More Stories from My Father's Court: A Collection - Softcover

Singer, Isaac

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0374527989 ISBN 13: 9780374527983

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001

Synopsis

A delightful addition to the cherished autobiographical work of the Nobel Laureate

A sequel to I. B. Singer's classic memoir In My Father's Court, these stories, published serially in the Daily Forward, depict the beth din in his father's home on Krochmalna Street in Warsaw. A unique institution, the beth din was a combined court of law, synagogue, scholarly institution, and psychologist's office where people sought out the advice and counsel of a neighborhood rabbi.

The twenty-seven stories gathered here show this world as it appeared to a young boy. From the earthy to the ethereal, these stories provide an intimate and powerful evocation of a bygone world.

About this title

About the Author

Isaac Bashevis Singer (1904-91) was the author of many novels, stories, and children's books. His books include The Slave and Gimpel the Fool and Other Stories. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1978.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

More Stories from My Father's Court

By Isaac Bashevis Singer

Farrar Straus Giroux

Copyright © 2001 Isaac Bashevis Singer
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780374527983

Chapter One

CHAIM THE LOCKSMITH

* * *

Although everyone called him Chaim the locksmith, he wasactually what we here in America call a plumber. He repairedwater pipes, especially clogged toilet lines, a frequent problemin our street.

    Chaim was a man of middling height, strong and broad-shouldered,with a face brown as bronze and a beard to match.His clothes seemed to be dusted with rust. Although he was stillyoung, his face had the lines and wrinkles of a laboring manwho does not spare himself. Summer and winter he wore a shortjacket and high boots. He always carried pipes, hammers, files,pliers, and odd pieces of iron. Even his voice had a metallictwang. On Sabbath, Chaim the locksmith prayed in our apartmentand ate the Third Sabbath Meal with us. Sometimes,while drinking a tumbler of brandy, he would shake my hand.His hand was hard as iron.

    Aside from fixing toilets, Chaim was summoned whereverthere was trouble: a fire, a collapsed ceiling, a stuck door, a brokenoven. He was the only one who didn't mind getting smearedwith ashes and soot. He burdened himself with other oneroustasks as well. In addition to being part of the group that prayedin our apartment, Chaim belonged to the Sleepover Volunteers,whose members would spend nights with the sick. After a hardday's work, Chaim was sent to care for people suffering fromtyphus or delirium who needed the help of a strong man. Godhad blessed Chaim with strength, and with it he served God.When people begged Chaim not to exhaust himself, he wouldshrug his shoulders and reply, "If you're given broad shoulders,you must bear the burden."

    Chaim the locksmith had a few daughters; his youngestchild was a boy about nine or ten years older than I, namedZanvel. Chaim's love for his only son was boundless. I neverheard him speak of anything but the boy: Zanvel can alreadyread syllables, Zanvel has just started the Five Books of Moses,Zanvel has begun studying Gemara. Chaim had already decidedthat Zanvel must be a scholar and become a rabbi. WheneverChaim visited us he would say, "My Zanvele will be arabbi."

    "God willing," Father replied.

    "I just want to live to see one thing?my Zanvele decidingrabbinic questions."

    This wasn't merely a wish; it was the only hope on whichChaim the locksmith's efforts were focused. He sent Zanvel tostudy with the best teachers; early on, he dressed him in Hasidicclothing. Chaim paid a young Hasid to watch over him, studywith him, and discuss Torah and Hasidic rebbes with him.Zanvel displayed a love of learning; yet with his fair skin, blueeyes, and blond sidecurls, he resembled his mother, not hisfather. With his thin, high-pitched voice, it was hard to believethat he was Chaim's son.

    Chaim brought Zanvel to Father for an oral examination eachSabbath. Mother would offer him fruit, and as Zanvel sat with us,wearing a cap and a belted satin gaberdine, Father would discussHasidic matters with him. A bit farther away sat the locksmith,his face shining with an otherworldly joy. His bronzed faceseemed to melt with pleasure, and the eyes beneath his bushybrows were filled with light. Perhaps such was the happiness ofthe Jews at Mount Sinai when God revealed Himself amid fire.

    When Chaim's wife complained that he paid scant attentionto his daughters, he would defend himself by saying, Don't Ilove the girls? He loved them more than his own life. But afterall, girls cannot study Torah. They run around in the courtyardand are interested only in clothing, trifles, and nonsense. Howcould Chaim compare the joy the girls gave him with that ofZanvel? Zanvel sat over a Talmud and his little voice echoedthroughout the courtyard. In the study house respectable Jewscame and discussed a bit of Gemara with him. One hundredyears from now Zanvel would recite the Kaddish after Chaim'sdeath. And what's more, Zanvel was weak and gentle, a silkenlad. The girls resembled him, Chaim.

    Indeed, it was true. The girls had brown faces, thick braids,high chests. They sang plaintive songs about the Titanic andabout various love affairs. On Sabbaths they cracked pumpkinseeds at the gate of the apartment house and secretly went to themovies. So how could they be compared to little Zanvel?

    Just yesterday Zanvel was a cheder lad?and now he wasalready on the threshold of young adulthood. He studied Torahwith my father and attended Talmud lectures given by somehead of a yeshiva. He was awarded a nickel-plated watch for hismastery of fifty pages of Talmud. This was the time whenyeshiva students strayed from the straight and narrow path,reading newspapers and perusing forbidden secular books. Inour house we feared for Zanvel. Everyone knew that if Zanvelstumbled, the heart of that strong Jew, Chaim the locksmith,would burst like an overfilled balloon. Chaim would have beenable to withstand any blow, except a tragedy involving Zanvel.

    But, thank God, Zanvel did not go down the crooked path. Hecraved studying, swayed during prayers, and in time also went tosee a Hasidic rebbe. One day, Chaim the locksmith came to usand declared, "My Zanvel is in Gur ... at the rebbe's court."

    And he humbly bent his head as if silently wondering, Whyam I worthy of such joy? Do I deserve it? It's unbelievable ...incredible!

    When the First World War began and Zanvel had to reportto the draft board, it was a catastrophe for Chaim the locksmith.If Zanvel was sent to the barracks and to the front, all his planswould be ruined. Chaim wandered around distraught, his faceno longer brown but black as a chimney sweep's. Some suggestedthat Zanvel should injure himself just enough to makehim unfit for military service. But Chaim couldn't bear the ideathat Zanvel would somehow be disfigured. In his mind Zanvelwas like a Temple sacrifice which had to be absolutely withoutblemish.

    After a while Chaim the locksmith decided to place Zanvelin hiding instead. He found a garret where Zanvel sat and studiedfor days on end. He did not set foot on the street, lest he beasked for identity papers. Chaim the locksmith himself watchedout for an inspector who might enter the courtyard. Chaim wascareful, his wife was careful, his daughters were careful. Theentire courtyard was on the alert. In the meantime, Zanvel satsurrounded by books and studied. He drank tea, swayed,hummed some melody, and ate the food his mother broughthim.

    Then Warsaw was beset by inflation and Chaim the locksmithhad little work. The poor people of the neighborhoodcould no longer afford to have their toilets fixed. But Chaim'smeager income provided soups and grits and fresh little rolls forhis little Zanvel. For under no circumstances should a youngman sitting in a prisonlike setting and studying Torah suffer anywant.

    When the Germans entered Warsaw, Zanvel no longer had tohide from the gentile authorities. He was free to come and go ashe pleased, and Chaim the locksmith made a banquet. By nowZanvel had a little blond beard; he had straightened up, developeda long neck, sunken cheeks, and a pointy Adam's apple,which bobbed up and down his throat. He already spoke with arabbinic intonation. Many pious Jews and religious functionariesgathered at the banquet?which ruined Chaim the locksmith.He had no income of his own, and he had to sell, pawn, anddeprive himself and his daughters of their last bite of food. Atthis banquet Zanvel delivered a quibbling, hair-splitting discourseand debated some recondite Talmudic points with thescholars present. Chaim the locksmith laughed and cried.

    Chaim began to look bad. First of all, he didn't have enoughto eat. Second, his daughters, who had started down a slipperyslope, caused him anguish. And finally, the fear that somethingmight happen to Zanvel finished him off. Chaim coughed andhis back bent over as if under a heavy burden. He was urged tosee a doctor, to get some fresh air in the countryside. But Chaimthe locksmith just laughed.

    "What else should I do? Eat marzipan candy?"

    A match was soon arranged for Zanvel; the bride-to-be was arabbi's daughter. The bride's family was usually responsible forthe dowry, but when a rabbi agrees to a match with a locksmith,he wants to be paid. Chaim had no money but promised a dowry,so when the Germans began building a railroad nearby and heheard they needed locksmiths, mechanics, and metal workers,Chaim the locksmith went off to work for the Germans.

    His wife came to us crying that Chaim was killing himself.He labored outside in the freezing cold, in snowstorms anddownpours. Workers were dropping like flies. Chaim was doingthe work of three men. When he managed to come home for aday, his appearance frightened his family. He was no longerbrown or black?but yellow. White hairs threaded his beard.His voice was hoarse and he coughed like a consumptive.

    My father warned Chaim that it is forbidden to sacrifice oneselffor the sake of some dowry or prestigious lineage, and thatone's life and well-being take precedence over everything else.Father took a volume of the Code of Law from a bookshelf andshowed Chaim that when a pregnant woman is about to givebirth, everyone is permitted to violate the Sabbath for her, eventhough one person would suffice. Such is the value that theTorah places on a human life. But Chaim the locksmithanswered, "Rabbi, the devil won't take me."

    Zanvel became engaged, and the party cost plenty ofGerman marks. Once Zanvel married, Chaim again spent a fortune.Then came the good news: Zanvel had been offered a rabbinicposition in a small shtetl.

    That would be the last time Chaim visited our apartment.He came in, positioned himself in the doorway, and began tosing like someone in a Purim costume: "Mazel tov! Zanvel is arabbi!" he called out, and then began to cry. He seized Father'shand and kissed it.

    "Zanvel may be a rabbi, but you're killing yourself," Mothersaid ominously.

    Chaim gave out a sickly laugh. "How can it hurt? My Zanvelis a rabbi." Chaim attempted a little dance, but his feet wereswollen and he managed only one small hop before he had to sitdown.

    After this, Chaim the locksmith took to his bed and was preparedto die. The man had overworked himself, taxed his strengthbeyond measure. To those who paid him a sick call he declared, "Ijust barely managed to raise him ... now I'm ready ..."

    The son came to visit his father, and the courtyard grewblack with people. Zanvel had long sidecurls and wore a longblack rabbinic coat, a silk jacket, shoes and socks. As Zanvel satdown beside his father, Chaim the locksmith gave him the smileof a mortally ill man and asked, "Zanvele, you'll say Kaddish forme?"

    "Father, you'll get well."

    "Why should I get well? I've accomplished all that I wantedto do." And then Chaim the locksmith cracked a locksmith joke:"What more can I do? Fix a few more toilets?"

    Chaim the locksmith died and was given a big funeral. Theson eulogized his father at the gravesite. Following the wagonwere rabbis, synagogue trustees, respectable Jews. But my fatherwas angry at Chaim. He maintained that one should not sacrificehimself even for the sake of Torah.

    "A low-class man remains a low-class man," Father said bitterly.For days on end he walked about upset. Then one morninghe remarked, "I think I saw Chaim the locksmith. He was shininglike the sun."

    "Did he say anything to you?"

    "He told me where he lives in the Garden of Eden."

    "Where?"

    Father whispered the secret into Mother's ear. Motherturned white. It was hard to believe that Chaim the locksmithcould achieve such heights. But on the other hand, he had givenhis life for the sake of the Torah. Hadn't Rabbi Akiva done thesame?

Continues...

Excerpted from More Stories from My Father's Courtby Isaac Bashevis Singer Copyright © 2001 by Isaac Bashevis Singer. Excerpted by permission.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0374527989
• ISBN 13: 9780374527983
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 224