. Enemies who had been avoiding each other fell on each other's neck and were reconciled.

The small prayerhouse was already full when Oyzer-Dovidl entered. Lamps and candles shimmered in the glow of the setting sun. The congregation, sobbing, recited the Prayer of Purity. The room smelled of candle grease and wax; of hay spread over the floor so that the congregants could prostrate themselves without soiling their garments; and of a still nameless odor, something sharp, sweetish and peculiar to Yom Kippur. Each man lamented in his own manner, one with a hoarse sob, another with a womanly whimper. A young man sighed continually, waving his fists in the air. A white-bearded old man, bent in half as if by a heavy burden, recited from the prayer book, "Woe is me, I have copulated with beasts, with cattle and fowl . . ."

Oyzer-Dovidl went to his regular place in the southeast corner. Putting the prayer shawl on his head, he pulled it across his face, retreating into its folds as if into a tent. He implored God once more that Nechele should not, heaven forbid, light the candles past the proper time. "I should have talked to her, persuaded her, won her over with friendly words," he reproached himself. What could she have against him? Oyzer-Dovidl laid a hand on forehead, swayed back and forth. He took stock of his life, tried to think how he had angered Nechele. Had he, God forbid, allowed one sharp word to fall from his lips? Had he neglected to praise something she had cooked? Had he let slip some reproach against her family? He wasn't aware of having done her the slightest injustice. But such contrary behavior did not come from nothing. There must be some solution to the riddle.

Oyzer-Dovidl began to recite the Prayer of Purity. But one of the elders had already called out the introductory words, "With the permission of the Almighty . . ." and the cantor started to intone Kol Nidre. "My God," thought Oyzer-Dovidl, "I'm sure she lit the candles too late!" He braced his head against the wall. "Somehow she has lost control of everything. I should have warned her, punished her." He remembered the words of the Gemara: "Whoever has it in his power to prevent a sin and does not is punished even before the sinner."

The congregation was in the middle of the prayer, reciting "Thou knowest the secrets of the heart," when a clamor arose in the back. Behind him Oyzer-Dovidl heard sighing, chattering, hands slapping prayer books, even suppressed laughter. "What could it be?" he wondered. "Why are they talking aloud in the middle of the prayer?" He restrained himself from turning his head; it could have nothing to do with him. Someone jabbed him in the shoulder. Oyzer-Dovidl turned round. Mendel the Loafer stood behind him. The boy wore a peasant's cap, fitted boots, and was one of a band of louts who never entered the prayerhouse but stood in the vestibule stamping and talking noisily while prayers were going on inside. Oyzer-Dovidl raised his prayer shawl.

"Well?"

"Your wife ran off . . . with Bolek, son of the pig butcher."

"What?"

"She drove through the market place in his wagon . . . right after candle-lighting time . . . taking the road to Lublin."

The prayerhouse was suddenly still. Only the candle flames sputtered and hissed. The cantor had stopped intoning and was peering back over his shoulder. The men stood gaping, the boys' mouths hung open. From the women's section rose a strange hum, a combination of wails and choked laughter.

Oyzer-Dovidl stood facing the congregation, his face pale as his linen robe. Comprehension dawned: "Aha, so that's it! Now everything is clear!" One of his eyes seemed to weep, the other to laugh. After these evil tidings the way to saintliness lay open before him. All temptations were gone. Nothing was left but to love God and to serve him until the last breath. Oyzer-Dovidl covered himself again with his prayer shawl, turned slowly to the wall and stood that way, wrapped in its folds, until after the closing prayer the following night.