Jack Dann (ed) - Wandering Stars- Of Jewish Fantasy and Science Fiction (proofers siPDF)

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WANDERING STARS

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W A N D E R I N G

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OF J E W I S H

FANTASY

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SCIENCE

Edited by Jack Dann

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PU BLISHERS

FICTION

Copyright © 1974 by Jack D ann. All rights reserved. P rinted in the U nited States of America. No p art of this book may be used or reproduced in any m anner w hatsoever w ithout w ritten perm ission except in th e case of brief quotations em bodied in critical articles and reviews. For inform ation address H arper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022. Pub­ lished simultaneously in Canada by F itzhenry & W hiteside Lim ited, Toronto.

W A N D ERIN G STARS.

FIRST ED ITIO N

Designed by Sidney Feinberg Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication D ata D ann, Jack, comp. W andering stars of Jewish fantasy and science fiction. CONTENTS: Asimov, I. Introduction: Why me?— Davidson, A. T he golem.—Asimov, I. Unto the fourth generation, [etc.] 1. Science fiction, American. 2. A m erican fiction. —Jewish authors. I. Title. PZ l.D 2W an [PS648'.S3] 8I3'.O876 73-4146 ISBN 0-06-010944-0

A cknowledgm ent is m ade for permission to p rin t the following material: “On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi” by William Tenn. Copyright © 1974 by William Tenn. “The G olem ” by Avram Davidson. C opyright © 1955 by Fantasy House, Inc. R eprinted by perm ission of th e author. “Unto the F ourth G eneration” by Isaac Asimov. Copyright © 1959 by M ercury Press. R eprinted by permission of the author. “ Look, You Think You’ve Got Troubles” by Carol Carr. Copyright © 1969 by D am on Knight. R eprinted by permission of th e author. “Goslin D ay” by Avram Davidson. Copyright © 1970 by D am on Knight. Re­ p rin ted by permission of th e author. “The Dybbuk of Mazel Tov IV” by Robert Silverberg. Copyright © 1974 by Robert Silverberg. “Trouble W ith W ater” by H orace L. Gold. Copyright © 1939 by Street & Smith. R eprinted by perm ission of the author. “G ather Blue Roses” by Pam ela Sargent. Copyright © 1971 by M ercury Press, Inc. From The M agazine o f Fantasy a n d Science Fiction, by permission of th e author. “T he Jew bird” by B ernard Malamud. R eprinted w ith the perm ission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., from Idiots First by B ernard Malamud, copyright © 1963 by B ernard Malamud. "Paradise Last” by Geo. Alec Effinger. Copyright © 1974 by Geo. Alec Effinger. “S treet of Dream s, F eet of Clay” by Robert Sheckley. C opyright © 1968 by Robert Sheckley. From Galaxy Magazine, re p rin te d by permission of th e author and the author’s agent, Sterling Lord Agency, Inc. “Jachid and Jechidah” by Isaac Bashevis Singer. R eprinted with the permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., from Short Friday by Isaac Bashevis Singer, copy­ right © 1964 by Isaac Bashevis Singer. “I’m Looking for Kadak” by H arlan Ellison. Copyright © 1974 by H arlan Ellison.

To m y parents

Contents

In troduction:

Why Me? by Isaac Asim ov WILLIAM

: 1

TENN

On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi AVRAM

DAVIDSON

The Golem ISAAC

:

: 41

ASIMOV

Unto the Fourth Generation CAROL

: 4g

CARR

Look, You Think You’ve Got Troubles AVRAM

DAVIDSON

Goslin Day ROBERT

: 73

SILVERBERG

The D ybbuk o f Mazel Tov IV HORACE

L.

GOLD

Trouble with Water PAMELA

: 103

SARGENT

Gather Blue Roses

: 127

: 83

7

CONTENTS

X

BERNARD

MALAMUD

The Jewbird GEO.

ALEC

: 135

EFFINGER

P aradise L a s t ROBERT

:

147

SHECKLEY

Street o f Dreams, Feet o f Clay ISAAC

BASHEVIS

SINGER

Jachid and Jechidah HARLAN

: 201

ELLISON

Pm Looking fo r Kadak

: 211

: 181

The editor would like to thank the following people for their help and ideas: Rabbi David S. Boros George Zebrowski G ardner Dozois Joe W. H aldem an H arry Altshuler and, of course, Victoria Schochet.

INTRODUCTION

W hy Me? Isaac Asimov

W hen I was asked to do the introduction to this collection, that was the question I asked. “Why m e?” O ne answ er is that I am suspected of being Jewish. At least, my m other is Jewish and my fath er’s m other was Jewish, and that makes both my father and myself Jewish by definition. I don’t do anything about it, you understand. I atten d no ser­ vices and follow no ritual and have never even undergone that curious puberty rite, the bar m itzvah. It doesn’t m atter. I am Jewish. How can that be? Oh, well, even w ithout the kosher stam p of religion, I bear the cultural stigm ata (you should excuse the ex­ pression). I was born in a Russian shtetl, and I was brought up in Brooklyn in the very last decade in which you could still find pushcarts lining the streets and candy stores on every corner. In fact, I w orked for thirteen years in my fath e r’s candy store. W hat’s m ore I can tell jokes in a Yiddish dialect like a m aster, and I can speak Yiddish itself quite fluently. I like music in the minor, and tu rn faint w hen my favorite person places b u tte r on her cornedb eef sandwich. “M ustard,” I whisper. “M ustard!” “Why m e?” Well, I w rite science fiction and fantasy. T here was a tim e, you know, w hen you d idn’t associate Jews with science fiction and fantasy. To w rite great novels—yes, that was perm itted Jewish boys, along w ith playing violins (not saxo­ phones or guitars), playing chess (not poker or pool) and becom ing a doctor or a lawyer (or, in an em ergency, a dentist or an optom e­ trist—but not a ballplayer).

2

ISAAC

ASIMOV

T he result is that a great m any novels w ritten in America deal with Jewish them es. After all, w hat else are all those great Jewish novelists going to w rite about? Methodists? But science fiction and fantasy (in cheap m agazines yet—feh) was different. In the days w hen I was an avid groper for those cheap m agazines, the stories dealt entirely w ith Americans of northw est-E uropean extraction who fought Hom eric battles with space pirates, outer-w orld m onsters, and evil wizards (to say noth­ ing of M artian princesses in brassieres). W hat kind of a place was that for Jewish boys? I do not say, m ind you, that there w ere no Jews am ong the scribblers who filled the pulp magazines. T here m ust have been, for despite her best efforts, an occasional Jewish m other lost con­ trol. Think of all the Jewish boys who w ent on the burlesque stage (bums!) and becam e millionaires (geniuses!). Many of the Jewish pulp writers, how ever, used pen nam es as a m atter of sound business sense. A story entitled “War-Gods of the Oyster-M en of D en eb ” didn’t carry conviction if it was w ritten by som eone nam ed Chaim Itzkowitz. To give an actual case, that excellent w riter H orace L. Gold, whose marvelously funny story “Trouble w ith W ater” is included in this collection, and who is as Jewish as stuffed kishke, w rote outstanding science fiction for years under the nam e of Clyde C rane Campbell, you should again pardon the expression. Jewish nam es which sounded G erm an w ere, of course, p e rm it­ ted, for after all they m ight really be G erm an, and Germ ans w ere northw est Europeans, who (though they w ere not quite as su­ perior as they thought they were) w ere pretty superior, for people who d idn’t speak English. As far as I know, though, I was the first science fiction w riter of note who used his own nam e, w here that nam e was a m ixture of a Biblical Isaac and a Slavic Asimov. Why? Because I didn’t know any b etter, th a t’s why. To m e, the nam e Isaac Asimov had a swing to it. For some reason (possibly superior genes) I was happy w ith it. I never longed for anything

Introduction: W hy Me?

3

m ore glamorous. Had som eone offered m e the nam e Leslie Fotheringay-Phipps and begged m e w ith tears in his eyes to take it, I would have refused. In fact, I adopted so proprietary an attitude tow ard my nam e that for a long tim e I felt annoyed at my b rother for sharing my last nam e and at I. Bashevis Singer for sharing my first nam e. How ever, my brother is a nice guy, and I. B. S. is a good w riter, as you can see from his story in this collection—so I’ll perm it it for a while longer anyway. Then, too, one of my m ajor reasons for w anting to w rite was to see my nam e in print. M y nam e, not some stranger’s. Take William Tenn, who also has a story in this collection. His nam e isn’t William Tenn. Who, in his whole life, ever heard of a nam e like William Tenn? W hat William T en n ’s nam e really is, is Philip Klass. Now w henever Phil claims to be William Tenn, he is m et w ith profound disbelief. Words like “hallucinatory m egalo­ m ania” and in gantzen ah meshugener are heard. This, at least, I was never troubled with. My pen nam e and my real nam e are identical and both are as Jewish as I am. Only I didn’t w rite on Jewish them es. I didn’t think of Jews, particularly, in connection w ith robots, w recked spaceships, strange worlds with six suns, and Galactic Em pires. The subject d idn’t come up in my mind. And yet sometim es it popped up. My first science fiction novel, Pebble in the Sky, dealt with a stiff-necked group of E arth people facing a Galactic E m pire that felt contem pt for them . Some peo­ ple thought they saw a resem blance to Judea and the Roman E m pire of the first century th ere and, who knows, m aybe they w ere right. And one of my chief characters was nam ed Joseph Schwartz. I didn’t come right out and say he was Jewish, but I’ve never found anyone who thought he w asn’t. Sometimes, too, it was necessary for m e to have a character whom, for nefarious purposes of my own, I w anted the reader to underestim ate. The easiest trick was to give him a substandard version of English, for then he would be dismissed as a comic

4

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character w ith at most a certain lim ited folk wisdom. Since the only substandard version of English I can handle faultlessly is the Yiddish dialect, some of the characters in The Foundation Trilogy speak it. But tim es changed. After W orld W ar II, w ith the vanishing of the Nazi m enace and the rise of the U nited Nations, racism be­ cam e unrespectable. At once, all kinds of ethnic consciousnesses becam e popular and, to my own personal am azem ent, science fiction and fantasy, dealing w ith Jewish them es, tu rned out to be possible—so that a superb collection such as this one could be put together eventually. Indeed, caught up in the new spirit, even I w rote a fantasy that was deliberately and entirely based on a Jewish them e. It was “Unto the F ourth G eneration” and it is included in this collection. T hat is still another answ er to the question “Why m e?”—be­ cause I have a story in this collection. Anyway, w hat w ith one thing and another, even w ithout the bar m itzvah and the ritual, I feel I’m doing my bit and I grow im pa­ tient w ith those who take up a Jew isher-than-thou attitude. W hich rem inds m e of a phone conversation I once had w ith a gentlem an whose real nam e I w on’t use (because I have forgotten it) but to whom I will give, at the proper tim e, a fictional nam e of equivalent aura. It cam e about because the Boston Globe gave a bookfair at which I was asked to speak and at which I did speak. As it hap­ pened, the fair fell upon Rosh Hashanah, som ething I didn’t real­ ize, because unless som eone tells m e, I never know w hen it comes. That is not an excuse, just a statem ent, because if I had know n it was Rosh Hashanah, I would have delivered my speech anyway. The next day, how ever, I received a phone call from a stranger, who said he was Jewish, and who dem anded to know why I had consented to talk on Rosh Hashanah. I explained, politely, that I didn’t keep the holidays and that seem ed to infuriate him. At once, he flung himself into a self-righteous lecture in which he des­ canted on my duties as a Jew, and ended by accusing m e of trying to conceal my Jewishness.

Introduction: W hy Me?

5

B reathing a short p rayer to the God of Aristotle, of N ew ton and of Einstein, I said, quite calmly, “You have the advantage of m e, sir. You know my nam e. I don’t know yours. To whom am I speak­ ing?” And the Lord God of Science proved to be on the job, for the m an on the phone answered, “My nam e is Jackson D avenport.” I said, “Really? Well, my nam e, as you know, is Isaac Asimov, and if I w ere trying to conceal my Jewishness, the very first move I would m ake would be to change my nam e to Jackson D aven­ port.” Somehow that ended the conversation. But to Jackson D avenport (not his real nam e, rem em ber), w her­ ever he is, I have this further word: The reason I am writing this introduction is that, despite all my infidel ways and beliefs, I am Jewish enough.

WILLIAM TENN

,

On Venus Have We Got a Rabbi

W hat is a Jew? Is “Jewishness” a m ystical experience, a system o f laws, a sense o f kinship, a religion, or a m yth? Is there a Jewish ethic, a Jewish character, a Jewish m ystique? I f the Jew can be identified, can he be as easily defined— or is he, as Franz Rosenzweig claimed, an indefinable essence? There is a story fro m the Talm ud that suggests the character o f the Jew and the “essence” o f his religion. A proselyte came to the great sage H illel and said, “Teach me the whole Torah w hile I stand on one foot. ” W ithout losing his tem per H illel re­ plied, “W hat is hateful to you, do not do to others. This is the whole Torah, the rest is comm entary. Go a n d study it.” A s H ayim D onin says, “It is, however, still essential to ‘go and study ’ the rest. ” In W illiam T enn’s story o f the fu tu re, the Jews are still studying, still suffering, m aking jokes, m yth, religion, and still being Jew­ ish. I f that “indefinable essence” cannot be defined, it can cer­ tainly be described. Can a creature that looks like a pillow grow­ ing a short gray tentacle be a Jew? To answer that question Tenn keeps asking, W hat is a Jew? M ark Twain has written, “I f the statistics are right, the Jews constitute b u t one percent o f the hum an race. I t suggests a nebu­ lous dim p u ff o f star d u st lost in the blaze o f the M ilky Way. Properly the Jew ought hardly to be heard o f b u t he is heard of, has alw ays been heard o f . . . He has m ade a marvelous fig h t in this world, in all the ages; and he has done it with his hands tied behind him. ” 7

O o

WILLIAM

TENN

On T e n n ’s Venus the Jews are still Jìghting w ith their hands tied. In the best tradition o f Twain and, o f course, Sholom Aleichem, M ilchik, the T V repairman who speaks fo r all the Jews in the universe and the entire hum an race, tells his stonj.

d i t o r ’s N o t e : T h is is a n o r ig in a l sto ry w r itte n e x p re s sly f o r th is v o lu m e a n d ca u se f o r c e le b ra tio n , s in c e it is th e fi r s t s to r y th a t W illia m T e n n h a s w r itte n in se ven years. T h a t is a lo n g tim e to k e e p y o u r readers w a itin g . T he e d ito r h o p e s th is is th e b e g in n in g o f a W illia m T e n n ren a issa n ce.

E

W e lc o m e hom e.

*

So YOU’R E LOOKING a t m e , Mr. Big-Shot Journalist, as if you’re surprised to see a little, gray-haired, gray-bearded man. H e m eets you at the spaceport and h e ’s driving a piece of m achinery that on E arth you w ouldn’t even give to a dog’s grandm other, she should take it w ith her to the cem etery and be buried in it. This is the m an —you’re saying to yourself—this nobody, this piece of nothing, w ho’s supposed to tell you about the biggest, strangest develop­ m ent in Judaism since Johannan Ben Zakkai sat down w ith the Sanhedrin in Jabne and said, “The m eeting will please com e to order.” Are you talking to the w rong man, you w ant to know? Did you come across space, fifty, sixty, I don’t know, m aybe seventy million miles just to see a schlemiel in a cracked helm et w ith a second­ hand oxygen canister on his back? The answ er is this: you are not talking to the wrong man. Poor as he is, shabby as he is, unlucky as he is, you are talking to the one m an who can tell you all you w ant to know about those trouble-m akers from the fourth planet of the star Rigel. You are talking to Milchik, the TV repairm an. Himself. In person. All we do is p ut your belongings in the back of the m odule and then we get in the front. You have to slam the door—a little harder, please—and then, if this is still working and that is still working, and the poor old m odule feels like making another trip, w e’ll be off. Luxury it definitely is not, a spaceport limousine you certainly could not call it, b ut—m odule, shm odule—it gets you there. You like dust storms? T hat’s a dust storm. If you don’t like dust 9

WILLIAM

TENN

10

storms, you shouldn’t come to Venus. It’s all we got in the way of scenery T he beach at Tel Aviv we don’t got. Grossinger s, from ancient tim es in the Catskills, we don’t got. D ust storms we g o t But you’re saying to yourself, I didn’t come for dust storms I didn’t com e for conversation. I cam e to find out w hat happened to the Jews of the galaxy w hen they all gathered on Venus. Why should this schm endrik, this Milchik the TV m an, have anything special to tell m e about such a big event? Is he a special wise man, is he a scholar, is he a p ro p h et among his people? So I’ll tell you. No, I’m not a wise m an, I’m not a scholar, m certainly not a prophet. A living I barely m ake, going from level to level in the D arjeeling Burrow w ith a tool box on my back, repairing the cheapest kind of closed-circuit sets. A scholar m not, b u t a hum an being I am. And that s the first thing you oug t to know. Listen, I say to Sylvia, my wife, don’t our Sages say that he who m urders one m an m urders the entire hum an race. So doesn’t it follow then that he who listens to one m an listens to the whole hum an race? And that he who listens to one Jew on Venus is listening to all the Jews on Venus, all the Jews in the universe, even, from one end to the other. But Sylvia—go talk to a woman!—says, “Enough already with your Sages! We have th ree sons to marry. W ho’s going to pay for their brides’ transportation to Venus? You think for nothing a nice Jewish girl will come here, from another planetary system may e —she’ll come to this gehenna of a planet and go live in a hole in the ground, she’ll raise children, they w on’t see the sun, they w on’t see the stars, they’ll only see plastic walls and elevators an drunken cadm ium m iners com ing in to spend their pay and have a goyische good tim e. You think just because a girl likes the stereo transcript of one of our sons and is willing to com e here and m arry him we don’t have to pay h er fare and m aybe som ething a little extra she should enjoy herself on the way? W here do the Sages say the m oney comes from? Do they say m aybe we should nail up a new collection box in the shul: ‘H elp the Milchik boys find brides —their father is too busy w ith philosophy’?”

On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi

u

I don’t have to rem ind you—you’re a journalist, you’re an e d u ­ cated m an—w hat Solomon says in Proverbs about women: a good one, he says, has got to cost you a lot m ore in the end than pearls. And still, someone in the family has to think about m oney and the boys getting brides. T hat’s the second point. The first point is that I’m a hum an being and a Jew, two different things maybe, and I’ve got the right to speak for all hum an beings and for all Jews. O n top of that, I’m a Jewish father w ith th ree full-grown sons here on Venus, and if you w ant to do an injury to your worst enem y, you say to him, “Listen. You’re Jewish? You got three sons? Go to Venus.” And th a t’s the third point. Why I, Milchik the TV m an, am telling you this, and why you come all the way from E arth just to listen to m e. Because I’m not only a Jewish father, but I ’m also— Listen. Could I ask you a question? You w on’t be offended? You sure you w on’t be offended? You’re not Jewish, by any chance? I m ean, do you have any Jewish ancestors, a grandfather, a great-grandm other maybe? Are you sure? Well, th at’s w hat I m ean. Maybe one of your ancestors changed his nam e back in 2533—2533 by your calendar, of course. I t’s not exactly that you look Jewish or anything like that, it’s just that you’re such an intelligent m an and you ask such intelligent questions. I couldn’t help w ondering— You like Jewish food? In tw enty, twenty-five m inutes my poor old tired m odule will pull us out of this orange dust and into the D arjeeling air lock. T hen you’ll sit down to a Jewish meal, believe m e, you’ll kiss every one of your fingers. W e get almost all of our Jewish food shipped h ere from Earth, special packaging and spe­ cial arrangem ent. And, naturally, special cost. My wife Sylvia makes a dish, they com e from all over our level just to taste: chopped reconstituted herring. It’s an appetizer and we like appe­ tizers in our family. So w hat I’ve been telling you, after all, is only an appetizer. I have to get you in exactly the right mood for the m ain dish, the big story you cam e for. Sylvia makes all the food w e eat in the shul—our synagogue.

WILLIAM

TENN

12

You know, the ham antashen, all that. She even prepares the for­ mal Saturday m orning breakfast, the bagels and lox and cream cheese th at all the m en m ust eat before they say their Sabbath prayers. W e re all orthodox here and we practice the Levittow n rite. O ur rabbi, Joseph Smallman, is superorthodox Levittown: he wears a yarm ulka, and on top of the yarm ulka a black hom burg which has been passed down from father to son in his family for I don’t know how m any centuries. Oh look how you’re smiling! You know I’ve m oved from the appetizer to the m ain dish. Rabbi Joseph Smallman. It’s only Venus, and it’s m aybe the seventh or eighth Darjeeling burrow listed on the m ap, b ut have we got ourselves a rabbi! To us he s an Akiba, a Rambam. M ore than that. You know w hat we call him w hen we re alone, among ourselves? W e call him the G reat Rabbi of Venus. Now you’re laughing out loud. No, don’t apologize: I heard a chuckle come out of you, like a belch, you should excuse the expression, after a big dinner. This Milchik the TV m an, you’re saying to yourself, he and his neighbors in the burrow they com e to m aybe seventy or eighty Jewish families, they’re m aking a living, with G od’s help, out of the holes in each o th er’s pockets—and their rabbi is the G reat Rabbi of Venus? The littlest hole in the ground claims the biggest hre. I t’s impossible, maybe? Is anything impossible to the Most High, blessed be His Name? After all, as the Sages tell us, “The last shall be first.” Just don’t ask m e, please, which Sages. Why is he the G reat Rabbi? Well, first of all, why shouldn’t Rabbi Smallman be a G reat Rabbi? H e needs a certificate from the G reat Rabbi Licensing Rureau? You have to graduate from the G reat Rabbi Special Yeshiva to becom e a G reat Rabbi? That s first of a l: you’re a G reat Rabbi because you act like a G reat Rabbi, you re recognized like a G reat Rabbi, you m ake decisions like a G reat Rabbi And you m ust have heard som ething of how he acted and how he decided w hen all the Jews in the universe held a congress right here on Venus. If you h ad n ’t heard, you w ouldn’t have come

On Venus , Have We Got a Rabbi

all the way from E arth for this interview. O ther people had heard, too. They’d heard of his piety, learning, and wisdom—of his modesty, of course, I say nothing—long before the First Interstellar Neozionist C onference on Venus. People heard and people talked, and they cam e from as far away as the Gus Grissom Burrow to ask him for rabbinical decisions. You’ve got the tim e to listen to just one example? Sure you’ve got the time: you’re driving through a heavy dust storm in a m odule th a t’s coughing its guts out, a m odule that knows Milchik the TV m an gives it the best of everything—charged-up pow er cells, a brand-new fan belt—even if it m eans that he can’t afford to put food on his own table. For Milchik, the m odule will keep going no m atter what, w hen by itself it would ask for nothing b e tte r than to lie down and die in comfort. And the m odule also likes to listen to Milchik expounding Halacha, the holy rules and laws. About five years ago, som ething terrible happened on the eve of the Passover. T here was an explosion aboard a cargo ship on its way to Venus. No one was hurt, but the cargo was dam aged and the ship arrived very late, just a couple of hours before the first seder was to begin. Now on this ship was all the special Passover food that had been ordered from E arth by the twenty-four Jewish families of the Altoona Burrow, and th e special food was in cans and airtight packages. W hen the delivery was m ade, the Altoona people noticed that the cans had been banged about and dented —but, worse than that, most of the cans had tiny holes all over them . Disaster! According to the Rabbinical Council of 2135 on Space Travel Kashruth, food which is in a pu n ctu red can is au­ tomatically unclean, unclean for daily use, unclean for Passover use. And here it is almost the seder and w hat can they do? These are not rich people: they don’t have reserves, they don’t have alternatives, they don’t even have their own rabbi. If it’s a m atter of life and death, all right, anything goes; but it isn’t life and death, all it m eans is that they’ll have to eat hum etz, non-Passover food, they w on’t be able to celebrate the seder. And a Jew who

H

WILLIAM

TENN

can’t celebrate the D eliverance from Egypt w ith m atzo, with b itter herb, w ith charoseth, w ith Passover wine, such a Jew is like a bride w ithout a w edding canopy, like a synagogue w ithout a Torah scroll. T he Altoona Burrow is connected to the D arjeeling Burrow; it s a suburb of ours. T hat’s w hat I said—a suburb. Listen, I know we re a small place, but w here is it w ritten that small places, no m atter how small, are not entitled to suburbs? If Grissom can have four­ teen suburbs, we can have two. So naturally the Altoona people, white-faced, worried, their m ouths opening and closing w ith ag­ gravation, brought the problem to our Rabbi Joseph Smallman. Nothing was leaking from the cans, they said, but the result of the one test they had conducted was bad: as recom m ended by the Rabbinical Council of 2135, they had taken a hair from som ebody’s head and poked it into a hole in a can—and the hair had not visibly curled back out. Did that m ean that all the expensive food shipped across space had to be condem ned, no seders in the Altoona Bur­ row? Well, of course th at’s w hat it m eant—or would have m eant to an ordinary rabbi. Rabbi Smallman looked at them and looked at them , and he scratched the pim ple on the right side of his nose. H e’s a p retty good-looking m an, Rabbi Smallman, strong and chunky w ith a face like a young Ben-Gurion, but he does always seem to have a big red pim ple on the side of his nose. T hen he got up and w ent to his bookcase and took out half a dozen volumes of Talm ud and the last th ree volumes of the Proceedings of the Rabbinical Council on Space Travel. And he looked in each book at least once, and he sat and thought for a long tim e after each passage. Finally he asked a question: “W hich hair did you use and from whose head?” They showed him the hair, a fine, w hite hair from the head of the oldest great-grandfather in the Altoona Burrow, a hair as thin and as delicate as a baby’s first sigh. So this hair did not curl back, he said, “from a hole in that particular can. So m uch for your test w ith a hair of your selection. Now for my test w ith a hair of my

On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi

selection.” And he called over my oldest boy, Aaron David, and told him to pluck out a hair. You’re not blind, you can see my hair, even at my age, how heavy and coarse it is. And believe m e, it’s thinning out, it’s noth­ ing to w hat it was. My boy, Aaron David, he has the traditional hair of our family, each one twice, th ree times as thick as a norm al hair, his head always going up into a black explosion. W hen he comes with m e, as helper on a job, the custom er usually says som ething like, “W ith a head of hair like that, w hat for do you need to carry around coaxial cable?” I say to them : “Bite your tongue. Maybe Ham an or H itler would have used his hair for coaxial cable, or that unholy pair, Sebastian Pom bal and Juan Crevea, they also liked to take our heads as raw m aterial in their terrible factories, b ut don’t you talk like that in the year 2859 to a Jewish father about his Jewish son.” The E ternal, blessed be He, m ay dem and my son of me, but to nobody else will I be an Abraham who doesn’t defend his Isaac. You know w hat I m ean? So w hen Rabbi Smallman picks up a d en ted can and pokes Aaron D avid’s hair at a hole, the hair comes back right away like a piece of ben t wire. W hat else? And w hen he tries it with another can, again the hair w on’t go in. So Rabbi Smallman points to the first can they brought him, the one they tested w ith the old m an’s hair, and he says, “I declare the food in this can unfit and unclean. But these others,” and he waves his hand at the rest of the ship­ m ent, “are perfectly acceptable. Carry them hom e and enjoy your seder.” They crowd around him w ith tears in their eyes and they thank him and they thank him. T hen they gather the cans together and they hurry back to their burrow —it’s getting late and it’s tim e to begin the search for the last bits of h um etz that you have to do before you can tu rn to the Pesadikeh food. The Altoona people rush out, in a few m inutes, I tell you, it was as it says in the Second book of the Holocaust: “T here was none left, not one.” You understand, I hope, w herein lies the greatness of this deci­ sion? Jews from all over Venus discussed it and everyone, every­

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w here, m arveled. No. I’m sorry, you’re wrong: the greatness did not lie m erely in a decision that m ade it possible for some poor Jews to enjoy their own Passover seders in their own homes. That s based on a simple p recep t—that it’s b e tte r to have a Jew w ithout a beard than a beard w ithout a Jew. Try again. No, that s not right either: using a thick hair from my son s head was not especially brilliant—under those particular circumstances, any really good rabbi would have done the same. For that you don’t have to be a Hillel already; you just have to avoid being a literal-m inded Shammai. T he point still eludes you, right? Goijische kop! My apologies. I didn’t m ean to speak in a language you don’t know. W hat did I say? It was just a simple com m ent about, well, how some people are in tended to be students of Talmud, and other people are not intended to be students of Talmud. It’s kind of like an old saying am ongst us. Sure I ’ll explain. Why great? In the first place. Almost any d e ­ cent rabbi would have seen the im portance of that food being found fit and clean. And in the second place. A good rabbi, a first-class rabbi, would have found a way to do it, a hair from my son, a this, a that, anything. But, in the third place, only a truly great rabbi would have exam ined that m any books and thought that long and hard about the m atter before he announced his decision. How could they really enjoy the seder unless they had perfect confidence in his decision? And how could they have p e r­ fect confidence unless they had seen him w restle with it through nine separate volumes? Now do you see why we called him the G reat Rabbi of Venus, even five years before the Neozionist C on­ gress and the great Bulba scandal? Now I didn’t go so far in Talm udic study myself—a m an has a family to support, and closed-circuit TV repair on a planet like Venus doesn’t exactly help your m ind in clearing up the problem s of Gemara. But w henever I think of w hat our congregation here has in Rabbi Smallman, I think of how the Sages begin their argu­ m ent: “A m an finds a treasure . . . ” You shouldn’t get the impression, please, that a treasure is a

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treasure to everyone. Almost all the Jews on Venus are A sh ­ kenazi tn—people whose ancestors em igrated from E astern E urope to America before the Holocaust and who didn’t re tu rn to Israel after the Ingathering—b ut there are at least th ree kinds of Ashkenazim, and only our kind, the Levittow n Ashkenazim, call Rabbi Smallman the G reat Rabbi of Venus. T he W illiamsburg Ashkenazim, and there are a lot m ore of them than there are of us, the black-gabardined Ashkenazim who shake and pray and shake and pray, they call Rabbi Smallman the lox-and-bagels rabbi. And on the other hand, the Miami Ashkenazim, the rich all-rightniks who live in the big IBM Burrow, to them a rabbi is a girl who hasn’t yet gotten m arried and is trying to do som ething intellec­ tual w ith herself. It’s said that the W illiamsburg Ashkenazim be­ lieve in miracle-working, that the Levittow n Ashkenazim believe it’s a m iracle w hen they find work, and that the Miami Ash­ kenazim don’t believe in m iracles and don’t believe in work, they only believe in the im port-export business. I can see you’re rem em bering I said before th at I was through with the appetizer and ready to serve the m ain dish, the story you came for. And w here, in all that I ’ve just been telling you, is the m ain dish, you w ant to know? Listen, relax a little. Figure it this way: first I gave you an appetizer, then, after that, for the last few m inutes, you’ve been having a soup course. You’re through with the soup? Fine. Now we bring out the m ain dish. Only—just a second m ore. T h e re ’s som ething else you have to have first. Call it a salad. Look, it’s a very small piece of salad. You’ll be finished with it in no tim e. Now please. You’re not the cook; you’re only a custom er. You w ant a story th at’s like a sandwich? Go someplace else. Milchik serves only com plete meals. That night, after the seder, I’m sitting on a bench outside our apartm ent in the D arjeeling Burrow. To m e, this is always the best time. It’s quiet, most people have gone to bed, and the corridor doesn’t smell from crowds. All through the corridors, the lights are being tu rn ed down to half their wattage. T h at’s to let us know it’s night on Earth. Exactly where it’s night on E arth, w hat p art of

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E arth, I have no idea. Darjeeling, maybe. As I sit thinking, Aaron David comes out of th e apartm ent and sits dow n near m e on the bench. Papa, he says after a while. “That was a great thing Rabbi Smallman did today.” I nod, sure, certainly it was a great thing. Aaron David puts his hand up to the part of his head w here he pulled the single hair out. H e holds his hand tight against the spot and looks across the corridor. “Before this,” he says, “I just w anted, but now I m ore than want. I’m going to be a rabbi.” “Congratulations,” I say. “Me, I’m going to be the Viceroy of Venus.” “I’m serious, Papa. I’m really serious.” “I’m joking? I don’t think there s a chance 1 11 one day be ap­ pointed by the Council of Eleven Nations Terrestrial, and the Presidents of Titan and Ganym ede? I’d do a worse job than that hooligan we got right now, his h eart should only explode inside his chest? All right,” I say to him, “all right,” because now he turns and looks at m e, w ith his eyes that are Sylvia’s eyes, and eyes like that, let m e tell you, can look. “So you w ant to be a rabbi. W hat good is the wanting? Anything you w ant that I can give, I ’ll give. You know I have that little insulated screw driver, the blue one, that was m ade in Israel over five hundred years ago, w hen Israel was still a Jewish state. That precious little screw driver, it’s like the bones of my right hand, that I ’ll give you if you ask for it. But I can t give you tuition m oney for a yeshiva, and m ore im portant, I can t even find the transportation m oney for a bride. A tradition, now, it’s hundreds of years old, ever since the Jews began em igrating into space, and a Levittow n bride m ust com e from another planet —and it’s not only you, it’s also your two brothers. A rational creature, boychik, has to w orry in an organized way. First the bride m oney, then we talk about yeshiva money. Aaron David is close to crying. If only—if— H e bites his lip. “If I say. “If—You know w hat we say about i f If your grand­ m other would have had testicles, she’d have b een your grandfa­ ther. Consider the problem : if you w ant to be a rabbi, especially

On Venus, Have We Got a Rabbi

a Levittow n rabbi, you have to know th ree ancient languages even before you begin; you have to know H ebrew , you have to know Aramaic, you have to know Yiddish. So I’ll tell you what. If. I f you can learn enough beforehand, m aybe i f the m iracle ever happens and we can send you to a yeshiva, you can go through faster than usual, rapid-advance, before the whole family goes bankrupt. I f Rabbi Smallman, for example, gives you lessons.” “H e’ll do that,” he says excitedly. “H e’s doing it already!” “No, I ’m not talking about just lessons. I’m talking about lessons. The kind you have to pay for. H e’ll teach you one day after supper, and I’ll review w ith you the next day after supper. T hat way I’ll learn too, I w on’t be such an ignoramus. You know w hat the Sages say about studying Talmud: ‘G et thee a com rade . . . ’ You’ll be my com rade, and I ’ll be your com rade, and Rabbi Smallman will be both our com rade. And w e’ll explain to your m other, w hen she screams at us, that w e’re getting a bargain, two for one, a special.” So th a t’s w hat we did. To m ake the extra m oney, I started hauling cargo from the spaceport in my m odule—you notice it drives now as if it’s got a hernia? And I got Aaron David a parttim e job down on the eighteenth level, in the boiler room. I figured if Hillel could almost freeze to death on that roof in order to becom e a scholar, it’s no tragedy if my son cooks him self a little bit for the same reason. It works. My son learns and learns, he begins to have m ore the walk and talk of a scholar and less the walk and talk of a TV repairm an. I learn too, not so m uch of course, but enough so that I can sw eeten my conversation w ith lines from Ibn Ezra and M endele M ocher Sforim. I’m not any richer, I’m still a kasrilik, a schlemiel, but at least now I’m a bit of an educated schlemiel. And it works also for Rabbi Smallman: h e ’s able to send his family once a year on a vacation to E arth, w here they can sit around a piece of lake and see w hat real w ater is like in the natural state. I’m happy for him, m e and my herniated m odule. The only thing I’m not happy about is that I still can’t see any hope for yeshiva tuition m oney. But, listen, learning is still learning. As F reud says, just to

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see from W arsaw to Minsk, even if you don’t see right and you don’t understand w hat you see, it’s still a great thing. But who, I ask you, can see from h ere to Rigel? And on the fourth planet, yet, they’ll com e here and create such a com m o­ tion? From the Neozionist m ovem ent, of course, we had already heard a long tim e ago. Jews always hear w hen other Jews are getting together to m ake trouble for them . W e’d heard about Dr. Glickm an’s book, w e’d heard about his being killed by Vegan Dayanists, w e’d heard about his followers organizing all over the galaxy—listen, w e’d even had a collection box installed in our synagogue by some of his party people here on Venus: In m em ­ ory of the heroic Dr. Glickman, and to raise funds to buy back the Holy Land from the Vegan aliens.” W ith th at I have no particular quarrel; I’ve even dropped a couple of coins myself in the pushke from tim e to time. After all, why shouldn’t Milchik the TV m an, out of his great wealth, help to buy back the Holy Land? But the Neozionist m ovem ent is another m atter. I m not a cow­ ard, and show m e a real em ergency, I’m ready to die for my people. O utside of an emergency— well, we Jews on Venus have learned to keep the tips of our noses carefully under the surface of our burrows. It’s not that th e re ’s anti-Semitism on Venus—who would ever dream of saying such a thing? W hen the Viceroy an­ nounces five tim es a w eek that the reason Venus has an unfavora­ ble balance of trade w ith other planets is that the Jews are im port­ ing too m uch kosher food: that s not anti-Semitism, that s pure economic analysis. And w hen his M inister of the Interior sets up a quota for the num ber of Jews in each burrow and says you can only m ove from one place to another if you have special perm is­ sion: that also is not anti-Semitism, obviously, it’s efficient adm inis­ tration. W hat I say is, why upset a governm ent so friendly to the Jews? T h e re ’s another thing I don t like about Neozionism, and it s hard to say it out loud, especially to a stranger. This business about

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going back to Israel. W here else does a Jew belong b ut in that particular land? Right? Well, I don’t know, m aybe. W e started out there w ith Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. No good. So the first tim e we cam e back was w ith Moses, and that lasted for a while—until the Babylonians threw us out. T hen we cam e back un d er Zerubbabel, and we stayed th ere for five h u n d red years—until Titus burned the T em ple and the Romans m ade us leave again. Two thousand years of w andering around the w orld w ith nothing m ore to show for it than Maimonides and Spinoza, Marx and Einstein, F reud and Chagall, and we said, enough is enough, back to Israel. So back we w ent w ith Ben-Gurion and Chaim W eizm ann and the rest of them . For a couple of centuries we did all right, we only had to w orry about forty million Arabs who w anted to kill us, but th at’s not enough excitem ent for w hat God Himself, Blessed be His Name, called on M ount Sinai a “stiff-necked people.” We have to get into an argum ent—in the m iddle of the Interplanetary Crisis—w ith Brazil and Argentina. My feeling, I don’t know about the rest of the Jews, but I ’m getting tired. If no, is no. If out, is out. If good-bye, is good-bye. T hat’s not the way the Neozionists see it. They feel w e’ve had our rest. Tim e for another round. “L et the Third Exile end in our lifetimes. L et the Knesset be rebuilt in our age. Israel for the Jews!” Good enough. D on’t we still say, after all the wine, “Next year in Jerusalem ”? Who can argue? Except for the one small thing they overlooked, as you know: Israel and Jerusalem these days isn’t even for hum an beings. The Council of Eleven Nations Terrestrial wants no trouble w ith the Vegans over a sliver of land like Israel, not in these tim es w ith w hat’s going on in the galaxy: if both sides in the Vegan Civil W ar are going to claim the place as holy terri­ tory because the m en they call the founders of their religions once walked in it, let the bivalves have it, says the Council, let them fight it out betw een them selves. And I, Milchik the TV m an, I for one see nothing strange in a bunch of Vegan bivalves basing their religion on the life and leg­

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end of a particular Jew like Moshe D ayan and w anting to chop up any o ther Jews who try to re tu rn to the land of their ancestors. In the first place, it’s happened to us before: to a Jew such an attitude should by now begin to m ake sense. W here is it w ritten that a Dayanist should like D ayan’s relatives? In the second place, how m any Jews protested fifty years ago w hen the other side, the Ve­ gan Omayyads, claim ed all hum an M oham m edans w ere guilty of sacrilege and expelled them from Jerusalem ? Not, I’ll adm it, that such a protest would have b een as noticeable as a ripple in a saucer Well, the First Interstellar Neozionist C onference is organized, and it’s supposed to m eet in Basel, Sw itzerland, so that, I suppose, history can have a chance to repeat itself. And right away the Dayanist Vegans hear about it and they protest to the Council. Are Vegans honored guests of E arth, or aren ’t they? Their religion is being m ocked, they claim, and they even kill a few Jews to show how aggravated they are. O f course the Jews are accused of incit­ ing a pogrom , and it’s announced that in the interests of law and order, not to m ention peace and security, no Jewish entrance visas will be honored in spaceports anyw here on Earth. Fair is fair. M eanwhile delegates to the Conference are on their way from all over the galaxy. If they can’t land on E arth, w here do they go? And to w hat site should the Conference be transferred by the authorities? W here else but to Venus? It's the perfect place for such a confer­ ence. T he scenery is gorgeous—on the other side of the dust storms—and th e re ’s a Viceroy whose adm inistration loves the Jew ­ ish people most dearly. Besides, th e re ’s a desperate housing short­ age on Venus. T hat will create the kind of problem Jews love to solve: a game of musical burrows. Listen, it could have b e e n worse. As E sther said to M ordecai w hen he told h er of H am an’s plans to m assacre all the Jews of p ersia it could have b een worse, but I don’t for the m om ent see exactly how. So the delegates begin arriving in the Solar System, they re

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shunted to Venus—and don’t ask. Life becom es full of love and bounce for us all. First, a decree comes down. The delegates can ’t use hotel facilities on Venus, even if they’ve got the money: th ere are too m any of them , they’ll p ut a strain on the hotel system or something. Next, the Jews of Venus are responsible for their coreli­ gionists. In other words, not only is a Jew naturally a b ro th er to every other Jew, h e ’s now also got to be eith er a boarder or a landlord. Stop for a m om ent and reflect on how m any are inflicted on us. Each and every planet in the galaxy which has a hum an popula­ tion has at least a breath, a kiss, of Jewish population. So from this planet comes two delegates, from that one fifteen delegates, from that other one—w here th ere are plenty of Jews, they should live and be healthy, but they disagree with each other; comes a total of sixty-three delegates, organized in eight separate caucuses. It may not be nice to num ber Jews, even if they’re delegates, but you can figure for yourself that by the tim e the last one has landed at a Venusian spaceport, w e’ve got m ore than enough to go around. W e’ve got plenty. And on Venus, you don’t go up on the surface and throw together a couple of shacks for the visitors. The W illiamsburg Ashkenazim object. To them , some of these Jews a re n ’t even Jews; they w on’t let them into their burrows, let alone their homes. After all, Shom rim in khaki pants whose idea of a religious service is to stand around singing Techezachna, Reconstructionists who pray from a siddur that is rew ritten every Monday and W ednesday, Japanese Hasidim who put on tefill in once a year at sunset in m em ory of the G reat Conversion of 2112 —these are also Jews, say the W illiamsburg Ashkenazim? Exactly, these are also Jews, say the governm ent officials of Venus. Brothers and boarders they are, and you will kindly m ake room for them . And they send in police, and they send in troops. Heads are cracked, beards are torn, life, as I said, is full of love and bounce. And if you don’t object, you think it helps? Sure it helps—like a groan it helps. The L evittow n Ashkenazim announce w e’ll coop­

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erate w ith the governm ent, w e’ll provide housing for the dele­ gates to the lim it—beyond the limit, even. So w hat happens? My brother and his family and all their neighbors get evicted from the K w antung Burrow, it’s n eeded for delegate headquarters says the governm ent. An Interstellar Neozionist Congress we had to have? I look around and I rem em ber the prom ise m ade to Abraham, Isaac, and Israel—“I will m ultiply your seed as the stars of heaven” —and I think to myself, “A promise is a prom ise, but even a promise can go too far. T he stars by them selves are m ore than enough, b ut w hen each star has m aybe ten, tw enty planets . . . By this tim e, m e and my whole family, w e’re living in w hat used to be the kitchen of our apartm ent. My b rother and his family, it s a big family, they should live and be well, th ey ’re living in the dining room. In w hat my wife, Sylvia, calls the parlor, th ere s the wonder-w orking rabbi from Procyon XII and his entire court plus, in one corner of the parlor, th ere s the correspondent from the Jewish Sentinel of M elbourne, Australia, and his wife, and their dog, an Afghan. In the bedroom s—listen, why should I go on? In the bedroom s, th ere are crowds and argum ents and cooking smells th at I don’t even w ant to know about. Enough already? No, I am sorry to tell you, not enough. O ne day I go into the bathroom . A m an is entitled once in a while to go into the bathroom of his own apartm ent? It s nature, no? And th ere in the bathtub I see three creatures, each as long as my arm and as thick as my head. They look like th ree brow n pillows, all w rinkled and twisted, w ith some big gray spots on this side and on that side, and out of each gray spot there is growing a short gray tentacle. I didn’t know w hat they w ere, giant cock­ roaches m aybe, or some kind of plant that the delegates living with us brought along as food, but w hen they m oved I let out a yell. My son, Aaron David, cam e running into the bathroom . “W hat’s the m atter, Papa?” I pointed to the brow n pillows. They had some sort of ladder

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arrangem ent set up in the bathtub with small shelves in different places, and they w ere clim bing up and down, up and down. “W hat’s the m atter, you w ant to know, w hen I see things like that in my bathroom ?” “Oh, them . They’re the Bulbas.” “Bulbas?” “T hree of the delegates from the fourth planet of the star Rigel. The other three delegates are down the corridor in the G uttenplans’ bathroom .” “D elegates? You m ean th ey ’re Jewish?” I stared at them . “They don’t look Jewish.” Aaron David rolled his eyes up to the ceiling of the bathroom . “Papa you’re so old-fashioned! You yourself told m e that the blue Jews from Aldebaran show how adaptable our people are.” “You should pardon m e,” I said. “You and your adaptable. A Jew can be blue—I don’t say I like it, b ut who am I to argue w ith somebody else’s color schem e?—and a Jew can be tall or short. He can even be deaf from birth like those Jews from Canopus, Sirius, w herever they come from. But a Jew has to have arms and legs. He has to have a face w ith eyes, a nose, a m outh. It seems to m e th at’s not too m uch to ask.” “So their m ouths are not exactly like our m ouths,” Aaron David said excitedly. “Is that a crim e? Is that any reason to show preju­ dice?” I left him and I w ent to the bathroom in the synagogue. Call m e old-fashioned, all right, but th ere are still boundaries, th ere are certain places w here I have to stop. H ere, I have to say, Milchik cannot force him self to be m odern. Well. You know w hat happened. It turns out I’m not the only one. I took the day off and w ent to the first session of the Conference. "Rich m an,” my Sylvia says to m e. “My breadw inner. Fam ily pro­ vider. From political conferences you’re going to get brides for your th ree sons?” “Sylvia,” I say to her. “O nce in a lifetim e my custom ers can

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m aybe not have clear reception of the news broadcasts and Cap­ tain Iliad. O nce in a lifetim e I can go see representatives from all of the Jews of the Galaxy holding a m eeting and getting along with each o th er.” So I w ent. Only I can’t say they got along so good. First there was the dem onstration by the Association of Latter-D ay Mea Shearim (“If the Messiah appears and starts going from star to star, only to find that all Jews are already on E arth and in Is ra e l. . .”). W hen th at was quieted down, there was the usual Bronsteinite Trotskyist resolution aim ed at the Union of Soviet Uganda and Rhodesia, followed by the usual attem p t to excom m unicate re ­ troactively the authors of the Simplified Babylonian Talm ud that had b een published in 2685. T hen we had to sit through an hour of discussion about how the very existence of a six-story-high statue of Juan C revea in Buenos Aires was an affront and an insult and an agony to every Jew, and how we should all boycott A rgen­ tinian products until the statue was pulled down. I agreed with w hat the chairm an said w hen he m anaged to rule the discussion out of order: “We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted by such ancient agonies, such stale affronts. If we do, w here do we begin and w here do we stop? L et A rgentina have its statue of Crevea, let Düsseldorf have its Adolf H itler University, let Egypt and Libya continue to m aintain the Torquem ada Observatory on Pluto. This is not our business here today.” At last, finally, after all the traditional Jewish prelim inaries, they got down to the real problem s of the opening session: the accredi­ tation of delegates. And there, in no tim e at all, they got stuck. They got stuck and all m ixed up, like bits of lox in a lox om elette. The Bulbas. The th ree from my bathroom , the th ree from Max G uttenplan’s bathroom —the total delegation from Rigel IV. No question about their credentials, said the C om m ittee on Accreditation. Their credentials are in order, and they’re certainly delegates. The only thing is, they can’t be Jews. And why can’t we be Jews, the six Bulbas w anted to know? And here I had to stand up to get a good look, I could hardly believe my eyes. Because guess who their in te rp re te r was? No one else but

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my son, my kaddish, my Aaron David. Mr. Show-No-Prejudice in person. “Why can’t you be Jews? Because,” says the C om m ittee C hair­ man, stuttering with w et lips and plucking at the air with his right hand, “because Jews can be this, can be that. They can be a lot of things. But, first of all, they have to be hum an.” “You will kindly point out to us,” the Bulbas say through my son, the in terp reter, “w here it says and in which book that Jews have to be hum an. Name an authority, provide a quotation.” At this point the D eputy C hairm an comes up and apologizes to the C hairm an of the C om m ittee. The D eputy Chairm an is the kind who wins scholarships and fellowships. “You’ll pardon m e,” he says, “but you’re not m aking it clear. It’s a very simple m atter, really.” He turns to the Bulbas. “No one can be a Jew ,” he explains to the six of them , “who is not the child of a Jewish m other. T h at’s the most ancient, most fundam ental definition of a Jew .” “Aha,” say the Bulbas. “And from w hat do you get the im pres­ sion that we are not the children of Jewish m others? Will you settle for the copies of our birth certificates that we brought along with us?” T hat’s w hen the m eeting falls apart. A bunch of delegates in khakis starts cheering and stam ping their feet. A nother bunch with fur hats and long earlocks begins scream ing that this whole colloquy is an abomination. All over the hall argum ents break out, little clusters of argum ent betw een two and th ree people, big clusters of argum ent betw een tw enty and thirty people, argu­ m ents on biology, on history, on the Baba M ’tziya. The m an sitting next to m e, a fat, squinty-eyed m an to whom I haven’t said a word, suddenly turns to m e and pushes his forefinger into my chest and says: “But if you take that position, my dear fellow, how in the world can you m ake it com patible with the well-known decision, to m ention just one exam ple—’’And up on the platform , Bronsteinite Trotskyists have seized control of the public-address system and are trying to reintroduce their resolution on Uganda and Rhodesia. By the tim e some kind of order is restored, two blue Jews have

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been carried away to the hospital and a law yer from Ganym ede has b een arrested for using a hearing aid as a deadly weapon. Som eone calls for a vote, by the entire Congress, on the accredi­ tation of th e Bulbas. A ccreditation as w hat—som eone else wants to know—as delegates or as Jews? They’ve b een accepted as dele­ gates, and who are we to pass upon them as Jews? 1 11 accept them as Jews in the religious sense, someone else stands up to point out, but not in the biological sense. W hat kind of biological sense, he s asked by a delegate from across the hall; you don’t m ean biology, you m ean race, you racist. All right, all right, cries out a little m an w ho’s sitting in front of him, but would you w ant your sister to m arry one? It’s obvious that th ere are as m any opinions as there are dele­ gates. And the chairm an, up there on the platform , he s standing th ere and he doesn’t know w hat to do. Suddenly I notice one of the Bulbas is clim bing up on the plat­ form. These little tentacles, they use them for everything, for walking, for eating, for talking, for I don t know what. And this Bulba, he gets to the public-address system, and he vibrates one short tentacle for a while, and finally we hear w hat he says, faint and very soft. We hear th at funny voice, like a piece of paper rustling, all through the hall: “Modeh ani Ifo n e c h a .” The line, just translated by itself, m ay not m ean so m uch— “H ere I am standing before you” or “I p resent myself before you” but w hat Jew, even w ith only a fingernail’s w orth of religious background, could not be m oved by it, delivered in such a way and at such a tim e? Modeh ani I ’fonecha, the Jew says in the prayer, w hen he is directly addressing God, blessed be His Name. And th a t’s w hat we all of us now hear in the hall. D on’t talk to m e about race, the Bulba is actually saying, don t talk to m e about religion, don’t talk to m e about any legal or philosophical technicalities. I claim that I am a Jew, w hatever a Jew is, essentially and spiritually. As Jews, do you accept m e or reject me?

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No one can answer. Of course, all this is not getting the Congress any closer to Israel, to a re tu rn from the T hird Exile. But it’s obvious on the one hand that the m atter can’t be p u t on the table, and it’s obvious on the other hand that it can’t be taken off the table. This is not quite the kind of p ilp u l that our learned ancestors had to deal with. We have to find out: w hat is a Space Age Jew? So, by general agreem ent it is decided th at as Moses sm ote the rock to get w ater, w e’re going to smite a High Rabbinical Court to get wisdom. A High Rabbinical Court is appointed by the Accreditation Com m ittee. It has the kind of m em bership that will satisfy every­ body at least a little bit, even if it m eans th at the m em bers of the Court w on’t w ant to talk to each other. You know, a kind of kosher smorgasbord. T h ere’s the rabbi his followers call the Gaon of Tau Ceti. T h e re ’s the president of the U nitarian Jewish Theological Seminary. T h e re ’s the Borneo Mystic Rabbi. T h e re ’s a m em ber of the chalutziot rabbinate, w ith his bare chest and rolled-up sleeves. And so on, and so on. T here are two w om en rabbis, one to satisfy the m ajority Reconstructionist sect, and the o ther to keep the Miami Ashkenazim happy. And finally, because this is Venus, th e re ’s a rabbi from Venus: Rabbi Joseph Smallman. You w ant to know som ething? It’s not only because h e ’s from Venus, no m atter w hat the C om m ittee Chairm an says. The Bulbas have b een insisting that th ey ’re entitled to a rabbi who in some way will rep resen t them , and suddenly they w ant that to be Rabbi Smallman. I can tell w hat’s going on from w here I sit, I can see my son w ith his big m op of black hair going from one Bulba to an­ other, arguing, explaining, urging. H e’s talking them into it, that Aaron David of m ine. H e’s becom e the floor m anager at the nom i­ nating convention of a political party. “We did it!” he says to m e th at night in the apartm ent. His eyes are dancing like m eteors. “W e got Rabbi Smallman on the Rab­ binical C ourt.”

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I try to calm him down. “T hat by itself is not yet the equivalent of crossing the Red Sea on dry land, or of the oil which renew ed itself night after night. Just because Rabbi Smallman can push a black hair into a dent, you think he can push Jews into accepting six lum py brow n pillows as fellow Jews?” “H e can if anyone can.” “And if anyone can, why should he? Why should he even try to do such a thing?” My son gave m e the kind of look you give a doctor who tells you he wants to spray disease germ s at the electric fan. “Why, Papa! For the sake of justice.” W hen a son makes a father feel asham ed of himself, the father has a right to feel proud too. I sat down in a corner of the kitchen while Aaron David w ent into the bathroom to hold a consultation w ith his brow n Bulbas. But let m e tell you, I also felt sad. The wisdom of The Preacher I don’t quite have, b ut one thing I ’ve learned. W henever someone uses the w ord “justice,” sooner or later th e re ’s going to be a split head or a broken heart. From that day on, every free second I had, I rushed off to D ecatur Burrow to atten d the sessions of the High Rabbinical Court. Sylvia found out about it and my life was not easy. “While you’re studying this new trade, you and that son of yours,” she said, “som eone’s got to work at the old one. You’ll be a judge, he 11 be a district attorney, so I’ll have to be the TV man. Give m e a pair of pliers and the Index to the Printed Circuits, and I’ll go out and m ake a living.” “W om an,” I told her, “I ’m doing my work and my son’s work, and I’m keeping food on the table. If the custom ers don t com ­ plain, why should you? I don’t get drunk, I don’t take drugs. I’m entitled to nourish my spirit at the feet of scholars and wise m en. Sylvia looked up at the ceiling and clapped her hands together. “He can’t nourish first a couple of daughters-in-law into the house?” she asked the ceiling. “T hat’s a procedure that is specifi­ cally forbidden by the holy books?”

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No, my life was not easy. Why should I tell you otherwise? But w hat was going on in the D ecatur Burrow was so interesting I could hardly sit still while I listened to it. It was like a legend had come to life, it was like w atching the golem taking a stroll one day in dow ntow n Prague, it was like coming across the River Sabbathion and seeing it boil and bubble and throw up stones every day in the w eek but Saturday. Such history as the Bulbas told the Rabbinical Court! T hey’d come to the fourth planet of the star Rigel m aybe seven, eight h u n d red years ago in one of the first star ships. Originally, they had been a small orthodox com m unity living in Paramus, New Jersey, and the whole com m unity had b een expelled to m ake way for a new approach to the G eorge W ashington Bridge. So they had to go som ew here, right? So why not Rigel? In those days a trip to another solar system took almost a whole lifetime, children w ere born on the way, people had to live, you know, close. The star ship foundations w ere advertising for people who already got along w ith each other, who w ere living in groups—political groups, religious groups, village groups. T he Paramus, New Jersey, people w eren ’t the only ones who w ent out in a star ship looking for a quiet place w here they’d be left alone. T hat’s how the galaxy cam e to be so full of Amish and M ennonites, Black Muslims and Bangladesh intellectuals, and these old-fashioned polygamous Mormons who spit th ree tim es w hen you m ention Salt Lake City. The only trouble was that the one halfway com fortable planet in the Rigel system already had an intelligent race living on it, a race of brow n creatures w ith short gray tentacles who called them selves Bulbas. They w ere mostly peasants living off the land, and they’d just begun their industrial revolution. They had at most a small factory here, a mill or two, and a small sm elting plant there. The Jews from Paramus, New Jersey, had been hoping for a planet all to them selves, but the Bulbas m ade them so welcome, the Bulbas w anted them so m uch to settle on their planet and bring in trade with the rest of the galaxy, that they looked at each other and they said, why not?

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So the Jews settled there. They built a small com m ercial space­ port, and they built houses, and they fixed up a shul and a heder and a teenage recreation center. Nu, they called the place home. At this point in the story, one of the rabbinical judges leaned forw ard and interrupted. “But while this was going on, you looked like Jews? I m ean, the kind of Jews w e’re familiar w ith?” “Well, m ore or less. W hat we looked like particularly, w e u n d e r­ stand, was Jews from New Jersey.” “T hat’s close enough. C ontinue.” For a hundred, a h undred and fifty years, th ere was happiness and prosperity. The Jews thrived, the Bulbas thrived, and there was peace betw een them . But you know w hat Isaac Leib P eretz says about the town of Tzachnovka? “It hangs by nothing.’ Every Jewish com m unity, everyw here, hangs by nothing. And, unfortu­ nately, nothing is not so strong. Sooner or later it gives way. W ith the Jews to help them , the Bulbas began to becom e im por­ tant. They built m ore factories, m ore sm elting plants, they built banks and com puter centers and autom obile junkyards. They b e­ gan to have big wars, big depressions, big political dictatorships. And they began to w onder why they w ere having them . Is th ere any other answ er to such a question? T h e re ’s only one answer. T he Jews, naturally. Philosophers and rabble-rousers pointed out that before the Jews cam e th e re ’d b een no such tro u ­ ble. The Jews w ere responsible for everything. So Rigel IV had its first pogrom. And after the governm ent had apologized, and helped the Jews to bury their dead, and even offered to pay for some repairs, tw enty or thirty years later th ere was a second pogrom. And then there was a third pogrom , and a fourth pogrom. By this tim e, the governm ent was no longer apologizing, and it was the Jews who w ere paying for repairs. Now th ere cam e ghettos, th ere cam e barring from certain occu­ pations, there even cam e, from tim e to tim e, concentration camps. Not that it was all terrible: th ere w ere pleasant interludes. A governm ent of m urderers would be followed by a halfway d e ­

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cent governm ent, a governm ent, say, of just maimers. T he Jews sank into the position of the Jews who lived in Yemen and Morocco a thousand years ago, in the eighteenth and n in eteen th centuries. They did the dirtiest, m ost poorly paid work of all. Everybody spit at them , and they spit at themselves. But Jews they rem ained. They continued their religious studies, even though, on the whole planet by this tim e, th ere was not one set of the Talm ud w ithout missing books, th ere was not one Torah scroll w ithout em pty spaces. And the centuries w ent by, and they knew wars and tyrannies, devastations and exterm inations. Until recently, w hen a new, enlightened governm ent had com e to pow er over all of Rigel IV. It had restored citizenship to the Jews and allowed them to send a delegation to th e Neozionist Congress. The only trouble was that by this tim e, after all they’d been through, they looked like just plain Bulbas. And they looked like the weakest, poorest Bulbas of all, Bulbas of the very lowest class. But in the past couple of m onths they’d learned that this sort of thing had happened to other Jews, in other places. Jews ten d ed to blend into their environm ent. After all, h ad n ’t th ere been blonde Jews in Germ any, redheaded Jews in Russia, black Jews—the Falashas—in Ethiopia, tall M ountain Jews in the Caucasus who had been as fine horsem en and m arksm en as their neighbors? H adn’t there b een Jews who had settled in China far back in the Han Dynasty and who w ere know n in the land as the “T ’ai Chin Chiao”? W hat about the blue Jews sitting in this very Congress? And, for th at m atter— Another interruption. “These are norm al physiological changes that can be explained on a reasonable genetic basis.” If it’s possible for a brow n cushion w ith short gray tentacles to look shocked, this brow n cushion with short gray tentacles looked shocked. “Are you suggesting that such Jews—the Chinese Jews, the Russian Jews—interm arried and w ere allowed to rem ain within the congregation?” “No, b ut there are other possibilities. Rape, for exam ple.” “So m uch rape? Again and again?”

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The judges m u ttered to each other uncomfortably. Then: “In o ther words, despite your appearance, you are asking us to believe th at you are Jews, and not Bulbas?” The brow n cushion stretched forw ard w ith all of its tentacles. “No, we are asking you to believe that we are Bulbas. Jewish Bulbas.” And it explained about the genealogical charts it was offering in evidence. T he most prized possession of every Jewish family on Bigel IV was its genealogical chart. These records had been p re ­ served intact through fires and wars and pogroms, no m atter w hat else had been destroyed. No Jewish w edding ever took place on Rigel IV unless both parties could produce thoroughly validated genealogical charts. T hrough them , each Jewish Bulba could trace his ancestry back to the very first settlers on th e planet. “I, for exam ple,” the speaker said proudly, “I, Yitzhak ben Pinchas, am the direct descendant of Melvin Cohen, the assistant m anager of a superm arket in Paramus, New Jersey.” And the argum ent got thicker and thicker. How is it possible, the judges w anted to know, for such trem endous changes to take place? Isn’t it m ore likely that at some tim e or another all the Jews on Rigel IV w ere w iped out and that then th ere was a mass conver­ sion of some sort, similar to the one experienced among the Khazars of the eighth century and the Japanese later? No, said the Bulbas, if you knew w hat conditions have been like for Jews on Rigel IV you w ouldn’t talk about mass conversions to Judaism. T hat would have been mass insanity. All that happened is th at we began as ordinary Jews, we had a lot of trouble, a lot of tim e w ent by, and w hen it was all over this is w hat we looked like. “But th at denies the experim ental facts of biology!” The Bulbas w ere very reproachful. “Who are you going to b e ­ lieve, the experim ental facts of biology—or your fellow Jews?” And th at was just the first day. I got back to my ap artm en t and I told my brother all about it. We began discussing the case. He took one side and I took the other. In a few m inutes, I was waving my fist in his face and he was scream ing that I was “an idiot, an

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animal!” From the next room we heard the wonder-w orking rabbi from Procyon XII trying to quiet down a similar argum ent among the m em bers of his court. “They w ant to be Jews,” my brother yelled at m e, “let them convert to Judaism. T hen they’ll be Jews. Not before.” “M urderer!” I said to him. “Dolt of dolts! How can they convert to Judaism w hen they’re already Jews? Such a conversion would be a filthy, shameful mockery!” “W ithout a conversion I absolutely refuse to go up on the bima and read a portion w ith one of them . W ithout a conversion they cannot join my m inyan, even if no m atte r w here I look I can’t come up w ith m ore than nine m en. W ithout a conversion, even if I’m celebrating a circumcision cerem ony for a son—” H e broke off, his eyes got suddenly calm er, m ore thoughtful. “How do they circumcise, do you suppose, Milchik? W here and w hat do they circum cise?” “They cut off a very little bit from the tip of their shortest tentacle, Uncle Fleischik,” said my Aaron David, w ho’d just walked in. “It’s a fold of flesh that looks a lot like a foreskin. Besides, you know, only one drop of blood is required by the Covenant. Blood they got.” “A new speciality,” said Sylvia as she p u t out the supper. “Now, God be praised and thanked, my son is a mohel. ” Aaron David kissed her. “Put my supper aside until later, Mamma. Me and the Bulbas are going to m eet w ith Rabbi Small­ m an in his study.” L et m e tell you, m aybe my son was no longer the in te rp re te r since the Bulbas had found voices, but he was still their floor m anager. Every day I could see him jum ping from one to the other while the case was being discussed. Som ething special has to be looked up? They n eed a copy of Rov Chaim M ordecai Brech er’s Com m entary on the Book o f R uth? Who goes running out of the hall to get it but my Aaron David? After all, that turns out to be a very im portant issue. Ruth was a M oabite, and from h er cam e eventually King David. And how

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about E zra and the problem of the Jewish m en who took Canaanite wives? And w here do you fit the Samaritans in all this? Jewish wom en, you’ll rem em ber, w ere not allowed to m arry Samaritans. And w hat does Maimonides have to say on the sub­ ject? M aimonides is always Maimonides. I tell you, day after day, it was like the dream of my life to listen to all those m asters and sages. And th en the Court comes through tim e to the form ation of the Jewish State in the tw entieth century. All those problem cases w hen the Ingathering began. The Bene-Israel Jews, for example, of Bombay. The other Indians called them Shanw ar Teles, “Satur­ day oilm en,” and they w ere supposed to have arrived in India as a result of the invasion of Palestine by Antiochus Epiphanes. Al­ most all they rem em bered of Judaism was the Shema, and there w ere two castes who didn’t interm arry, one w hite, one black. W ere they really Jewish? W ere both castes Jewish? And how do you prove it? And m ore up-to-date, m ore com plicated discussions. The Japa­ nese and the Conversion of 2112, and the results am ong Jews of the Ryo-Ritsu tractates. T he Mars-Sirius controversy and the whole problem of the blue Jews. The attitude of the Lubavitchers toward Sebastian Pom bal—let Pombal and Crevea, I say, lie deep, deep in the ground—and w hat that m eant to Israel as an ind ep en ­ den t state. It all comes down to: W hat is a Jew? So one of the Bulbas can say, in that thin, rustling voice: “Do not put m e in the position of the W icked Son in the Haggadah. Do not put m e in the state of yotzei m in haklal, one who departs from the Congregation. I have said we to my people; I have not said you. ” So he quotes from the Passover service, and all of us have a catch in our throat and tears on our face. But it still comes down to: W hat is a Jew? W herefore is this people different from every other people? And you know som ething? T hat’s not an easy question to an­ swer. Not w ith all the different kinds of Jews you’ve got around today.

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So the Court can m ove into other, even m ore tangled-up places. It can weigh the definition of a hum an being th at was w orked out by the Council of Eleven Nations Terrestrial, during the Sagittarian War. It can look at N apoleon’s questions on interm arriage and the answers of the Paris Sanhedrin of 1807. It can turn at last to Cabala, even if th ree of its m em bers don’t w ant to, and ask about the problem of m onster births that are brought on by cohabitation w ith the C hildren of Lilith. But in the end it has to decide w hat a Jew is, once and for all—or it has to find some kind of new way out. Rabbi Smallman found some kind of new way out. O n Venus, I’m telling you, have we got a rabbi! Since this was a special court, set up u n d er special circum ­ stances, facing a question nobody had ever faced before, I ex­ pected m ore than one decision. I expected sw eet and sour deci­ sions, hot decisions and cold decisions, chopped decisions and m arinated decisions. I was sure w e’d see them “confound there their language, that they m ay not understand one an o th er’s speech.” But no. Rabbi Smallman argued w ith each and all, and he brought them around to one point of view, and he w rote most of w hat was the final judgm ent. To bring a bunch of Jews—and learned Jews!—to a single decision, that, my friend, is an achieve­ m ent that can stand. All through the case, w henever an argum ent broke out betw een the judges, and it looked like we w ere going to spend a couple of weeks on w hether it was a black thread or a w hite thread, you’d see Rabbi Smallman scratch th e red pim ple on the side of his nose and say that m aybe we could all agree on the fact that at least it was a piece of thread? And I got the impression—I adm it it’s a father speaking—that he looked at my Aaron David, and that my Aaron David nodded. This was even before they cam e in w ith a judgm ent. O f course, betw een us, they knew they had to come in w ith a something. The Congress was at a standstill, the delegates didn’t know how m any delegates th ere were, and they w ere arguing the m atter out every day along w ith the Court. T here w ere fights over

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the Bulbas, th ere w ere factions over the Bulbas, and a lot of people had gone hom e already saying they w ere sick and tired of the Bulbas. So. The decision review ed all the evidence, all th e com m entaries, all the history, from E zra and N ehem ia on. It showed w hat was to be said for the conservative group in the Court, the group which began and ended w ith the traditional proposition that a Jew is som eone who is provably the child of a Jewish m other. T hen it w ent into w hat was to be said for the liberal-radical wing, the people who felt that a Jew is anyone who freely accepts the ol, the yoke, the burden, of Jewishness. And then the decision discussed a couple of positions in-betw een, and it pointed out that th ere was no way to sew them all together. But do they have to be sewn together? Is th ere any chance that a hum an being and a Bulba will m ate? And w hat happens if we go d eep er and d eep er into space, to another galaxy even, and we find all kinds of strange creatures who w ant to becom e Jews? Suppose we find a thinking entity whose body is nothing but waves of energy, do we say, no, you’re entirely unacceptable? Do we know for sure that it is? Look at it another way. Among hum an beings th ere are Jews and th ere are goyi?n, gentiles. Betw een Jews th ere are a lot of different types, Reform ed, blue, Levittown, W illiamsburg, and they don’t get along w ith each other so good, but m easure them against goyim and th ey ’re all Jews. B etw een Jew and goy there are a lot of differences, but m easure them against any alien and they’re both hum an beings. The w ord goy does not apply to aliens. Up to recently. W e’ve all seen, in the last century or two, how some creatures from the star Vega have adopted an E arth-type religion, two dif­ ferent Earth-type religions, in fact. They w on’t let Jews into the land of Israel, they m aneuver against us, they persecute us. Are these ordinary aliens, then? Certainly not! They m ay look nonhu­ m an, like crazy giant oysters, but they definitely have to be put

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into the category of goyische aliens. Aliens may be aliens, but the Vegans are quite different as far as Jews are concerned: the Vegans are alien goyim. Well, if there are alien goyim, why can’t th ere be alien Jews? We don’t expect hum an goyim to m arry alien goyim, and we don’t expect hum an Jews to m arry alien Jews. But we can certainly face the fact that there are aliens who live as we do, who face problem s as we do, and—if you w on’t m ind—who worship as we do. T here are aliens who know w hat a pogrom tastes like, and who also know the sweetness of our Sabbath. L e t’s put it this way: there are Jews —and th ere are Jews. The Bulbas belong in the second group. These are not the exact words of the decision, you understand. It’s a kind of free translation, provided for you w ith no extra charge by Milchik the TV man. But it gives you enough to gnaw on. Not everyone w ent along w ith the decision. Some of the Bulbas complained. And a whole bunch of W illiamsburgniks walked out of the Congress saying, Well, w hat could you expect? But the m ajority of the delegates w ere so happy to have the thing settled at last that they voted to let the decision stand and to accept the Bulbas. So the Bulbas w ere also happy: they w ere full Jewish dele­ gates. The only trouble was, just as they w ere finally getting down to the business of the Congress, an order cam e dow n from the Vice­ roy of Venus abolishing it. He said the Congress had gone on too long and it was stirring up bad feelings. All the delegates w ere sent packing. Some excitem ent for a planet like this, no? Rabbi Smallman is still our rabbi, even though h e ’s famous now. H e’s always going away on lecture tours, from one end of the galaxy to the other. But he always comes back to us, every year, for the High Holy Days. Well, not exactly, you know how it is, once in a while he can’t m ake it. A celebrity, after all. T he G reat Rabbi of Venus. H e’s in d e­ mand. And so’s my Aaron David, in a way. He finally m ade it to a

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yeshiva. T he Bulbas are paying for it, they sent him to one on the other side of Venus, in the Yoruba Burrow. O nce in a while I get a lette r from him. W hat he plans to do, it’s the agreem ent he has w ith them , h e ’s going to go to Rigel IV and be their rabbi. But of a possible bride he says nothing. Listen, m aybe I’ll tu rn out to be the grandfather of a lum py brow n pillow w ith short gray tentacles? A grandchild, I guess, is still a grandchild. I don’t know. L e t’s talk about som ething cheerful. How m any people would you say w ere killed in that earthquake on Callìsto?

AVRAM D A V I D S O N

The Golem

The Golem is the Jew ’s Frankenstein. (Indeed, the Golem legends m ig h t have prom pted the idea fo r M ary Shelley’s F ran ­ kenstein.,) Legend has it that the Golem was created out o f clay by Rabbi Low o f Prague fo r the protection o f persecuted Jews. Its dreadful corpse is said to be still lying in the attic o f a synagogue, ready to be raised again i f needed. The Golem is one o f the m ost pow erful sym bols to come out o f Jewish lore. It is a sym bol o f fe a r and dread, but also o f love and pride, fo r it was created w ith G od’s consent. The Golem is a clay m annikin, an autom aton infused w ith life to become m a n ’s servant and, hopefully, an instrum ent o f G od’s will. Upon its forehead is w ritten the sacred word Shem, the life-principle. I f this word is rubbed out, the Golem w ill sink into a lu m p o f clay. Thus m an retains ultim ate power over his clay servant. B ut each day the Golem increases in strength and size. One day the owner m ig h t fin d that he cannot reach its forehead to erase the sacred word. So the Golem becomes a threat, even when it is d u tifu lly perform ing good deeds. In the end, the Golem goes mad. The creation o f an artificial being becomes a tragedy. A vram Davidson has blended the legend into a warm, poignant, sometim es comic story set in a modern land o f Jewish makebelieve, that warm country called California where everything is stable and quiet and fille d w ith hours o f sweet-sad reminiscence. There, white-haired couples who have always been in love can hold hands and count nephews and speak Yiddish. A place o f sim ple expectations and, o f course, no surprises. Sometimes. - J D.

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*

w here old Mr. and Mrs. G um beiner lived. It was afternoon, it was autum n, the sun was warm and soothing to their ancient bones. Anyone who atten d ed the movies in th e tw enties or the early thirties has seen that street a thousand times. Past these bungalows w ith their half-double roofs Edm und Lowe walked arm -in-arm with Leatrice Joy, and Harold Lloyd was chased by C hinam en waving hatchets. U nder these squamous palm trees Laurel kicked Hardy and Woolsey beat W heeler upon the head w ith codfish. Across these pockethandkerchief-sized lawns the juveniles of the O ur Gang Comedies pursued one another and w ere pursued by angry fat m en in golf knickers. O n this same street—or perhaps on some other one of five hundred streets exactly like it. Mrs. G um beiner indicated the gray-faced person to her hus­ band. “You think m aybe h e ’s got som ething th e m atter?” she asked. “He walks kind of funny, to m e.” “Walks like a golem, ” Mr. G um beiner said indifferently. The old wom an was nettled. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I think he walks like your cousin M endel.” The old m an pursed his m outh angrily and chew ed on his pipe stem. The gray-faced person tu rn ed up the»concrete path, walked up the steps to the porch, sat dow n in a chair. Old Mr. G um beiner ignored him. His wife stared at the stranger. “Man comes in w ithout a hello, good-bye, or howareyou, sits himself down, and right away h e ’s at hom e. . . . The chair is T h e g ra y -fa c e d p e rso n cam e a lo n g th e s t r e e t

42

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com fortable?” she asked. “W ould you like m aybe a glass tea?” She tu rn ed to her husband. “Say something, G um beiner!” she dem anded. “W hat are you, m ade of wood?” The old m an smiled a slow, wicked, trium phant smile. “Why should I say anything?” he asked the air. “Who am I? Nothing, th a t’s w ho.” The stranger spoke. His voice was harsh and monotonous. “W hen you learn who—or rath er w hat—I am, the flesh will m elt from your bones in terro r.” He bared porcelain teeth. “N ever m ind about my bones!” the old wom an cried. “You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about my bones!” “You will quake w ith fear,” said the stranger. Old Mrs. G um ­ beiner said that she hoped he would live so long. She turned to her husband once again. “G um beiner, w hen are you going to m ow the law n?” “All m ankind—” the stranger began. “Shah! I’m talking to my husband. . . . H e talks eppis kind of funny, G um beiner, no?” “Probably a foreigner,” Mr. G um beiner said, complacently. “You think so?” Mrs. G um beiner glanced fleetingly at the stranger. “H e’s got a very bad color in his face, nebbich. I suppose he cam e to California for his health.” “Disease, pain, sorrow, love, grief—all are nought to . . .” Mr. G um beiner cut in on the stranger’s statem ent. “Gall bladder,” the old m an said. “G uinzburg down at the shule looked exactly the same before his operation. Two professors they had in for him, and a private nurse day and night.” “I am not a hum an being!” the stranger said loudly. “T hree thousand seven hundred fifty dollars it cost his son, G uinzburg told me. ‘For you, Poppa, nothing is too expensive— only get w ell,’ the son told him .” “I am not a hum an being!” “Ai, is that a son for you!” the old w om an said, rocking her head. “A h eart of gold, pure gold.” She looked at the stranger. “All right,

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all right, I heard you the first tim e. Gum beiner! I asked you a question. W hen are you going to cut the lawn?” “On W ednesday, odder m aybe Thursday, comes the Japaneser to the neighborhood. To cut lawns is his profession. M y profession is to be a glazier—retire d .” “B etw een m e and all m ankind is an inevitable h a tre d ,” the stranger said. “W hen I tell you w hat I am, the flesh will m elt—” “You said, you said already,” Mr. G um beiner interrupted. “In Chicago w here the w inters w ere as cold and b itter as the Czar of Russia’s h eart,” the old w om an intoned, “you had strength to carry th e fram es w ith the glass together day in and day out. But in California with the golden sun to mow the lawn w hen your wife asks, for this you have no strength. Do I call in the Japaneser to cook for you supper?” “Thirty years Professor Allardyce spent perfecting his theories. Electronics, neuronics—” “Listen, how educated he talks,” Mr. G um beiner said, adm ir­ ingly. “Maybe he goes to the University here?” “If he goes to the University, m aybe he knows Bud?” his wife suggested. “Probably they’re in the same class and he cam e to see him about the hom ew ork, no?” “Certainly he m ust be in th e same class. How m any classes are there? Five in ganzen: Bud showed m e on his program card.” She counted off her fingers. “Television A ppreciation and Criticism, Small Boat Building, Social Adjustm ent, The A m erican D ance . . . T he Am erican D ance—nu, G um beiner—” “C ontem porary Ceram ics,” her husband said, relishing the syl­ lables. “A fine boy, Bud. A pleasure to have him for a boarder.” “After thirty years spent in these studies,” the stranger, who had continued to speak unnoticed, w ent on, “he tu rn ed from the theoretical to the pragm atic. In ten years’ tim e he had m ade the most titanic discovery in history: he m ade m ankind, all m ankind, superfluous: he m ade me. ” “W hat did Tillie w rite in her last letter?” asked the old man.

The Golem

45

The old woman shrugged. “W hat should she write? The same thing. Sidney was hom e from the army, Naomi has a new boy friend—” “He made Me!” “Listen, Mr. W hatever-your-name-is,” the old wom an said, “m aybe w here you cam e from is different, but in this country you don’t in te rru p t people the while they’re talking. . . . Hey. Listen —w hat do you m ean, he m ade you? W hat kind of talk is that?” The stranger bared all his teeth again, exposing the too-pink gums. “In his library, to which I had a m ore com plete access after his sudden and as yet undiscovered death from entirely natural causes, I found a com plete collection of stories about androids, from Shelley’s Frankenstein through C apek’s R.U.R. to Asimov’s “Frankenstein?” said the old m an, w ith interest. “T here used to be Frankenstein who had the soda-master place on Halstead Street: a Litvack, nebbich.” “W hat are you talking?” Mrs. G um beiner dem anded. “His nam e was Frankcn thal, and it w asn’t on Halstead, it was on Roose­ velt.” “—clearly showing that all m ankind has an instinctive antipathy toward androids and th ere will be an inevitable struggle betw een them —” “Of course, of course!” Old Mr. G um beiner clicked his teeth against his pipe. “I am always wrong, you are always right. How could you stand to be m arried to such a stupid person all this tim e?” “I don’t know,” the old wom an said. “Sometimes I w onder, myself. I think it m ust be his good looks.” She began to laugh. Old Mr. G um beiner blinked, th en began to smile, th en took his wife’s hand. “Foolish old w om an,” the stranger said, “why do you laugh? Do you not know I have com e to destroy you?” “W hat!” old Mr. G um beiner shouted. “Close your m outh, you!”

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He darted from his chair and struck the stranger with the flat of his hand. T he stranger’s head struck against the porch pillar and bounced back. “W hen you talk to my wife, talk respectable, you hear?” Old Mrs. G um beiner, cheeks very pink, pushed her husband back in his chair. Then she leaned forw ard and exam ined the stranger’s head. She clicked her tongue as she pulled aside the flap of gray, skinlike m aterial. “G um beiner, look! H e’s all springs and wires inside!” “I told you he was a golem, but no, you w ouldn’t listen,” the old m an said. “You said he w alked like a golem. ” “How could he walk like a golem unless he was one?” “All right, all right. . . . You broke him, so now fix him .” “My grandfather, his light shines from Paradise, told m e that w hen MoHaRaL—M oreynu Ha-Rav Low—his m em ory for a bless­ ing, m ade the golem in Prague, three hundred? four hundred years ago? he w rote on his forehead the Holy N am e.” Smiling rem iniscently, the old woman continued, “And the golem cut the rabbi’s wood and brought his w ater and guarded the ghetto.” “And one tim e only he disobeyed the Rabbi Low, and Rabbi Low erased the Shem Ha-Mephorash from the golem's forehead and the golem fell down like a dead one. And they put him up in the attic of the shule and h e ’s still there today if the Com m unisten haven’t sent him to Moscow. . . . This is not just a story,” he said. “A vadda not!” said the old woman. “I m yself have seen both the shule and the rabbi’s grave,” her husband said, conclusively. “But I think this m ust be a different kind golem, G um beiner. See, on his forehead: nothing w ritten.” “W hat’s the m atter, th e re ’s a law I can’t w rite som ething there? W here is that lum p clay Bud brought us from his class?” The old m an washed his hands, adjusted his little black skullcap, and slowly and carefully w rote four H ebrew letters on the gray forehead.

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47

“Ezra the Scribe him self couldn’t do b e tte r,” the old woman said, admiringly. “Nothing happens,” she observed, looking at the lifeless figure sprawled in the chair. “Well, after all, am I Rabbi Low?” her husband asked, deprecatingly. “No,” he answered, file leaned over and exam ined the ex­ posed m echanism . “This spring goes here . . . this w ire comes with this one . . . ” The figure m oved. “But this one goes w here? And this one?” “L et b e,” said his wife. The figure sat up slowly and rolled its eyes loosely. “Listen, Reb Golem, ” the old m an said, wagging his finger. “Pay attention to what I say—you understand?” “U nderstand. . . . ” “If you w ant to stay here, you got to do like Mr. G um beiner says.” “Do-like-Mr.-Gumbeiner-says. . . .” “T hat’s the way I like to h ear a golem talk. Malka, give here the m irror from the pocketbook. Look, you see your face? You see on the forehead, w hat’s w ritten? If you don’t do like Mr. G um beiner says, h e ’ll wipe out w hat’s w ritten and you’ll be no m ore alive.” “No-more-alive. . . .” “T hat’s right. Now, listen. U nder the porch you’ll find a lawnm ower. Take it. And cut the lawn. Then com e back. Go.” “Go. . . .” The figure sham bled down the stairs. Presently the sound of the law nm ow er w hirred through the quiet air in the street just like the street w here Jackie Cooper shed huge tears on Wallace B eery’s shirt and C hester Conklin rolled his eyes at Marie Dressier. “So w hat will you w rite to Tillie?” Old Mr. G um beiner asked. “W hat should I w rite?” Old Mrs. G um beiner shrugged. “I’ll w rite that the w eather is lovely out here and that we are both, Blessed be the Name, in good health.” The old m an nodded his head slowly, and they sat together on the front porch in the w arm afternoon sun.

ISAAC ASIMOV

Unto the Fourth Generation

The m ystique o f the assim ilated Jew: He's polished, ur­ bane, suburban, modern, middle-class, m ild ly — i f at all—reli­ gious, well-educated, politically liberal, socially insecure, and a second-generation American. He identifies with, and embodies, Am erican culture. H e’s Mr. New Yorker, the man on the way up, the cultural catchall. B ut his roots are carefully hidden, his links to the old world and his rich heritage seem ingly severed. He m ust still come to terms w ith him self, his modern lifestyle, and his ancestral culture. So here is a parable fo r that m ythical assim ilated Jew, an answer to the question: assim ilation or continuation? Isaac Asimov, one o f science fic tio n ’s forem ost yarnspinners, blends fo lk spirit w ith city sophistication to create a dream -distant New York where shadows o f the past leave their im prints on Madison A venue shop windows a nd old m en can come back fo r one last look at the young. J D.

49

*

Sam M arten hitched his way out of the taxicab, trying as usual to open the door with one hand, hold his briefcase in another and reach for his wallet with a third. Having only two hands, he found it a difficult job and, again as usual, he thudded his knee against the cab-door and found him self still groping use­ lessly for his wallet w hen his feet touched pavem ent. The traffic of Madison Avenue inched past. A red truck slowed its crawl reluctantly, th en m oved on w ith a rasp as the light changed. W hite script on its side inform ed an unresponsive world that its ow nership was that of F. L ew kow itz and Sons, Wholesale Clothiers. Levkovich, thought M arten with brief inconsequence, and finally fished out his wallet. He cast an eye on the m eter as he clam ped his briefcase under his arm. Dollar sixty-five, m ake that tw enty cents m ore as a tip, two singles gone would leave him only one for em ergencies, b e tte r break a fiver. “Okay,” he said, “take out one-eighty-five, bu d .” “Thanks,” said the cabbie w ith m echanical insincerity and m ade the change. M arten cram m ed th ree singles into his wallet, put it away, lifted his briefcase and breasted the hum an currents on the sidewalk to reach the glass doors of the building. Levkovich? he thought sharply, and stopped. A passerby glanced oíf his elbow. “Sorry,” m u ttered M arten, and m ade for the door again. Levkovich? T hat w asn’t w hat the sign on the truck had said. The nam e had read Lewkowitz, Loo-koh-itz. Why did he th in k Lev-

A t te n o f noon,

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5i

kovich? Even with his college G erm an in the near past changing the w ’s to v’s, w here did he get the “-ich” from? Levkovich? He shrugged the whole m atte r away roughly. Give it a chance and it would haunt him like a H it Parade tinkle. C oncentrate on business. H e was here for a luncheon appoint­ m ent w ith this m an, Naylor. H e was here to tu rn a contract into an account and begin, at tw enty-three, the smooth business rise which, as he planned it, would m arry him to Elizabeth in two years and m ake him a paterfam ilias in the suburbs in ten. He e n te red the lobby w ith grim firmness and headed for the banks of elevators, his eye catching at the w hite-lettered directory as he passed. It was a silly habit of his to w ant to catch suite num bers as he passed, w ithout slowing, or (heaven forbid) coming to a full halt. W ith no break in his progress, he told himself, he could m aintain the im pression of belonging, of knowing his way around, and that was im portant to a m an whose job involved dealing with other hum an beings. Kulin-etts was w hat he w anted, and the word am used him. A firm specializing in the production of m inor kitchen gadgets, striv­ ing m anfully for a nam e that was significant, fem inine, and coy, all at once— His eyes snagged at the M’s and m oved upw ard as he walked. Mandel, Lusk, L ippert Publishing Com pany (two full floors), Lafkowitz, Kulin-etts. T here it was— 1024. T enth floor. O.K. And then, after all, he cam e to a dead halt, tu rn ed in reluctant fascination, retu rn ed to the directory, and stared at it as though he w ere an out-of-towner. Lafkowitz? W hat kind of spelling was that? It was clear enough. Lafkowitz, H enry J., 701. W ith an A. That was no good. That was useless. Useless? Why useless? H e gave his head one violent shake as though to clear it of mist. D am n it, w hat did he care how it was spelled? H e turned away, frow ning and angry, and hastened to an

ISAAC

ASIMOV

elevator door, which closed just before he reached it, leaving him flustered. A nother door opened and he stepped in briskly. He tucked his briefcase under his arm and tried to look bright alive—junior executive in its finest sense. H e had to m ake an impression on Alex Naylor, w ith whom so far he had com m unicated only by tele­ phone. If he was going to brood about Lewkowitzes and Lafkowitzes— The elevator slid noiselessly to a halt at seven. A youth in shirt­ sleeves stepped off, balancing w hat looked like a desk-draw er in which w ere th ree containers of coffee and th ree sandwiches. Then, just as the doors began closing, frosted glass w ith black lettering loom ed before M arten’s eyes. It read: 701— H EN R Y J. L EFK O W IT Z — i m p o r t e r and was pinched off by the inexorable coming together of the elevator doors. M arten leaned forw ard in excitem ent. It was his impulse to say: Take m e back down to 7. But th ere w ere others in the car. And after all, he had no reason. Yet th ere was a tingle of excitem ent w ithin him. T he D irectory had been wrong. It w asn’t A, it was E. Some fool of a non-spelling m enial w ith a packet of small letters to go on the board and only one hind foot to do it with. Lefkowitz. Still not right, though. Again, he shook his head. Twice. Not right for what? The elevator stopped at ten and M arten got off. Alex Naylor of Kulin-etts tu rn ed out to be a bluff, m iddle-aged m an w ith a shock of w hite hair, a ruddy complexion, and a broad smile. His palms w ere dry and rough, and he shook hands w ith a considerable pressure, p utting his left hand on M arten’s shoulder in an earnest display of friendliness. H e said, “Be with you in two m inutes. How about eating right here in the building? Excellent restaurant, and they’ve got a boy who makes a good m artini. T hat sound all right?” “Fine. F ine.” M arten pum ped up enthusiasm from a somehowclogged reservoir.

Unto the Fourth Generation

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It was nearer ten m inutes than two, and M arten w aited w ith the usual uneasiness of a m an in a strange office. H e stared at the upholstery on the chairs and at the little cubby-hole within which a young and bored switchboard operator sat. H e gazed at the pictures on the wall and even m ade a half-hearted atte m p t to glance through a trade journal on the table next to him. W hat he did not do was think of Lev— He did not think of it. The restaurant was good, or it would have been good if M arten had been perfectly at ease. Fortunately, he was freed of the neces­ sity of carrying the b u rd en of the conversation. Naylor talked rapidly and loudly, glanced over the m enu w ith a practiced eye, recom m ended the Eggs Benedict, and com m ented on the w eather and the m iserable traffic situation. On occasion, M arten tried to snap out of it, to lose that edge of fuzzed absence of mind. But each tim e the restlessness would return. Som ething was wrong. T he nam e was wrong. It stood in the way of w hat he had to do. W ith m ain force, he tried to break through the madness. In sudden verbal clatter, he led the conversation into the subject of wiring. It was reckless of him. T here was no proper foundation; the transition was too abrupt. But the lunch had b een a good one; the dessert was on its way; and Naylor responded nicely. He adm itted dissatisfaction w ith existing arrangem ents. Yes, he had been looking into M arten’s firm and, actually, it seem ed to him that, yes, th ere was a chance, a good chance, he thought, that— A hand cam e down on N aylor’s shoulder as a m an passed behind his chair. “H ow ’s the boy, Alex?” Naylor looked up, grin ready-m ade and flashing. “Hey, Lefk, how’s business?” Can t complain. See you at the—” He faded into the distance. M arten w asn’t listening. He felt his knees trem bling, as he half­

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rose. “W ho was that m an?” he asked, intensely. It sounded m ore perem ptory than he intended. “Who? Lefk? Jerry Lefkovitz. You know him ?” Naylor stared with cool surprise at his lunch companion. “No. How do you spell his nam e?” “L-E-F-K-O-V-I-T-Z, I think. Why?” “W ith a V?” “An F. . . . Oh, th e re ’s a V in it, too.” Most of the good nature had left Naylor’s face. M arten drove on. “T h e re ’s a Lefkowitz in the building. W ith a W. You know, Lef-COW -itz.” “Oh?” “Room 701. This is not the same one?” “Jerry doesn’t work in this building. H e’s got a place across the street. I don’t know this other one. This is a big building, you know. I don’t keep tabs on everyone in it. W hat is all this, anyway?” M arten shook his head and sat back. H e didn t know w hat all this was, anyway. O r at least, if he did, it was nothing he dared explain. Could he say: I’m being haunted by all m anner of Lefkowitzes today. He said, “We w ere talking about w iring.” Naylor said, “Yes. Well, as I said, I’ve been considering your company. I’ve got to talk it over with the production boys, you understand. I’ll let you know .” “Sure,” said M arten, infinitely depressed. Naylor w ouldn’t let him know. The whole thing was shot. And yet, through and beyond his depression, there was still that restlessness. The hell w ith Naylor. All M arten w anted was to break this up and get on with it. (Get on with what? But the question was only a whisper. W hatever did th e questioning inside him was ebbing away, dying down. . . .) The lunch frayed to an ending. If they had g reeted each other like long-separated friends at last reunited, they parted like stran­ gers.

Unto the Fourth Generation

55

M arten felt only relief. He left w ith pulses thudding, threading through the tables, out of the haunted building, onto the haunted street. H aunted? Madison Avenue at 1:20 P.M . in an early fall afternoon with the sun shining brightly and ten thousand m en and w om en be-hiving its long straight stretch. But M arten felt the haunting. He tucked his briefcase under his arm and headed desperately northw ard. A last sigh of the norm al w ithin him w arned him he had a three o’clock appointm ent on 36th Street. N ever m ind. He headed uptow n. Northward. At 54th Street, he crossed Madison and walked west, cam e abruptly to a halt and looked upward. T here was a sign on the window, th ree stories up. He could m ake it out clearly: A. S. LEFK O W IC H , C E R T IF IE D ACCOUNTANT. It had an F and an OW, but it was the first “-ich” ending he had seen. The first one. He was getting closer. H e tu rn ed north again on Fifth Avenue, hurrying through the unreal streets of an unreal city, panting with the chase of something, while the crowds about him began to fade. A s ig n in a g r o u n d - f l o o r w i n d o w , M. R. LEFK O W IC Z, M.D. A small gold-leaf semi-circle of letters in a candy-store window: JACOB LEVKOW.

(Half a nam e, he thought savagely. Why is he disturbing m e with half a name?) The streets w ere em pty now except for the varying clan of Lefkowitz, Levkowitz, Lefkowicz to stand out in the vacuum. He was dimly aw are of the park ahead, standing out in painted motionless green. He turned west. A piece of new spaper fluttered at the corner of his eyes, the only m ovem ent in a dead world. He veered, stooped, and picked it up, w ithout slackening his pace. It was in Yiddish, a torn half-page. H e couldn’t read it. H e couldn’t m ake out the blurred H ebrew letters, and could not have read it if they w ere clear. But one word was clear. It stood out in dark letters in the cen ter of the page,

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each lette r clear in its every serif. And it said Lefkovitsch, he knew, and as he said it to himself, he placed its accent on the second syllable: Lef-KUH-vich. H e let the paper flutter away and e n te red the em pty park. The trees w ere still and the leaves hung in odd, suspended attitudes. T he sunlight was a dead w eight upon him and gave no w arm th. He was running, but his feet kicked up no dust and a tuft of grass on which he placed his w eight did not bend. And th ere on a bench was an old man; the only m an in the desolate park. He w ore a dark felt hat, w ith a visor shading his eyes. From u n d erneath it, tufts of gray hair protruded. His griz­ zled beard reached the upperm ost button of his rough jacket. His old trousers w ere patched, and a strip of burlap was w rapped about each w orn and shapeless shoe. M arten stopped. It was difficult to breathe. H e could only say one word and he used it to ask his question: “Levkovich?” H e stood there, while the old m an rose slowly to his feet; brow n old eyes peering close. “M arten,” he sighed. “Samuel M arten. You have com e.” The words sounded w ith an effect of double exposure, for under the English, M arten heard the faint sigh of a foreign tongue. U nder the “Sam uel” was the unheard shadow of a “Schmu-el.” The old m an’s rough, veined hands reached out, then w ithdrew as though he w ere afraid to touch. “I have been looking but th ere are so m any people in this wilderness of a city-that-is-to-come. So m any M artins and M artines and M ortons and M ertons. I stopped at last w hen I found greenery, but for a m om ent only—I would not com m it the sin of losing faith. And then you came. “It is I,” said M arten, and knew it was. “And you are Phinehas Levkovich. Why are we h ere?” “I am Phinehas ben Jehudah, assigned the nam e Levkovich by the ukase of the Tsar that o rdered family nam es for all. And we are h e re ,” the old m an said, softly, “because I prayed. W hen I was

Unto the Fourth Generation

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already old, Leah, my only daughter, the child of my old age, left for Am erica with her husband, left the knouts of the old for the hope of the new. And my sons died, and Sarah, the wife of my bosom, was long dead and I was alone. And the tim e cam e w hen I, too, m ust die. But I had not seen Leah since her leaving for the far country and word had com e but rarely. My soul yearned that I m ight see sons born unto her, sons of my seed, sons in w hom my soul m ight yet live and not die.” His voice was steady and the soundless shadow of sound beneath his words was the stately roll of an ancient language. “And I was answ ered and two hours w ere given m e that I m ight see the first son of my line to be born in a new land and in a new tim e. My d au g h ter’s d au g h ter’s daughter’s son, have I found you, then, am idst the splendor of this city?” “But why the search? Why not have brought us together at once?” “Because th ere is pleasure in the hope of the seeking, my son,” said the old m an, radiantly, “and in the delight of the finding. I was given two hours in which I m ight seek, two hours in which I m ight find . . . and behold, thou art here, and I have found that which I had not looked to see in life.” His voice was old, caressing. “Is it well w ith thee, my son?” “It is well, my father, now that I have found th ee,” said M arten, and dropped to his knees. “Give m e thy blessing, my father, that it may be well w ith m e all the days of my life, and with the m aid whom I am to take to wife and the little ones yet to be born of my seed and thine.” H e felt the old hand resting lightly on his head and th ere was only the soundless whisper. M arten rose. T he old m an’s eyes gazed into his yearningly. W ere they losing focus? “I go to my fathers now in peace, my son,” said the old m an, and M arten was alone in the em pty park. T here was an instant of renew ing m otion, of the sun taking up

ISAAC

ASIMOV

its in te rru p ted task, of the wind reviving, and even with that first instant of sensation, all slipped back— At ten of noon, Sam M arten hitched his way out of the taxicab, and found him self groping uselessly for his wallet while traffic inched on. A red truck slowed, th en m oved on. A w hite script on its side announced: F. L ew kow itz and Sons, Wholesale Clothiers. M arten d id n ’t see it.

C A R O L CARR

Look, You Think You’ve Got Troubles

The delights o f hum or rest on fe a r and foible. Its best materials are insecurity, discomfort, frustration, hypocrisy, and nostalgia; its favorite tools are satire, ironic self-mockery, and exaggeration. It is both a fo il and a shield, an effective armor against a hostile society. Quite a bit o f contem porary Am erican hum or takes its cues fro m Jewish culture, and Jewish hum or— that particular blend o f lan­ guage, style, caricature, and profound alienation— becomes an im portant societal mirror. Spoken w ith the tongue o f the outsider —the anti-hero—it has the sophistication o f the urban m iddle class and the grit and pith o f the ghetto. A n d i t ’s taken to heart. A s A lbert G oldm an says, ‘\J ewishness its e lf has become a meta­ phor fo r modern life. The individual Jew— the alien in search o f identity— has become a sym bolic protagonist. ” Jewish hum or—a term, like science fiction, that is too broad and illusive to pin dow n— m ight best be defined by example. Take a nice Jewish couple w ith a nice Jewish daughter who marries a Martian. H e’s the ultim ate goy, or is he? I f love can conquer all, w hat then happens to tradition and law and culture and despond­ ent parents? L et them be conquered w hile the reader settles into rocket ships and belly laughs. B ut watch out fo r that m ythical assim ilated Jew peeking around the corner. H e’s grinning slyly and baring his chest. J D.

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T o t e l l y o u T H E t r u t h , in the old days we would have sat shivah for the whole week. My so-called daughter gets m arried, my own flesh and blood, and not only he doesn’t look Jewish, h e ’s not even hum an. “Papa,” she says to m e, two seconds after I refuse to speak to her again in my entire life, “if you know him you’ll love him, I prom ­ ise.” So w hat can I answ er—the truth, like I always tell her: “If I know him I’ll vomit, th a t’s how he affects me. I can help it? He makes m e w ant to throw up on him .” W ith silk gloves you have to handle the girl, just like her m other. I tell her w hat I feel, from the heart, and right away her face collapses into a hundred cracks and w ater from the Atlantic O cean makes a soggy mess out of her paper sheath. And that s how I rem em ber her after six m onths—standing in front of m e, sopping w et from the tears and m aking m e feel like a m onster—m e—w hen all the tim e it’s her you-should-excuse-the-expression husband who’s the m onster. After she’s gone to live w ith him (New Horizon Village, Crag City, Mars), I try to tell m yself it’s not m e who has to—how can I put it?—deal w ith him intim ately; if she can stand it, why should I complain? I t’s not like I n eed somebody to carry on the business; my business is to enjoy m yself in my retirem ent. But who can enjoy? Sadie doesn’t leave m e alone for a m inute. She calls m e a crim inal, a worthless no-good w ith gallstones for a heart. “H ector, w h ere’s your brains?” she says, having finally given up on my emotions. I can’t answ er her. I just lost my daughter, I should worry about my brains too? I’m silent as the grave. I can t eat a thing. I’m em pty—drained. I t’s as though I’m waiting for 60

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som ething to happen but I don’t know what. I sit in a chair that folds m e up like a bee in a flower and rocks m e to sleep with electronic rhythm s w hen I feel like sleeping, but who can sleep? I look at my wife and I see Lady M acbeth. O nce I caught her whistling as she pushed the button for her bath. I fixed her with a look like an icicle tipped w ith arsenic. “W hat are you so happy about? Thinking of your grandchildren with the tw elve toes?” She doesn’t flinch. An iron woman. W hen I close my eyes, which is rarely, I see our daughter w hen she was fourteen years old, with skin just beginning to go pim ply and no expression yet on her face. I see her walking up to Sadie and asking her w hat she should do with her life now she’s filling out, and my darling Sadie, my life’s m ate, telling her why not m arry a freak; you got to be a beauty to find a m an here, b ut on Mars you shouldn’t know from so m any fish. “I knew I could count on you, M ama,” she says, and goes ahead and m arries a plant w ith legs. Things go on like this—impossible—for months. I lose tw enty pounds, my nerves, three tee th and I’m on the verge of losing Sadie, w hen one day the m ailchute goes ding-dong and it’s a letter from my late daughter. I take it by the tips of two fingers and bring it in to w here my wife is punching ingredients for the gravy I w on’t eat tonight. “It’s a com m unication from one of your relatives.” “Oh-oh-oh.” My wife makes a grab for it, m eanw hile punching C REA M -TO M ATO -SAU CE-BEEF D R IPPIN G S. No w onder I have no appetite. “I’ll give it to you on one condition only,” I tell her, holding it out of her trem bling reach. “Take it into the bedroom and read it to yourself. D on’t even m ove your lips for once; I don’t w ant to know. If she’s God forbid dead, I’ll send him a sym pathy card.” Sadie has a variety of expressions but the one thing they have in com m on is they all wish m e m isfortune in my present and future life. W hile she’s reading the lette r I find suddenly I have nothing to

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do. The m agazines I read already. Breakfast I ate (like a bird). I ’m all dressed to go out if I felt like, but th e re ’s nothing outside I don’t have inside. Frankly, I don’t feel like myself—I ’m nervous. I say a lot of things I don’t really intend and now m aybe this letter comes to tell m e I ’ve got to pay for my m eanness. Maybe she got sick up there; God knows w hat they eat, the kind of w ater they drink, the creatures they ru n around with. Not w anting to think about it too m uch, I go over to my chair and tu rn it on to brisk massage. It doesn’t take long till I’m dream ing (fitfully). I’m someplace surrounded by sand, sitting in a baby’s crib and bouncing a diapered kangaroo on my knee. It gurgles up at m e and calls m e grandpa and I don’t know w hat I should do. I don’t w ant to h u rt its feelings, but if I’m a grandpa to a kangaroo, I w ant no part of it; I only w ant it should go away. I pull out a dim e from my pocket and p ut it into its pouch. The pouch is full of tiny insects which bite my fingers. I wake up in a sweat. “Sadie! Are you reading, or rearranging the sentences? Bring it in here and I’ll see w hat she wants. If it’s a divorce, I know a law yer.” Sadie comes into the room with her I-told-you-so waddle and gives m e a small w et kiss on the cheek—a gold star for acting like a mensch. So I start to read it, in a loud m onotone so she shouldn’t get the impression I give a damn: “D ear Daddy, I’m sorry for not w riting sooner. I suppose I w anted to give you a chance to sim m er down first.” (Ingrate! Does the sun sim m er down?) “I know it would have been inconvenient for you to come to the w edding, but Mor and I hoped you would m aybe send us a lette r just to let us know you’re okay and still love m e, in spite of everything.” Right at this point I feel a hot sigh followed by a short but w renching moan. “Sadie, get away from my neck. I’m w arning you. . . .” H er eyes are going flick-a-fleck over my shoulder, from the piece of paper I’m holding to my face, back to the page, flick-afleck, flick-a-fleck.

Look, You Think You’ve Got Troubles

“All right, already,” she shoo-shoos me. “I read it, I know w h at’s in it. Now it’s your tu rn to see w hat kind of a lousy father you tu rn ed out to be.” And she waddles back into the bedroom , shut­ ting the door extra careful, like she’s handling a piece of snoww hite velvet. W hen I’m certain she’s gone, I sit m yself dow n on the slab of woven dental floss my wife calls a couch and press a button on the arm that reads SEM I-CL.: FELD M A N TO FR IM L. The music starts to slither out from the speaker under my left arm pit. T he right speaker is dead and buried and the long narrow one at the base years ago got drow ned from the dog, who to this day hasn’t learned to control him self w hen he hears “D esert Song.” This tim e I’m lucky; it’s a piece by Feldm an that comes on. I continue to read, calm ed by the music. “I m ight as well get to the point, Papa, because for all I know you’re so m ad you tore up this letter w ithout even reading it. The point is that Mor and I are going to have a baby. Please, please don’t throw this into the disintegrator. I t’s due in July, which gives you over th ree m onths to plan the trip up here. We have a lovely house, w ith a guest room that you and Mama can stay in for as long as you w ant.” I have to stop here to interject a couple of questions, since my daughter never had a head for logic and it’s my strong point. First of all, if she w ere in front of m e in person right now I would ask right off w hat m eans “Mor and I are going to have a baby.” Which? O r both? The second thing is, w hen she refers to it as “it” is she being literal or just uncertain? And just one m ore thing and then I’m through for good: Just how lovely can a guest room be that has all the air piped in and you can’t even see the sky or take a walk on the grass because th ere is no grass, only sim ulated this and substituted that? All the above notw ithstanding, I continue to read: “By the way, Papa, th e re ’s som ething I ’m not sure you u n d er­ stand. Mor, you may or may not know, is as hum an as you and me, in all the im portant ways—and frankly a bit m ore intelligent.”

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I put dow n the letter for a m inute just to give the goosebumps a chance to fly out of m y stom ach ulcers before I go on w ith her love and best and kisses and hopes for seeing us soon, Lorinda. I don’t know how she m anages it, but the second I ’m finished, Sadie is out of the bedroom and breathing hard. “Well, do I start packing or do I start packing? And w hen I start packing, do I pack for us or do I pack for m e?” “Never. I should die th ree thousand deaths, each one w ith a worse prognosis.” It’s a sham e a com pany like Interplanetary Aviation can’t afford, w ith the fares they charge, to give you a com fortable seat. D on’t ask how I ever got th ere in the first place. Ask my wife—she’s the one w ith the m outh. First of all, they only allow you three pounds of luggage, which if you’re only bringing clothes is plenty, but we had a few gifts with us. W e w ere only planning to stay a few days and to sublet the house was Sadie’s idea, not mine. The whole trip was supposed to take a m onth, each way. This is one reason Sadie thought it was im practical to stay for the w eekend and then go hom e, which was the condition on which I’d agreed to go. But now that w e’re on our way, I decide I m ight as well relax. I close my eyes and try to think of w hat the first m eeting will be like. “How .” I p ut up my right hand in a gesture of friendship and trust. I reach into my pocket and offer him beads. But even in my m ind he looks at m e blank, his naked pink antennas waving in the b reeze like a w orm ’s underw ear. T hen I realize th ere isn’t any breeze w here w e’re going. So they stop waving and wilt. I look around in my m ind. W e’re alone, the two of us, in the m iddle of a vast plain, m e in m y business suit and him in his green skin. T he scene looks familiar, like som ething I had experienced, or read about. . . . “W e’ll m eet at Philippi,” I think, and stab him w ith my sword.

Look, You T hink You’ve Got Troubles

Only th en am I able to catch a few winks. The m onth goes by. W hen I begin to think I’ll never rem em ber how to use a fork, the loudspeaker is tu rn ed on and I hear this very smooth, m odulated voice, the tranquilized tones of a psychiatrist sucking glycerine, telling us it’s just about over, and we should expect a slight jolt upon landing. That slight jolt starts my life going by so fast I ’m missing all the good parts. But finally the ship is still and all you can hear are the w heezes and sighs of the engines—the sounds rem ind m e of Sadie w hen she’s winding down from a good argum ent. I look around. Everybody is very white. Sadie’s five fingers are around my upper arm like a tourniquet. “W e’re h ere,” I tell her. “Do I get a hacksaw or can you m anage it yourself?” “Oh, my goodness.” She loosens her grip. She really looks a mess —com pletely pale, not blinking, not even nagging. I take her by the arm and steer her into customs. All the tim e I feel that she’s a big piece of unwilling luggage I ’m smuggling in. T h ere’s no cooperation at all in her feet and her eyes are going every which way. “Sadie, shape up!” “If you had a little m ore curiosity about the world you’d be a b e tte r person,” she says tolerantly. While w e’re waiting to be processed by a creature in a suit like ours who surprises m e by talking English, I sneak a quick look around. It’s funny. If I didn’t know w here we are I’d think w e’re in the backyard. The ground stretches out pure green, and it’s only from the leaflet they give you in the ship to keep your m ind off the panic that I know it’s 100 p ercen t Acrispan w e’re looking at, not grass. The air w e’re getting smells good, too, like fresh-cut flowers, but not too sweet. By the tim e I’ve had a good look and a breathe, w hat’s-its-name is handing us back our passports w ith a button th at says to keep Mars beautiful don’t litter.

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I w on’t tell you about the troubles we had getting to the house, or the m isunderstanding about the tip, because to be honest I wasn’t paying attention. But we do m anage to m ake it to the right door, and considering that the visit was a surprise, I d idn’t really expect they would m eet us at the airport. My daughter m ust have been peeking, though, because she’s in front of us even before we have a chance to knock. “M other!” she says, looking very round in the stomach. She hugs and kisses Sadie, who starts bawling. Five m inutes later, w hen they’re out of the clinch, Lorinda turns to m e, a little nervous. You can say a lot of things about m e, but basically I’m a warm person, and w e’re about to be guests in this house, even if she is a stranger to me. I shake her hand. “Is he hom e, or is he out in the back yard, growing new leaves?” H er face (or w hat I can see of it through the clim ate adapter) crum bles a little at the chin line, but she straightens it out and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Mor had to go out, D addy—som ething im portant cam e up— but he should be back in an hour or so. Come on, let’s go inside.” Actually th e re ’s nothing too crazy about the house, or even interesting. It has walls, a floor and a roof, I’m glad to see, even a few relaxer chairs, and after the trip we just had, I sit down and relax. I notice my daughter is having a little trouble looking m e straight in the face, which is only as it should be, and it isn’t long before she and Sadie are discussing pregnancy, gravitational exer­ cise, labor, hospitals, formulas and sleep-taught toilet training. W hen I’m starting to feel that I’m getting over-educated, I decide to go into the kitchen and m ake myself a bite to eat. I could have asked them for a little som ething but I don’t w ant to interfere with their first conversation. Sadie has all engines going and is in te r­ rupting four times a sentence, which is exactly the kind of game they always had back hom e—my d au g h ter’s goal is to say one com plete thought out loud. If Sadie doesn’t spring back w ith a non sequitur, Lorinda wins that round. A full-fledged knockout with Sadie still cham pion is w hen my daughter can’t get a sentence in

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for a week. Sometimes I can understand why she w ent to Mars. Anyway, while they’re at the height of their simultaneous m ono­ logues, I go quietly off to the kitchen to see w hat I can dig up. (Ripe parts of Mor, w rapped in plastic? Does he really regenerate, I wonder. Does Lorinda fully understand how he works, or one day will she m ake an asparagus om elet out of one of his appendages, only to learn th a t’s the p art that doesn’t grow back? “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “Can you ever forgive m e?”) The refrigerator, though obsolete on Earth, is well stocked— fruits of a sort, steaks, it seems, small chicken-type things that m ight be stunted pigeons. T h e re ’s a bowl of a brownish, cream y mess—I can’t even bring m yself to smell it. W ho’s hungry, anyway, I think. The rum bling in my stom ach is the sym ptom of a father’s love turning sour. I w ander into the bedroom . T h ere’s a large portrait of Mor hanging on the wall—or m aybe his ancestor. Is it true that, instead of hearts, M artians have a large avocado pit? T h e re ’s a rum or on Earth that w hen M artians get old they start to turn brow n at the edges, like lettuce. T h e re ’s an object on the floor and I bend down and pick it up. A piece of m aterial—at hom e I would have thought it was a m an’s handkerchief. Maybe it is a handkerchief. Maybe they have colds like us. They catch a germ , the sap rises to com bat the infection, and they have to blow their stamens. I open up a draw er to put the piece of m aterial in (I like to be neat), but w hen I close it, som ething gets stuck. A nother thing I can’t recognize. I t’s small, round and either concave or convex, depending on how you look at it. It’s m ade of som ething black and shiny. A cloth bowl? W hat would a vegetable be doing w ith a cloth bowl? Some questions are too deep for m e, but w hat I don’t know I eventually find out—and not by asking, either. I go back to the living room. “Did you find anything to eat?” Lorinda asks. “O r would you like m e to fix—” “D on’t even get up,” Sadie says quickly. “I can find my way

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around any kitchen, I don’t care whose.” “I’m not hungry. It was a terrible trip. I thought I’d never wake up from it in one piece. By the way, I heard a good riddle on the ship. W hat’s round and black, either concave or convex, d epend­ ing on how you look at it, and m ade out of a shiny m aterial?” Lorinda blushed. “A skullcap? But th a t’s not funny.” “So who needs funny? Riddles have to be a laugh a m inute all of a sudden? You think Oedipus giggled all the way hom e from seeing the Sphinx?” “Look, Daddy, I think th e re ’s som ething I should tell you.” “I think th ere are all sorts of things you should tell m e.” “No, I m ean about M or.” “Who do you think I m ean, the grocery boy? You elope w ith a cucum ber from outer space and you w ant I should be satisfied because h e ’s hum an in all the im portant ways? W hat’s im portant —that he sneezes and hiccups? If you tell m e he snores, I should be ecstatic? Maybe he sneezes w hen h e ’s happy and hiccups w hen h e ’s m aking love and snores because it helps him think better. Does that m ake him hum an?” “Daddy, please. ” “Okay, not another w ord.” Actually I’m starting to feel quite guilty. W hat if she has a m iscarriage right on the spot? A m an like m e doesn’t blithely tortu re a pregnant woman, even if she does happen to be his daughter. “W hat’s so im portant it can’t wait till later?” “Nothing, I guess. W ould you like some chopped liver? I just m ade some fresh.” “W hat?” “C hopped liver—you know, chopped liver.” Oh yes, the ugly mess in the refrigerator. “You m ade it, that stuff in the bowl?” “Sure. Daddy, th e re ’s som ething I really have to tell you.” She never does get to tell m e, though, because her husband walks in, bold as brass. I w on’t even begin to tell you w hat he looks like. L et m e just say

Look, You Think You’ve Got Troubles

h e ’s a good dream cooked up by Mary Shelley. I w on’t go into it, but if it gives you a small idea, I’ll say that his head is shaped like an acorn on top of a stalk of broccoli. Enorm ous blue eyes, green skin and no hair at all except for a small blue round area on top of his head. His ears are adorable. R em em ber D um bo the E le­ phant? Only a little smaller—I never exaggerate, even for effect. And he looks boneless, like a filet. My wife, God bless her, I don’t have to worry about; she’s a gem in a crisis. O ne look at her son-in-law and she faints dead away. If I didn’t know her b etter, if I wasn’t absolutely certain that her simple m ind contained no guile, I would have sworn she did it on purpose, to give everybody som ething to fuss about. Before we know w hat’s happening, w e’re all in a tight, frantic conversation about w hat’s the best way to bring her around. But while my daughter and her husband are in the bathroom looking for some deadly chemical, Sadie opens both eyes at once and stares up at m e from the floor. “W hat did I miss?” “You d id n ’t miss anything—you w ere only unconscious for fifteen seconds. It was a cat nap, not a com a.” “Say hello, Hector. Say hello to him or so help m e I’ll close my eyes for good.” “I ’m very glad to m eet you, Mr. T rum bnick,” he says. I ’m grate­ ful that h e ’s sparing m e the hum iliation of m aking the first gesture, but I p rete n d I don’t see the stalk h e ’s holding out. “Sm utual,” I say. “I beg your pardon?” “Smutual. How are you? You look be tte r than your pictures.” He does, too. Even though his skin is green, it looks like the real thing up close. But his top lip sort of vibrates w hen he talks, and I can hardly bear to look at him except sideways. “I hear you had some business this afternoon. My daughter never did tell m e w hat your line is, uh, M orton.” “Daddy, his nam e is Mor. Why don’t you call him Mor?” “Because I prefer Morton. W hen we know each other b e tte r I’ll

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call him som ething less formal. D on’t rush m e, Lorinda; I’m still getting adjusted to the chopped liver.” My son-in-law chuckles and his top lip really goes crazy. “Oh, w ere you surprised? Im ported m eats a re n ’t a rarity here, you know. Just the other day one of my clients was telling m e about an all-Earth m eal he had at hom e.” “Your client?” Sadie asks. “You w ouldn’t happen to be a law­ yer?” (My wife amazes m e w ith her instant familiarity. She could live w ith a tyrannosaurus in perfect harm ony. First she faints, and while she’s out cold everything in her head that was strange becomes ordinary and she wakes up a new woman.) “No, Mrs. Trum bnick. I’m a—” “—rabbi, of course,” she finishes. “I knew it. The m inute H ector found that skullcap I knew it. Him and his riddles. A skullcap is a skullcap and nobody not Jewish would dare w ear one—not even a M artian.” She bites her lip but recovers like a pro. “I’ll b et you w ere out on a bar m itzvah—right?” “No, as a m atter of fact—” “—a Bris. I knew it.” She’s rubbing her hands together and beam ing at him. “A Bris, how nice. But why didn’t you tell us, Lorinda? Why would you keep such a thing a secret?” Lorinda comes over to m e and kisses m e on the cheek, and I wish she w ouldn’t because I’m feeling m yself go soft and I don’t want to show it. “Mor isn’t ju s t a rabbi, Daddy. He converted because of m e and then found there was a dem and am ong the colonists. But h e ’s never given up his own beliefs, and p art of his job is to m inister to the Kopchopees who cam p outside the village. T hat’s w here he was earlier, conducting a Kopchopee m enopausal rite.” “A what!” “Look, to each his ow n,” says my wife w ith the open mind. But m e, I w ant facts, and this is getting m ore bizarre by the m inute. “Kopchopee. H e’s a K opchopee priest to his own race and a rabbi to ours, and th at’s how he makes his living? You don’t feel

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th e re ’s a contradiction betw een the two, M orton?” “T h at’s right. They both pray to a strong silent god, in different ways of course. The way my race worships, for instance—” “Listen, it takes all kinds,” says Sadie. “And the baby, w hatever it turns out to be—will it be a Choptapi or a Jew ?” “Jew, shmoo,” Sadie says with a wave of dismissal. “All of a sudden it’s H ector the Pious—such a m egilla out of a m olehill.” She turns away from m e and addresses herself to the others, like I’ve just becom e invisible. “He hasn’t seen the inside of a syna­ gogue since we got m arried—w hat a rain that night—and now he can’t take his shoes off in a house until he knows its race, color and creed.” With a face full of fury, she brings m e back into her sight. “Nudnick, w hat’s got into you?” I stand up straight to preserve my dignity. “If you’ll excuse m e, my things are getting w rinkled in the suitcase.” Sitting on my bed (with my shoes on), I m ust adm it I’m feeling a little different. Not th at Sadie m ade m e change my mind. Far from it; for m any years now her voice is the w hite sound that lets m e think my own thoughts. But what I’m realizing m ore and m ore is that in a situation like this a girl needs her father, and w hat kind of a m an is it who can’t sacrifice his personal feelings for his only daughter? W hen she was going out with H erbie the Hem ophiliac and cam e hom e crying it had to end because she was afraid to touch him, he m ight bleed, d id n ’t I say pack your things, w e’re going to Grossingers Venus for three weeks? W hen my twin brother Max w ent into kitchen sinks, who was it that helped him out at only four percent? Always, I stood ready to help my family. And if Lorinda ever n eeded m e, it’s now w hen she’s pregnant by some religious maniac. Okay—he makes m e retch, so I’ll talk to him w ith a tissue over my m outh. After all, in a world th a t’s getting smaller all the tim e, it’s people like m e who have to be bigger to m ake up for it, no? I go back to the living room and extend my hand to my son-inlaw the cauliflower. (Feh.)

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AVRAM D A V I D S O N

Goslin Day

In Yiddish gozlin means th ie f or sw indler—a non-profes­ sional gonif. B ut w hat about goslins (with an “s ”) that flickersnicker and nim blesnitch and create havoc w ith pious people on hotsticky days, that sw im in d u sty mirrors and w ait fo r propitious m om ents to escape through the cracks and swindle, thieve, and conniveP K abbalah has provided the m ystical soil to grow monsters. It is the crick in the back o f rationalistic Jewish thought, a diam ondfind o f magic, lore, divination, supernal tastes and specula­ tions, and superstition. I t is an attem pt to achieve m ystic un ity with God an d master (or at least fo il) those evil spirits that would stand in the way o f the Kabbalists. By offering hope o f magical intervention, it assuaged and strengthened countless persecuted Jews fro m the spirit-w ithering attacks o f the pogrom and the ever­ present threat o f expulsion. M anipulation o f Hebrew words and num bers—numerology, gematria, noutricon, anagrams, acrostics— became magical tools to divine the secret names o f angels, and thus gain lim ited power over them. The K abbalistic sorcerer has access to pantheons o f angels a n d evil spirits, to intervening worlds such as Y etzirah— where the ten orders o f angels can be fo u n d — and the dead, im per­ fe c t worlds that are the sources o f evil. God created these im perfect worlds, so Kabbalists tell, and then destroyed them — b u t not com­ pletely, fo r G od’s works could not be totally destroyed, only changed. From one o f these dead worlds come goslin thieves and schem ­ ers, sw im m ing and splashing in that darkest part o f the subcon­ 73

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scious landscape. They are all the hobgoblins and thm gs that go bum p in the night come true. They are the som etim e shapes we see with peripheral vision, the monsters that hide behind us when w e’re alone. J D.

*

I t w a s a GOSLIN day, no doubt about it; of course it can happen that goslin things can occur, say, once a day for m any days. But this day was a goslin day. From the hour w hen, properly speak­ ing, the ass brays in his stall, b ut here instead the kat kvells on the rooftop—to the hour w hen the cock crows on his roost, b ut here instead the garbagem an bangs on his can—even that early, Faroly realized that it was going to be a goslin day (night? let be night: It was evening, and [after that] it was morning: one day. Yes or no?). In the w arbled agony of the shriekscream Faroly had recog­ nized an elem ent present which was m ore than the usual ketzelkat expression of its painpleasure syndrom e. In the agglutina­ tive obscenities which in te rru p ted the bang-crashes of the yuckels em ptying eggshells orangerinds coffeegrounds there was (this m orning, different from all other mornings) som ething unlike their m ere usual bru te pleasure in waking the dead. Faroly sighed. His wife and child w ere still asleep. He saw the dim light already creeping in, sat up, reached for the glass and saucer and poured w ater over his nails, began to whisper his prelim inary prayers, already concentrating on his Intention in the nam e Unity: but aware, aware, aware, the hotsticky feeling in the air, the swimmy looks in the dusty corners of windows, m irrors; som ething a ten­ sion, here a tw itch and th ere a twitch. Notgood notgood. In short: a goslin day. Faroly decided to seek an expert opinion, w ent to Crown Heights to consult the kabbalist, Kaplánovics. Rabbaness Kaplánovics was at the stove, schaum ing off the soup with an enorm ous spoon, gestured w ith a free elbow tow ard an

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inner room. T here sat the sage, the sharp one, the teacher of our teachers, on his head his beaver hat neatly brushed, on his feet and legs his boots brightly polished, in betw een his garm ents well and clean w ithout a fleck or stain as befits a disciple of the wise. H e and Faroly shook hands, greeted, blessed the Name. Kaplánovics pushed across several sheets of paper covered w ith an exquisitely neat calligraphy. “Already th ere ,” the kabbalist said. “I have been through every­ thing th ree times, twice. The N Y Times, the Morgen Dzshornal, I. F. Stone, Dow-Jones, the Daph-Yomi, your name-Text, the w eather report, Psalm of the Day. Everything is w orked out, by num erology, analogy, gem atria, noutricon, anagrams, allegory, procession and precession. So. “O f course today as any everyday we m ust await the coming of the Messiah: ‘aw ait’—expect? today? not today. Today he w ouldn’t come. Considerations for atm ospheric changes, or changes for atm ospheric considerations, not— bad. Not—bad. Someone gives you an offer for a good air-conditioner, cheap, you could think about it. Read seven capitals of psalms betw een afternoon and evening prayers. O ne sequence is enough. The day is favorable for decisions on grow th stocks, b u t avoid closed-end m utual funds. On the corner by the beygal store is an old wom an w ith a pyshka, collecting dowries for orphan girls in Jerusalem : the m oney, she never sends, this is her sin, it’s no concern of yours: give her eighteen cents, a very auspicious num ber: m erit, cheaply bought (she has sugar diabetes and the daughter last w eek gave birth to a weak-headed child by a schwartzer), w hat else?” They exam ined the columns of characters. “Ahah. Ohoh. If you get a chance to buy your house, don’t buy it, the Regime will condem n it for a freeway, w here are they all going so fast?—every m an who has two legs thinks he needs three automobiles—besides—w here did I w rite it? oh yes. T here. The neighborhood is going to change very soon and if you stay you will be killed in th ree years and two months, or th ree m onths and two years, depending on which system of gem atria is used in calculat­

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ing. You have to w arn your brother-in-law his sons should each com m ence bethinking a m arriagem atch. O therw ise they will be going to cinemas and w atching televisions and putting arms around girls, w on’t have the proper intentions for their nighttim e prayers, w on’t even read the protective psalms selected by the greatgrandson of the Baalshemtov: and w ith w hat results, my dear man? Nocturnal emissions and perhaps worse; is it for nothing that The C hapters of the Principles caution us, ‘At age eighteen to the m arriage canopy and the perform ance of good deeds,’ hm ?” Faroly cleared his throat. “Som ething else is on your m ind,” said the kabbalist. “Speak. Speak.” Faroly confessed his concern about goslins. Kaplánovics exclaimed, struck the table. “Goslins! You w anted to talk about goslins? It’s already gone past the hour to say the Shema, and I certainly d id n ’t have in m ind w hen I said it to com m ence constructing a kam éa—” He clicked his tongue in an­ noyance. “Am I om niscient?” he dem anded. “Why didn’t you let m e know you w ere coming? Man walks in off the street, expects to find—” But it did not take long to soothe and smooth him —Who is strong? He who can control his own passion. And now to first things first, or, in this case, last things first, for it was the most recen t m anifestation of goslinness which Faroly wished to talk about. The kabbalist listened politely but did not seem in agreem ent w ith nor im pressed by his guest’s recitation of the signs by which a goslin day m ight m ake itself known. “ ‘Show sim ônim ,’ ” he m urm ured, w ith a polite nod. “This one loses an object, that one finds it, let the claim ant com e and ‘show sim ônim,’ let him cite the signs by which his know ledge is dem onstrated, and, hence, his ownership . . . ” But this was m ere polite fumfutting, and Faroly knew that the other knew that both knew it. On Lexington a blackavised goslin slipped out from a nexus of cracked m irrors reflecting dust at each other in a disused night­ club, snatched a purse from a young wom an em erging from a ribs joint; in Bay Ridge another, palepink and blond, snatched a purse

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from an old wom an right in front of Suomi Evangelical Lutheran. Both goslins flickersnickered and w ere sharply gone. In Tottenville, a th ird one m aterialized in the bedroom of an honest young wom an still half asleep in bed just a second before her husband cam e back from the nightshift in Elizabeth, New Jersey; u tte red a goslin cry and ju m p ed out the window holding his shirt. N atu­ rally the husband never believed her—would you? Two m ore slipped in and out of a crucial street corner on the troubled borderm arches of Italian H arlem , pausing only just long enough to exchange exclamations of guineabastard!goddam nigger! and gos­ lin looks out of the corners of their goslin eyes. Goslin cabdrivers curseshouted at hotsticky preg n an t w om en dum b enough to try and cross at pedestrian crossings. The foul air grew fouler, thicker, hotter, tenser, m uggier, m urkier: and the goslins, smelling it from afar, cam e leapsniffing through the vimveil to nim blesnitch, tor­ m ent, buffet, burden, uglylook, poke, m akestum ble, m altreat, and quickshmiggy back again to gezzle guzzle goslinland. The kabbalist had grown w arm in discussion, eagerly inscribed circles in the air with downhooked thum b apart from fist, “ \ . . they have the forms of m en and also they have the lusts of m en ,’ ” he quoted. “You are telling m e w hat every schoolchild knows,” protested Faroly. “But from w hich of the other th ree of the four worlds of Em anation, Creation, Form ation, and Effectation—from which do they come? And why m ore often, and m ore and m ore often, and m ore and m ore and m ore often, and— ” Face w rinkled to em phasize the gesture of waving these words away, Kaplánovics said, “If Yesod goes, how can Hod rem ain? If there is no M alchuth, how can th ere be Q ether? Thus one throws away w ith the hand the en tire configuration of Adam Qadm on, the T ree of Life, the A ncient of Days. M en tam per with the very vessels themselves, as if they don’t know w hat happened w ith the Bursting of the Vessels before, as though the Husks, the Shards, even a single shattered Cortex, doesn’t still plague and vex and afflict us to this day. They look down into the Abyss, and they say,

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T his is high,’ and they look up to an Em inence and they say, T his is low.’ . . . And not thus alone! And not thus alone! Not just with complex deenim , as, for example, those concerning the fluxes of w om en—no! no! But the simplest of the simple of the Six H undred and T hirteen Com m andm ents: to place a parap et around a roof to keep someone from falling off and be killed. W hat can be simpler? W hat can be m ore obvious? W hat can be easier? “—but do they do it? W hat, was it only th ree weeks ago, or four? a Puertorican boy didn’t fall off the roof of an apartm ent house near here? D ead, perished. Go talk to the wall. M en don’t w ant to know. Talk to them Ethics, talk to them Brotherhood, talk to them Ecum enical Dialogue, talk to them any kind of nonsenseness: they’ll listen. But talk to them : It’s w ritten, textually, in the Torah, to build a parapet around your rooftop to prevent blood being shed—no: to this they w on’t listen. They would neith er hear nor understand. They don’t know Torah, don’t know Text, don’t know parapet; roof—this they never heard of either—” He paused. “Come tom orrow and I’ll have p rep ared for you a kaméa against goslins.” H e seem ed suddenly weary. Faroly got up. Sighed. “And tom orrow will you also have p re ­ pared a kam éa against goslins for everyone else?” Kaplánovics d idn’t raise his eyes. “D on’t blam e the rat,” he said. “Blame the rat-hole.” Downstairs Faroly noticed a boy in a green and w hite skullcap, knotted crispadin com ing up from inside under his shirt to dangle over his pants. “L et m e try a sortilegy,” he thought to himself. “Perhaps it will give m e some rem ez, or h i n t . . . ” Aloud, he asked, “Youngling, tell m e, w hat text did you learn today in school?” The boy stopped twisting one of his stroobley earlocks, and turned up his phlegm -green eyes. “ T h re e things take a m an out of this w orld,’ ” he yawned. “ ‘D rinking in the m orning, napping in the noon, and putting a girl on a w inebarrel to find out if she’s a virgin.’ ” Faroly clicked his tongue, fum bled for a handkerchief to wipe

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his heatprickled face. “You are mixing up the texts,” he said. T he boy raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, stuck out his lower jaw. “O h indeed. You ask m e a question, then you give m e an answer. How do you know I’m mixing up the texts? Maybe I cited a text which you never heard before. W hat are you, the Vilna Gaon?” “Brazen face—look, look, how you’ve gotten your crispadin all snarled,” Faroly said, slightly amused, fingering the cinctures passed through one belt-loop—then, feeling his own horrified am azem ent and, somehow, k n o w in g . . . know ing . . . as one knows the refrigerator is going to stop hum m ing one half second before it does stop, yet—“W hat is this? W hat is this? T he cords of your crispadin are tied in pairs?” The filthgreen eyes slid to their corners, still holding Faroly’s. “H ear, O Israel,” chanted the child; “the Lord our God, the Lord is Two.” T he m an ’s voice cam e out agonyshrill. “Dualist. Heresiarch. Sectary. Ah. Ah ah ah—goslin\” “Take ya hands outa my pants!” shrieked the pseudo-child, and, with a cry of almost totally authentic fear, fled. Faroly, seeing people stop, faces changing, flung up his arms and ran for his life. The goslin-child, wailing and slobbering, tram pled up steps into an em pty hallway w here the prism atic edge of a broken window pane caught the sunlight and winkyflashed rainbow changes. The goslin stretched thin as a shadow and vanished into the bright edge of the shard. Exhausted, all but prostrated by the heat, overcom e w ith hum iliation, shame, torm ented w ith fear and confusion, Faroly stum bled through the door of his hom e. His wife stood there, looking at him. He held to the doorpost, too weary even to raise his hand to kiss the m azuzah, waiting for her to exclaim at his appearance. But she said nothing. H e opened his m outh, heard his voice click in his throat. “Solomon,” his wife said. He m oved slowly into the room. “Solomon,” she said.

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“Listen—” “Solomon, we w ere in the park, and at first it was so hot, then we sat u n d er a tree and it was so cool— ” “Listen . . . . I think I m ust have fallen asleep . . . Solomon, you’re so quiet. . . . Now you’re hom e, I can give the Heshy his bath. Look at him, Solomon! Look, look!” Already things w ere beginning to get better. “A n d the High Priest shall pray fo r the peace o f h im se lf and his house. Tanya Rabbanan:—and his house. This means, his wife. He who has no wife, has no hom e.” Small sighs, stifled sobs, little breaks of breath, Faroly m oved forw ard into the apartm ent. Windows and m irrors w ere still, dark, quiet. T he goslin day was almost over. She had the baby ready for the bath. Faroly m oved his eyes, squinting against the last sunlight, to look at the flesh of his first born, unique son, his Kaddish. W hat child was this, sallow, squinting back, scrannel, preternaturally sly—? Faroly heard his own voice scream ing scream ing changeling! changeling! —Goslin!

ROBERT SILVERBERG

The Dybhuk of Maze! Tov IV

The Diaspora (exile) has become a thread o f fe a r running through Jewish history and fiction. Born out o f sujfering, it has evolved into m yth. It is the torn house o f the wandering Jew, the voice o f his modern fears, a synonym fo r his alienation. Robert Silverberg gives flesh to the legend (a legend that history has recorded as terrible reality) and sets it afire once again. The story has an authenticity— an attention to detail and hum an reac­ tion— that twists itse lf into satire, not the freew heeling, distorting satire o f the fantast, b u t the satire o f reflected history. Images o f our m ythical selves attend to their legends inside perfect mirrors turned this way and that. A nother tw ist and the images unravel — m yth is being used to dispel m yth. Where, then, is the real Jew? Is that him there w ith his hopes, failings, prejudices, and preten­ sions? A n d where lies the glory o f God? Is it in d e a th ’s bright angels or a w ink and a nod? J D.

E d i t o r ’s N o t e : T h is is

ume.

an original story written expressly fo r this vol­

*

My g r a n d s o n d a v i d will have his bar m itzvah next spring. No one in our family has undergone that rite in at least three hundred years—certainly not since we Levins settled in Old Israel, the Israel on Earth, soon after the E uropean Holocaust. My friend Eliahu asked m e not long ago how I feel about D avid’s bar m itz­ vah, w hether the idea of it angers m e, w hether I see it as a disturb­ ing elem ent. No, I replied: the boy is a Jew, after all, let him have a bar m itzvah if he wants one. These are tim es of transition and upheaval, as all tim es are. David is not bound by the attitudes of his ancestors. “Since w hen is a Jew not bound by the attitudes of his ances­ tors?” Eliahu asked. “You know w hat I m ean,” I said. Indeed he did. We are bound but yet free. If anything governs us out of the past it is the tribal bond itself, not the philosophies of our d ep arted kinsmen. W e accept w hat we choose to accept; nevertheless we rem ain Jews. I come from a family that has liked to say—especially to Gentiles—that we are Jews but not Jewish, that is, we acknowledge and cherish our ancient heritage b u t we do not care to entangle ourselves in outm oded rituals and folk­ ways. This is w hat my forefathers declared, as far back as those secular-m inded Levins who fought, th ree centuries ago, to win and guard the freedom of the land of Israel. (Old Israel, I mean.) I would say the same here, if th ere w ere any Gentiles on this world to whom such things had to be explained. But of course in this New Israel in the stars we have only ourselves, no Gentiles w ithin a dozen light-years, unless you count our neighbors the K univaru as 84

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Gentiles. (Can creatures that are not hum an rightly be called Gentiles? I’m not sure the term applies. Besides, the Kunivaru now insist that they are Jews. My m ind spins. It’s an issue of Talm udic complexity, and, God knows, I’m no Talmudist. Hillel, Akiva, Rashi, help me!) Anyway, come the fifth day of Sivan my son’s son will have his bar m itzvah, and I’ll play the proud grandpa as pious old Jews have done for six thousand years. All things are connected. T hat my grandson would have a bar m itzvah is m erely the latest link in a chain of events that goes back to—w hen? To the day the Kunivaru decided to em brace Judaism? To the day the dybbuk e n te red Seul the Kunivar? To the day we refugees from E arth discovered the fertile planet that we som e­ times call New Israel and sometim es call Mazel Tov IV? To the day of the Final Pogrom on Earth? Reb Yossele the Hassid m ight say that D avid’s bar m itzvah was determ ined on the day the Lord God fashioned Adam out of dust. But I think that would be overdoing things. The day the dybbuk took possession of the body of Seul the Kunivar was probably w here it really started. Until then things w ere relatively uncom plicated here. T he Hassidim had their set­ tlem ent, we Israelis had ours, and the natives, the Kunivaru, had the rest of the planet; and generally we all kept out of one ano­ th e r’s way. After the dybbuk everything changed. It happened m ore than forty years ago, in the first generation after the Land­ ing, on the ninth day of Tishri in the year 6302. I was working in the fields, for Tishri is a harvest m onth. T he day was hot, and I w orked swiftly, singing and hum m ing. As I m oved dow n the long rows of crackle-pods, tagging those that w ere ready to be gath­ ered, a Kunivar appeared at the crest of the hill that overlooks our kibbutz. It seem ed to be in some distress, for it cam e staggering and lurching down the hillside with extraordinary clumsiness, tripping over its own four legs as if it barely knew how to m anage them . W hen it was about a h u n d red m eters from m e it cried out, “Shimon! H elp m e, Shimon! In God’s nam e help me!”

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T here w ere several strange things about this outcry, and I p e r­ ceived them gradually, the most trivial first. It seem ed odd that a Kunivar would address m e by my given nam e, for they are a formal people. It seem ed m ore odd that a Kunivar would speak to m e in quite d ecent H ebrew , for at that tim e none of them had learned our language. It seem ed most odd of all—b ut I was slow to discern it—that a Kunivar would have the very voice, dark and resonant, of my dear dead friend Joseph Avneri. T he Kunivar stum bled into the cultivated part of the field and halted, trem bling terribly. Its fine green fur was pasted into hum ­ mocks by perspiration and its great golden eyes rolled and crossed in a ghastly way. It stood flat-footed, splaying its legs out u nder the four corners of its chunky body like the legs of a table, and clasped its long powerful arms around its chest. I recognized the Kunivar as Seul, a sub-chief of the local village, w ith whom we of the kibbutz had had occasional dealings. “W hat help can I give you?” I asked. “W hat has happened to you, Seul?” “Shimon—Shimon—” A frightful m oan cam e from the Kunivar. “Oh, God, Shimon, it goes beyond all belief! How can I bear this? How can I even com prehend it?” No doubt of it. The Kunivar was speaking in the voice of Joseph Avneri. “Seul?” I said hesitantly. “My nam e is Joseph A vneri.” “Joseph Avneri died a year ago last Elul. I d id n ’t realize you w ere such a clever mimic, Seul.” “Mimic? You speak to m e of mimicry, Shimon? It’s no mimicry. I am your Joseph, dead b ut still aware, throw n for my sins into this m onstrous alien body. Are you Jew enough to know w hat a dybbuk is, Shimon?” “A w andering ghost, yes, who takes possession of the body of a living being.” “I have becom e a dybbuk.” “T here are no dybbuks. Dybbuks are phantom s out of m edieval folklore,” I said.

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“You hear the voice of one.” “This is impossible,” I said. “I agree, Shimon, I agree.” He sounded calm er now. “It’s e n ­ tirely impossible. I don’t believe in dybbuks either, any m ore than I believe in Zeus, the M inotaur, werewolves, gorgons, or golems. But how else do you explain m e?” “You are Seul the Kunivar, playing a clever trick.” “Do you really think so? Listen to m e, Shimon: I knew you w hen we w ere boys in Tiberias. I rescued you w hen we w ere fishing in the lake and our boat overturned. I was w ith you the day you m et Leah whom you m arried. I was godfather to your son Yigal. I studied w ith you at the university in Jerusalem . I fled w ith you in the fiery days of the Final Pogrom. I stood w atch w ith you aboard the Ark in the years of our flight from Earth. Do you rem em ber, Shimon? Do you rem em b er Jerusalem ? T he Old City, the M ount of Olives, the Tomb of Absalom, the W estern Wall? Am I a Kuni­ var, Shimon, to know of the W estern Wall?” “T here is no survival of consciousness after d eath,” I said stub­ bornly. “A year ago I would have agreed w ith you. But who am I if I am not the spirit of Joseph Avneri? How can you account for m e any other way? D ear God, do you think I w ant to believe this, Shimon? You know w hat a scoffer I was. But it’s real.” “Perhaps I’m having a very vivid hallucination.” “Call the others, then. If ten people have the same hallucina­ tion, is it still a hallucination? Be reasonable, Shimon! H ere I stand before you, telling you things th at only I could know, and you deny that I am —” “Be reasonable?” I said. “W here does reason e n te r into this? Do you expect m e to believe in ghosts, Joseph, in w andering demons, in dybbuks? Am I some superstition-ridden peasant out of the Polish woods? Is this the M iddle Ages?” “You called m e Joseph,” he said quietly. “I can hardly call you Seul w hen you speak in that voice.” “T hen you believe in me!” “No.”

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“Look, Shimon, did you ever know a bigger skeptic than Joseph Avneri? I had no use for the Torah, I said Moses was fictional, I ploughed the fields on Yom Kippur, I laughed in God’s nonexistent face. W hat is life, I said? And I answered: a m ere accident, a transient biological phenom enon. Yet here I am. I rem em ber the m om ent of my death. For a full year I’ve w andered this world, bodiless, perceiving things, unable to com m unicate. And today I find m yself cast into this cre a tu re ’s body, and I know m yself for a dybbuk. If / believe, Shimon, how can you dare disbelieve? In the nam e of our friendship, have faith in w hat I tell you!” “You have actually becom e a dybbuk?” “I have becom e a dybbuk,” he said. I shrugged. “Very well, Joseph. You’re a dybbuk. It’s madness, but I believe.” I stared in astonishm ent at the Kunivar. Did I believe? D id I believe that I believed? How could I not believe? T here was no other way for the voice of Joseph Avneri to be coming from the throat of a Kunivar. Sweat stream ed dow n my body. I was face to face w ith the impossible, and all my philosophy was shattered. Anything was possible now. God m ight appear as a burning bush. The sun m ight stand still. No, I told myself. Be­ lieve only one irrational thing at a tim e, Shimon. Evidently there are dybbuks; well, then, th ere are dybbuks. But everything else pertaining to the Invisible W orld rem ains unreal until it manifests itself. I said, “Why do you think this has happened to you?” “It could only be as a punishm ent.” “For what, Joseph?” “My experim ents. You knew I was doing research into the K univaru metabolism, didn’t you?” “Yes, certainly. But—” “Did you know I perform ed surgical experim ents on live K univaru in our hospital? T hat I used patients, w ithout inform ing them or anyone else, in studies of a forbidden kind? It was vivisec­ tion, Shimon.” “ What ? ”

The D yb b u k o f Mazel Tov I V

“T here w ere things I needed to know, and th ere was only one way I could discover them . The hunger for know ledge led m e into sin. I told myself that these creatures w ere ill, that they would shortly die anyway, and that it m ight benefit everyone if I opened them while they still lived, you see? Besides, they w eren ’t hum an beings, Shimon, they w ere only animals, very intelligent animals, true, b u t still only—” “No, Joseph. I can believe in dybbuks m ore readily than I can believe this. You, doing such a thing? My calm rational friend, my scientist, my wise one?” I shuddered and stepped a few paces back from him. “Auschwitz!” I cried. “Buchenwald! Dachau! Do those names m ean anything to you? ‘They w eren ’t hum an beings,’ the Nazi surgeon said, ‘they w ere only Jews, and our n eed for scientific knowledge is such that—’ That was only th ree hundred years ago, Joseph. And you, a Jew, a Jew of all people, to—” “I know, Shimon, I know. Spare m e the lecture. I sinned terri­ bly, and for my sins I ’ve been given this grotesque body, this gross, hideous, heavy body, these four legs which I can hardly coordi­ nate, this crooked spine, this foul hot furry pelt. I still don’t believe in a God, Shimon, but I think I believe in some sort of com pensat­ ing force th at balances accounts in this universe, and the account has been balanced for m e, oh, yes, Shimon! I ’ve had six hours of terror and loathing today such as I never dream ed could be ex­ perienced. To e n te r this body, to fry in this heat, to w ander these hills trapped in such a mass of flesh, to feel myself being bom ­ barded w ith the sensory perceptions of a being so alien—it’s been hell, I tell you that w ithout exaggeration. I would have died of shock in the first ten m inutes if I didn’t already happen to be dead. Only now, seeing you, talking to you, do I begin to get control of myself. H elp m e, Shimon.” “W hat do you w ant m e to do?” “G et m e out of here. This is torm ent. I’m a dead man; I’m entitled to rest the way the other dead ones rest. Free m e, Shi­ m on.” “How?”

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“How? How? Do I know? Am I an expert on dybbuks? Must I direct my own exorcism? If you knew w hat an effort it is simply to hold this body upright, to m ake its tongue form H ebrew words, to say things in a way you’ll understand—” Suddenly the Kunivar sagged to his knees, a slow, complex folding process that rem inded m e of th e m anner in which the camels of Old E arth low ered them selves to the ground. T he alien creature began to sputter and m oan and wave his arms about; foam appeared on his wide ru b ­ bery lips. “God in H eaven, Shimon,” Joseph cried, “set m e free!” I called for my son Yigal and he cam e running swiftly from the far side of the fields, a lean healthy boy, only eleven years old but already long-legged, strong-bodied. W ithout going into details I indicated the suffering Kunivar and told Yigal to get help from the kibbutz. A few m inutes later he cam e back leading seven or eight m en—Abrasha, Itzhak, Uri, Nahum , and some others. It took the full strength of all of us to lift the Kunivar into the hopper of a harvesting m achine and transport him to our hospital. Two of the doctors—Moshe Shiloah and someone else—began to exam ine the stricken alien, and I sent Yigal to the Kunivaru village to tell the chief that Seul had collapsed in our fields. The doctors quickly diagnosed the problem as a case of heat prostration. They w ere discussing the sort of injection the Kunivar should receive w hen Joseph Avneri, breaking a silence th at had lasted since Seul had fallen, announced his presence w ithin the K univar’s body. Uri and N ahum had rem ained in the hospital room w ith me; not w anting this craziness to becom e general know ledge in the kibbutz, I took them outside and told them to forget w hatever ravings they had heard. W hen I retu rn ed , the doctors w ere busy w ith their preparations and Joseph was pa­ tiently explaining to them that he was a dybbuk who had involun­ tarily taken possession of the Kunivar. “The heat has driven the poor creature insane,” Moshe Shiloah m urm ured, and ram m ed a huge needle into one of Seul’s thighs. “Make them listen to m e,” Joseph said.

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“You know that voice,” I told the doctors. “Som ething very unusual has happened h ere.” But they w ere no m ore willing to believe in dybbuks than they w ere in rivers that flow uphill. Joseph continued to protest, and the doctors continued m ethodically to fill Seul’s body w ith seda­ tives and restoratives and o ther potions. E ven w hen Joseph began to speak of last year’s kibbutz gossip—who had been sleeping with whom behind whose back, who had illicitly been peddling goods from the com m unity storehouse to the Kunivaru—they paid no attention. It was as though they had so m uch difficulty believing that a Kunivar could speak H ebrew that they w ere unable to m ake sense out of w hat he was saying, and took Joseph’s words to be Seul’s delirium . Suddenly Joseph raised his voice for the first tim e, calling out in a loud, angry tone, “You, Moshe Shiloah! Aboard the Ark I found you in bed w ith the wife of Teviah Kohn, rem em ber? W ould a Kunivar have know n such a thing?” Moshe Shiloah gasped, reddened, and dropped his hypoderm ic. The other doctor was nearly as astonished. “W hat is this?” Moshe Shiloah asked. “How can this be?” “D eny m e now!” Joseph roared. “Can you deny m e?” The doctors faced the same problem s of acceptance that I had had, that Joseph him self had grappled with. We w ere all of us rational m en in this kibbutz, and the supernatural had no place in our lives. But there was no arguing the phenom enon away. T here was the voice of Joseph Avneri em erging from the throat of Seul the Kunivar, and the voice was saying things that only Joseph would have said, and Joseph had been dead m ore than a year. Call it a dybbuk, call it hallucination, call it anything: Joseph’s presence could not be ignored. Locking the door, Moshe Shiloah said to m e, “We m ust deal w ith this som ehow.” Tensely we discussed the situation. It was, we agreed, a delicate and difficult m atter. Joseph, raging and tortured, dem anded to be exorcised and allowed to sleep the sleep of the dead; unless we placated him, he would m ake us all suffer. In his pain, in his fury,

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he m ight say anything, he m ight reveal everything he knew about our private lives; a dead m an is beyond all of society’s rules of com m on decency. We could not expose ourselves to that. But w hat could we do about him? Chain him in an outbuilding and hide him in solitary confinem ent? Hardly. U nhappy Joseph de­ served b e tte r of us than that; and there was Seul to consider, poor supplanted Seul, the dybbuk’s unwilling host. W e could not keep a Kunivar in the kibbutz, im prisoned or free, even if his body did house the spirit of one of our own people, nor could we let the shell of Seul go back to the Kunivaru village w ith Joseph as a furious passenger trapped inside. W hat to do? Separate soul from body, somehow: restore Seul to wholeness and send Joseph to the limbo of the dead. But how? T here was nothing in the standard p h ar­ m acopoeia about dybbuks. W hat to do? W hat to do? I sent for Shmarya Asch and Yakov Ben-Zion, who headed the kibbutz council that m onth, and for Shlomo Feig, our rabbi, a shrew d and sturdy m an, very unorthodox in his Orthodoxy, almost as secular as the rest of us. They questioned Joseph Avneri exten­ sively, and he told them the whole tale, his scandalous secret experim ents, his postm ortem year as a w andering spirit, his sud­ den painful incarnation w ithin Seul. At length Shmarya Asch turned to Moshe Shiloah and snapped, “T here m ust be some therapy for such a case.” “I know of none.” “This is schizophrenia,” said Shmarya Asch in his firm, dogm atic way. “T here are cures for schizophrenia. T here are drugs, th ere are electric shock treatm ents, there are—you know these things b e tte r than I, Moshe.” “This is not schizophrenia,” Moshe Shiloah retorted. “This is a case of dem onic possession. I have no training in treating such m aladies.” “Dem onic possession?” Shmarya bellowed. “Have you lost your m ind?” “Peace, peace, all of you,” Shlomo Feig said, as everyone began to shout at once. The rabbi’s voice cut sharply through the tum ult and silenced us all. He was a m an of great strength, physical as well

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as moral, to whom the entire kibbutz inevitably tu rn ed for guid­ ance although there was virtually no one am ong us who observed the m ajor rites of Judaism. H e said, “I find this as hard to com ­ preh en d as any of you. But the evidence trium phs over my skepti­ cism. How can we deny that Joseph Avneri has retu rn ed as a dybbuk? Moshe, you know no way of causing this intruder to leave the K univar’s body?” “N one,” said Moshe Shiloah. “Maybe the Kunivaru them selves know a way,” Yakov Ben-Zion suggested. “Exactly,” said the rabbi. “My next point. These Kunivaru are a prim itive folk. They live closer to the w orld of magic and w itch­ craft, of dem ons and spirits, than we do whose m inds are schooled in the habits of reason. Perhaps such cases of possession occur often am ong them . Perhaps they have techniques for driving out unw anted spirits. L et us tu rn to them , and let them cure their own.” Before long Yigal arrived, bringing w ith him six Kunivaru, in­ cluding Gyaymar, the village chief. They wholly filled the little hospital room, bustling around in it like a delegation of huge furry centaurs; I was oppressed by the acrid smell of so m any of them in one small space, and although they had always b een friendly to us, never raising an objection w hen we appeared as refugees to settle on their planet, I felt fear of them now as I had never felt before. Clustering about Seul, they asked questions of him in their own supple language, and w hen Joseph Avneri replied in H ebrew they w hispered things to each other unintelligible to us. Then, unexpectedly, the voice of Seul broke through, speaking in halting spastic monosyllables that revealed the terrible shock his nervous system m ust have received; th en the alien faded and Joseph Av­ neri spoke once m ore w ith the K univar’s lips, begging forgiveness, asking for release. T urning to Gyaymar, Shlomo Feig said, “Have such things hap­ pen ed on this world before?” “Oh, yes, yes,” the chief replied. “Many times. W hen one of us

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dies having a guilty soul, repose is denied, and the spirit may undergo strange m igrations before forgiveness comes. W hat was the natu re of this m an’s sin?” “It would be difficult to explain to one who is not Jewish,” said the rabbi hastily, glancing away. “T he im portant question is w hether you have a m eans of undoing w hat has befallen the unfor­ tunate Seul, whose sufferings we all lam ent.” “We have a means, yes,” said Gyaymar the chief. T he six Kunivaru hoisted Seul to their shoulders and carried him from the kibbutz; we w ere told that we m ight accom pany them , if we cared to do so. I w ent along, and Moshe Shiloah, and Shmarya Asch, and Yakov Ben-Zion, and the rabbi, and perhaps some oth­ ers. The Kunivaru took their com rade not to their village but to a m eadow several kilom eters to the east, down in the direction of the place w here the Hassidim lived. Not long after the Landing the K univaru had let us know that the m eadow was sacred to them , and none of us had ever en tered it. It was a lovely place, green and moist, a gently sloping basin crisscrossed by a dozen cool little streams. D epositing Seul beside one of the streams, the Kunivaru w ent off into the woods b order­ ing the m eadow to gather firewood and herbs. W e rem ained close by Seul. “This will do no good,” Joseph Avneri m u ttered m ore than once. “A waste of tim e, a foolish expense of energy.” T hree of the Kunivaru started to build a bonfire. Two sat nearby, shred­ ding the herbs, m aking heaps of leaves, stems, roots. Gradually m ore of their kind appeared, until the m eadow was filled with them ; it seem ed that the whole village, some four hundred Kunivaru, was turning out to w atch or to participate in the rite. Many of them carried musical instrum ents, trum pets and drum s, rattles and clappers, lyres, lutes, small harps, percussive boards, wooden flutes, everything intricate and fanciful of design; we had not suspected such cultural complexity. T he priests—I assume they w ere priests, K univaru of stature and dignity—wore ornate cerem onial helm ets and heavy golden m antles of sea-beast fur. The ordinary townsfolk carried ribbons and stream ers, bits of

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bright fabric, polished m irrors of stone, and other ornam ental devices. W hen he saw how elaborate a function it was going to be, Moshe Shiloah, an am ateur anthropologist at heart, ran back to the kibbutz to fetch cam era and recorder. H e retu rn ed , breathless, just as the rite com m enced. And a glorious rite it was: incense, a grandly blazing bonfire, the pungent fragrance of freshly picked herbs, some heavy-footed quasi-orgiastic dancing, and a choir punching out harsh, sharpedged arhythm ic melodies. Gyaymar and the high priest of the village perform ed an elegant antiphonal chant, uttering long curl­ ing intertw ining melismas and sprinkling Seul w ith a sweet-smell­ ing pink fluid out of a baroquely carved wooden censer. N ever have I beheld such stirring pageantry. But Joseph’s gloomy predic­ tion was correct; it was all entirely useless. Two hours of intensive exorcism had no eífect. W hen the cerem ony ended—the ultim ate punctuation marks w ere five terrible shouts from the high priest —the dybbuk rem ained firmly in possession of Seul. “You have not conquered m e,” Joseph declared in a bleak tone. Gyaymar said, “It seems we have no pow er to com m and an E arthborn soul.” “W hat will we do now?” dem anded Yakov Ben-Zion of no one in particular. “O ur science and their w itchcraft both fail.” Joseph Avneri pointed tow ard the east, tow ard the village of the Hassidim, and m urm ured som ething indistinct. “No!” cried Rabbi Shlomo Feig, who stood closest to the dybbuk at that m om ent. “W hat did he say?” I asked. “It was nothing,” the rabbi said. “It was foolishness. The long cerem ony has left him fatigued, and his m ind wanders. Pay no attention.” I m oved nearer to my old friend. “Tell m e, Joseph.” “I said,” the dybbuk replied slowly, “that perhaps we should send for the Baal Shem .” “Foolishness!” said Shlomo Feig, and spat. “Why this anger?” Shm arya Asch w anted to know. “You, Rabbi

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Shlomo, you w ere one of the first to advocate em ploying Kunivaru sorcerers in this business. You gladly bring in alien witch doctors, rabbi, and grow angry w hen someone suggests that your fellow Jew be given a chance to drive out the dem on? Be consistent, Shlomo!” Rabbi Shlomo’s strong face grew m ottled w ith rage. It was strange to see this calm, even-tem pered m an becom ing so excited. “I will have nothing to do w ith Hassidim!” he exclaimed. “I think this is a m atter of professional rivalries,” Moshe Shiloah com m ented. The rabbi said, “To give recognition to all that is most supersti­ tious in Judaism, to all that is most irrational and grotesque and outm oded and m edieval? No! No!” “But dybbuks are irrational and grotesque and outm oded and m edieval,” said Joseph Avneri. “Who b e tte r to exorcise one than a rabbi whose soul is still rooted in ancient beliefs?” “I forbid this!” Shlomo Feig sputtered. “If the Baal Shem is sum m oned I will—I will—” “Rabbi,” Joseph said, shouting now, “this is a m atter of my tortu red soul against your offended spiritual pride. Give way! Give way! G et m e the Baal Shem!” “I refuse!” “Look!” called Yakov Ben-Zion. The dispute had suddenly b e­ come academ ic. Uninvited, our Hassidic cousins w ere arriving at the sacred m eadow, a long procession of them , eerie prehistoriclooking figures clad in their traditional long black robes, widebrim m ed hats, heavy beards, dangling side-locks, and at the head of the group m arched their tzaddik, their holy m an, their prophet, their leader, Reb Shm uel the Baal Shem. It was certainly never our idea to bring Hassidim w ith us w hen we fled out of the sm ouldering ruins of the Land of Israel. O ur intention was to leave E arth and all its sorrows far behind, to start anew on another world w here we could at last build an enduring Jewish hom eland, free for once of our eternal G entile enem ies and

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free, also, of the religious fanatics am ong our own kind whose presence had long been a drain on our vitality. W e needed no mystics, no ecstatics, no w eepers, no m oaners, no leapers, no chanters; we needed only workers, farm ers, machinists, engineers, builders. But how could we refuse them a place on the Ark? It was their good fortune to come upon us just as we w ere m aking the final preparations for our flight. The nightm are that had darkened our sleep for three centuries had been m ade real: the Hom eland lay in flames, our arm ies had been shattered out of ambush, Philis­ tines wielding long knives strode through our devastated cities. Our ship was ready to leap to the stars. We w ere not cowards but simply realists, for it was folly to think we could do battle any longer, and if some fragm ent of our ancient nation w ere to sur­ vive, it could only survive far from that b itter world Earth. So we w ere going to go; and here w ere suppliants asking us for succor, Reb Shm uel and his thirty followers. How could we tu rn them away, knowing they would certainly perish? They w ere hum an beings, they w ere Jews. For all our misgivings, we let them come on board. And th en we w andered across the heavens year after year, and then we cam e to a star that had no nam e, only a num ber, and then we found its fourth planet to be sweet and fertile, a happier world than E arth, and we thanked the God in whom we did not believe for the good luck that H e had granted us, and we cried out to each other in congratulation, Mazel tov! Mazel tov! Good luck, good luck, good luck! And som eone looked in an old book and saw that mazel once had had an astrological connotation, that in the days of the Bible it had m eant not only “luck” but a lucky star, and so we nam ed our lucky star Mazel Tov, and we m ade our landfall on Mazel Tov IV, which was to be the New Israel. H ere we found no enem ies, no Egyptians, no Assyrians, no Romans, no Cossacks, no Nazis, no Arabs, only the Kunivaru, kindly people of a simple nature, who solemnly studied our pantom im ed explanations and replied to us in gestures, saying, Be welcome, th ere is m ore land here than we will ever need. And we built our kibbutz.

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But we had no desire to live close to those people of the past, the Hassidim, and they had scant love for us, for they saw us as pagans, godless Jews who w ere worse than Gentiles, and they w ent off to build a m uddy little village of their own. Sometimes on clear nights we heard their lusty singing, but otherw ise th ere was scarcely any contact betw een us and them . I could understand Rabbi Shlomo’s hostility to the idea of in te r­ vention by the Baal Shem. These Hassidim rep resen ted the mystic side of Judaism, the dark uncontrollable Dionysiac side, the skele­ ton in the tribal closet; Shlomo Feig m ight be am used or charm ed by a rite of exorcism perform ed by furry centaurs, but w hen Jews took part in the same sort of supernaturalism it was distressing to him. T hen, too, th ere was the ugly fact th at th e sane, sensible Rabbi Shlomo had virtually no followers at all am ong the sane, sensible secularized Jews of our kibbutz, w hereas Reb Shm uel’s Hassidim looked upon him w ith awe, regarding him as a miracleworker, a seer, a saint. Still, Rabbi Shlomo’s understandable jealou­ sies and prejudices aside, Joseph Avneri was right; dybbuks w ere vapors out of the realm of the fantastic, and the fantastic was the Baal Shem ’s kingdom. H e was an im probably tall, angular figure, almost skeletal, with gaunt cheekbones, a soft, thickly curling beard, and gentle dream y eyes. I suppose he was about fifty years old, though I would have believed it if they said he was thirty or seventy or ninety. His sense of the dram atic was unfailing; now—it was late afternoon—he took up a position with the setting sun at his back, so that his long shadow engulfed us all, and spread forth his arms, and said, “We have heard reports of a dybbuk am ong you.” “T here is no dybbuk!” Rabbi Shlomo reto rte d fiercely. The Baal Shem smiled. “But there is a Kunivar who speaks with an Israeli voice?” “T here has been an odd transform ation, yes,” Rabbi Shlomo conceded. “But in this age, on this planet, no one can take dybbuks seriously.” “T hat is, you cannot take dybbuks seriously,” said the Baal Shem.

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“I do!” cried Joseph Avneri in exasperation. “I! I! I am the dyb­ buk! I, Joseph Avneri, dead a year ago last Elul, doom ed for my sins to inhabit this Kunivar carcass. A Jew, Reb Shmuel, a dead Jew, a pitiful sinful miserable Yid. W ho’ll let m e out? W ho’ll set m e free?” “T here is no dybbuk?” the Baal Shem said amiably. “This Kunivar has gone insane,” said Shlomo Feig. We coughed and shifted our feet. If anyone had gone insane it was our rabbi, denying in this fashion the phenom enon that he him self had acknow ledged as genuine, how ever reluctantly, only a few hours before. Envy, w ounded pride, and stubbornness had unbalanced his judgm ent. Joseph Avneri, enraged, began to bel­ low the Aleph Beth Gimel, the Shma Yisroel, anything that m ight prove his dybbukhood. The Baal Shem w aited patiently, arms outspread, saying nothing. Rabbi Shlomo, confronting him, his powerful stocky figure dw arfed by the long-legged Hassid, m ain­ tained energetically that th ere had to be some rational explana­ tion for the m etam orphosis of Seul the Kunivar. W hen Shlomo Feig at length fell silent, the Baal Shem said, “T here is a dybbuk in this Kunivar. Do you think, Rabbi Shlomo, that dybbuks ceased their wanderings w hen the shtetls of Poland w ere destroyed? Nothing is lost in the sight of God, Rabbi. Jews go to the stars; the Torah and the Talm ud and the Zohar have gone also to the stars; dybbuks too m ay be found in these strange worlds. Rabbi, m ay I bring peace to this troubled spirit and to this weary Kunivar?” “Do w hatever you w ant,” Shlomo Feig m u ttered in disgust, and strode away scowling. Reb Shm uel at once com m enced the exorcism. He called first for a m inyan. Eight of his Hassidim stepped forward. I exchanged a glance w ith Shmarya Asch, and we shrugged and cam e forw ard too, but the Baal Shem, smiling, w aved us away and beckoned two m ore of his followers into the circle. They began to sing; to my everlasting sham e I have no idea w hat the singing was about, for the words w ere Yiddish of a Galitsianer sort, nearly as alien to m e as the Kunivaru tongue. They sang for ten or fifteen minutes; the Hassidim grew m ore anim ated, clapping their hands, dancing

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about their Baal Shem; suddenly Reb Shmuel low ered his arms to his sides, silencing them , and quietly began to recite H ebrew phrases, which after a m om ent I recognized as those of the 91st Psalm: T he Lord is my refuge and my fortress, in him will I trust. The psalm rolled melodiously to its com forting conclusion, its prom ise of deliverance and salvation. For a long m om ent all was still. Then in a terrifying voice, not loud but im m ensely com m and­ ing, the Baal Shem ordered the spirit of Joseph Avneri to quit the body of Seul the Kunivar. “Out! Out! In God’s nam e out, and off to your eternal rest!” O ne of the Hassidim handed Reb Shmuel a shofar. T he Baal Shem put the ram ’s horn to his lips and blew a single titanic blast. Joseph Avneri w him pered. The Kunivar that housed him took three awkward, toppling steps. “Oy, mama, m am a,” Joseph cried. The K univar’s head snapped back; his arms shot straight out at his sides; he tum bled clumsily to his four knees. An eon w ent by. Then Seul rose—smoothly, this tim e, with natural Kunivaru grace—and w ent to the Baal Shem, and knelt, and touched the tzaddik’s black robe. So we knew the thing was done. Instants later the tension broke. Two of the Kunivaru priests rushed tow ard the Baal Shem, and then Gyaymar, and then some of the musicians, and then it seem ed the whole tribe was pressing close upon him, trying to touch the holy man. The Hassidim, looking worried, m urm ured their concern, but the Baal Shem, tow ering over the surging mob, calmly blessed the Kunivaru, stroking the dense fur of their backs. After some m inutes of this the Kunivaru set up a rhythm ic chant, and it was a while before I realized w hat they w ere saying. Moshe Shiloah and Yakov BenZion caught the sense of it about the same tim e I did, and we began to laugh, and th en our laughter died away. “W hat do their words m ean?” the Baal Shem called out. “They are saying,” I told him, “that they are convinced of the power of your god. They wish to becom e Jews.” For the first tim e Reb Shm uel’s poise and serenity shattered. His eyes flashed ferociously and he pushed at the crow ding Kunivaru,

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opening an avenue betw een them . Coming up to m e, he snapped, “Such a thing is an absurdity!” “N evertheless, look at them . They worship you, Reb Shm uel.” “I refuse their worship.” “You w orked a miracle. Can you blam e them for adoring you and hungering after your faith?” “L et them adore,” said the Baal Shem. “But how can they be­ come Jews? It would be a m ockery.” I shook my head. “W hat was it you told Rabbi Shlomo? Nothing is lost in the sight of God. T here have always been converts to Judaism; we never invite them , but we never tu rn them away if they’re sincere, eh, Reb Shmuel? Even h ere in the stars, th ere is continuity of tradition, and tradition says we h arden not our hearts to those who seek the tru th of God. These are a good people: let them be received into Israel.” “No,” the Baal Shem said. “A Jew m ust first of all be hum an.” “Show m e that in the T orah.” “T he Torah! You joke w ith m e. A Jew m ust first of all be hum an. W ere cats allowed to becom e Jews? W ere horses?” “These people are neither cats nor horses, Reb Shmuel. They are as hum an as we are.” “No! No!” “If th ere can be a dybbuk on Mazel Tov IV,” I said, “then there can also be Jews w ith six limbs and green fur.” “No. No. No. No\" T he Baal Shem had had enough of this debate. Shoving aside the clutching hands of the K univaru in a most unsaintly way, he gath­ ered his followers and stalked off, a tow er of offended dignity, bidding us no farewells. But how can true faith be denied? T he Hassidim offered no encouragem ent, so the Kunivaru came to us; they learned H ebrew and we loaned them books, and Rabbi Shlomo gave them religious instruction, and in their own tim e and in their own way they en tered into Judaism. All this was years ago, in the first generation

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after the Landing. Most of those who lived in those days are dead now—Rabbi Shlomo, Reb Shm uel the Baal Shem, Moshe Shiloah, Shmarya Asch. I was a young m an then. I know a good deal m ore now, and if I am no closer to God than I ever was, perhaps H e has grown closer to me. I eat m eat and b u tte r at the same m eal, and I plough my land on the Sabbath, but those are old habits that have little to do w ith belief or the absence of belief. We are m uch closer to the Kunivaru, too, than we w ere in those early days; they no longer seem like alien beings to us, but m erely neighbors whose bodies have a different form. The younger ones of our kibbutz are especially draw n to them . The year before last Rabbi Lhaoyir the Kunivar suggested to some of our boys that they come for lessons to the Talm ud Torah, the religious school, that he runs in the Kunivaru village; since the death of Shlomo Feig there has b een no one in the kibbutz to give such instruction. W hen Reb Yossele, the son and successor of Reb Shm uel the Baal Shem, heard this, he raised strong objections. If your boys will take instruction, he said, at least send them to us, and not to green monsters. My son Yigal threw him out of the kibbutz. W e would rath er let our boys learn the Torah from green m onsters, Yigal told Reb Yossele, than have them raised to be Hassidim. And so my son’s son has had his lessons at the Talm ud Torah of Rabbi Lhaoyir the Kunivar, and next spring he will have his bar m itzvah. O nce I would have been appalled by such goings-on, but now I say only, How strange, how unexpected, how interesting! Truly the Lord, if He exists, m ust have a keen sense of hum or. I like a god who can smile and wink, who doesn’t take him self too seriously. T he Kunivaru are Jews! Yes! They are preparing David for his bar mitzvah! Yes! Today is Yom Kippur, and I hear the sound of the shofar com ing from their village! Yes! Yes. So be it. So be it, yes, and all praise be to Him.

H O R A C E L. G O L D

Trouble with Water

Yiddish, once supposed to be a d y in g language, is very m uch alive in America. The patois o f city sophistication, it has become the fa m ilia r shtik o f the show m an a n d stand-up comic. A n d it provides its own special vocabulary to describe to d a y’s hero — the non-hero. H e’s the shnook, the shlepper, the shmo (and the shm endrick, shlemiel, shlub, shlum p, shlim azelj— the born loser, the meek passive patsy, the milquetoast; h e ’s repressed, inade­ quate, alienated, and plagued with inferiority and virility com ­ plexes. In short, h e ’s the victim, the m an-w ho-couldn’t-make-it. By dram atizing this archetypical shnook, Jewish fiction exorcises con­ temporary m a n ’s m ost popular fear: failure. B ut underlying the poor sh n o o k’s clum siness and apparent weakness lies a bedrock o f thwarted strength so tw isted that it can only express its e lf as bland stoicism. He is the true tragic figure, b u t his troubles are so grotesque that they elicit chuckles o f sym pathy. Giggles replace tears. A s the author says, “It w a sn ’t m eant to be fu n n y . I f it is, i t ’s because hum or and tragedy are so inseparable, and w hat happens to m y protagonist is tragic financially, religiously and culturally. Go ahead, laugh. See i f I care. ” - J . D.

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* G r e e n b e r g d i d n o t d e s e r v e h i s s u r r o u n d i n g s . He was the first fisherm an of the season, which guaranteed him a fine catch; he sat in a dry boat—one w ithout a single leak—far out on a lake that was ruffled only enough to agitate his artificial fly. The sun was warm, the air was cool; he sat comfortably on a cushion; he had brought a hearty lunch; and two bottles of beer hung over the stern in the cold water. Any other m an would have been soaked w ith joy to be fishing on such a splendid day. Normally, G reenberg him self would have been ecstatic, but instead of relaxing and waiting for a nibble, he was plagued by worries. This short, slightly gross, definitely bald, em inently respectable businessman lived a gypsy life. D uring the sum m er, he lived in a hotel w ith kitchen privileges in Rockaway; w inters he lived in a hotel w ith kitchen privileges in Florida; and in both places he operated concessions. For years now, rain had fallen on schedule every w eek end, and th ere had b een storms and floods on D ecora­ tion Day, July 4th and Labor Day. He did not love his life, but it was a way of m aking a living. He closed his eyes and groaned. If he had only had a son instead of his Rosie! Then things would have been m ighty different— For one thing, a son could run the hot dog and ham burger griddle, E sther could draw beer, and he would m ake soft drinks. T here would be small difference in the profits, G reenberg adm it­ ted to himself; but at least those profits could be p u t aside for old age, instead of tow ard a dowry for his m iserably ugly, dum py, pitifully eager Rosie.

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“All right—so w hat do I care if she don’t get m arried?” he had cried to his wife a thousand times. “I’ll support her. O ther m en can set up boys in candy stores with soda fountains that have only two spigots. Why should I have to give a boy a regular International Casino?” “May your tongue rot in your head, you no-good piker!” she would scream. “It ain’t right for a girl to be an old maid. If we have to die in the poorhouse, I’ll get my poor Rosie a husband. Every penny we don’t need for living goes to her dowry!” G reenberg did not hate his daughter, nor did he blam e her for his misfortunes; yet, because of her, he was fishing with a broken rod that he had to tape together. T hat m orning, his wife opened her eyes and saw him packing his equipm ent. She instantly cam e awake. “Go ahead!” she shrilled —speaking in a conversational tone was not one of h er accomplish­ m ents—“Go fishing, you loafer! Leave m e here alone. I can con­ nect the beer pipes and the gas for soda w ater. I can buy ice cream , frankfurters, rolls, syrup, and w atch the gas and electric m en at the same tim e. Go ahead—go fishing!” “I ordered everything,” he m um bled soothingly. “The gas and electric w on’t be tu rn ed on today. I only w anted to go fishing— it’s my last chance. Tom orrow we open the concession. Tell the truth, Esther, can I go fishing after we open?” “I don’t care about that. Am I your wife or ain’t I, th at you should go ordering everything without asking m e—” He defended his actions. It was a tactical mistake. While she was still in bed, he should have picked up his equipm ent and left. By the tim e the argum ent got around to Rosie’s dowry, she stood facing him. “For m yself I don’t care,” she yelled. “W hat kind of a m onster are you that you can go fishing while your daughter eats h er heart out? And on a day like this yet! You should only have to m ake supper and dress Rosie up. A lot you care that a nice boy is coming to supper tonight and m aybe take Rosie out, you no-good father, you!”

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From th at point it was only one hot protest and a shrill curse to find him self clutching half a broken rod, w ith the other half being flung at his head. Now he sat in his beautifully dry boat on an excellent gam e lake far out on Long Island, desperately aw are that any average fish m ight collapse his taped rod. W hat else could he expect? H e had missed his train; he had had to wait for the boathouse proprietor; his favorite dry fly was miss­ ing; and, since m orning, not a fish struck at the bait. Not a single fish! And it was getting late. He had no m ore patience. He ripped the cap off a bottle of beer and drank it, in order to gain courage to change his fly for a less sporting bloodworm. It h u rt him, but he w anted a fish. The hook and the squirm ing worm sank. Before it cam e to rest, he felt a nibble. H e sucked in his breath exultantly and snapped the hook deep into the fish’s m outh. Sometimes, he thought philos­ ophically, they just w on’t take artificial bait. H e reeled in slowly. “Oh, L ord,” he prayed, “a dollar for charity—just don’t let the rod bend in half w here I taped it!” It was sagging dangerously. H e looked at it unhappily and raised his ante to five dollars; even at that price it looked impossible. He dipped his rod into the w ater, parallel w ith the line, to rem ove the strain. He was glad no one could see him do it. T he line reeled in w ithout a fight. “Have I—God forbid!—got an eel or som ething not kosher?” he m um bled. “A plague on you—why don’t you fight?” H e did not really care w hat it was—even an eel—anything at all. H e pulled in a long, pointed, brimless green hat. For a m om ent he glared at it. His m outh hardened. Then, vi­ ciously, he yanked the hat off the hook, threw it on the floor and tram pled on it. H e rubbed his hands together in anguish. “All day I fish,” he wailed, “two dollars for train fare, a dollar for a boat, a q u arter for bait, a new rod I got to buy—and a five-dollar m ortgage charity has got on me. For what? For you, you hat, you!”

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O ut in the w ater an extrem ely civil voice asked politely: “May I have my hat, please?” G reenberg glowered up. He saw a little m an com e swimming vigorously through the w ater tow ard him: small arms crossed w ith enorm ous dignity, vast ears on a pointed face propelling him quite rapidly and efficiently. W ith serious determ ination he drove through the w ater, and, at the starboard rail, his am azing ears kept him stationary while he looked gravely at G reenberg. “You are stam ping on my h at,” he pointed out w ithout anger. To G reenberg this was highly unim portant. “W ith the ears you’re swimm ing,” he grinned in a superior way. “Do you look funny!” “How else could I swim?” the little m an asked politely. “W ith the arms and legs, like a regular hum an being, of course.” “But I am not a hum an being. I am a w ater gnom e, a relative of the m ore com m on m ining gnome. I cannot swim w ith my arms, because they m ust be crossed to give an appearance of dignity suitable to a w ater gnom e; and my feet are used for w riting and holding things. On the other hand, my ears are perfectly adapted for propulsion in w ater. Consequently, I employ them for that purpose. But please, my hat—th ere are several m atters requiring my im m ediate attention, and I m ust not waste tim e.” G reenberg’s unpleasant attitude tow ard the rem arkably civil gnom e is easily understandable. He had found som eone he could feel superior to, and, by insulting him, his depressed ego could expand. T he w ater gnom e certainly looked inoffensive enough, being only two feet tall. “W hat you got th a t’s so im portant to do, Big Ears?” he asked nastily. G reenberg hoped the gnom e would be offended. H e was not, since his ears, to him, w ere perfectly norm al, just as you would not be insulted if a m em ber of a race of atrophied beings w ere to call you “Big Muscles.” You m ight even feel flattered. “I really m ust h urry,” the gnom e said, almost anxiously. “But if I have to answ er your questions in order to get back my hat—we

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are engaged in restocking the E astern w aters w ith fish. Last year th ere was quite a drain. The bureau of fisheries is cooperating with us to some extent, but, of course, we cannot depend too m uch on them . Until the population rises to normal, every fish has instruc­ tions not to nibble.” G reenberg allowed him self a smile, an annoyingly skeptical smile. “My m ain work,” the gnom e w ent on resignedly, “is control of the rainfall over the E astern seaboard. O ur fact-finding com m it­ tee, which is scientifically situated in the m eteorological cen ter of the continent, coordinates the rainfall needs of the entire conti­ nent; and w hen they determ ine the am ount of rain n eeded in particular spots of the East, I m ake it rain to that extent. Now may I have my hat, please?” G reenberg laughed coarsely. “The first lie was big enough— about telling the fish not to bite. You m ake it rain like I’m Presi­ dent of the U nited States!” H e bent tow ard the gnom e slyly. “How’s about proof?” “Certainly, if you insist.” T he gnom e raised his patient, triangu­ lar face tow ard a particularly clear blue spot in the sky, a trifle to one side of G reenberg. “W atch that bit of the sky.” G reenberg looked up humorously. Even w hen a small dark cloud rapidly form ed in the previously clear spot, his grin re ­ m ained broad. It could have been coincidental. But then large drops of undeniable rain fell over a twenty-foot circle; and G reen ­ b erg ’s m ocking grin shrank and grew sour. He glared hatred at the gnom e, finally convinced. “So you’re the dirty crook who makes it rain on week ends!” “Usually on week ends during the sum m er,” the gnom e adm it­ ted. “Ninety-two p ercen t of w ater consum ption is on weekdays. Obviously we m ust replace that w ater. T he w eek ends, of course, are the logical tim e.” “But, you thief!” G reenberg cried hysterically, “you m urderer! W hat do you care w hat you do to my concession with your rain? It ain’t bad enough business would be ro tten even w ithout rain, you got to m ake floods!”

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“I’m sorry,” the gnom e replied, untouched by G reen b erg ’s rhetoric. “We do not create rainfall for the benefit of m en. W e are here to protect the fish. “Now please give m e my hat. I have w asted enough tim e, w hen I should be preparing the extrem ely heavy rain needed for this coming w eek end.” G reenberg jum ped to his feet in the unsteady boat. “Rain this week end—w hen I can m aybe m ake a profit for a change! A lot you care if you ruin business. May you and your fish die a horrible, lingering d eath.” And he furiously ripped the green hat to pieces and hurled them at the gnome. “I’m really sorry you did th at,” the little fellow said calmly, his huge ears treading w ater w ithout the slightest increase of pace to indicate his anger. “We Little Folk have no tem pers to lose. Nev­ ertheless, occasionally we find it necessary to discipline certain of your people, in order to retain our dignity. I am not m alignant; but, since you hate w ater and those who live in it, w ater and those who live in it will keep away from you.” W ith his arms still folded in great dignity, the tiny w ater gnom e flipped his vast ears and disappeared in a neat surface dive. G reenberg glowered at the spreading circles of waves. He did not grasp the gnom e’s final restraining order; he did not even attem p t to in te rp re t it. Instead he glared angrily out of the corner of his eye at the phenom enal circle of rain that fell from a perfectly clear sky. The gnom e m ust have rem em b ered it at length, for a m om ent later the rain stopped. Like shutting oíf a faucet, G reen­ berg unwillingly thought. “Good-by, week end business,” he growled. “If Esther finds out I got into an argum ent w ith the guy who m akes it rain—” He m ade an underhand cast, hoping for just one fish. The line flew out over the water; th en the hook arched upw ard and cam e to rest several inches above the surface, hanging quite steadily and w ithout support in the air. “Well, go down in the w ater, dam n you!” G reenberg said vi­ ciously, and he swished his rod back and forth to pull the hook

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down from its ridiculous levitation. It refused. M uttering som ething incoherent about being hanged before h e ’d give in, G reenberg hurled his useless rod at the water. By this tim e he was not surprised w hen it hovered in the air above the lake. He m erely glanced red-eyed at it, tossed out the rem ains of the gnom e’s hat, and snatched up the oars. W hen he pulled back on them to row to land, they did not touch the w ater—naturally. Instead they flashed unim peded through the air, and G reenberg tum bled into the bow. “A-ha!” he grated. “H e re ’s w here the trouble begins.” H e bent over the side. As he had suspected, the keel floated a rem arkable distance above the lake. By rowing against the air, he m oved w ith m addening slowness tow ard shore, like a m edieval conception of a flying m achine. His m ain concern was that no one should see him in his hum iliating position. At the hotel, he tried to sneak past the kitchen to the bathroom . He knew that E sther w aited to curse him for fishing the day before opening, but m ore especially on the very day that a nice boy was coming to see her Rosie. If he could dress in a hurry, she m ight have less to say— “Oh, th ere you are, you good-for-nothing!” He froze to a halt. “Look at you!” she scream ed shrilly. “Filthy—you stink from fish!” “I didn’t catch anything, darling,” he protested timidly. “You stink anyhow. Go take a bath, may you drow n in it! G et dressed in two m inutes or less, and en tertain the boy w hen he gets here. Hurry!” He locked him self in, happy to escape her voice, started the w ater in the tub, and stripped from the waist up. A hot bath, he hoped, would rid him of his depressed feeling. First, no fish; now, rain on week ends! W hat would E sther say —if she knew, of course. And, of course, he would not tell her. “L et m yself in for a lifetim e of curses!” he sneered. “Ha!”

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in

H e clam ped a new blade into his razor, opened the tube of shaving cream , and stared objectively at the m irror. The dom inant feature of the soft, chubby face that stared back was its ugly black stubble; but he set his stubborn chin and glowered. H e really looked quite fierce and indom itable. U nfortunately, E sther never saw his face in that uncharacteristic pose, otherw ise she would speak m ore softly. “H erm an G reenberg never gives in!” he w hispered betw een savagely hardened lips. “Rain on week ends, no fish—anything he wants; a lot I care! Believe m e, h e ’ll com e craw ling to m e before I go to him .” H e gradually becam e aw are that his shaving brush was not g et­ ting wet. W hen he looked dow n and saw the w ater dividing into stream s that flowed around it, his d eterm ined face slipped and grew desperately anxious. He tried to trap th e w ater—by catching it in his cupped hands, by creeping up on it from behind, as if it w ere some shy animal, and shoving his brush at it—but it broke and ran away from his touch. T hen he jam m ed his palm against the faucet. D efeated, he heard it gurgle back down the pipe, probably as far as the main. “W hat do I do now?” he groaned. “Will E sther give it to m e if I don’t take a shave! But how? . . . I can’t shave w ithout w ater.” Glumly, he shut off the bath, undressed, and stepped into the tub. He lay down to soak. It took a m om ent of horrified stupor to realize th at he was com pletely dry and that he lay in a waterless bathtub. The w ater, in one surge of revulsion, had swept out onto the floor. “H erm an, stop splashing!” his wife yelled. “I just washed that floor. If I find one little puddle I’ll m urder you!” G reenberg surveyed the instep-deep pool over the bathroom floor. “Yes, my love,” he croaked unhappily. W ith an inadequate w ashrag he chased the elusive w ater, hop­ ing to m op it all up before it could seep through to the apartm ent below. His washrag rem ained dry, how ever, and he knew that the ceiling un d ern eath was dripping. The w ater was still on the floor.

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In despair, he sat on the edge of the bathtub. For some tim e he sat in silence. Then his wife banged on the door, urging him to come out. H e started and dressed moodily. W hen he sneaked out and shut the bathroom door tightly on the flood inside, he was extrem ely dirty and his face was raw w here he had experim entally attem p ted to shave with a dry razor. “Rosie!” he called in a hoarse whisper. “Sh! W here’s m am m a?” His daughter sat on the studio couch and applied nail-polish to her stubby fingers. “You look terrible,” she said in a conversational tone. “A ren’t you going to shave?” He recoiled at the sound of h er voice, which, to him, roared out like a siren. “Quiet, Rosie! Sh!” And for fu rth er emphasis, he shoved his lips out against a w arning finger. H e heard his wife striding heavily around the kitchen. “Rosie,” he cooed, “I’ll give you a dollar if you’ll m op up the w ater I spilled in the bathroom .” “I can’t papa,” she stated firmly. “I’m all dressed.” “Two dollars, Rosie—all right, two and a half, you blackm ailer.” H e flinched w hen he heard her gasp in the bathroom ; but, w hen she cam e out with soaked shoes, he fled downstairs. H e w andered aimlessly tow ard the village. Now he was in for it, he thought; screams from Esther, tears from Rosie—plus a new pair of shoes for Rosie and two and a half dollars. It would be worse, though, if he could not get rid of his whiskers— Rubbing the ten d er spots w here his dry razor had raked his face, he m used blankly at a drugstore window. H e saw nothing to help him, but he w ent inside anyhow and stood hopefully at the drug counter. A face p eered at him through a space scratched in the wall case m irror, and the druggist cam e out. A nice-looking, intelli­ gent fellow, G reenberg saw at a glance. “W hat you got for shaving that I can use w ithout w ater?” he asked. “Skin irritation, eh?” the pharm acist replied. “I got som ething very good for th at.” “No. I t’s just—Well, I don’t like to shave w ith w ater.” The druggist seem ed disappointed. “Well, I got brushless shav­

Trouble with Water

ing cream .” Then he brightened. “But I got an electric razor— m uch b e tte r.” “How m uch?” G reenberg asked cautiously. “Only fifteen dollars, and it lasts a lifetim e.” “Give m e the shaving cream ,” G reenberg said coldly. W ith the tactical science of a m ilitary expert, he walked around until some tim e after dark. Only then did he go back to the hotel, to wait outside. It was after seven, he was getting hungry, and the people who en tered the hotel he knew as p erm anent sum m er guests. At last a stranger passed him and ran up the stairs. G reenberg hesitated for a m om ent. T he stranger was scarcely a boy, as E sther had definitely term ed him, but G reenberg re a ­ soned that her term was m erely wish-fulfillment, and he jauntily ran up behind him. He allowed a few m inutes to pass, for the m an to introduce him self and let E sther and Rosie don their com pany m anners. Then, secure in the know ledge that there would b e no scene until the guest left, he entered. He w aded through a hostile atm osphere, urbanely shook hands with Sammie Katz, who was a doctor—probably, G reenberg thought shrewdly, in search of an office—and excused himself. In the bathroom , he carefully read the direction for using brushless shaving cream . H e felt less confident w hen he realized that he had to wash his face thoroughly with soap and w ater, but w ithout benefit of either, he spread the cream on, patted it, and w aited for his beard to soften. It did not, as he discovered while shaving. He w iped his face dry. T he towel was sticky and black, w ith whiskers suspended in paste, and, for that, he knew, th ere would be m ore hell to pay. He shrugged resignedly. He would have to spend fifteen dollars for an electric razor after all; this foolishness was costing him a fortune! That they w ere waiting for him before beginning supper, was, he knew, only a gesture for the sake of company. W ithout chang­ ing her hard, brilliant smile, E sther whispered: “Wait! I’ll get you later—” He smiled back, his to rtured, slashed face creasing painfully. All

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that could be changed by his being enorm ously pleasant to Rosie’s young man. If he could slip Sammie a few dollars—m ore expense, he groaned—to take Rosie out, E sther would forgive everything. He was too engaged in beam ing and putting Sammie at ease to think of w hat would happen after he ate caviar canapes. U nder other circum stances G reenberg would have been repulsed by Sam m ie’s ultra-professional waxed m ustache—an offensively small, pointed thing—and his com m ercial attitude toward poor Rosie; b u t G reenberg regarded him as a potential savior. “You open an office yet, D octor Katz?” “Not yet. You know how things are. Anyhow, call m e Sam m ie.” G reenberg recognized the gam bit w ith satisfaction, since it seem ed to please E sther so m uch. At one stroke Sammie had ingratiated him self and begun bargaining negotiations. W ithout another word, G reenberg lifted his spoon to attack the soup. It would be easy to snare this eager doctor. A doctor! No w onder E sther and Rosie w ere so puffed w ith joy. In the p roper com pany way, he pushed his spoon away from him. The soup spilled onto the tablecloth. “Not so hard, you dope,” E sther hissed. He drew the spoon tow ard him. The soup leaped off it like a live thing and splashed over him —turning, just before contact, to fall on the floor. He gulped and pushed the bowl away. This tim e the soup poured over the side of the plate and lay in a huge puddle on the table. “I didn’t w ant any soup anyhow ,” he said in a horrible attem p t at levity. Lucky for him, he thought wildly, that Sammie was there to pacify E sther w ith his sm ooth college talk—not a bad fellow, Sammie, in spite of his m ustache; h e ’d com e in handy at times. G reenberg lapsed into a paralysis of fear. He was thirsty after having eaten the caviar, w hich beats herring any tim e as a thirst raiser. But the know ledge that he could not touch w ater w ithout having it recoil and perhaps spill, m ade his thirst a m onum ental craving. He attacked the problem cunningly. The others w ere talking rapidly and rath e r hysterically. He w aited until his courage was equal to his thirst; then he leaned

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over the table w ith a glass in his hand. “Sammie, do you m ind— a little w ater, huh?” Sammie poured from a pitcher while E sther w atched for m ore of his tricks. It was to be expected, but still he was shocked w hen the w ater exploded out of the glass directly at Sam m ie’s only suit. “If you’ll excuse m e,” Sammie said angrily, “I don’t like to eat with lunatics.” And he left, though E sther cried and begged him to stay. Rosie was too stunned to move. But w hen the door closed, G reenberg raised his agonized eyes to w atch his wife stalk m urderously to­ w ard him. G reenberg stood on the boardwalk outside his concession and glared blearily at the peaceful, blue, highly unpleasant ocean. He w ondered w hat would happen if he started at the edge of the w ater and strode out. H e could probably walk right to E urope on dry land. It was early—m uch too early for business—and he was tired. N either he nor E sther had slept; and it was practically certain that the neighbors had n ’t either. But above all he was incredibly thirsty. In a spirit of experim entation, he mixed a soda. Of course, its high w ater content m ade it slop onto the floor. For breakfast he had surreptitiously tried fruit juice and coffee, w ithout success. W ith his tongue dry to the point of furriness, he sat weakly on a boardw alk bench in front of his concession. It was Friday m orn­ ing, which m eant that the day was clear, w ith a prom ise of intense heat. H ad it been Saturday, it naturally would have been raining. “This year,” he m oaned, “I ’ll be w iped out. If I can’t mix sodas, why should beer stay in a glass for me? I thought I could hire a boy for ten dollars a week to run the hot-dog griddle; I could m ake sodas, and E sther could draw beer. All I can do is m ake hot dogs, E sther can still draw beer; b u t tw enty or m aybe twenty-five a w eek I got to pay a sodaman. I w on’t even com e out square—a fortune I’ll lose!” The situation really was desperate. Concessions d epend on too

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m any factors to be anything but capriciously profitable. His th roat was fiery and his soft brow n eyes held a fierce glaze w hen the gas and electric w ere tu rned on, the beer pipes con­ nected, the tank of carbon dioxide hitched to the pum p, and the refrigerator started. Gradually, the beach was filling w ith bathers. G reenberg w rithed on his bench and envied them . They could swim and drink w ithout having liquids draw away from them as if in horror. They w ere not thirsty— And th en he saw his first custom ers approach. His business expe­ rience was that m orning custom ers buy only soft drinks. In a m ad haste he p u t up the shutters and fled to the hotel. “Esther!” he cried. “I got to tell you! I can’t stand it—” Threateningly, his wife held her broom like a baseball bat. “Go back to the concession, you crazy fool. Ain’t you done enough already?” H e could not be h urt m ore than he had been. For once he did not cringe. “You got to help m e, E sther.” “Why d id n ’t you shave, you no-good bum ? Is that any way—” “T hat’s w hat I got to tell you. Yesterday I got into an argum ent w ith a w ater gnom e—” “A w hat?” E sther looked at him suspiciously. “A w ater gnom e,” he babbled in a rush of words. “A little m an so high, w ith big ears that he swims with, and he m akes it rain—” “H erm an!” she scream ed. “Stop that nonsense. You’re crazy!” G reenberg pounded his forehead w ith his fist. “I a in ’t crazy. Look, Esther. Com e w ith m e into the kitchen.” She followed him readily enough, but her attitude m ade him feel m ore helpless and alone than ever. W ith her fists on her plum p hips and her feet set wide, she cautiously w atched him try to fill a glass of water. “D on’t you see?” he wailed. “It w on’t go in the glass. It spills over. It runs away from m e.” She was puzzled. “W hat happened to you?” Brokenly, G reenberg told of his encounter w ith the w ater

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gnom e, leaving out no single degrading detail. “And now I can ’t touch w ater, he ended. “I can’t drink it. I can’t m ake sodas. On top of it all, I got such a thirst, it’s killing m e.” E sth er’s reaction was instantaneous. She threw her arms around him, drew his head down to h er shoulder, and p atted him com fort­ ingly as if he w ere a child. “H erm an, my poor H erm an!” she breathed tenderly. “W hat did we ever do to deserve such a curse?” “W hat shall I do, E sther?” he cried helplessly. She held him at a rm ’s length. “You got to go to a doctor,” she said firmly. “How long can you go w ithout drinking? W ithout w ater you’ll die. Maybe sometim es I am a little hard on you, but you know I love you—” “I know, m am m a,” he sighed. “But how can a doctor help m e?” “Am I a doctor that I should know? Go anyhow. W hat can you lose?” He hesitated. “I need fifteen dollars for an electric razor,” he said in a low, weak voice. “So?” she replied. “If you got to, you got to. Go, darling. I’ll take care of the concession.” G reenberg no longer felt deserted and alone. He walked almost confidently to a doctor’s office. Manfully, he explained his sym p­ toms. The doctor listened w ith professional sympathy, until G reenberg reached his description of the w ater gnome. T hen his eyes glittered and narrow ed. “I know just the thing for you, Mr. G reenberg,” he interrupted. “Sit there until I come back.” G reenberg sat quietly. He even perm itted him self a surge of hope. But it seem ed only a m om ent later that he was vaguely conscious of a siren scream ing tow ard him; and then he was over­ w helm ed by the doctor and two interns who pounced on him and tried to squeeze him into a bag. H e resisted, of course. He was terrified enough to punch wildly. “W hat are you doing to m e?” he shrieked. “D on’t p ut that thing on me!” Easy now ,” the doctor soothed. “Everything will be all right.”

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It was on that hum iliating scene that the policem an, required by law to accom pany public ambulances, appeared. “W hat’s up?” he asked. “D on’t stand there, you fathead,” an in tern shouted. “This m an’s crazy. Help us get him into this strait jacket.” But the policem an approached indecisively. “Take it easy, Mr. G reenberg. They ain’t gonna h urt you while I’m here. W hat’s it all about?” “Mike!” G reenberg cried, and clung to his pro tecto r’s sleeve. “They think I’m crazy—” “O f course h e ’s crazy,” the doctor stated. “He cam e in here with a fantastic yarn about a w ater gnom e putting a curse on him .” “W hat kind of a curse, Mr. G reenberg?” Mike asked cautiously. “I got into an argum ent with the w ater gnom e who makes it rain and takes care of the fish,” G reenberg blurted. “I tore up his hat. Now he w on’t let w ater touch me. I can’t drink, or anything—” The doctor nodded. “T here you are. Absolutely insane.” “Shut u p .” For a long m om ent Mike stared curiously at G reen­ berg. Then: “Did any of you scientists think of testing him? H ere, Mr. G reenberg.” He poured w ater into a paper cup and held it out. G reenberg m oved to take it. The w ater backed up against the cup’s far lip; w hen he took it in his hand, the w ater shot out into the air. “Crazy, is he?” Mike asked w ith heavy irony. “I guess you don’t know th e re ’s things like gnom es and elves. Com e with m e, Mr. G reenberg.” They w ent out together and walked tow ard the boardwalk. G reenberg told Mike the entire story and explained how, besides being so uncom fortable to him personally, it would ruin him finan­ cially. “Well, doctors can’t help you,” Mike said at length. “W hat do they know about the Little Folk? And I can’t say I blam e you for sassing the gnome. You ain’t Irish or you’d have spoke w ith m ore respect to him. Anyhow, you’re thirsty. C an’t you drink a n y ­ th in g ?”

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“Not a thing,” G reenberg said mournfully. They e n te red the concession. A single glance told G reenberg that business was very quiet, but even that could not lower his feelings m ore than they already were. E sther clutched him as soon as she saw them . “W ell?” she asked anxiously. G reenberg shrugged in despair. “Nothing. He thought I was crazy.” Mike stared at the bar. M emory seem ed to struggle behind his reflective eyes. “Sure,” he said after a long pause. “Did you try beer, Mr. G reenberg? W hen I was a boy m y old m other told m e all about elves and gnom es and the rest of the Little Folk. She knew them , all right. They don’t touch alcohol, you know. Try draw ing a glass of beer—” G reenberg trudged obediently behind the bar and held a glass under the spigot. Suddenly his despondent face brightened. Beer cream ed into the glass—and stayed there! Mike and E sther grinned at each other as G reenberg threw back his head and furiously drank. “Mike!” he crowed. “I’m saved. You got to drink with me!” “Well— ” Mike protested feebly. By late afternoon, E sther had to close the concession and take her husband and Mike to the hotel. The following day, being Saturday, brought a flood of rain. G reenberg nursed an imposing hang-over that was constantly ag­ gravated by his having to drink b eer in order to satisfy his recu r­ ring thirst. H e thought of forbidden ice bags and alkaline drinks in an agony of longing. “I can ’t stand it!” he groaned. “Beer for breakfast—phooey!” “I t’s b e tte r than nothing,” E sther said fatalistically. “So help m e, I don’t know if it is. But, darling, you ain’t m ad at m e on account of Sammie, are you?” She smiled gently, “Poo! Talk dowry and h e ’ll com e back quick.” “T h at’s w hat I thought. But w hat am I going to do about my curse?”

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Cheerfully, Mike furled an um brella and strode in with a little old wom an, w hom he introduced as his m other. G reenberg envi­ ously saw evidence of the effectiveness of ice bags and alkaline drinks, for Mike had been just as high as he the day before. “Mike told m e about you and the gnom e,” the old lady said. “Now I know the Little Folk well, and I don’t hold you to blam e for insulting him, seeing you never m et a gnom e before. But I suppose you w ant to get rid of your curse. Are you rep en tan t?” G reenberg shuddered. “B eer for breakfast! Can you ask?” “Well, just you go to this lake and give the gnom e proof.” “W hat kind of proof?” G reenberg asked eagerly. “Bring him sugar. T he Little Folk love the stuff—” G reenberg beam ed. “D id you hear that, Esther? I ’ll get a barrel—” “They love sugar, but they can’t eat it,” the old lady broke in. “It m elts in water. You got to figure out a way so it w on’t. Then the little gentlem an’ll know you’re rep en tan t for real.” “A-ha!” G reenberg cried. “I knew there was a catch!” T here was a sym pathetic silence while his agitated m ind at­ tacked the problem from all angles. T hen the old lady said in awe: “The m inute I saw your place I knew Mike had told the truth. I never seen a sight like it in my life—rain coming down, like the flood, everyw here else; but all around this place, in a big circle, it’s dry as a bone!” W hile G reenberg scarcely heard her, Mike nodded and E sther seem ed peculiarly interested in the phenom enon. W hen he ad­ m itted defeat and cam e out of his reflected stupor, he was alone in the concession, with only a vague m em ory of E sther’s saying she would not be back for several hours. “W hat am I going to do?” he m uttered. “Sugar that w on’t m elt—” H e drew a glass of b eer and drank it thoughtfully. “P artic­ ular they got to be yet. Ain’t it good enough if I bring simple sirup —th a t’s sw eet.” He po ttered about the place, looking for som ething to do. He could not polish the fountain on the bar, and the few frankfurters

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boiling on the griddle probably would go to waste. The floor had already been swept. So he sat uneasily and w orried his problem . “Monday, no m atter w hat,” he resolved, “Til go to the lake. It don’t pay to go tomorrow. I’ll only catch a cold because it’ll rain.” At last E sther returned, smiling in a strange way. She was ex­ trem ely gentle, tender and thoughtful; and for that he was ap­ preciative. But that night and all day Sunday he understood the reason for her happiness. She had spread word that, while it rained in every other place all over town, their concession was miraculously dry. So, besides a headache that m ade his body throb in rhythm to its vast pulse, G reenberg had to work like six m en satisfying the crowd who m obbed the place to see the m iracle and enjoy the dry w arm th. How m uch they took in will never be known. G reenberg m ade it a practice not to discuss such personal m atters. But it is quite definite that not even in 1929 had he done so well over a single w eek end. Very early Monday m orning he was dressing quietly, not to disturb his wife. Esther, how ever, raised herself on her elbow and looked at him doubtfully. “H erm an,” she called softly, “do you really have to go?” He turned, puzzled. “W hat do you m ean—do I have to go?” “Well—” She hesitated. Then: “Couldn’t you wait until the end of the season, H erm an, darling?” He staggered back a step, his face working in horror. “W hat kind of an idea is that for my own wife to have?” he croaked. “Beer I have to drink instead of w ater. How can I stand it? Do you think I like beer? I can’t wash myself. Already people don’t like to stand near me; and how will they act at the end of the season? I go around looking like a bum because my beard is too tough for an electric razor, and I’m all the tim e drunk—the first G reenberg to be a drunkard. I w ant to be respected—” “I know, H erm an, darling,” she sighed. “But I thought for the sake of our Rosie—Such a business w e’ve never done like we did

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this w eek end. If it rains every Saturday and Sunday, but not on our concession, w e’ll m ake a fo rtu n e \” “Esther!” H erm an cried, shocked. “D oesn’t my health m ean anything?” “Of course, darling. Only I thought m aybe you could stand it for—” He snatched his hat, tie and jacket, and slam m ed the door. Outside, though, he stood indeterm inedly. H e could hear his wife crying, and he realized that, if he succeeded in getting the gnom e to rem ove the curse, he would forfeit an opportunity to m ake a great deal of money. H e finished dressing m ore slowly. Esther was right, to a certain extent. If he could tolerate his waterless condition— “No!” he gritted decisively. “Already my friends avoid me. It isn’t right that a respectable m an like m e should always be drunk and not take a bath. So w e’ll m ake less m oney. Money isn’t every­ thing—” And w ith great determ ination, he w ent to the lake. But that evening, before going hom e, Mike walked out of his way to stop in at the concession. He found G reenberg sitting on a chair, his head in his hands, and his body rocking slowly in anguish. “W hat is it, Mr. G reenberg?” he asked gently. G reenberg looked up. His eyes w ere dazed. “Oh, you, Mike,” he said blankly. Then his gaze cleared, grew m ore intelligent, and he stood up and led Mike to the bar. Silently, they drank beer. “I w ent to the lake today,” he said hollowly. “I walked all around it holler­ ing like mad. The gnom e didn’t stick his head out of the w ater once.” “I know ,” Mike nodded sadly. “T hey’re busy all the tim e.” G reenberg spread his hands imploringly. “So w hat can I do? I can’t w rite him a letter or send him a telegram ; he ain’t got a door to knock on or a bell for m e to ring. How do I get him to come up and talk?”

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His shoulders sagged. “H ere, Mike. H ave a cigar. You b een a real good friend, but I guess w e’re licked.” They stood in an awkward silence. Finally Mike blurted: “Real hot, today. A regular scorcher.” “Yeah. Esther says business was p retty good, if it keeps u p .” Mike fum bled at the cellophane w rapper. G reenberg said: “Anyhow, suppose I did talk to the gnome. W hat about the sugar?” The silence dragged itself out, becam e tense and uncom fort­ able. Mike was distinctly em barrassed. His brusque nature was not adapted for com forting discouraged friends. W ith im m ense con­ centration he rolled the cigar betw een his fingers and listened for a rustle. “Day like this’s hell on cigars,” he m um bled, for the sake of conversation. “Dries them like nobody’s business. This one ain’t, though.” “Yeah,” G reenberg said abstractedly. “Cellophane keeps them —” They looked suddenly at each other, their faces clean of expres­ sion. “Holy smoke!” Mike yelled. “Cellophane on sugar!” G reenberg choked out. “Yeah,” Mike w hispered in awe. “I ’ll switch my day off w ith Joe, and I’ll go to the lake w ith you tomorrow. I’ll call for you early.” G reenberg pressed his hand, too strangled by em otion for speech. W hen E sther cam e to relieve him, he left her at the concession w ith only the inexperienced griddle boy to assist her, while he searched the village for cubes of sugar w rapped in cello­ phane. The sun had scarcely risen w hen Mike reached the hotel, but G reenberg had long been dressed and stood on the porch waiting im patiently. Mike was genuinely anxious for his friend. G reenberg staggered along tow ard the station, his eyes almost crossed with the pain of a terrific hang-over. They stopped at a cafeteria for breakfast. Mike ordered orange juice, bacon and eggs, and coffee half-and-half. W hen he heard the

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order, G reenberg had to gag down a lum p in his throat. “W hat’ll you have?” the counterm an asked. G reenberg flushed. “B eer,” he said hoarsely. “You kidding m e?” G reenberg shook his head, unable to speak. “W ant anything w ith it? Cereal, pie, toast—” “Just b e e r.” And he forced him self to swallow it. “So help m e,” he hissed at Mike, “another b eer for breakfast will kill me!” “I know how it is,” Mike said around a m outhful of food. O n the train they attem p ted to m ake plans. But they w ere faced by a phenom enon that neith er had encou ntered before, and so they got now here. They walked glumly to the lake, fully aware that they would have to em ploy the em pirical m ethod of discard­ ing tactics that did not work. “How about a boat?” Mike suggested. “It w on’t stay in the w ater w ith m e in it. And you can’t row it.” “Well, w h at’ll we do then?” G reenberg bit his lip and stared at the beautiful blue lake. T here the gnom e lived, so near to them . “Go through the woods along the shore, and holler like hell. I’ll go the opposite way. W e’ll pass each other and m eet at the boathouse. If the gnom e comes up, yell for m e.” “O.K.,” Mike said, not very confidently. The lake was quite large and they walked slowly around it, pausing often to get the p roper stance for particularly em phatic shouts. But two hours later, w hen they stood opposite each other with the full diam eter of the lake betw een them , G reenberg heard M ike’s hoarse voice: “Hey, gnome!” “Hey, gnome!” G reenberg yelled. “Com e on up!” An hour later they crossed paths. They w ere tired, discouraged, and their throats burned; and only fisherm en disturbed the lake’s surface. “T he hell w ith this,” Mike said. “It ain’t doing any good. L e t’s go back to the boathouse.” “W hat’ll we do?” G reenberg rasped. “I can’t give up!” They trudged back around the lake, shouting half-heartedly. At

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the boathouse, G reenberg had to adm it that he was beaten. The boathouse ow ner m arched threateningly tow ard him. “Why don’t you maniacs get away from here?” he barked. “W hat’s the idea of hollering and scaring away the fish? The guys are sore—” ‘W e’re not going to holler any m ore,” G reenberg said. “I t’s no use.” W hen they bought beer and Mike, on an impulse, hired a boat, the ow ner cooled off w ith am azing rapidity, and w ent off to u n ­ pack bait. ‘W hat did you get a boat for?” G reenberg asked. “I can’t ride in it.” “You’re not going to. You’re gonna walk.” “Around the lake again?” G reenberg cried. Nope. Look, Mr. G reenberg. Maybe the gnom e can’t hear us through all that water. Gnomes ain’t hardhearted. If he heard us and thought you w ere sorry, h e ’d take his curse off you in a jiffy.” “M aybe.” G reenberg was not convinced. “So w here do I come in?” “The way I figure it, some way or other you push w ater away, but the w ater pushes you away just as hard. Anyhow, I hope so. If it does, you can walk on the lake.” As he spoke, Mike had been lifting large stones and dum ping them on the bottom of the boat. “Give m e a hand with these.” Any activity, how ever useless, was b e tte r than none, G reenberg felt. He helped Mike fill the boat until just the gunwales w ere above w ater. Then Mike got in and shoved off. “Com e on,” Mike said. “Try to walk on the w ater.” G reenberg hesitated. “Suppose I can’t?” N othing 11 happen to you. You can’t get wet; so you w on’t drow n.” The logic of M ike’s statem ent reassured G reenberg. He stepped out boldly. H e experienced a peculiar sense of accom plishm ent w hen the w ater hastily retrea ted under his feet into pressure bowls, and an unseen, pow erful force buoyed him upright across

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the lake’s surface. Though his footing was not too secure, with care he was able to walk quite swiftly. “Now w hat?” he asked, almost happily. Mike had kept pace w ith him in the boat. H e shipped his oars and passed G reenberg a rock. “W e’ll drop them all over the lake —m ake it dam ned noisy dow n there and upset the place. T hat’ll get him u p .” They w ere m ore hopeful now, and their com m ents, “H e re ’s one th a t’ll wake him ,” and “I’ll hit him right on the noodle w ith this one,” served to cheer them still further. And less than half the rocks had been dropped w hen G reenberg halted, a boulder in his hands. Som ething inside him w rapped itself tightly around his heart and his jaw dropped. Mike followed his awed, joyful gaze. To himself, Mike had to adm it that the gnom e, propelling him self through the w ater with his ears, arms folded in trem endous dignity, was a funny sight. “Must you drop rocks and disturb us at our work?” the gnom e asked. G reenberg gulped. “I’m sorry, Mr. G nom e,” he said nervously. “I couldn’t get you to come up by yelling.” The gnom e looked at him. “Oh. You are the m ortal who was disciplined. Why did you retu rn ? ” “To tell you that I’m sorry, and I w on’t insult you again.” “Have you proof of your sincerity?” the gnom e asked quietly. G reenberg fished furiously in his pocket and brought out a handful of sugar w rapped in cellophane, which he trem blingly handed to the gnome. “Ah, very clever, indeed,” the little m an said, unw rapping a cube and popping it eagerly into his m outh. “Long tim e since I’ve had some.” A m om ent later G reenberg spluttered and floundered under the surface. Even if Mike had not caught his jacket and helped him up, he could almost have enjoyed the sensation of being able to drown.

PAMELA SARGENT

Gather Blue Roses

Auschwitz-Birkenau, Belzec, Treblinka, M ajdanek, Sobibor, Chelmo— the deathfurnaces o f the Holocaust, open w ounds in the confused conscience o f a civilized, modern world. Their fires, still stoked by kindlings o f anti-Sem itism , illum inate w hat lies below and beyond civiliza tio n ’s fragile constructions. The Jew carries this burden o f the past into a hostile present. Beluctantly, he passes it on to his children. Here is a story about those children, a m elancholy prose-poem m ade up o f fleeting a ft­ er-images, a bad dream that fin d s its own reality. It is a slow descent into a cold fu tu r e buried in the present, a present where only love a n d the strength o f children can insure survival.

J D.

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*

I CA N N O T REM EM BER EVER HAVING asked my m other outright about the tattooed num bers. We m ust have know n very early that we should not ask; perhaps my brother Simon or I had said some­ thing inadvertently as very small children and had seen the look of sorrow on her face at the statem ent; perhaps my father had told us never to ask. Of course, we w ere always aware of the num bers. T here w ere those times w hen the w eather was particularly warm, and my m other would not button her blouse at the top, and she would lean over us to hug us or pick us up, and we would see them w ritten across her, an inch above h er breasts. (By the tim e I reached my adolescence, I had heard all the horror stories about the death camps and the ovens; about those who had to rem ove gold tee th from the bodies; the w om en used, despite the Reich’s edicts, by the soldiers and guards. I then re ­ garded my m other w ith am bivalence, saying to myself, I would have died first, I would have found some way rath er than suffering such dishonor, w ondering w hat had happened to her and w hat secret sins she had on her conscience, and w hat she had done to survive. An old man, a doctor, had said to m e once, “The best ones of us died, the most honorable, the most sensitive.” And I would thank God I had been born in 1949; th ere was no chance that I was the daughter of a Nazi rape.) By the tim e I was four, we had m oved to an old fram e house in the country, and my father had taken a job teaching at a small junior college nearby, turning down his offers from Columbia and Chicago, knowing how impossible that would be for m other. We 128

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had a lot of elms and oaks and a huge w eeping willow that hovered sadly over the house. O ur pond would be invaded in the early spring and late fall by a few geese, which would usually keep their distance before flying on. (“You can tell those birds are Jewish,” my father would say; “they go to Miami in the w inter,” and Simon and I would im agine them lying on a beach, coating their feathers with C oppertone and ordering lem onades from the waitresses; we h ad n ’t heard of Collinses yet.) E ven out in the country, th ere w ere often those tim es w hen we would see my m other packing her clothes in a small suitcase, and she would tell us that she was going away for a while, just a week, just to get away, to find solitude. One tim e it was to an old cam p in the Adirondacks that one of my aunts owned, another tim e to a cabin that a friend of my fath er’s loaned her, always alone, always to an isolated place. F ather would say that it was “nerves,” al­ though we w ondered, since we w ere so isolated as it was. Simon and I thought she d idn’t love us, that m other was somehow using this m eans to tell us that we w ere being rejected. I would try very hard to behave; w hen m other was resting, I would tiptoe and whisper. Simon reacted m ore violently. H e could contain himself for a while; but then, in a desperate attem p t at draw ing attention to himself, would run through the house, scream ing horribly, and hurl himself, headfirst, at one of the radiators. On one occasion, he threw him self through one of the large living room windows, smashing the glass. Fortunately, he was uninjured, except for cuts and bruises, but after that incident, my father put chicken wire over the windows on the inside of the house. M other was very shaken by that incident, walking around for a couple of days, her body aching all over, then going away to my a u n t’s place for three weeks this time. Simon’s head m ust have been strong; he never sustained any dam age from the radiators worse than a few bum ps and a headache, but the headaches would often keep m other in bed for days. (I pick up my binoculars to check the forest again from my tower, seeing the small lakes like puddles below, using my glasses

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to focus on a couple in a small boat near one of the islands, and then turn away from them , not w anting to invade their privacy, envying the girl and boy who can so freely, w ithout fear of conse­ quences, exchange and share their feelings, and yet not share them , not at least in the way th at would destroy a person such as myself. I do not think anyone will risk clim bing my m ountain today, as the sky is overcast, cirro-cumulus clouds slowly chasing each other, a large storm cloud in the west. I hope no one will come; the family who picnicked beneath my observation tow er yesterday bothered me; one child had a headache and another indigestion, and I lay in my cabin taking aspirins all afternoon and nursing the heaviness in my stomach. I hope no one will come today.) M other and father did n ot send us to school until we w ere as old as the law would allow. We w ent to the small public school in town. An old yellow bus would pick us up in front of the house. I was scared the first day and was glad Simon and I w ere twins so that we could go together. The town had built a new school; it was a small, square brick building, and th ere w ere fifteen of us in the first grade. The high school students w ent to classes in the same building. I was afraid of them and was glad to discover that their classes w ere all on the second floor; so we rarely saw them during the day, except w hen they had gym classes outside. Sitting at my desk inside, I would w atch them , wincing every tim e someone got hit w ith a ball, or got bruised. (Only th ree m onths in school, thank God, before my father got perm ission to tutor m e at hom e, three m onths was too m uch of the constant pains, the turm oil of em o­ tions; I am sweating now and my hands shake, w hen I rem em ber it all.) The first day was boring to m e for the most part; Simon and I had been reading and doing arithm etic at hom e for as long as I could rem em ber. I played dum b and did as I was told; Simon was aggressive, showing off, knowing it all. T he other kids giggled, pointing at me, pointing at Simon, whispering. I felt some of it, but not enough to bother m e too much; I was not then as I am now, not that first day.

Gather Blue Roses

Recess: kids yelling, running, climbing the jungle gym, swinging and chinning them selves on bars, chasing a basketball. I was with two girls and a piece of chalk on the blacktop; they taught m e hopscotch, and I did my best to ignore the bruises and bum ps of the other students. It was at the end of the second week that the incident occurred during recess. (I need the peace, the retrea t from easily com m unicated pain. How strange, I think objectively, that our lives are such that dis­ comfort, pain, sadness and hatred are so easily conveyed and so frequently felt. Love and contentm ent are only soft veils which do not protect m e from bludgeons; and w ith the strongest loves, one can still sense the m ore violent undercurrents of fear, hate and jealousy.) It was at the end of the second week that the incident occurred during recess. I was, again, playing hopscotch, and Simon had come over to look at w hat we w ere doing before joining some other boys. Five older kids cam e over, I guess they w ere in third or fourth grade, and they began their taunts. “G reeeenbaum ,” at Simon and me. We both turned toward them , I balancing on one foot on the hopscotch squares we had draw n, Simon clenching his fists. “G reeeeenbaum , E sther G reeeeenbaum , Simon G reeeeenbaum ,” whinnying the green, thundering the baum. “My father says you’re Yids.” “He says you’re the Yid’s kids.” O ne boy hooted and yelled, “Hey, they’re Yid kids.” Some giggled, and then they chanted, “Yid kid, Yid kid,” as one of them pushed m e off my square. “You leave my sister alone,” Simon yelled and w ent for the boy, fists flying, and knocked him over. The boy sat down suddenly, and I felt pain in my lower back. A nother boy ran over and punched Simon. Simon w hacked him back, and the boy hit him in the nose, hard. It h u rt like hell and I started crying from the pain, holding my nose, pulled away my hand and saw blood. Simon’s nose was bleeding, and then the other kids started in, trying to pum m el my brother, one guy holding him, another guy punching. “Stop it,” I

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scream ed, “stop it,” as I curled on the ground, hurting, seeing the teachers ru n over to pull them apart. T hen I fainted, mercifully, and cam e to in the nurse’s office. They kept m e th ere until it was tim e to go hom e that day. Simon was proud of himself, boasting, offering self-congratula­ tions. “D on’t tell m other,” I said w hen we got off the bus, “don’t, Simon, she’ll get upset and go away again, please. D on’t m ake her sad.” (When I was fourteen, during one of the tim es m other was away, m y father got drunk downstairs in the kitchen w ith Mr. Arnstead, and I could hear them talking, as I hid in my room w ith my books and records, father speaking softly, Mr. A rnstead bellowing. “No one, no one, should ever have to go through w hat Anna did. W e’re beasts anyway, all of us, Germans, Americans, w hat’s the difference.” Slamming of a glass on the table and a bellow: “God dam n it, Sam, you Jews seem to think you have a m onopoly on suffering. W hat about the guy in Harlem ? W hat about some starving guy in Mexico? You think things are any b e tte r for them ?” “It was worse for A nna.” “No, not worse, no worse than the guy in some street in Cal­ cutta. Anna could at least hope she would be liberated, but w ho’s gonna free that guy?” “No one,” softly, “no one is ever freed from A nna’s kind of suffering.” I listened, hiding in my room, but Mr. A rnstead left after that; and w hen I came downstairs, father was just sitting there, staring at his glass; and I felt his sadness softly drape itself around m e as I stood there, and th en the soft veil of love over the sadness, m aking it bearable.) I began to miss school at least twice a week, hurting, unable to speak to m other, w anting to say som ething to father but not hav­ ing the words. M other was away a lot then, and this m ade m e m ore depressed (I’m doing it, I’m sending h er away), the depression endurable only because of the blanket of com fort that I felt resting over the house.

Gather Blue Roses

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They had been worried, of course, but did not have their worst fears confirm ed until Thanksgiving was over and D ecem ber ar­ rived (snow drifting down from a grey sky, father bringing in wood for the fireplace, m other polishing the m enorah, Simon and me counting up our saved allowances, plotting w hat to buy for them w hen father drove us to town). I had been absent from school for a week by then, vom iting every m orning at the thought that I m ight have to return. F ather was reading and Simon was outside, trying to climb one of our trees. I was in the kitchen, cutting cookies and decorating them while m other rolled the dough, hum ­ ming, w hite flour on her apron, looking away and smiling w hen I sneaked small pieces of dough and p ut them in my m outh. And then I fell off my chair onto the floor, holding my leg, moaning, “M other, it hurts,” blood running from my nose. She picked m e up, clutching m e to her, and put m e on the chair, blotted my nose with a tissue. T hen we heard Simon yelling out­ side, and then his banging on the back door. M other w ent and pulled him inside, his nose bleeding. “I fell outa the tre e ,” and, as she picked him up, she looked back at me; and I knew that she understood, and felt her fear and her sorrow as she realized that she and I w ere the same, that I would always feel the knife thrusts of other people’s pain, draw their agonies into myself, and, p e r­ haps, be shattered by them . (Remembering: F ather and m other outside, after a sum m er storm, standing under the willow, father putting his arm around her, brushing her black hair back and kissing her gently on the forehead. Not for m e, too m uch shared anguish with love for me. I am always alone, w ith my m ountain, my forest, my lakes like puddles. The young couple’s boat is m oored at the island.) I hear them downstairs. “Anna, the poor child, w hat can we do?” “It is worse for her, Sam uel,” sighing, the sadness reaching m e and becom ing a shroud, “it will be worse w ith her, I think, than it was for m e.”

BERNARD MALAMUD

The Jewbird

Jewish fiction has alw ays been at home w ith humor. Per­ haps it is a natural propensity to exaggerate and tw ist reality— the kin d o f fa n c y that soars to the logical end o f the ludicrous, that attacks and promotes its e lf under an um brella o f cynicism and resignation. Even the m ost realistically layered stories seem to be punctuated with those odd fancies and impossible details that contrast brightly w ith their sober themes. W hile Pamela Sargent transm utes fly in g geese into rich Jews w intering in M iam i Beach, “coating their feathers w ith Copperto n ea n d ordering lemonades fro m the waitresses,” Bernard M ala­ m ud converts crows into Jewbirds that doven with passion, speak a passable Yiddish, prefer matjes herring to schm altz, and m ust flee fro m the “Anti-Semeets. ” He exaggerates, celebrates, under­ plays, shouts, whispers, teases, rejoices, and pulls m undane reality apart like Coney Island taffy. A n d the im possibly possible Jewbird nam ed Schwartz complains, entertains, suffers, endures, and chokes u n til the reader stops laughing. B ut who are the “A nti-Sem eets”? Where are the “A nti-Sem eets”? O ut there, o f course, b u t th e y ’re in here, too, in the kosher homes with Friday night candles flickering in d in in g rooms, in the trades where Yiddish slang operates best, in sm all neighborhood syna­ gogues, on the Long Island Expressway where the “Q ueen-Bride” o f the Sabbath rides in Cadillacs, and in the media mirror o f laughs and insecurities. A s Gabriel Pierson p u t it so well: “A Jew fares as badly with his own Jewishness as the non-Jew: he is his own ‘anti-semit.

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the skinny bird flew in. Flappity-flap w ith its frazzled black wings. T hat’s how it goes. I t’s open, you’re in. Closed, you’re out and th a t’s your fate. T he bird wearily flapped through th e open kitchen window of H arry C ohen’s top-floor apartm ent on First Avenue near the lower East River. O n a rod on the wall hung an escaped canary cage, its door wide open, but this black-type long-beaked bird—its ruffled head and small dull eyes, crossed a little, m aking it look like a dissipated crow—landed if not smack on C ohen’s thick lam b chop, at least on the table close by. The frozen foods salesman was sitting at supper w ith his wife and young son on a hot August evening a year ago. Cohen, a heavy m an w ith hairy chest and beefy shorts; Edie, in skinny yellow shorts and red halter; and their ten-year-old Morris (after her father)—Maurie, they called him, a nice kid though not overly bright—w ere all in the city after two weeks out, because C ohen’s m other was dying. They had been enjoying Kingston, New York, but drove back w hen Mama got sick in h er flat in the Bronx. “Right on the table,” said Cohen, putting down his beer glass and swatting at the bird. “Son of a bitch.” “Harry, take care w ith your language,” Edie said, looking at Maurie, who w atched every move. The bird cawed hoarsely and w ith a flap of its bedraggled wings —feathers tufted this way and that—rose heavily to the top of the open kitchen door, w here it perched staring down. “Gevalt, a pogrom!” “It’s a talking bird,” said Edie in astonishment. “In Jewish,” said Maurie. T h e W IN D O W WAS o p e n so

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“Wise guy,” m u ttered Cohen. He gnaw ed on his chop, then put down the bone. “So if you can talk, say w hat’s your business. W hat do you w ant h ere?” “If you can’t spare a lam b chop,” said the bird, “I’ll settle for a piece of herring with a crust of bread. You can’t live on your nerve forever.” “This ain’t a restaurant,” Cohen replied. “All I’m asking is w hat brings you to this address?” “T he window was open,” the bird sighed; adding after a m o­ m ent, “I’m running. I’m flying but I’m also running.” “From whom ?” asked Edie with interest. “Anti-Sem eets.” “Anti-Semites?” they all said. “T hat’s from who.” “W hat kind of anti-Semites bother a bird?” Edie asked. “Any kind,” said the bird, “also including eagles, vultures, and hawks. And once in a while some crows will take your eyes out.” “But a re n ’t you a crow ?” “Me? I’m a Jew bird.” Cohen laughed heartily. “W hat do you m ean by that?” The bird began dovening. H e prayed w ithout Book or tallith, but w ith passion. Edie bow ed her head though not Cohen. And M aurie rocked back and forth with the prayer, looking up with one w ide-open eye. W hen the prayer was done Cohen rem arked, “No hat, no phy­ lacteries?” “I’m an old radical.” “You’re sure you’re not some kind of a ghost or dybbuk?” “Not a dybbuk,” answ ered the bird, “though one of my relatives had such an experience once. It’s all over now, thanks God. They freed h er from a form er lover, a crazy jealous man. She’s now the m other of two w onderful children.” “Birds?” Cohen asked slyly. “Why not?” “W hat kind of birds?”

BERNARD

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“Like m e. Jew birds.” Cohen tipped back in his chair and guffawed. “T hat’s a big laugh. I’ve heard of a Jewfish but not a Jew bird.” “W e’re once rem oved.” The bird rested on one skinny leg, then on the other. “Please, could you spare m aybe a piece of herring with a small crust of bread?” Edie got up from the table. “W hat are you doing?” Cohen asked her. “I’ll clear the dishes.” Cohen tu rn e d to the bird. “So w hat’s your nam e, if you don’t m ind saying?” “Call m e Schwartz.” “H e m ight be an old Jew changed into a bird by somebody,” said Edie, rem oving a plate. “Are you?” asked H arry, lighting a cigar. “Who knows?” answ ered Schwartz. “Does God tell us every­ thing?” M aurie got up on his chair. “W hat kind of herring?” he asked the bird in excitem ent. “G et down, Maurie, or you’ll fall,” ordered Cohen. “If you haven’t got matjes, I’ll take schm altz,” said Schwartz. “All we have is m arinated, w ith slices of onion—in a ja r,” said Edie. “If you’ll open for m e the jar I’ll eat m arinated. Do you have also, if you don’t m ind, a piece of rye bread—the spitz?” Edie thought she had. “F eed him out on the balcony,” Cohen said. He spoke to the bird. “After that, take off.” Schwartz closed both bird eyes. “I ’m tired and it’s a long way.” “W hich direction are you headed, north or south?” Schwartz, barely lifting his wings, shrugged. “You don’t know w here you’re going?” “W here th e re ’s charity I’ll go.” “L et him stay, papa,” said Maurie. “H e’s only a bird.” “So stay the night,” Cohen said, “but no longer.”

The Jewbird,

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In the m orning Cohen ordered the bird out of the house but M aurie cried, so Schwartz stayed for a while. M aurie was still on vacation from school and his friends w ere away. H e was lonely and Edie enjoyed the fun he had, playing w ith the bird. “H e’s no trouble at all,” she told Cohen, “and besides his appe­ tite is very small.” “W hat’ll you do w hen he makes dirty?” “He flies across the street in a tree w hen he m akes dirty, and if nobody passes below, who notices?” “So all right,” said Cohen, “but I’m dead set against it. I w arn you he ain’t gonna stay here long.” “W hat have you got against the poor bird?” “Poor bird, my ass. H e’s a foxy bastard. H e thinks h e ’s a Jew .” “W hat difference does it m ake w hat he thinks?” “A Jew bird, w hat a chuzpah. One false m ove and h e ’s out on his drum sticks.” At C ohen’s insistence Schwartz lived out on the balcony in a new w ooden birdhouse Edie had bought him. “W ith m any thanks,” said Schwartz, “though I would rather have a hum an roof over my head. You know how it is at my age. I like the warm , the windows, the smell of cooking. I would also be glad to see once in a while the Jewish M orning Journal and have now and then a schnapps because it helps my breathing, thanks God. But w hatever you give m e, you w on’t hear com ­ plaints.” How ever, w hen Cohen brought him a bird feeder full of dried corn, Schwartz said, “Impossible.” Cohen was annoyed. “W hat’s the m atter, crosseyes, is your life getting too good for you? Are you forgetting w hat it m eans to be m igratory? I’ll b et a helluva lot of crows you happen to be ac­ quainted with, Jews or otherwise, would give their eyeteeth to eat this corn.” Schwartz did not answer. W hat can you say to a grubber yung? “Not for my digestion,” he later explained to Edie. “Cramps. H erring is b e tte r even if it makes you thirsty. At least rainw ater

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don’t cost anything.” He laughed sadly in breathy caws. And herring, thanks to Edie, who knew w here to shop, was what Schwartz got, with an occasional piece of potato pancake, and even a bit of soupm eat w hen Cohen w asn’t looking. W hen school began in Septem ber, before Cohen would once again suggest giving the bird the boot, Edie prevailed on him to wait a little while until M aurie adjusted. “To deprive him right now m ight h urt his school work, and you know w hat trouble we had last year.” “So okay, but sooner or later the bird goes. T hat I prom ise you.” Schwartz, though nobody had asked him, took on full responsi­ bility for M aurie’s perform ance in school. In retu rn for favors granted, w hen he was let in for an hour or two at night, he spent most of his tim e overseeing the boy’s lessons. He sat on top of the dresser near M aurie’s desk as he laboriously w rote out his hom e­ work. M aurie was a restless type and Schwartz gently kept him to his studies. He also listened to him practice his screechy violin, taking a few m inutes off now and then to rest his ears in the bathroom . And they afterw ards played dominoes. The boy was an indifferent checker player and it was impossible to teach him chess. W hen he was sick, Schwartz read him comic books though he personally disliked them . But M aurie’s work im proved in school and even his violin teacher adm itted his playing was better. Edie gave Schwartz credit for these im provem ents though the bird pooh-poohed them . Yet he was proud th ere was nothing lower than C minuses on M aurie’s rep o rt card, and on E die’s insistence celebrated w ith a little schnapps. “If he keeps up like this,” Cohen said, “I ’ll get him in an Ivy League college for sure.” “Oh I hope so,” sighed Edie. But Schwartz shook his head. “H e’s a good boy—you don’t have to worry. H e w on’t be a shicker or a w ifebeater, God forbid, but a scholar h e ’ll never be, if you know w hat I m ean, although m aybe a good m echanic. I t’s no disgrace in these tim es.”

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“If I w ere you,” Cohen said, angered, “I’d k eep my big snoot out of other people’s private business.” “Harry, please,” said Edie. “My goddam n patience is w earing out. T hat crosseyes butts into everything.” Though he wasn’t exactly a welcome guest in the house, Schwartz gained a few ounces although he did not im prove in appearance. He looked bedraggled as ever, his feathers unkem pt, as though he had just flown out of a snowstorm. He spent, he adm itted, little tim e taking care of himself. Too m uch to think about. “Also outside plum bing,” he told Edie. Still th ere was m ore glow to his eyes so that though Cohen w ent on calling him crosseyes he said it less emphatically. Liking his situation, Schwartz tried tactfully to stay out of Co­ h e n ’s way, but one night w hen Edie was at the movies and Maurie was taking a hot shower, the frozen foods salesman began a quar­ rel w ith the bird. “For Christ sake, why don’t you wash yourself sometimes? Why m ust you always stink like a dead fish?” “Mr. Cohen, if you’ll pardon m e, if somebody eats garlic he will smell from garlic. I eat herring th ree times a day. F eed m e flowers and I will smell like flowers.” “W ho’s obligated to feed you anything at all? You’re lucky to get h erring.” “Excuse m e, I’m not com plaining,” said the bird. “You’re com ­ plaining.” “W hat’s m ore,” said Cohen, “even from out on the balcony I can h ear you snoring away like a pig. It keeps m e awake at night.” “Snoring,” said Schwartz, “isn’t a crim e, thanks God.” “All in all you are a goddam n pest and free loader. Next thing you’ll w ant to sleep in bed next to my wife.” “Mr. C ohen,” said Schwartz, “on this rest assured. A bird is a bird.” “So you say, but how do I know you’re a bird and not some kind of a goddam n devil?”

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“If I was a devil you would know already. And I don’t m ean because of your son’s good m arks.” “Shut up, you bastard b ird,” shouted Cohen. “G rubber yung,” cawed Schwartz, rising to the tips of his talons, his long wings outstretched. C ohen was about to lunge for the bird ’s scrawny neck b ut Mau­ rie cam e out of the bathroom , and for the rest of the evening until Schw artz’s bedtim e on the balcony, th ere was p reten d ed peace. But the quarrel had deeply disturbed Schwartz and he slept badly. His snoring woke him, and awake, he was fearful of w hat would becom e of him. W anting to stay out of C ohen’s way, he kept to the birdhouse as m uch as possible. C ram ped by it, he paced back and forth on the balcony ledge, or sat on the birdhouse roof, staring into space. In the evenings, while overseeing M aurie’s lessons, he often fell asleep. Awakening, he nervously hopped around exploring the four corners of the room. H e spent m uch tim e in M aurie’s closet, and carefully exam ined his bureau draw ­ ers w hen they w ere left open. And once w hen he found a large paper bag on the floor, Schwartz poked his way into it to investi­ gate w hat possibilities w ere. T he boy was am used to see the bird in the paper bag. “He wants to build a nest,” he said to his m other. Edie, sensing Schw artz’s unhappiness, spoke to him quietly. “Maybe if you did some of the things my husband wants you, you would get along b e tte r w ith him .” “Give m e a for instance,” Schwartz said. “Like take a bath, for instance.” “I’m too old for baths,” said the bird. “My feathers fall out w ithout baths.” “He says you have a bad sm ell.” “Everybody smells. Some people smell because of their thoughts or because who they are. My bad smell comes from the food I eat. W hat does his com e from ?” “I b e tte r not ask him or it m ight m ake him m ad,” said Edie. In late Novem ber Schwartz froze on the balcony in the fog and

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cold, and especially on rainy days he woke with stiff joints and could barely move his wings. Already he felt twinges of rh eu m a­ tism. H e would have liked to spend m ore tim e in the w arm house, particularly w hen M aurie was in school and Cohen at work. But though Edie was goodhearted and m ight have sneaked him in, in the m orning, just to thaw out, he was afraid to ask her. In the m eantim e Cohen, who had been reading articles about the m igra­ tion of birds, cam e out on the balcony one night after work w hen Edie was in the kitchen preparing pot roast, and peeking into the birdhouse, w arned Schwartz to be on his way soon if he knew w hat was good for him. “Tim e to hit the flyways.” “Mr. Cohen, why do you hate m e so m uch?” asked the bird. “W hat did I do to you?” “Because you’re an A-num ber-one trouble m aker, th at’s why. W hat’s m ore, w hoever heard of a Jewbird? Now scat or it’s open w ar.” But Schwartz stubbornly refused to dep art so Cohen em barked on a cam paign of harassing him, m eanw hile hiding it from Edie and Maurie. M aurie hated violence and Cohen didn’t w ant to leave a bad impression. H e thought m aybe if he played dirty tricks on the bird he would fly off w ithout being physically kicked out. The vacation was over, let him m ake his easy living off the fat of somebody else’s land. Cohen w orried about the effect of the b ird ’s departu re on M aurie’s schooling b ut decided to take the chance, first, because the boy now seem ed to have the knack of studying —give the black bird-bastard credit—and second, because Schwartz was driving him bats by being th ere always, even in his dreams. The frozen foods salesman began his cam paign against the bird by mixing w atery cat food w ith the herring slices in Schw artz’s dish. H e also blew up and popped num erous pap er bags outside the birdhouse as the bird slept, and w hen he had got Schwartz good and nervous, though not enough to leave, he brought a full-grown cat into the house, supposedly a gift for little Maurie, who had always w anted a pussy. The cat never stopped springing

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up at Schwartz w henever he saw him, one day m anaging to claw out several of his tailfeathers. And even at lesson tim e, w hen the cat was usually excluded from M aurie’s room, though somehow or other he quickly found his way in at the end of the lesson, Schwartz was desperately fearful of his life and flew from pinnacle to pinnacle—light fixture to clothes-tree to door-top—in order to elude the beast’s w et jaws. O nce w hen the bird com plained to Edie how hazardous his existence was, she said, “Be patient, Mr. Schwartz. W hen the cat gets to know you b e tte r he w on’t try to catch you any m ore.” “W hen he stops trying we will both be in Paradise,” Schwartz answered. “Do m e a favor and get rid of him. H e makes my whole life worry. I’m losing feathers like a tree loses leaves.” “I’m awfully sorry but M aurie likes the pussy and sleeps with it.” W hat could Schwartz do? H e worried but cam e to no decision, being afraid to leave. So he ate the herring garnished w ith cat food, tried hard not to hear the paper bags bursting like fire crack­ ers outside the birdhouse at night, and lived terror-stricken closer to the ceiling than the floor, as the cat, his tail flicking, endlessly w atched him. W eeks w ent by. T hen on th e day after C ohen’s m other had died in her flat in the Bronx, w hen Maurie cam e hom e with a zero on an arithm etic test, Cohen, enraged, w aited until Edie had taken the boy to his violin lesson, then openly attacked the bird. He chased him with a broom on the balcony and Schwartz frantically flew back and forth, finally escaping into his birdhouse. Cohen trium phantly reached in, and grabbing both skinny legs, dragged the bird out, cawing loudly, his wings wildly beating. He w hirled the bird around and around his head. But Schwartz, as he m oved in circles, m anaged to swoop down and catch C ohen’s nose in his beak, and hung on for dear life. Cohen cried out in great pain, punched the bird with his fist, and tugging at its legs w ith all his m ight, pulled his nose free. Again he swung the yawking Schwartz around until the bird grew dizzy, then w ith a furious heave, flung him into the night. Schwartz sank like stone into the street. Cohen

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M5

then tossed the birdhouse and feeder after him, listening at the ledge until they crashed on the sidewalk below. For a full hour, broom in hand, his heart palpitating and nose throbbing w ith pain, Cohen w aited for Schwartz to retu rn but the brokenhearted bird didn’t. T hat’s the end of that dirty bastard, the salesman thought and w ent in. Edie and M aurie had come home. “Look,” said Cohen, pointing to his bloody nose swollen three times its norm al size, “w hat that sonofabitchy bird did. It’s a p e r­ m anent scar.” “W here is he now?” Edie asked, frightened. “I threw him out and he flew away. Good riddance.” Nobody said no, though Edie touched a handkerchief to her eyes and M aurie rapidly tried the nine-tim es table and found he knew approxim ately half. In the spring w hen the w inter’s snow had m elted, the boy, m oved by a m em ory, w andered in the neighborhood, looking for Schwartz. H e found a dead black bird in a small lot near the river, his two wings broken, neck twisted, and both bird-eyes plucked clean. “Who did it to you, Mr. Schwartz?” M aurie wept. “Anti-Sem eets,” Edie said later.

GEO. ALEG E F F I N G E R

Paradise Last

The nightm onsters o f satire bathe happily in Jewish love. T hey’re the happy endings that laugh at themselves, the sour faces that turn into prunes, last decade’s reruns on the late-late show, dirty jokes that come true, traditional sadnesses, horrors m uted with glibness, true love and happy days as witnessed by the Borscht Belt, Bube Goldberg, S. J. Perelman, and The Marx Broth­ ers. Herewith a science fiction story, a satire with self-consistent details a nd extrapolations—and, o f course, loaded premises, pur­ posely rooted in quicksand. A story o f Jewless Jews, bright chil­ dren, problem atical machines with alm ost all the answers, subtle diasporas, planets with turquoise grass, and movie-media em o­ tions. J D.

E d i t o r ’s N o t e :

This is an original story w ritten expressly fo r this vol­

ume.

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who ran the world. They w ere called Representatives, though dem ocratic elections had long ago been elim inated as “too inaccurate.” T here was a R epresentative of N orth America, one of South America, one each from Europe, Asia, and Africa. They had all been in pow er for a long tim e, and they seem ed to enjoy it. The citizens of their continental domains w ere glad of that. The last thing the overburdened people needed was a war. H elping the Representatives in their duties was TECT. More com prehensive than just a calculating device, TEC T was an im ­ m ense m achine buried far beneath the surface of the earth. It contained the sum total of everything m ankind had yet learned about the universe; but, of course, so did several private and public com puter installations throughout the world. TECT had special powers and abilities, though, which set it apart from other species of m achine. It understood. Questions could be asked of it which w ere impossible to translate into basic com puter binary input. TECT could in te rp re t all hum an languages; if a built-in im preci­ sion of comm on speech led to ambiguity, TEC T would query the speaker. O ne m ight ask, “W hat is the difference betw een right and w rong?” and expect a quick reply. T he m achine’s answer would not be m erely a philosophic abstract com piled from the vast recorded literature of the hum an race; th at is w hat one would receive from the other, m ore accessible com puters. No, from TECT th ere would be a slight pause, and then a closely reasoned, “personal” opinion m ade on th e basis of T E C T ’s cu rren t m easure of data. Such questions w ere rarely asked, of course; even from T h e r e w e r e f iv e m e n

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TECT, the answers w ere never conclusive, always impractical. And it was a very practical world. W hat else was going on? Well, the population of the world was becom ing joyfully hom ogeneous. Representatives had come and gone, but all their strategies w ere to one end; the idea was that the m ore people w ere alike, the b e tte r they’d all get along. And n atu ­ rally the b e tte r everyone got along, the m ore pow er the R epre­ sentatives would have. O f course, the great masses of people w ere aware that they w ere being exploited and m anipulated. They understood it, at least on a subconscious level. But people do w ant to get along; it’s really so m uch pleasanter that way. And, too, the Representatives had so m uch pow er already, th ere wasn’t any other choice. That d id n ’t m ean that th ere w eren ’t still pockets of diversity. In the m any generations of R epresentative rule, the distinctions among the races had not b een entirely obliterated. The genetic laws of natu re insisted at rare intervals on producing individuals w ith identifiably Negroid or O riental features. These people often took governm ent-sponsored jobs as “slum -dwellers,” living as their ancestors had done before the era of the Representatives. Small ghettos w ere organized on a strictly voluntary basis, in order to preserve museum -like tableaux of m oribund cultures. Less popular w ith the state and their fellow citizens w ere those who clung to cultural differences, as opposed to m ere mistakes of breeding. Such groups as intellectuals, artists, homosexuals, and Communists, all of which had enjoyed greater freedom of expres­ sion before the R epresentative regim e, w ere openly attacked. Perhaps the most extensive cultural enclave, and one of the most abused, w ere the Jews. T heir ancient heritage of loyalty to family and to doctrinal ideals had preserved them from total assimilation; the other citizens w orried that this would upset the R epresenta­ tives and cause violent social repercussions. The citizens m ade their anxiety and their displeasure evident; but, far from being angered by the Jew s’ persistence, the Representatives frequently m ade statem ents honoring the m inority’s courageous and h e a rt­

GEO.

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w arm ing tenacity. Still, the other citizens w ere not mollified. Into this world, then, a boy nam ed M urray Rose was born to Jewish parents. They w eren ’t very Jewish; they didn’t observe the Sabbath in any particular way, they w ere frequently startled by the arrival of Holy Days, and they w ere openly am used by their conservative friends’ attention to kashrut, the traditional dietary laws. The Rose family m aintained a tenuous link to their heritage, m ore out of sentim ent than anything else. But they w ere careful not to be identified as one of the “troublesom e” Jews. W hen M urray was ten years old, his grandfather cam e to visit. M urray was excited; he had never m et G randpa Zalman, but he had often heard the old m an’s nam e m entioned. M urray’s parents w ere m ore anxious than excited. W hen the old m an arrived, the three adults stood facing each other uncom fortably, while M urray hid behind his father. G randpa Zalman looked different than the boy had imagined; the old m an ’s great gray eyebrows and long beard gave him a fierce look that confused Murray. He had always been told that G randpa Zalm an was odd, but very gentle. “Hello, Julie,” said the old man. He kissed his daughter and shook hands w ith his son-in-law. “It’s nice to see you again,” said M urray’s father. T here was a long, tense silence. “This m ust be M urray,” said G randpa Zalman. M urray’s father took the boy’s wrist and presented him to his grandfather. M urray said hello and shook hands. H e was dism ayed by how huge and rough G randpa Z alm an’s hands were. In the next few days M urray spent a lot of tim e w ith his grandfa­ ther. M urray’s father was gone all day at work, and his m other was m uch too busy with housework to en tertain her father. The old m an and the boy took walks around the neighborhood together and talked. At first M urray was a little tim id, but after a while he realized that G randpa Zalm an was different than his parents in a way that was both foreign and strangely pleasant. It was chilly and overcast one afternoon w hen M urray and G randpa Zalm an w ere sitting on a bench in the park. M urray had

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grown fond of his grandfather. He knew from their actions th at his parents did not like G randpa Zalman as well. The longer he stayed, the less he talked. Now they sat u n d er a heavy sky, and G randpa Zalman said nothing at all. “W hat’s in the bag, G randpa?” asked Murray. G randpa Zalm an stared at the brick path. T he boy’s question startled him from his thoughts. He shook the brow n paper sack; its contents rustled. “Crum bs,” he said. “I brought crum bs for the birds.” “Will they let you feed the pigeons?” G randpa Zalman sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “They used to. I used to feed the birds every day. It m ade m e feel better. We used to get along very well, the pigeons and I. I gave them food; they preten d ed that they liked me. They w ere truly grateful for the crumbs. T h at’s m ore than people will adm it.” “Can I feed them ?” asked Murray. “L et m e do it first,” said G randpa Zalman. “Then if the CAS police com e running w ith their clubs, it’ll just be m e, an old man, who gets beaten .” “Okay,” said Murray. G randpa Zalman opened the bag and tossed a handful of crum bs on the bricks. Several pigeons landed im m ediately and began pecking frantically at the offering. The old m an gave the bag to M urray, who sprinkled m ore crum bs around his feet. “Are they bread crum bs?” he asked. “No, ’ said G randpa Zalman, “they’re m atzo.” “W hat’s that?” T he grandfather w atched M urray sadly. “Matzo. D on’t you know w hat next w eek is? Passover?” M urray looked up at G randpa Zalman. “Passover?” he said. “A Holy Day. A celebration.” “Like Skirt Day?” asked Murray, puzzled. “Come on, M urray,” said G randpa Zalman. “I feel like walking.” M urray spilled the rest of the m atzo crum bs in a heap for the pigeons and ran after the old man. They left the park and walked

hom ew ard. After a while the grandfather stopped to exam ine the display in the window of a small fichestore. H e had said nothing to the boy since leaving the park; now he silently held the door open, and M urray preceded him into the dark shop. “Can I help you?” asked the proprietor, looking skeptically at G randpa Z alm an’s beard and strange clothes. “I w ant the afternoon tectap e,” said the old man. “And I w onder if you have any fiches, m aybe, on the history of the Jews. Their custom s.” The proprietor frowned. “W e got a small section for religion,” he said. “T he R epresentative’s office isn’t crazy about selling that kind of stuff. T hey’re cracking down now, you know. I don’t know w hat th ey ’re w orried about. It doesn’t m ove very good, anyway. If we got any Jewish stuff, it’ll be in there, but I think it’s mostly Moslem and Christian myths. A couple of artfiches.” “T hank you,” said G randpa Zalman. He w ent to the small bin that the store’s ow ner had indicated. T here w ere a couple of dozen plastic microfiches, each one a m icrom iniature book, de­ signed to be read w ith the aid of a fichereader or projector. None interested the old m an. H e glanced at M urray, who had never been in a fichestore; the boy was w andering from bin to bin, picking up random fiches and holding them to the light, vainly trying to read them unenlarged. “W ould you like one?” asked G randpa Zalman. “No, I don’t think so,” said Murray. “We don’t have a read er at hom e, anyway. D ad says w e’ll buy one w hen I get to high school.” G randpa Zalman shrugged and paid for the new stape, p rin ted out by the store’s small tect console. As they left the store a CAS officer brushed by the old m an. T he policem an scowled and shoved G randpa Zalman out of the way. “You guys ought to be m ore careful,” said the CAS man. “You ain’t got m uch tim e left, the way it is.” G randpa Zalman said nothing. He took M urray’s hand and walked off in the other direction. “The world is filling up w ith hoodlum s,” he said at last.

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“They don’t like you, do they, G randpa Zalm an?” “No, they don’t like m e. And they don’t like you, either. They don’t like anybody. ” “Is it because w e’re Jewish?” asked Murray. “No,” said G randpa Zalm an slowly. “No, I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Maybe a little.” T hen they w ent home. G randpa Zalman read his tectape, and M urray w ent out to play knockerball with his friends. Two days later the boy’s father took G randpa Zalm an to the public teletrans tect. M urray never saw his grandfather again. But the old m an had had his effect on the boy. In the guest room M urray found three fiches, which G randpa Zalm an had forgotten or left intentionally. M urray took them to school, w here he browsed through them on one of the library’s fichereaders. They w ere the first fiches that he had ever had all to his own; they w eren ’t textfiches, but they w eren ’t picturefiches, either. O ne was a long collection of Jewish lore that M urray found fascinating. He w ondered w hat had happened to all the curious laws and customs. He asked his m other, and she said, “T hey’re still around. Not here, but around. T h e re ’s still plenty of people like your grandfather. But they’re learning, slow but sure. The Representatives are doing their best for us, and it’s people like G randpa Zalm an who m ake it harder. T hey’re learning, though.” M urray was doubtful. It seem ed to him a sad thing that all the old Jewish ways w ere being neglected. As M urray got older he took m ore interest in his education. After he read the three leftover fiches, he explored the school’s library and saved his m oney to buy m ore. W hen M urray was four­ teen he learned that G randpa Zalman had died; M urray was filled with grief for the first tim e in his life. H e felt that he had never thanked his grandfather for all the old m an had shown him. M ur­ ray was determ ined to repay G randpa Zalman, and to m ake some sort of m em orial to the old m an, whom M urray’s parents w ere gratefully forgetting as quickly as possible. Tenth-year Tests w ere scheduled for M urray’s class in the m id­

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die of February; M urray had just turned fifteen. Through the first six years of his schooling he had seem ed to be just another unex­ ceptional student, destined for the arm y or the CAS work legions. But then, after his grandfather’s visit, he showed a sudden and dram atic im provem ent. M urray en tered the Test room anxiously, unaw are of the envious glances he drew from his fellow students. The Test lasted six hours, and he was one of the first to com plete his tapes. T he next day he was ordered to the office of the school’s m aster. “Come in, Mr. Rose,” said M aster Jennings. “G et comfortable. I have some good news for you.” M urray relaxed. H e always felt terribly guilty w hen he was called into the office, even though he knew he had n ’t done any­ thing wrong. He sat in a chair opposite the m aster’s desk and waited. “This afternoon TECT finished evaluating the Tenth-year Tests. You did very well yesterday, Mr. Rose. In fact, you finished first in our school. Congratulations.” M urray smiled; he was proud, and happy that in a small way he had repaid G randpa Zalman. “More im portantly,” said M aster Jennings, “your score led everyone else in the district. This is the first tim e our school has had that distinc­ tion. Of course, you can understand how grateful we are for that honor. More to the point, though, is the rew ard you’ve won for yourself.” M urray knew that the higher scores earned special privileges from the Representatives and TECT. “W hen you called m e in,” he said, “I began to think th at perhaps som ething special had happened. I’ve been hoping for a new fichereader.” The m aster laughed. “You’ll be getting a lot b e tte r than th at,” he said. “As a district w inner, you’re entitled to a Mark VII tect unit, installed in your hom e. That comes w ith com plete infotape, new stape, com putape, and entertain m en t capabilities. Every­ thing but the teletrans unit. Only the continental w inners get the big one. And you’re still in the running for that; m any of the other districts haven’t had their Tenth-year Tests as yet. T he final w in­

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ner will be announced next w eek.” M urray was astonished. H e would have his own tect, right in the house! T hat m eant access to virtually every facet of TECT itself, except the data classified for security purposes. O f course, h e ’d still have to use the public teletrans tect facilities. But that was hardly a disappointm ent. . . . As prom ised, the continental w inner was nam ed several days later. It w asn’t Murray; he wasn’t at all let down, for on the same afternoon his own prize, the Mark VII tect, was installed in his house. His parents w ere proud and a little am azed. They w eren ’t im aginative enough to understand all that the tect represented. M urray stayed up well into the night asking the console questions, having it project pages of books on m any esoteric subjects, playing games of go and chess against TEC T’s Level Nine Opposition. In the following years, of course, the unit helped M urray even further in his studies. He excelled in high school, and produced a brilliant score on his Tw elfth-year Test. He was curious about w hat kind of prize he would win for that. Nothing was m entioned the next day. M urray was very disappointed. All through the final th ree weeks before graduation, M urray hoped that he would be called into M aster Jennings’ office again. That did not happen, either. M urray graduated from school, receiving a huge ovation from the audience w hen he w ent to take his diploma. At hom e that afternoon, a message was waiting for him on the te c t’s CRT readout. It said: **ROSE, M urray S. RepN A Dis9 Secl4 Loc58-NY-337 M l54-62-485-39M i n 12:48:36 9July 467 YR

ProgQuery

ReplReq**

**ROSE, M urray S.: Results o f Tw elfth-year Test earn planet fro m list (following)** **ROSE, M urray S.: Accept?**

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T he te c t’s A dvise light was flashing, m eaning that TECT had been asking for an im m ediate answer since qu arter to one. It was now nearly four. H e identified him self and the light w ent out. “Reply to 12:48:36 Query, 9 July, 467. Reply affirm.” Then, to be safe, he typed in yes after Accept?** on the te c t’s screen. He had no idea w hat the real circum stances w ere, but it seem ed to him that TEC T was offering M urray a planet. The boy had never heard of such a thing. In a few seconds the prom ised list appeared: **ROSE, M urray S.: 15:52:28 9July 467 YR

ProgCat**

**ROSE, M urray S.: Choice to be m ade fr o m current available planetary bodies** **Print list: L alande 8760 L alande 8760 Tau Ceti W o lf 359 Struve 2398 Struve 2398 Struve 2398

Planet Planet Planet Planet Planet Planet Planet

C D C B B C D

And so on. The tectscreen filled w ith hundreds of entries in TEC T’s m aster star catalogue. But none of the planets w ere de­ scribed; M urray, still not fully appreciating that he was being given an entire world, had nothing useful on which to base his choice. The list w ent on, ending at last with: W alsung 832 **ROSE, M urray S.: Choice?**

“Q uery,” he said.

Planet C**

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**ROSE, M urray S.: p**

“According to contem porary standards,” said M urray, “rate the planets on the list, insofar as the following criteria are concerned: com fort of clim ate and terrain, probability of cultivating norm al dietary constituents, m inim um at least of aesthetic pleasures, lack of serious dangers consisting of animal, vegetable, m ineral, geolog­ ical, and m eteorological threats, at least one potential hom esite w ith optim um conditions im plied by the above and entailing w hat we understand to be essential for norm al life and hum an happi­ ness. N arrow the list to th re e choices.” TECT ransacked its m em ories for nearly a m inute. Finally the original list of worlds on the CRT vanished, replaced by Epsilon Eridani, Planet D; Tau Ceti, Planet C; and Pasogh 1874, Planet C. **ROSE, M urray S.: Choice?**

“P rint data on the th ree choices. Request hard copy.” Im m edi­ ately, full profiles of th e th re e planets appeared in the form of fiches, through a slot beneath the CRT screen. M urray studied the m aterial for a couple of hours. Just before d inner he w ent to the tect. After Choice?** he typed, Pasogh 1874, Planet C. T hen he w ent out and told his parents, who laughed skeptically. T he next m orning another message on the tect w aited for him. It said: **ROSE, M urray S. R epN A Dis9 Secl4 Loc58-NY-337 M l 54-62-485-39Mi n 08:38.06 lOJuly 467 YR

RepGreet

M AND ATO RY**

**ROSE, M urray S.: Greetings fr o m the Representative o f North America (text follow s) (conditions fo llo w ) (com m ands follow )** **ROSE, M urray S.: The Representative o f North America congratulates you on your superlative score in the Tw elfth-year

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Test, and on your award. Your planet, Pasogh 1874, P lanet C, has been readied fo r you, according to current standards a n d the wishes o f the Representative. You are to report to TECT TELETRANS Main Substation by 12:00:00 11Ju ly 467 YR. Failure to do so will be considered C ontem pt o f RepW ish** **ROSE, M urray S.: You are enjoined against worry, fo r your planet has been prepared w ith more than enough material fo r all sustenance a nd a generous share o f luxury. You are advised to term inate all business and to appoint an agent to govern those affairs that cannot be brought to a conclusion by noon tomorrow** **ROSE, M urray S.: Nam e agent**

“Rose, Gordon J.,” said Murray. **ROSE, M urray S.: State relationship to agent**

“H e’s my father.” **ROSE, M urray S.: Congratulations once more. Good luck**

And that was it. M urray stared at the console for several seconds, still futilely trying to understand w hat had happened. H e had been given a planet. That in itself was unbelievable enough; but he was expected—no, he was com pelled—to settle on the u n ­ known place in a m atter of hours. H e thought about how he would break the news to his parents. He w ent back to the tect. He identified himself to the console and w aited for the ?** to appear. W hen it did, he said, “R equest.” **ROSE, M urray S.: State request**

“I’d like a printout of all m aterial relayed through this console since lOJuly 467 YR R epG reet.” In a few seconds a fiche appeared

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in the slot. M urray took the fìche into the living room and ex­ plained the situation to his parents. Their skepticism of the previ­ ous day turned first to w onder, then to pride, and at last to horror. “Tom orrow ?” cried M urray’s m other. “W hat kind of a thing is that? Tom orrow ?” “You’re going away? W here?” asked his father, who couldn’t com prehend the m agnitude of the situation. “I’m going to another planet,” said M urray wearily. “Some­ w here out in space. By another star. They gave it to m e.” “But w hat about us?” asked his m other, sobbing. “W hat about you? W hat about college? Are you going all by yourself?” “I guess so,” said Murray. H e hadn’t thought about it that way, the only hum an being on an entire world. H e felt cold suddenly, frightened and lonely. “Who are these Representatives?” said his father. “How can they tear a family apart like this? How can they ruin a fine boy’s life?” “You don’t understand,” said Murray. “It’s an honor. Not even the Representatives them selves have a whole planet to govern. I t’s a special award, because of how well I did in school.” “I w ant you here, M urray,” said his m other. M urray just sighed. He explained to his father about the job of acting as M urray’s agent; then M urray w ent back to his room to pack. The next day he awoke early, dressed, m ade him self a small breakfast, and checked his suitcases again. His father cam e into M urray’s room and shook his son’s hand. “Your m other’s upset,” he said. “I gave her a pill last night, so she w on’t wake up until after you’re gone.” “Okay,” said Murray. “I’ll miss her. I’ll miss you.” “It’s a hell of an opportunity, I suppose,” said M urray’s father. “I have to get down to the Substation. I t’s getting late.” M urray loaded his luggage into his small car. His father stood on the drive­ way, looking w orried and sad. Just before M urray began backing out of the drive, his father cam e to the car and shook hands again. M urray said nothing.

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T here w ere only a few people in the Substation. Teletrans was an expensive way to travel; people m ade long journeys by train, or they saved their m oney for the trip by tect. T here d idn’t seem to be anyone to m eet M urray. He w ent up to a uniform ed CAS guard and explained his predicam ent. “Certainly, Mr. Rose,” said the guard. He spoke w ith m ore def­ erence than M urray had ever experienced. “Just check in at the TECT desk over th ere .” M urray began to w restle his suitcases across the broad, polished floor, but to his surprise the guard of­ fered to carry one of the bags. M urray nodded, and carried the other suitcase to the TECT control station. “Mr. Rose?” asked one of the uniform ed w om en there. M urray nodded. “Just sign here, and step through. You’ll have to leave those bags behind.” “But I’ll need—” “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” said the woman. “T he office of the R epre­ sentative specified ‘No Luggage.’ It costs too m uch to ship it through, and they’ve taken care of all your needs on the other side.” M urray shrugged and signed the release form. “Through here?” he asked, pointing to a small door in the buil­ ding’s wall, apparently leading back out to the parking lot. The wom an waved him away im patiently. M urray took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked through. H e was on another world. Behind him there was the sound of the door sighing closed. He turned around quickly, but th ere was no hint of building or portal. M urray stood in the m idst of a m eadow of tall, waving grass. The field ran unbroken to the horizon, the light turquoise color of the grass m aking the scene m ore like a seascape than virgin prairie. To his left, on a small knoll, stood a house. M urray walked tow ard it, enjoying the odd smells of the plants and the moist red soil. The sun was low in the sky; w h ether it was rising or setting he could not im m ediately decide. T he star around w hich Planet C traveled was of a m ore orange color than E a rth ’s sun. And the sky had a m agenta tint to it that startled M urray several tim es on the way to the house.

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A note was tacked to the front gate. It said: Congratulations, M urray S. Rose! W elcome to your new home! The crops in your fields are nearly ready to be harvested. These fruits and vegetables have been grow n und er the supervision of th e Representatives, and are recom m ended for flavor and nutrition. Cooking instructions and m enu suggestions will be found in the kitchen, along w ith helpful hints toward saving seeds, etc., for next year’s crops. Though the plants may look bizarre and unsavory, you will soon learn to value their manifold b en e­ fits. In th e small outbuilding you will find a variety of native animals, psy­ chotam ed for your convenience. Some of them will augm ent your diet, others are m erely work animals. Full descriptions of their roles, needs, and natural histories will be found in the barn. All utilities are built into th e house. No m aintenance is necessary. The house is supplied w ith a Mark VII tect to replace th e one you left on Earth, which has b een reclaim ed. Your tect h ere on Planet C will serve all functions to th e best of its capabilities. It is linked directly to TECT, to provide you w ith un in terru p ted service and advice in your new surround­ ings. Finally, do not worry over your ap parent isolation. Your life and happi­ ness are still m atters of concern to your Representative, who is proud of you and your achievem ents. M erely because you reside on a far-flung planet does not m ean that th e eyes of th e R epresentative are not cast protectively on you. You will be m arried w ithin two years. The usual delay of eight years for first-born offspring will be w aived in your special case. All services and privileges due a citizen of N orth A merica will be fulfilled prom ptly and with special enthusiasm. Enjoy Planet C. C ongratu­ lations! T here are no locks on the doors.

M urray took the note and walked up the path to the house. It looked like a typical m idw estern farm house, w ith picket fence, porch swing, curtained windows, and smoking chim ney. The one erro r was the color. The house was painted a traditional farm house red, which looked terrible in the orange light, under a m agenta sky. M urray m ade a m ental note to do som ething about it. Inside, the house was lovely. It was furnished in an old-fashioned, com ­ fortable style. T he kitchen and the bathroom plum bing w ere effi­ cient and attractive. M urray w andered through the rooms, clim bed the stairs and explored m ore rooms, gazed through all the

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windows until he realized how silent it was. It was incredibly quiet. He grew hungry. T here was no food in the kitchen at all. T here w ere the prom ised leaflets, though. One said, Welcome to Planet O. in huge Gothic script letters. It gave a short description of the various edible plants growing in M urray’s fields, w ith photographs of the fruits or vegetables in ripe and unripe stages. M urray w anted som ething quick to m unch on, before he got on w ith the job of settling in. He riffled through the pam phlets until he cam e to a description of a semi-aware creature housed in the barn. The thing was actu­ ally a colony of dozens of football-sized, am oebalike creatures. These jellyballs could be found oozing along the ground during the sum m er, and frozen into solid w hite stones in the w intertim e. In the soft stage, two or m ore could be tossed into a container, w here they would coalesce into a single entity. W hen this hap­ pened, the creature would begin producing tough gray objects, about once a week. If m ore single jellyballs w ere added and as­ similated, the gray lumps form ed m ore frequently. These gray things, according to the booklet, settled down through the unsolid body of the aggregate creature; the lumps w ere a great deal m ore dense, and in the wild eventually w ere left behind in the path of the jellyball. The creature in the barn was housed in a wooden tub w ith a trapdoor on the bottom . Just inside, betw een the trapdoor and the creature, was a layer of wire netting w ith holes large enough for the gray lumps to pass through. M urray had m erely to open the trapdoor to let the gray lumps fall out, and close it before the jelly anim al itself began to drip down. If m ore young jellyballs w ere found, they could always be tossed in to im prove the stock. The gray lumps had to be boiled thoroughly; otherw ise they w ere intensely poisonous. Afterw ard they w ere softer and quite palata­ ble. According to the pam phlet. Obviously, the gray lumps w ere supposed to becom e a staple of his diet. M urray felt a queasy feeling grow in his stomach. The other beasts with which the planet and the thoughtfulness of the

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Representative provided him w ere equally as unsettling. But a living had to be m ade from them . M urray w ent outside to the barn, to inspect his cattle. As the weeks passed, M urray adjusted quickly to the new envi­ ronm ent. T here was too m uch work to do to waste tim e in loneli­ ness and petty regrets. Every day after dark, w hen he had m ade him self a strange-looking but nonetheless appetizing m eal, M ur­ ray entertain ed him self w ith the tect. H e had no lack of reading m aterial, nor would he ever. The tect supplied him w ith movies, music, games, and almost everything else stored w ithin T E C T ’s im m ense subterranean m em ory banks. Yet sometim es M urray w ondered if this w ere the sort of goal tow ard which G randpa Zalman had urged him w ith his eccentric scholarship. After a while M urray learned the p lan et’s oddities. Days w ere twenty-six hours long. The year was nearly a m onth shorter than on Earth. Planet C had no moons. Seasonal w eather patterns b e­ cam e familiar. The various instructions for the feeding of livestock and the care of the field crops w ere inaccurate or incom plete in places; practical experim ents com plem ented the inform ation sup­ plied by TECT. Sometimes M urray was lonely, of course; after the arrival of w inter, w ith the snow piled around the house so deeply that he despaired of getting into the barn to feed the animals, he had the first real opportunity to ponder and to experience an initial tinge of sorrow. H e w ent for walks across the snow-dead­ ened prairie, staring at the new constellations that glowed in the moonless sky like fiery eyes in a fading dream . He liked to stand and look back tow ard the house; the lights and the fireplace blaz­ ing through the front windows gave him a sense of belonging that he had never felt at hom e w ith his parents. This was his world. He could nam e those eerie constellations, and no one could dispute him. He could travel the face of the world and nam e continents, oceans, deserts, ranges of m ountains. H e could raise cities to rival the choking m etropolises of Earth. . . . W hen he began to think like that, he always laughed. O ut in the snow, his breath blowing out in quick clouds, M urray adm itted his

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loneliness but was content nonetheless. H e was building, and it gave him satisfaction. Even if Planet C never did have sprawling cities, it m ade no difference. M urray was happy. He felt an unshakeable unity w ith the world, a sort of faith in him self and in God’s eternal gifts; even here, circling Pasogh 1874, G randpa Zal­ m an’s simple ideals seem ed to apply. W herever he w ent in his im m ense realm , M urray felt the presence of G randpa Zalman. And, eventually, M urray inform ed TECT that from th en on Planet C would be known as Zalman. The w inter passed slowly b u t enjoyably. M urray had followed the advice of TECT and stored food for him self and the livestock; there was no problem at all about running out of provisions. Fuel for the fire was not essential, as the house seem ed to be receiving natural gas from some local supply. M urray had learned that the dried stalks of one of the food crops m ade excellent, slow-burning firewood, but he had n ’t b een able to store enough for frequent fires. Next year h e ’d know b etter, but now he had to ration the fuel. T hat was a shame, because th ere was nothing he enjoyed m ore than building a fire in the living room fireplace and listening to music. Spring came, and w ith it an incredible am ount of work. Alone, M urray had to p rep are the fields for planting, seed the few acres, and m aintain the young plants against the natural pests that lived in the high grass around the farm. M urray w orked long days, glad of the extra hours of sunlight that Zalm an’s slower rotation al­ lowed him. Perhaps because he was laboring for him self alone, the work was never frustrating or tedious. At night, exhausted and aching, he was nevertheless satisfied. He knew that he could never have achieved that degree of fulfillment on Earth. In the m iddle of the sum m er M urray realized that he had been on Zalm an for almost a year, and had thought very little about his parents. H e w ondered if somehow he could contact them . He asked the tect, and it suggested that M urray dictate a letter, which would be relayed to a public tect near M urray’s old hom e, and from th ere by m essenger to M urray’s parents. H e was glad to have

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the chance, but he was nervous, too. H e w ondered if his parents could understand how happy he was, how w hat had seem ed like a strange and cruel punishm ent was really the rew ard the R epre­ sentative had promised. He w ondered if he could try to explain that w ithout hurting their feelings. Finally, he addressed a short, noncom m ittal note to them ; he never received a reply to it. The sum m er and then the autum n passed. It was tim e again to begin the harvest. M urray’s livestock had m ultiplied during the year, as well. He now had th re e large tubs of jellyanimals, each producing th ree or four gray lumps a day. H e learned that the lumps could be stored unboiled for an indefinite length of tim e, and that after boiling they could be chopped and fed to the other animals; the livestock seem ed to thrive w ith this addition to their diet. T he draft animals, which M urray had nam ed “stupes,” w ere large bearlike creatures w ith shaggy w hite coats. They had intelli­ gent expressions, but th ree of them had almost starved before M urray realized that they w ere too stupid to look for their food beyond its norm al place. H e had rearranged the inside of the barn and m oved the feeding troughs; the stupes had nearly died before they adjusted. Now th ere w ere six adult stupes and four helpless cubs. T he TECT booklet said that they m ight be slaughtered for food, but M urray tended to doubt that. H e p referred to delay that experim ent, at least another year. The other animals w ere doing just as well; there w ere a dozen creatures that looked like squirrels the size of large dogs, which supplied M urray w ith a thin blue “m ilk”; th ere w ere scores of tiny things which M urray called “m ice,” although they w ere m ore like lizards w ith fur, and which had an inscrutable but vital relationship with the stupes; there w ere several m em bers of a trisexual species of flightless bird, which ate the unboiled gray lumps of the jellyanimals and reg u r­ gitated an ugly but nutritious porridge; and th ere w ere other animals, to all of which M urray had grown accustom ed and even fond. The second w inter began, raged, and passed. A new spring woke the land, and with it cam e the first com m unication from E arth in

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many m onths. M urray was astonished to see the red Advise light flashing w hen he cam e in for the evening meal. H e hurried to read the message: **ROSE, M urray S. M l 54-62-485-39Maj

—

E xtT — RepNA Dis9 Secl4 Loc58-NY-337

22:43:12 8Feb 469 YR RepG reet

ReplReq**

**ROSE, M urray S.: Notification o f Majority. Waiver o f CAS term (Details follow )** **ROSE, M urray S.: Congratulations! Today you are nineteen years old, a n d an a d u lt citizen under the protection o f the Representative o f North America. We understand th a t as a resident o f the planet Zalm an, you m ay fe e l som ew hat apart fr o m the day-to-day affairs o f your fe llo w citizens; b u t be assured th a t you are never long out o f our thoughts. Now th a t you are officially an a d u lt citizen, we are even more concerned fo r you an d your future** **ROSE, M urray S.: Upon notification o f the a tta in m en t o f majority, a citizen o f North America is usually presented with a list o f alternative services under the CAS authority w hich he m ay choose to fu lfill his civic responsibility. A s this is physically im possible under the circumstances, a n d as we are happy to waive this d u ty as a fu rth e r reward fo r your outstanding record, you are to consider this aspect o f your citizenship satisfactorily discharged** **ROSE, M urray S.: O ther facets o f adulthood, about w hich you m ay have questions, w ill be discussed w ith you according to proper standards, m odified by your special situation and the wishes o f the Representative o f North America** **ROSE, M urray S.: You are ordered to appear a t the H all o f A djustm ents

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a t 12:00:00 on l5M arch 469 YR to be married. A TECT TELETRANS portal w ill be subceived fo r your convenience one hour before this deadline. It w ill appear not more than one hundred yards fro m your domicile, and indicated by a semicircle o f red flares. Failure to com ply w ill be considered Contem pt o f RepW ish and W ilfu ll Neglect o f PropFunc** **ROSE, M urray S.: Understanding o f above to be indicated** **ROSE, M urray S.: Affirm?**

“Yes,” said Murray, mystified and som ew hat upset. “Q uery,” he said. **ROSE, M urray S.: p**

“W hom am I m arrying?” he asked. **ROSE, M urray S.: STONE, Sharon F. RepNa Dis3 Sec5 Loc36-SD-848 F293-49-2 72-63Maj * *

“O h,” said Murray. T hen he w ent into the kitchen to boil some gray lumps. Like the periodic Tests in school, like the seemingly arbitrary way in which M urray had b een settled on Zalman, the order to appear and be m arried reflected the total control possessed by the Representatives. Early in his life M urray had learned not to try to com prehend their sometim es baffling commands; now, he had the spring planting to w orry about. H e gave no further thought to the situation until the day of his re tu rn to Earth. M urray knew that the subceiver would appear at eleven o’clock, RepNA tim e. H e had to ask his tect w hat tim e that would be on Zalman; it was th ree o’clock in the m orning. M urray sighed; he was glad the portal would be m arked by flares. Still half asleep after the tect roused him according to his instructions, M urray

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hurried into his clothes and drank a quick cup of prairie grass tea. H e w asn’t excited at all, not about returning to E arth or getting m arried. H e checked his animals carefully, giving them a double ration of fodder in case he had to be away longer than he planned. T hen he w ent out into the chilly darkness and walked tow ard the flares and the faintly glowing portal. H e stepped through, into a long hallway of gray cinderblocks. T here was a large green arrow fastened to the wall, and M urray followed it tow ard a green m etal door at the end of the hall. He paused outside for a m om ent, then knocked. A voice from the other side called to him to enter. T here w ere a couple of dozen chairs inside, m ost of them oc­ cupied by young m en and wom en w ith anxious expressions. T here was also a long line of couples leading up to a battered brow n desk. The m an behind the desk looked up from a form he was filling out and glanced at Murray. “Nam e?” he asked. “Murray. M urray Rose.” “Last nam e first, first nam e, m iddle initial,” said the exasperated clerk. “Oh. Rose, M urray S.” The clerk frowned. “All right. L e t’s see, you’re with, uh, Stone, Sharon F. She’s not h ere yet. Take a seat. W hen she comes in, you can both get in this line.” M urray sat down and w aited, feeling at last some nervous sym p­ toms. W hile he waited, he exam ined the other people in the room. They all seem ed to be bright young m en and women; who could tell w hat roles the R epresentative had chosen for them ? M urray w ondered if he looked any different than they, if his two years of hard work on Zalman showed in his face, his hands, his bearing. Soon he noticed his eyes burning; the air in the room was obnox­ iously foul. The dense gray clouds of smog outside the Hall would excite no nostalgic thrills in Murray. N either would the crow ded streets and the filthy sidewalks. M urray was shocked by his own reaction. After all, h ere h e was after a long absence, once m ore on the planet of his birth; all he felt was an im patience to get it all

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over w ith and go hom e—back to Zalman. After about tw enty m inutes, the door opened and a young wom an entered. The clerk shot his harried look at her and asked her nam e. “Stone,” she said. M urray w atched her w ith m ore in te r­ est. This was the girl w hom the R epresentative and TEC T had picked to be his wife. “You’re w ith Rose, over th ere ,” said the clerk. “T he two of you get at the back of the line.” M urray stood and m et her at the end of the line. H e smiled hesitantly. “I’m M urray Rose,” he said. She sighed. “Hello,” she said. T here d idn’t seem to be anything else to say, so they w aited in silence. T he m arriage routine was very short, being m erely a few questions concerning data updates, new addresses, future plans, and so on, and then the bride and groom ’s presentation of positive identification. W hen they had satisfied the clerk’s im personal curiosity, he waved them away. “Next,” he said wearily. “Is that all?” asked M urray later, as they searched for the way out of the building. “No official congratulations or anything?” “W hat do you w ant?” asked Sharon. “A national yontif?” “I don’t know,” said Murray. “I guess I’m m ore sentim ental than I should b e .” “So,” said Sharon, “w e’re eppes m arried. How m any kids do we w ant?” She laughed, and M urray looked at her, bew ildered; then he laughed. “It is a little strange. W hat do we do now? You w ant to tell m e all about yourself?” “No. We have years for that. W here do you live?” M urray paused briefly. “Well, see, it’s like this. I live on another planet.” Sharon stopped short. “W hat?” she cried. “I did p retty well in school. After the Tw elfth-year Test they gave m e this planet. I have a small farm. It’s a lot of work, b ut it’s very nice. I think you’ll like it.” “Nu! You’re Jewish, right?”

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M urray shrugged. “Sort of,” he said. “Nobody in my family really practiced at it.” “Still,” said Sharon bitterly. “T hat’s the way the Representatives work it, you know. If they find a sm art Jew, they figure some way of getting him out of circulation. They’ve bought you out. You w on’t m ake any trouble for them w herever it is you live.” “T h at’s politics,” said Murray. “I don’t believe in politics. At least, not on my w edding day.” “Yes, b ut I do, ” said Sharön. “Man, they really pulled a good one this tim e. They took care of the both of us in one shot.” They walked some m ore, at last finding the door out of the Hall of Adjustments. “W here to?” asked Murray. “My folks live in San Diego,” said Sharon. “I don’t know any­ body in this tow n.” “Maybe we could visit my parents. That would surprise th em .” M urray’s parents w ere surprised. “I thought you w ere off on some w eird star or som ething,” said his father. “I was brought back. T he Representative ordered me. I got m arried this afternoon.” “M arried!” cried M urray’s m other. “Is this her? Your wife, I m ean?” “Yes; this is Sharon. Sharon, these are my parents.” The four of them talked for a while, and then M urray excused him self to go to sleep. As he left, his parents and Sharon w ere discussing plans for a w edding reception. M urray’s m other was already on the phone, calling relatives. It was evening w hen M urray awoke. Sharon and his parents w ere eating dinner. They g reeted him w hen he cam e into the kitchen. “Sit down, son,” said M urray’s father. “I w ant to hear all about this place you live on.” “I sent you a letter a while ago,” said Murray. “D idn’t you ever get it?” “No,” said his m other. “But th at’s the post office for you.” “I nam ed the planet after G randpa Zalm an.” T here was a long pause. “O h,” said M urray’s father. “W hat do you do for a living these days?”

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M urray sighed. “I farm ,” he said. “I have some fields and some livestock. I t’s good, honest, hard work. I like it.” “W hat do you do the rest of the tim e?” asked his m other. “You don’t go into town and fool around, do you? Sharon, you’ll have to watch him, I know. H e’s at that age now. You’ll see.” T he two w om en exchanged smiles, and M urray’s father slapped his son’s shoulder. “T here isn’t any tow n,” said Murray. “I’m the only one th e re .” “How far away are your neighbors, then?” asked his father. “No neighbors. I’m the only one on the whole w orld.” M urray’s m other frowned. “T hat’s stupid, M urray,” she said. Sharon said nothing, but carried her plate to the sink. T here was another silence. “T h e re ’s going to be a party tom orrow, M urray,” said Sharon at last. “Your m other called all your old friends, too.” “G reat,” he said. “I’ve b een w ondering w hat happened to them all.” The next afternoon Sharon, Murray, and his parents arrived at the G utrune K aem m er Jewish C om m unity C enter; the m ain hall was filling with M urray’s relatives and friends. It had been hastily decorated; a photographer from the local new stape took pictures, for M urray’s Test scores and his unique aw ard had m ade him a celebrity in the neighborhood. M urray smiled and shook hands w ith everyone, and tried to introduce his new wife; he found to his dismay that he had trouble rem em bering the nam es of even some of the nearest relatives and closest friends. Finally, he was able to get away from the crow d with Billy Corm an, his best friend from school, and Sharon. “Things have really changed,” said Corm an. “I see already,” said Murray. “W hat happened to the big w hatcham acallit—” “Mogen D avid,” said Sharon quietly. “Yeah,” said Murray. “They used to have it hanging on the wall there. A big, heavy old stainless steel thing.” “I don’t know,” said Corm an. “Some building inspector was checking on the wiring in the new wing, and decided they needed

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some kind of connections. I think they had to take down some of the paneling, right w here the Star was. W hen the w orkm en left, they forgot to p u t it back. I guess the C enter just never got around to it.” “Very shrew d,” said Sharon. “They m ust send those inspectors to special school to learn th at kind of thing.” “H uh?” said Corman. “I think my bride h ere is a radical,” said Murray. “A paranoid radical.” Corm an looked em barrassed. “Those are the worst kind,” he said, straining to m ake a joke. No one acknow ledged it. M urray and Sharon said goodbye to the friends and relatives soon thereafter; they had to be back at the TELETRANS Substa­ tion by five o’clock that evening. M urray’s parents wished them luck, and M urray’s m other kissed Sharon and cried. Everyone shouted their farewells, and M urray escorted his wife from the C enter; they got a cab almost im m ediately, w ent straight to the Substation, and soon had signed in at the TECT desk. The yawning attendant indicated the portal, and M urray stepped through. A few seconds later Sharon joined him in the gently waving grasses of Zalman. It was only a few hours after daw n on his planet. “For a sky, th a t’s a p retty strange color,” said Sharon. She was pushing the tall grass away from her, but the turquoise stalks sw ept back and brushed h er face. She frow ned in annoyance. “I guess you’ll have to get used to it,” said Murray. “I have. Com e on; you can see the house. I w ant to check the livestock.” “W hat do you have?” “T hey’re not earth animals. You’ll have to be p rep ared .” “Look, M urray, this isn’t m y idea. If I don’t feel up to playing the courageous chalutz, I w on’t. Who knows? You m ay have gotten a real bad bargain. W hat if I go crazy?” “It’s really a good farm ,” said Murray. “And now th ere w on’t be as m uch work.” “T here w on’t be as m uch for you, let m e rem ind you. I get the feeling th e re ’s going to be a whole lot more for m e.”

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“It’s a good farm .” “I t’s how they bought your m anhood, yekl,” said Sharon. M ur­ ray d id n ’t answer. “W onderful, w hat a m atch that shadchen m a­ chine stuck m e w ith,” she m uttered. “Look,” called Murray. “This is one of the animals that live around h ere.” He held up a small jellyball. “You get a couple of them and they sort of m ush together. They m ake gray things that you can eat.” “Feh!” said Sharon. “You carry it,” said Murray. “You have to get over your fear.” “It isn’t fear,” she said shrilly. “It’s disgust.” The first few days w ere unpleasant. Sharon refused to have anything to do w ith the animals. Even the vegetables from the fields m ade her run from the table at m ealtim e. Soon her hunger grew to the point w here she had to comprom ise. She ate a few vegetables, and some of the boiled gray lumps. She adm itted that they w ere reasonably pleasant in taste; but her intellect betrayed her, and after she thought about the source of the food she hurried to the bathroom again. It w asn’t as bad the next day, and then it w asn’t long before she was eating well again. From then on she helped M urray in all the day’s chores, although forever after she had a particular distaste for the jellyanimals. M urray had come back to the house for a quick lunch one day. It was now near the end of sum m er, and the day’s routines had none of the urgency of the spring planting or the fall harvest. Sharon had fixed a special m eal for him, ham burgers m ade from ground stupe m eat. “You’re incredible,” said Murray. “I figured you’d like it,” said Sharon. “How long has it been since you had a good old greasy ham burger?” “Too long. O ne of the things I was hoping to do w hen I w ent back to get m arried was fill up on things like that. You know, pizzas and cheap F rench fries.” “I know how you feel already. I’d give anything for some honest drive-in trayf. It w ouldn’t be so bad, except that this isn’t our

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choice. If you never had the chance to decide, you never had the chance to m ake your own mistake. T he Representatives have cheated you out of your own hum anity. T hey’ve just forgotten about free will.” M urray sighed. “D on’t start that again, Sharon, okay? This is my little G arden of Eden. You keep forgetting if you’re Eve or the serpent. You’re forever trying to m ake the Representatives sound like corruption personified. How m any other people do you know who have a whole, clean, beautiful world all to themselves? You just can’t m ake a gift like that out of evil intentions.” “For thousands of years w e’ve swallowed that einredenish. They say, ‘Go on. Make money. G ather possessions. But just don’t get pushy.’ And the nuchshleppers go right along w ith them . Every tim e we seem to be pulling our people together, somebody throws cold w ater on our sm oldering desire, scatters the flame of our spirit. Being driven out of our own land into exile w asn’t bad enough. But then for centuries, w herever small com m unities of Jews gathered, the m achers in pow er devoted them selves to split­ ting up even those tiny groups.” “T hat’s the racial paranoia my father yelled about all the tim e,” said Murray. “It’s stupid. W hat’s the m atter, you need to be p e r­ secuted? You can’t have someone hand you a gift horse w ithout looking it in the m outh?” “Bubkes! I know some Trojans that w ould’ve been a lot b e tte r off if they had. Anyway, now the Representatives have found the real answer. This is a neat thing they’ve done. Nobody can accuse them of genocide. Even you can’t see w hat th ey ’re doing.” “W hat are they doing?” “You know w hat the Diaspora m eans?” “No,” said Murray. “It used to m ean the com m unity of Jews living outside Israel. T here used to be great num bers of Jews throughout the world. Now th ere isn’t. Mostly, th ere are a couple of million Jews in Israel, living in sort of an am usem ent park for the Representatives. And some m ore scattered neighborhoods in the rest of the world. Now they’re taking the best of our people and spreading them even

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further. A dispersion of the Dispersion. It’s m uch m ore effective than killing them would be. No one is angered, no one is vengeful. I m ean, you certainly looked happy enough w hen you visited your parents, nu?” “All right,” said M urray, rubbing his eyes w ith his rough fingers, “suppose you tell m e why they bother?” “Go to that dam n m achine of yours,” said Sharon. M urray frowned, not understanding, b ut he w ent to the tect. “Now ask it a question,” she said. “Ask it w hat a Jew is.” M urray did so. The answ er was im m ediate: **ROSE, M urray S.: A Jew is a k in d o f person**

“T h a t’s why they bo th er,” said Sharon. “I t’s all the reason they need .” H er ideas w ere as foreign to M urray as G randpa Zalm an’s had been; but, after he had thought about them , he discovered that he couldn’t find an easy reply. W hen he had m ade that admission, M urray decided that Sharon at least deserved the attention he had given to his grandfather’s odd ways. The sum m er ended. Several weeks later, he w ent to the tect and asked a few m ore questions. “How m any other individuals have been given their own planet?” he said. **ROSE, M urray S.: Seven thousand, fo u r hundred a n d twelve**

“W hat percentage of those people are Jewish or of Jewish ex­ traction?” **ROSE, M urray S.: T hirty-nine percent**

“And w hat percentage of the population of the E arth is Jewish or of Jewish extraction?” **ROSE, M urray S.: Less than o n e -h a lf o f one percent**

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Those figures seem ed to substantiate Sharon’s angry charges. But, still, M urray d id n ’t agree that giving virgin worlds away was a schem e to destroy the Jewish people. It m ay just be the result of a natural superiority am ong Jewish students, at least as far as w hat the Tw elfth-year Test m easured. But th en M urray had a sudden thought. “How m any known, habitable worlds are there in the universe, besides E arth?” he asked. **ROSE, M urray S.: Six h u ndred a nd thirty-six**

There! “How m any other people are living on the world known as Zalm an, other than M urray and Sharon Rose?” **ROSE, M urray S.: Twenty-two**

M urray took the inform ation to Sharon. “I have to apologize,” he said. “It looks like your view of things m ay be a little m ore accurate than m ine. I’m eith er naïve or just stupid. If the R epre­ sentatives will lie about m eaningless things like this, who knows w hat else th ey ’ve been lying about?” Sharon smiled at him sadly. “Tw enty-tw o other people, scat­ tered around the face of a world. A regular little shtetl, if we could all get together. T hat’s w hat Jews have been saying since Genesis.” “I guess it’s too late, now .” “It m ay be too late for you and m e,” said Sharon. “W e’ve sold the birthright. W e’ve betrayed our ancestors. And for what? Some gray lum ps.” M urray was still upset by his discoveries, and Sharon’s words only irritated him. H e grew defensive. “So w hat should I be do­ ing?” he said loudly. “Fighting them by myself?” “We should be conserving w hat little rem ains of our heritage,” said Sharon softly. “You never cared m uch for that, did you?” “You can’t blam e m e for m y environm ent,” said Murray. “I can, if you keep m aking its m istakes.” M urray slam m ed his hand down on the table. “You w ant m e to

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go back to Earth? Lead an uprising? M urray Maccabeus, for p ity’s sake?” “M urray, that light on the m achine is flashing,” said Sharon. He tu rn ed around, startled. T here was a message com ing through. “You think they’ve b een listening?” asked Murray. “Probably,” said Sharon w ith a scowl. “W hat difference does it m ake?” M urray hurried to the tect. T he CRT screen displayed the news: **ROSE, M urray S. — ExtT— M l 54-62-485-39Maj 07:33:02 27May 469 YR

R epN A Dis9 Secl4 Loc58-NY-337

DatAdvis**

**ROSE, M urray S.: Notification o f Propagation A ssent (RoutProc follow s) (Specifications follow )** **ROSE, M urray S.: The office o f the Representative o f North America extends its warmest greetings and congratulations. It has been decided that, due to your unusual and som ew hat severe conditions, you and your wife, MRS. SH A R O N F. S. ROSE, w ill be perm itted to begin your child. The Representative is certain you w ill be as excited a n d pleased as he is** **ROSE, M urray S.: A package containing the pills a nd injections necessary fo r the successful fabrication o f your offspring w ill be subceived tw enty-four hours a fter this message. The location o f the package w ill be m arked by a red flare. Im m ediate im plem entation o f the contents o f the package is necessary fo r the safety o f both MRS. SH A R O N F. S. RO SE and the offspring** **ROSE, M urray S.: Your offspring w ill be male; w eight a t birth seven

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pounds, six ounces; hair brown; eyes brown; estimated h eig h t a t m aturity jiv e feet, eleven inches; estim ated w eight a t m aturity one hundred ninety-five pounds; right-handed; allergies: none; pre-diabetic condition a t age twenty-two; hearing normal; eyesight normal; Intelligence Level B + ; sober disposition; taciturn; strong; hard-working; not unhandsom e by contemporary standards. Congratulations!** **ROSE, M urray S.: O ffspring w ill be born I8 ju ly, 470 YR, between 05:00 a nd 05:45** **ROSE, M urray S.: Failure to com ply w ith the above w ill be considered C ontem pt o f RepW ish a nd W ilfu ll Neglect o f PropFunc**

“C ongratulations,” said Murray. “The R epresentative strikes again.” “Have you noticed how w hen that gonif strikes, he always seems to hit me?” said Sharon. M urray looked at her; she laughed, and he felt relieved. “Having a baby has taken m ore than one good revolutionary out of the action,” she said. “But at least I can train him to take care of those jellyanimals. T h at’s the trouble w ith this planet. No hired hands.” “T h at’s a terrible thing to say,” said Murray. “O ur baby—” “I was only kidding.” “I had this vision of you raising him to be an em ployee instead of a son. I can never tell w hen you’re serious.” “Wait until you get to know m e,” she said. “Then you can w orry.” “So tell me. How are you going to raise a kid w ithout chicken soup?” Sharon laughed. “I was waiting for that. No, really, I figure we can m ake a good enough broth out of stupe bones. Stupe soup. Feh!”

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“And then this cham pion w e’re raising can go back to E arth and bust heads for us,” said Murray. Sharon suddenly got serious. “You know, M urray,” she said, “I don’t w ant to believe w e’re the only ones who have discovered w hat the R epresentatives are doing. I m ean, th ey ’ve scattered our best minds, but those minds are still functioning. O ur kid w on’t be any Messiah. Not by himself. But m aybe around these planets, w e’re m aking a generation of Messiahs.” “T h at’s a very heroic thought,” said Murray. “I guess you have to tell yourself things like that, to keep yourself going.” Now Sharon stared at her husband, until he laughed. “I’m going to crown you one of these days, chachem , if you don’t stop m ocking me. Look, the H ebrew s w ere w andering around leaderless, oppressed by all sorts of people and ideas. T hen cam e Moses. Now everybody’s oppressed and lost, not just our small tribe. So instead of one m an, the world needs one strong family of m en to stand up and fight back. W hat Moses is to th e Jews, the Jews can be to all m ankind.” “And before the Messiah comes, isn’t the p rophet Elijah sup­ posed to retu rn ?” asked M urray with a smile. “I like that. It makes m e Elijah. Mom would be proud.” “No,” said Sharon, “it m akes us Elijah. And the spirit of Elijah is w ith us. It’s Succoth.” “W hat?” “A feast. A harvest thanksgiving. T here are traditions. W e’ll build a booth in the fields, and w e’ll eat our meals there. It will rem ind us of the tem porary shelters of the H ebrew s in their years of w andering. It can m ean the tem porary kind of dom inance the R epresentatives have over us, if you want. W e’re supposed to have willow and m yrtle and other branches, but I suppose we can sub­ stitute. I t’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” M urray kissed Sharon lightly on the cheek. “You’re very spe­ cial,” he said. “You’re a little insane, but you’re special.” “And you, luftm ensh, you’re just dum b.”

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“L e t’s hurry up and have that baby, so we can all get out of h e re ,” said M urray, sighing. “Relax. W e’ve w aited this long, we can wait a little longer.” “W hat do I do in the m eantim e?” asked Murray. “You can help m e get the rest of those bluebeans in,” she said. “And th en we can start on the booth.” M urray nodded and started to go back outside. “N u,” said Sharon. “I m ade this for you.” M urray looked at the little thing she had pulled from her pocket. “W hat is it?” he asked. “It’s a yarm ulke. Take it.” H e hesitated for a second. T hen he took it from her and p u t it on. It was tim e they got to work.

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St reet of Dreams, Feet of Clay

Ess, ess, m ein kindt (eat, eat, m y child)— the cry o f the Jewish m other as told by Borscht Belt comedians to sym pathetic audiences. The Jewish m other becomes a modern Earth mother, another pop culture m etaphor that is not strictly Jewish, b u t Jewish-American. She is the archetypical giver o f security and chicken soup, the selfless soul who lives only fo r others, who is always clean, tidy, and hopeful, who nags, pleads, admonishes, serves, a n d suffers—all this out o f lovelovelove. She is the instiller o f Jewish guilt, the unw anted advisor a n d eternal consoler, the matriarch w ith the steel-reinforced apron strings, a n d her obedi­ en t so n ’s one true love. A n d should he not be obedient, she w ill suffer a n d accept the responsibility o f shame. B ut the “Jew ish-m other-shtik” has been done to death in M ain­ stream fiction; i t ’s an old routine fo r the new comics, although one that s guaranteed to get a fe w laughs. L ike the Western a n d the vampire story, it has been worked a n d reworked into stylized parody. It is a cue—there’s no m ystery or excitement, only fa m ilia rity, easy identification, and, o f course, a fe w well-worn belly laughs. New ideas are sorely needed. The fo llo w in g story by Bobert Sheckley represents a new com edy based on the tenets, not the materials o f the old— it is an infusion o f originality and excite­ m ent into a fa llo w theme, a new fertilization. Science fiction pro­ vides new grist fo r the mill. Take Bellwether, a nice city that talks in your sleep, a perfect place to be fo r your own good, a tem pting, 181

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taunting representation o f som ething lost in the past, only to be fo u n d in the future. J. D.

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to leave New York. Why he did so is inexplicable. A born urbanite, he had grown accus­ tom ed to the m inor inconveniences of m etropolitan life. His snug apartm ent on the 290th floor of Levitfrack Towers on W est N ine­ ty-ninth S treet was nicely equipped in the cu rren t “Spaceship” motif. The windows w ere double-sealed in tinted lifetim e plexi­ glass, and the air ducts w orked through a blind baffle filtration system which sealed autom atically w hen the Com bined Atmos­ p h ere Pollution Index reached 999.8 on the Con Ed scale. True, his oxygen-nitrogen air recirculation system was old, b ut it was reliable. His w ater purification cells w ere obsolete and ineffective; but then, nobody drank w ater anyhow. Noise was a continual annoyance, unstoppable and inescapable. But Carm ody knew that th ere was no cure for this, since the ancient art of soundproofing had been lost. It was urban m an’s lot to listen, a captive audience, to the argum ents, music and w atery gurglings of his adjacent neighbors. Even this torture could be alleviated, how ever, by producing similar sounds of one’s own. Going to work each day entailed certain dangers; but these w ere m ore apparent than real. D isadvantaged snipers continued to m ake their ineffectual protests from rooftops and occasionally suc­ ceeded in potting an unw ary out-of-towner. But as a rule, their aim was abominable. Additionally, the general acceptance of light­ w eight personal arm or had taken away m ost of their sting, and the sternly adm inistered state law forbidding the personal possession of surplus cannon had ren d e re d them ineffectual. Thus, no single factor can be adduced for C arm ody’s sudden Carm ody had never really pla nn ed

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decision to leave w hat was generally considered the w orld’s most exciting m egapolitan agglom eration. Blame it on a vagrant im ­ pulse, a pastoral fantasy, or on sheer perversity. The simple, ir­ reducible fact is, one day Carm ody opened his copy of the Daily Times-News and saw an advertisem ent for a m odel city in New Jersey. “Com e live in Bellw ether, the city that cares,” the advertise­ m ent proclaim ed. T here followed a list of utopian claims which need not be reproduced here. “H uh,” said Carmody, and read on. B ellw ether was w ithin easy com m uting distance. O ne simply drove through the Ulysses S. G rant Tunnel at 43rd Street, took the Hoboken Shunt Subroad to the Palisades Interstate Crossover, followed that for 3.2 miles on the Blue-Charlie Sorter Loop that led onto U.S. 5 (The H ague M emorial Tollway), proceeded along that a distance of 6.1 miles to the G arden State Supplem entary Access Service Road (Provisional), upon which one tended west to Exit I731A, which was King’s H ighbridge Gate Road, and then continued along that for a distance of 1.6 miles. And th ere you were. “By jingo,” said Carmody, “I’ll do it.” And he did.

II King’s H ighbridge Gate Road ended on a neatly trim m ed plain. Carm ody got out of his car and looked around. Half a mile ahead of him he saw a small city. A single m odest signpost identified it as Bellwether. This city was not constructed in the traditional m anner of Am erican cities, w ith outliers of gas stations, tentacles of hot-dog stands, fringes of m otels and a protective carapace of junkyards; but rather, as some Italian hill towns are fashioned, it rose abruptly, w ithout physical pream ble, the m ain body of the town

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presenting itself at once and w ithout amelioration. Carm ody found this appealing. He advanced into the city itself. B ellw ether had a w arm and open look. Its streets w ere laid out generously, and th ere was a frankness about the wide bay w in­ dows of its store-fronts. As he p en etrated deeper, Carm ody found other delights. Just w ithin the city he en tered a piazza, like a Roman piazza, only smaller; and in the c en ter of the piazza there was a fountain, and standing in the fountain was a m arble re p re ­ sentation of a boy w ith a dolphin, and from the dolphin’s m outh a stream of clear w ater issued. “I do hope you like it,” a voice said from behind C arm ody’s left shoulder. “It’s nice,” Carm ody said. “I constructed it and p u t it th ere myself,” the voice told him. “It seem ed to m e that a fountain, despite the antiquity of its concept, is aesthetically functional. And this piazza, w ith its benches and shady chestnut trees, is copied from a Bolognese model. Again, I did not inhibit m yself w ith the fear of seem ing old-fashioned. The tru e artist uses w hat is necessary, be it a thousand years old or one second new .” “I applaud your sentim ent,” Carm ody said. “P erm it m e to in­ troduce myself. I am Edw ard Carm ody.” H e turned, smiling. But th ere was no one behind his left shoulder, or behind his right shoulder, either. T here was no one in the piazza, nobody at all in sight. “Forgive m e,” the voice said. “I d id n ’t m ean to startle you. I thought you knew .” “Knew w hat?” Carm ody asked. “Knew about m e.” “Well, I don’t,” Carm ody said. “Who are you and w here are you speaking from ?” “I am the voice of the city,” the voice said. “O r to put it another way, I am the city itself, B ellw ether, the actual and veritable city, speaking to you.” “Is that a fact?” Carm ody said sardonically. “Yes,” he answ ered

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himself, “I suppose it is a fact. So all right, you’re a city. Big deal!” He tu rn ed away from the fountain and strolled across the piazza like a m an who conversed w ith cities every day of his life, and who was slightly bored with the whole thing. He walked down various streets and up certain avenues. He glanced into store windows and noted houses. He paused in front of statuary, but only briefly. “W ell?” the city of B ellw ether asked after a while. “Well w hat?” Carm ody answ ered at once. “W hat do you think of m e?” “You’re okay,” Carm ody said. “Only okay? Is that all?” “Look,” Carm ody said, “a city is a city. W hen you’ve seen one, you’ve p retty m uch seen them all.” “T h at’s untrue!” the city said, with some show of pique. “I am distinctly different from other cities. I am unique.” “Are you indeed?” Carm ody said scornfully. “To m e you look like a conglom eration of badly assembled parts. You’ve got an Italian piazza, a couple of G reek-type buildings, a row of Tudor houses, an old-style New York tenem ent, a California hot-dog stand shaped like a tugboat and God knows w hat else. W hat’s so unique about that?” “The com bination of those forms into a m eaningful entity is unique,” the city said. “These older forms are not anachronisms, you understand. They are representative styles of living, and as such are appropriate in a well-wrought m achine for living. Would you care for some coffee and perhaps a sandwich or some fresh fruit?” “Coffee sounds good,” Carm ody said. H e allowed B ellw ether to guide him around the corner to an open-air cafe. The cafe was called “O You Kid” and was a replica of a Gay N ineties’ saloon, right down to the Tiffany lam ps and the cut-glass chandelier and the player piano. Like everything else that Carm ody had seen in the city, it was spotlessly clean, b ut w ithout people. “Nice atm osphere, don’t you think?” B ellw ether asked. “Cam py,” Carmody pronounced. “Okay if you like that sort of thing.”

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A foaming m ug of cappuccino was low ered to his table on a stainless steel tray. Carmody sipped. “Good?” Bellw ether asked. “Yes, very good.” “I rath er pride myself on my coffee,” the city said quietly. “And on my cooking. W ouldn’t you care for a little something? An om e­ lette, perhaps, or a soufflé?” ‘N othing,” Carmody said firmly. He leaned back in his chair and said, “So you’re a m odel city, huh?” “Yes, that is w hat I have the honor to b e ,” B ellw ether said. “I am the m ost recent of all m odel cities; and, I believe, the most satisfactory. I was conceived by a joint study group from Yale and the University of Chicago, who w ere working on a Rockefeller fellowship. Most of my practical details w ere devised by M.I.T., although some special sections of m e cam e from Princeton and from the RAND Corporation. My actual construction was a G en­ eral Electric project, and the m oney was procured by grants from the Ford and Carnegie Foundations, as well as several other insti­ tutions I am not at liberty to m ention.” “Interesting sort of history,” Carm ody said, w ith hateful non­ chalance. “T hat’s a Gothic cathedral across the street, isn’t it?” “Modified Rom anesque,” the city said. “Also interdenom ina­ tional and open to all faiths, w ith a designed seating capacity for three hundred people.” “That doesn’t seem like m any for a building of that size.” It s not, of course. Designedly. My idea was to com bine aw e­ someness with coziness.” “W here are the inhabitants of this town, by the way?” Carmody asked. “They have left,” B ellw ether said mournfully. “They have all d ep arted .” “W hy?” The city was silent for a while, then said, “T here was a break­ down in city-com m unity relations. A m isunderstanding, really. Or perhaps I should say, an unfortunate series of m isunderstandings. I suspect that rabble-rousers played their p a rt.”

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“But w hat happened, precisely?” “I don’t know ,” the city said. “I really don’t know. O ne day they simply all left. Just like that! But I’m sure they’ll be back.” “I w onder,” Carm ody said. “I am convinced of it,” the city said. “But putting that aside: why don’t you stay here, Mr. Carm ody?” “I hav en ’t really had tim e to consider it,” Carm ody said. “How could you help but like it?” B ellw ether said. “Just think —you would have the most m odern up-to-date city in the world at your beck and call.” “T hat does sound interesting,” Carm ody said. “So give it a try, how could it h urt you?” the city asked. “All right, I think I will,” Carm ody said. He was intrigued by the city of Bellwether. But he was also apprehensive. He wished he knew exactly why the city’s previous occupants had left. At B ellw ether’s insistence, Carm ody slept that night in the sum ptuous bridal suite of the King George V Hotel. B ellw ether served him breakfast on the terrace and played a brisk H aydn quartet while Carm ody ate. The m orning air was delicious. If B ellw ether had n ’t told him, Carm ody would never have guessed it was reconstituted. W hen he was finished, Carm ody leaned back and enjoyed the view of B ellw ether’s w estern q uarter—a pleasing jum ble of Chinese pagodas, V enetian footbridges, Japanese canals, a green Burm ese hill, a Corinthian tem ple, a California parking lot, a N or­ m an tow er and m uch else besides. “You have a splendid view ,” he told the city. “I’m so glad you appreciate it,” B ellw ether replied. “The p rob­ lem of style was argued from the day of my inception. O ne group held for consistency: a harm onious group of shapes blending into a harm onious whole. But quite a few m odel cities are like that. They are uniformly dull, artificial entities created by one m an or one com m ittee, unlike real cities.”

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“You’re sort of artificial yourself, a re n ’t you?” Carm ody asked. “O f course! But I do not p rete n d to be anything else. I am not a fake ‘city of the fu tu re’ or a m ock-Florentine bastard. I am a true agglutinated congeries. I am supposed to be interesting and stim u­ lating in addition to being functional and practical.” “Bellw ether, you look okay to m e,” Carm ody said, in a sudden rush of expansiveness. “Do all m odel cities talk like you?” “Certainly not. Most cities up to now, m odel or otherwise, never said a word. But their inhabitants didn’t like that. It m ade the city seem too huge, too m asterful, too soulless, too impersonal. T hat is why I was created with a voice and an artificial consciousness to guide it.” “I see,” Carm ody said. “The point is, my artificial consciousness personalizes m e, which is very im portant in an age of depersonalization. It enables m e to be truly responsive. It perm its m e to be creative in m eeting the dem ands of my occupants. W e can reason w ith each other, my people and I. By carrying on a continual and m eaningful dialogue, we can help each other to establish a dynamic, flexible and truly viable urban environm ent. W e can modify each other w ithout any significant loss of individuality.” “It sounds fine,” Carm ody said. “Except, of course, that you d on ’t have anyone h ere to carry on a dialogue w ith.” “That is the only flaw in the schem e,” the city adm itted. “But for the present, I have you.” “Yes, you have m e,” Carm ody said, and w ondered why the words rang unpleasantly on his ear. “And, naturally, you have m e,” the city said. “It is a reciprocal relationship, which is the only kind w orth having. But now, my dear Carmody, suppose I show you around myself. Then we can get you settled in and regularized.” “G et m e w hat?” “I didn’t m ean that the way it sounded,” the city said. “It simply is an unfortunate scientific expression. But you understand, I’m sure, that a reciprocal relationship necessitates obligations on the

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part of both involved parties. It couldn’t very well be otherwise, could it?” “Not unless it was a laissez-faire relationship.” “W e’re trying to get away from all th at,” B ellw ether said. “Laissez-faire becomes a doctrine of the emotions, you know, and leads non-stop to anomie. If you will just come this way. . . .”

Ill Carm ody w ent w here he was asked and beheld the excellencies of Bellwether. He toured the pow er plant, the w ater filtration center, the industrial park and the light industries section. H e saw the children’s park and the O dd Fellow’s Hall. H e walked through a m useum and an art gallery, a concert hall and a theater, a bowl­ ing alley, a billiards parlor, a Go-Kart track and a movie theater. He becam e tired and w anted to stop. But the city w anted to show itself off, and Carmody had to look at the five-story Am erican Express building, the Portuguese synagogue, the statue of Buck­ m inster Fuller, the G reyhound Bus Station and several other at­ tractions. At last it was over. Carm ody concluded that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, except for a small part of it that was in the beholder’s feet. “A little lunch now?” the city asked. “F ine,” Carm ody said. He was guided to the fashionable Rocham beau Cafe, w here he began with potage au petit pois and ended w ith petits fours. “W hat about a nice Brie to finish off?” the city asked. “No, thanks,” Carm ody said. “I’m full. Too full, as a m atte r of fact.” “But cheese isn’t filling. A bit of first-rate C am em bert?” “I couldn’t possibly.” “Perhaps a few assorted fruits. Very refreshing to the palate.” “It’s not my palate th at needs refreshing,” Carm ody said.

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“At least an apple, a pear and a couple of grapes?” “Thanks, no.” “A couple of cherries?” “No, no, no!” “A m eal isn’t com plete w ithout a little fruit,” the city said. “My m eal is,” Carm ody said. “T here are im portant vitamins only found in fresh fruit.” “I’ll just have to struggle along without th em .” “Perhaps half an orange, which I will peel for you? Citrus fruits have no bulk at all.” “I couldn’t possibly.” “Not even one q uarter of an orange? If I take out all the pits?” “Most decidedly not.” “It would m ake m e feel b e tte r,” the city said. “I have a com ple­ tion compulsion, you know, and no m eal is com plete w ithout a piece of fruit.” “No! No! No!” “All right, don’t get so excited,” the city said. “If you don’t like the sort of food I serve, th a t’s up to you.” “But I do like it!” “Then if you like it so m uch, why w on’t you eat some fruit?” “Enough,” Carm ody said. “Give m e a couple of grapes.” “I w ouldn’t w ant to force anything on you.” “You’re not forcing. Give m e, please.” “You’re quite sure?” “Gimme!” Carmody shouted. “So take,” the city said and produced a m agnificent bunch of m uscatel grapes. Carm ody ate them all. They w ere very good. “Excuse m e,” the city said. “W hat are you doing?” Carm ody sat upright and opened his eyes. “I was taking a little nap,” he said. “Is th ere anything wrong w ith that?” “W hat should be w rong w ith a perfectly natural thing like that?” the city said. “Thank you,” Carm ody said, and closed his eyes again.

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“But why nap in a chair?” the city asked. “Because I ’m in a chair, and I’m already half asleep.” “You’ll get a crick in your back,” the city w arned him. “D on’t care,” Carm ody m um bled, his eyes still closed. “Why not take a proper nap? O ver here, on the couch?” “I’m already napping comfortably right h ere.” “You’re not really com fortable,” the city pointed out. “The hu­ m an anatom y is not constructed for sleeping sitting up.” “At the m om ent, m ine is,” Carm ody said. “It’s not. Why not try the couch?” “The chair is fine.” “But the couch is finer. Just try it, please, Carmody. Carm ody?” “Eh? W hat’s that?” Carm ody said, waking up. “T he couch. I really think you should rest on the couch.” “All right!” Carm ody said, struggling to his feet. “W here is this couch?” He was guided out of the restaurant, dow n th e street, around the corner, and into a building m arked “The Snoozerie.” T here w ere a dozen couches. Carm ody w ent to the nearest. “Not that one,” the city said. “It’s got a bad spring.” “It doesn’t m atter,” Carm ody said. “I ’ll sleep around it.” “T hat will result in a cram ped posture.” “Christ!” Carmody said, getting to his feet. “Which couch would you recom m end?” “This one right back h e re ,” the city said. “I t’s a king-size, the best in the place. The yield-point of the m attress has been scientifi­ cally determ ined. The pillows—” “Right, fine, good,” Carm ody said, lying down on the indicated couch. “Shall I play you some soothing music?” “D on’t bother.” “Just as you wish. I ’ll p u t out the lights, th en .” “F ine.” “W ould you like a blanket? I control the tem p eratu re here, of course, b ut sleepers often get a subjective im pression of chilli­ ness.”

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“It doesn’t m atter! Leave m e alone!” “All right!” the city said. “I’m not doing this for myself, you know. Personally, I never sleep.” “Okay, sorry,” Carm ody said. “T hat’s perfectly all right.” T here was a long silence. T hen Carm ody sat up. “W hat’s the m atter?” the city asked. “Now I can’t sleep,” Carm ody said. “Try closing your eyes and consciously relaxing every muscle in your body, starting with the big toe and working upw ard to—” “I can’t sleep!” Carmody shouted. “Maybe you w eren ’t very sleepy to begin w ith,” the city sug­ gested. “But at least you could close your eyes and try to get a little rest. W on’t you do that for m e?” “No!” Carm ody said. “I’m not sleepy and I don’t need a rest.” “Stubborn!” the city said. “Do w hat you like. I ’ve tried my best.” “Yeah!” Carm ody said, getting to his feet and walking out of the Snoozerie.

IV Carm ody stood on a little curved bridge and looked over a blue lagoon. “This is a copy of the Rialto bridge in V enice,” the city said. “Scaled down, of course.” “I know ,” Carm ody said. “I read the sign.” “It’s rath er enchanting, isn’t it?” “Sure, it’s fine,” Carm ody said, lighting a cigarette. “You’re doing a lot of smoking,” the city pointed out. “I know. I feel like smoking.” “As your m edical advisor, I m ust point out that the link betw een smoking and lung cancer is conclusive.” “I know .” “If you switched to a pipe your chances would be im proved.” “I don’t like pipes.”

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“W hat about a cigar, then?” “I don’t like cigars.” H e lit another cigarette. “T hat’s your third cigarette in five m inutes,” the city said. “G oddam n it, I’ll smoke as m uch and as often as I please!” Carm ody shouted. “Well, of course you will!” the city said. “I was m erely trying to advise you for your own good. Would you w ant m e to simply stand by and not say a word while you destroyed yourself?” “Yes,” Carm ody said. “I can’t believe that you m ean that. T here is an ethical im pera­ tive involved here. Man can act against his best interests; but a m achine is not allowed that degree of perversity.” “G et off my back,” Carm ody said sullenly. “Q uit pushing m e around.” “Pushing you around? My dear Carmody, have I coerced you in any way? Have I done any m ore than advise you?” “Maybe not. But you talk too m uch.” “Perhaps I don’t talk enough,” the city said. “To judge from the response I get.” “You talk too m uch,” Carm ody rep eated and lit a cigarette. “That is your fourth cigarette in five m inutes.” Carm ody opened his m outh to bellow an insult. T hen he changed his m ind and walked away. “W hat’s this?” Carm ody asked. “It’s a candy m achine,” the city told him. “It doesn’t look like one.” “Still, it is one. This design is a modification of a design by Saarionm en for a silo. I have m iniaturized it, of course, and—” “It still doesn’t look like a candy m achine. How do you work it?” “It’s very simple. Push the red button. Now wait. Press down one of those levers on Row A; now press the green button. There!” A Baby Ruth bar slid into C arm ody’s hand. “H uh,” Carm ody said. H e stripped off the paper and bit into the bar. “Is this a real Baby Ruth bar or a copy of one?” he asked.

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“It’s a real one. I had to subcontract the candy concession b e­ cause of the pressure of work.” “H uh,” Carmody said, letting the candy w rapper slip from his fingers. “T hat,” the city said, “is an example of the kind of thoughtless­ ness I always encounter.” “It’s just a piece of p ap er,” Carm ody said, turning and looking at the candy w rapper lying on the spotless street. “O f course it’s just a piece of p aper,” the city said. “But m ultiply it by a h undred thousand inhabitants and w hat do you have?” “A hundred thousand Baby Ruth w rappers,” Carm ody an­ sw ered at once. “I don’t consider that funny,” the city said. “You w ouldn’t w ant to live in the m idst of all that paper, I can assure you. You’d be the first to complain if this street w ere strew n w ith garbage. But do you do your share? Do you even clean up after yourself? Of course not! You leave it to m e, even though I have to ru n all of the other functions of the city, night and day, w ithout even Sundays off.” Carm ody bent down to pick up the candy w rapper. But just before his fingers could close on it, a pincer arm shot out of the nearest sewer, snatched the paper away and vanished from sight. “It’s all right,” the city said. “I’m used to cleaning up after people. I do it all the tim e.” “Yuh,” said Carmody. “Nor do I expect any gratitude.” “I’m grateful, I’m grateful!” Carm ody said. “No, you’re not,” Bellw ether said. “So okay m aybe I’m not. W hat do you w ant m e to say?” “I don’t w ant you to say anything,” the city said. “L et us con­ sider the incident closed.” “Had enough?” the city said, after dinner. “Plenty,” Carm ody said. “You didn’t eat m uch.” “I ate all I w anted. It was very good.”

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“If it was so good, why d id n ’t you eat m ore?” “Because I couldn’t hold any m ore.” “If you h a d n ’t spoiled your appetite with that candy bar . . “G oddam n it, the candy bar didn’t spoil my appetite! I just—” “You’re lighting a cigarette,” the city said. “Yeah,” Carm ody said. “C ouldn’t you wait a little longer?” “Now look,” Carm ody said. “Just w hat in hell do you—” “But we have som ething m ore im portant to talk about,” the city said quickly. “Have you thought about w hat you’re going to do for a living?” “I haven’t really had m uch tim e to think about it.” “Well, I have been thinking about it. It would be nice if you becam e a doctor.” “Me? I’d have to take special college courses, then get into m edical school, and so forth.” “I can arrange all th at,” the city said. “Not interested.” “Well . . . W hat about law?” “N ever.” “E ngineering is an excellent line.” “Not for m e.” “W hat about accounting?” “Not on your life.” “W hat do you w ant to be?” “A je t pilot,” Carm ody said impulsively. “Oh, come now!” “I’m quite serious.” “I don’t even have an air field h ere.” “Then I’ll pilot som ew here else.” “You’re only saying that to spite me!” “Not at all,” Carm ody said. “I w ant to be a pilot, I really do. I’ve always w anted to be a pilot! H onest I have!” T here was a long silence. Then the city said, “The choice is entirely up to you.” This was said in a voice like death.

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“W here are you going now?” “O ut for a walk,” Carm ody said. “At nine-thirty in the evening?” “Sure. Why not?” “I thought you w ere tired .” “That was quite some tim e ago.” “I see. And I also thought th at you could sit here and we could have a nice chat.” “How about if we talk after I get back?” Carm ody asked. “No, it doesn’t m atter,” the city said. “The walk doesn’t m atte r,” Carm ody said, sitting down. “Come on, w e’ll talk.” “I no longer care to talk,” the city said. “Please go for your walk.”

V “Well, good night,” Carm ody said. “I beg your pardon?” “I said, ‘good night.’ ” “You’re going to sleep?” “Sure. I t’s late, I’m tired .” “You’re going to sleep now?” “Well, why not?” “No reason at all,” the city said, “except that you have forgotten to wash.” “Oh. . . . I guess I did forget. I’ll wash in the m orning.” “How long is it since you’ve had a bath?” “Too long. I’ll take one in the m orning.” “W ouldn’t you feel b e tte r if you took one right now?” “No.” “Even if I drew the bath for you?” “No! G oddam n it, no! I’m going to sleep!”

ROBERT

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“Do exactly as you please,” the city said. “D on’t wash, don’t study, don’t eat a balanced diet. But also, don’t blam e m e.” “Blame you? For w hat?” “For anything,” the city said. “Yes. But w hat did you have in m ind, specifically?” “It isn’t im portant.” “T hen why did you bring it up in the first place?” “I was only thinking of you,” the city said. “I realize th at.” “You m ust know that it can’t benefit me if you wash or not.” “I’m aw are of th at.” “W hen one cares,” the city w ent on, “w hen one feels one’s responsibilities, it is not nice to hear oneself sworn at.” “I d id n ’t swear at you.” “Not this time. But earlier today you did.” “Well . . . I was nervous.” “T hat’s because of the smoking.” “D on’t start that again!” “I w on’t,” the city said. “Smoke like a furnace. W hat does it m atter to m e?” “D am ned right,” Carm ody said, lighting a cigarette. “But my failure,” the city said. “No, no,” Carm ody said. “D on’t say it, please don’t!” “Forget I said it,” the city said. “All right.” “Sometimes I get overzealous.” “Sure.” “And it’s especially difficult because I’m right. I am right, you know.” “I know,” Carm ody said. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re al­ ways right. Right right right right right—” “D on’t overexcite yourself bedtim e,” the city said. “W ould you care for a glass of m ilk?” “No.” “You’re sure?”

Street o f Dreams, Feet o f Clay

Carm ody p ut his hands over his eyes. H e felt very strange. He also felt extrem ely guilty, fragile, dirty, unhealthy and sloppy. He felt generally and irrevocably bad, and it would always be this way unless he changed, adjusted, adapted. . . . But instead of attem pting anything of the sort he rose to his feet, squared his shoulders, and m arched away past the Roman piazza and the V enetian bridge. “W here are you going?” the city asked. “W hat’s the m atter?” Silent, tight-lipped, Carm ody continued past the children’s park and the Am erican Express building. “W hat did I do w rong?” the city cried. “W hat, just tell m e w hat?” Carm ody m ade no reply b u t strode past the Rocham beau Cafe and the Portuguese synagogue, coming at last to the pleasant green plain that surrounded Bellwether. “Ingrate!” the city scream ed after him. “You’re just like all the others. All of you hum ans are disagreeable animals, and you’re never really satisfied w ith anything.” Carm ody got into his car and started the engine. “But of course,” the city said, in a m ore thoughtful voice, “you’re never really dissatisfied with anything either. The moral, I suppose, is that a city m ust learn patience.” Carm ody tu rned the car onto King’s H ighbridge Gate Road and started east, toward New York. “Have a nice trip!” B ellw ether called after him. “D on’t worry about m e, I’ll be waiting up for you.” Carm ody stepped dow n hard on the accelerator. H e really wished he h ad n ’t heard that last rem ark.

ISAAC B A SHE VI S S I NGE R

Jachid and Jechidah

H e ll’s bells tinkle in urban glades where love is an infirm ­ ity leading to death, where green field s and blue skies are the m a nifold blessings o f corruption and the vulgarity o f death is nothing b u t a short episode in the eternity o f life. Isaac Bashevis Singer, a recognized master o f Jewish fiction, pours black paint over modern m a n ’s favorite philosophical toys with a cheerful vengeance. W ith the blind, m ocking eyes o f an om niscient skeptic he examines acceptable reality, throws stones at it, and pushes past its cardboard parameters. The result is a happy exercise in Jewish iconoclasm. J D.

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I n a PR ISO N w here souls bound for Sheol—E arth they call it there —await destruction, th ere hovered the fem ale soul Jechidah. Souls forget their origin. Purah, the Angel of Forgetfulness, he who dissipates God’s light and conceals His face, holds dom inion every­ w here beyond the Godhead. Jechidah, unm indful of her descent from the T hrone of Glory, had sinned. H er jealousy had caused m uch trouble in the world w here she dwelled. She had suspected all fem ale angels of having affairs with her lover Jachid, had not only blasphem ed God but even denied him. Souls, she said, w ere not created but had evolved out of nothing: they had neither mission nor purpose. Although the authorities w ere extrem ely patient and forgiving, Jechidah was finally sentenced to death. The judge fixed the m om ent of her descent to that cem etery called Earth. The attorney for Jechidah appealed to the Superior Court of Heaven, even presented a petition to M etatron, the Lord of the Face. But Jechidah was so filled with sin and so im penitent that no pow er could save her. The attendants seized her, tore her from Jachid, clipped her wings, cut her hair, and clothed her in a long w hite shroud. She was no longer allowed to hear the music of the spheres, to smell the perfum es of Paradise and to m editate on the secrets of the Torah, which sustain the soul. She could no longer bathe in the wells of balsam oil. In the prison cell, the darkness of the n e th e r world already surrounded her. But her greatest to r­ m ent was her longing for Jachid. She could no longer reach him telepathically. Nor could she send a message to him, all of her servants having been taken away. Only the fear of death was left to Jechidah. 2 02

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D eath was no rare occurrence w here Jechidah lived but it befell only vulgar, exhausted spirits. Exactly w hat happened to the dead, Jechidah did not know. She was convinced that w hen a soul d e ­ scended to E arth it was to extinction, even though the pious m ain­ tained that a spark of life rem ained. A dead soul im m ediately began to rot and was soon covered with a slimy stuff called semen. T hen a grave digger p u t it into a womb w here it tu rned into some sort of fungus and was henceforth known as a child. L ater on, began the tortures of Gehenna: birth, growth, toil. For according to the m orality books, death was not the final stage. Purified, the soul retu rn ed to its source. But w hat evidence was th ere for such beliefs? So far as Jechidah knew, no one had ever retu rn ed from Earth. The enlightened Jechidah believed th at the soul rots for a short tim e and then disintegrates into a darkness of no return. Now the m om ent had come w hen Jechidah m ust die, m ust sink to Earth. Soon, the Angel of D eath would appear with his fiery sword and thousand eyes. At first Jechidah had w ept incessantly, but then her tears had ceased. Awake or asleep she never stopped thinking of Jachid. W here was he? W hat was he doing? W hom was he with? Jechidah was well aware he would not m ourn for her for ever. H e was surrounded by beautiful females, sacred beasts, angels, seraphim, cherubs, ayralim, each one w ith powers of seduction. How long could som eone like Jachid curb his desires? He, like she, was an unbeliever. It was he who had taught her that spirits w ere not created, but w ere products of evolution. Jachid did not acknowl­ edge free will, nor believe in ultim ate good and evil. W hat would restrain him? Most certainly he already lay in the lap of some other divinity, telling those stories about him self he had already told Jechidah. But w hat could she do? In this dungeon all contact w ith the mansions ceased. All doors w ere closed: neith er m ercy, nor beauty en tered here. The one way from this prison led down to Earth, and to the horrors called flesh, blood, m arrow, nerves, and breath. The God-fearing angels prom ised resurrection. They preached that th e soul did not linger forever on Earth, but that after it had

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endured its punishm ent, it retu rn ed to the H igher Sphere. But Jechidah, being a m odernist, regarded all of this as superstition. How would a soul free itself from the corruption of the body? It was scientifically impossible. Resurrection was a dream , a silly com fort of prim itive and frightened souls. O ne night as Jechidah lay in a corner brooding about Jachid and the pleasures she had received from him, his kisses, his caresses, the secrets w hispered in her ear, the m any positions and games into w hich she had been initiated, D um ah, the thousand-eyed Angel of D eath, looking just as the Sacred Books described him, e n te red bearing a fiery sword. “Your tim e has come, little sister,” he said. “No furth er appeal is possible?” “Those who are in this wing always go to E arth .” Jechidah shuddered. “Well, I am ready.” “Jechidah, repentance helps even now. Recite your confession.” “How can it help? My only reg ret is that I did not transgress m ore,” said Jechidah rebelliously. Both w ere silent. Finally D um ah said, “Jechidah, I know you are angry with me. But is it my fault, sister? D id I w ant to be the Angel of D eath? I too am a sinner, exiled from a higher realm , my punish­ m ent to be the executioner of souls. Jechidah, I have not willed your death, b ut be com forted. D eath is not as dreadful as you imagine. True, the first m om ents are not easy. But once you have been planted in the womb, the nine m onths th at follow are not painful. You will forget all th at you have learned here. Com ing out of the wom b will be a shock; but childhood is often pleasant. You will begin to study the lore of death, clothed in a fresh, pliant body, and soon will dread the end of your exile.” Jechidah in terru p ted him. “Kill m e if you m ust, D um ah, but spare m e your lies.” “I am telling you the truth, Jechidah. You will be absent no m ore than a hundred years, for even the wickedest do not suffer longer than that. D eath is only the preparation for a new existence.”

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“D um ah, please. I don’t w ant to listen.” “But it is im portant for you to know th at good and evil exist there too and that the will rem ains free.” “W hat will? Why do you talk such nonsense?” “Jechidah, listen carefully. Even among the dead th ere are laws and regulations. The way you act in death will determ ine w hat happens to you next. D eath is a laboratory for the rehabilitation of souls.” “Make an end of m e, I beseech you.” “Be patient, you still have a few m ore m inutes to live and m ust receive your instructions. Know, then, that one m ay act well or evilly on E arth and that the most pernicious sin of all is to retu rn a soul to life.” This idea was so ridiculous that Jechidah laughed despite her anguish. “How can one corpse give life to another?” “I t’s not as difficult as you think. The body is composed of such weak m aterial that a m ere blow can m ake it disintegrate. D eath is no stronger than a cobweb; a b reeze blows and it disappears. But it is a great offense to destroy either an o th er’s death or one’s own. Not only that, but you m ust not act or speak or even think in such a way as to th reaten death. H ere one’s object is to preserve life, but th ere it is death that is succoured.” “N ursery tales. The fantasies of an executioner.” “It is the truth, Jechidah. The Torah that applies to E arth is based on a single principle: A nother m an’s death m ust be as dear to one as one’s own. R em em ber my words. W hen you descend to Sheol, they will be of value to you.” “No, no, I w on’t listen to any m ore lies.” And Jechidah covered her ears. Years passed. Everyone in the higher realm had forgotten Je­ chidah except her m other who still continued to light m em orial candles for h er daughter. O n E arth Jechidah had a new m other as well as a father, several brothers and sisters, all dead. After atten d ­

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ing a high school, she had begun to take courses at the university. She lived in a large necropolis w here corpses are p rep ared for all kinds of m ortuary functions. It was spring, and E a rth ’s corruption grew leprous with blos­ soms. From the graves w ith their m em orial trees and cleansing w aters arose a dreadful stench. Millions of creatures, forced to descend into the domains of death, w ere becom ing flies, b u tte r­ flies, worms, toads, frogs. They buzzed, croaked, screeched, rat­ tled, already involved in the death struggle. But since Jechidah was totally inured to the habits of Earth, all this seem ed to her part of life. She sat on a park bench staring up at the moon, which from the darkness of the n e th e r world is som etim es recognized as a m em orial candle set in a skull. Like all fem ale corpses, Jechidah yearned to perp etu ate death, to have h er womb becom e a grave for the newly dead. But she couldn’t do that w ithout the help of a male w ith w hom she w ould have to copulate in the hatred which corpses call love. As Jechidah sat staring into the sockets of the skull above her, a w hite-shrouded corpse cam e and sat beside her. For a while the two corpses gazed at each other, thinking they could see, although all corpses are actually blind. Finally the m ale corpse spoke: “Pardon, Miss, could you tell m e w hat tim e it is?” Since deep w ithin them selves all corpses long for the term ina­ tion of their punishm ent, they are perpetually concerned with time. “The tim e?” Jechidah answered. “Just a second.” Strapped to her wrist was an instrum ent to m easure tim e but the divisions w ere so m inute and the symbols so tiny that she could not easily read the dial. The m ale corpse m oved n earer to her. “May I take a look? I have good eyes.” “If you wish.” Corpses never act straightforw ardly b ut are always sly and devi­ ous. The m ale corpse took Jechidah’s hand and bent his head toward the instrum ent. This was not the first tim e a male corpse had touched Jechidah but contact with this one m ade her limbs

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trem ble. He stared intently but could not decide im m ediately. T hen he said: “I think it’s ten m inutes after ten .” “Is it really so late?” “P erm it m e to introduce myself. My nam e is Jachid.” “Jachid? Mine is Jechidah.” “W hat an odd coincidence.” Both hearing death race in their blood w ere silent for a long while. T hen Jachid said: “How beautiful the night is!” “Yes, beautiful!” “T h e re ’s som ething about spring that cannot be expressed in words.” “Words can express nothing,” answ ered Jechidah. As she m ade this rem ark, both knew they w ere destined to lie together and to prepare a grave for a new corpse. T he fact is, no m atter how dead the dead are there rem ains some life in them , a trace of contact with that knowledge which fills the universe. D eath only masks the truth. The sages speak of it as a soap bubble that bursts at the touch of a straw. The dead, asham ed of death, try to conceal their condition through cunning. The m ore m ori­ bund a corpse the m ore voluble it is. “May I ask w here you live?” asked Jachid. Where have I seen him before? How is it his voice sounds so fa m ilia r to me? Jechidah w ondered. A n d how does it happen that h e ’s called Jachid? Such a rare name. “Not far from h ere,” she answered. “W ould you object to my walking you hom e?” “Thank you. You don’t have to. But if you want. . . . It is still too early to go to b ed.” W hen Jachid rose, Jechidah did, too. Is this the one I have been searching for? Jechidah asked herself, the one destined for me? But w hat do I m ean by destiny? According to my professor, only atoms and m otion exist. A carriage approached them and Jechidah heard Jachid say: “W ould you like to take a ride?” “W here to?”

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“Oh, just around the park.” Instead of reproving him as she intended to, Jechidah said: “It would be nice. But I don’t think you should spend the m oney.” “W hat’s m oney? You only live once.” T he carriage stopped and they both got in. Jechidah knew that no self-respecting girl would go riding w ith a strange young man. W hat did Jachid think of her? Did he believe she would go riding with anyone who asked her? She w anted to explain that she was shy by nature, but she knew she could not wipe out the impression she had already made. She sat in silence, astonished at her behav­ ior. She felt nearer to this stranger than she ever had to anyone. She could almost read his m ind. She wished the night would con­ tinue for ever. Was this love? Could one really fall in love so quickly? And am I happy? she asked herself. But no answer cam e from w ithin her. For the dead are always m elancholy, even in the m idst of gaiety. After a while Jechidah said: “I have a strange feeling I have experienced all this before.” “Déjà vu—th a t’s w hat psychology calls it.” “But m aybe th e re ’s some tru th to it. . . . ” “W hat do you m ean?” “Maybe w e’ve known each other in some other w orld.” Jachid burst out laughing. “In w hat world? T here is only one, ours, the earth.” “But m aybe souls do exist.” “Impossible. W hat you call the soul is nothing but vibrations of m atter, the product of the nervous system. I should know, I’m a m edical student.” Suddenly he put his arm around her waist. And although Jechidah had never p erm itted any m ale to take such liberties before, she did not reprove him. She sat th ere perplexed by h er acquiescence, fearful of the regrets that would be hers tomorrow. I’m com pletely w ithout character, she chided herself. But he is right about one thing. If th ere is no soul and life is nothing but a short episode in an eternity of death, then why shouldn’t one enjoy oneself w ithout restraint? If th ere is no soul, th ere is no God, free will is meaningless. Morality, as my professor says, is nothing

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but a p art of the ideological superstructure. Jechidah closed her eyes and leaned back against the uphol­ stery. T he horse trotted slowly. In the dark all the corpses, m en and beasts, lam ented their death—howling, laughing, buzzing, chirping, sighing. Some of the corpses staggered, having drunk to forget for a while the tortures of hell. Jechidah had retrea ted into herself. She dozed off, then awoke again w ith a start. W hen the dead sleep they once m ore connect them selves w ith the source of life. The illusion of tim e and space, cause and eífect, n um ber and relation ceases. In her dream Jechidah had ascended again into the world of her origin. T here she saw her real m other, her friends, her teachers. Jachid was there, too. The two greeted each other, em braced, laughed and w ept w ith joy. At that m om ent, they both recognized the truth, that death on E arth is tem porary and illu­ sory, a trial and a m eans of purification. They traveled together past heavenly mansions, gardens, oases for convalescent souls, for­ ests for divine beasts, islands for heavenly birds. No, our m eeting was not an accident, Jechidah m urm ured to herself. T here is a God. T here is a purpose in creation. Copulation, free will, fate— all are p art of His plan. Jachid and Jechidah passed by a prison and gazed into its window. They saw a soul condem ned to sink down to Earth. Jechidah knew that this soul would becom e her daugh­ ter. Just before she woke up, Jechidah heard a voice: “The grave and the grave digger have m et. The burial will take place tonight.” T r a n s l a t e d b y the Author and Elizabeth Pollet

HARLAN ELLISON

Vm Look ing fo r Kadak

Can the heroic figure be, at the same time, a Ulysses, a m ensch, a m eshugge, and a comedian w ith a heart o f gold? Per­ haps only i f h e ’s Jewish. So here is a tall tale, a m yth about a Jewish Ulysses with caterpillar fe e t and blue skin. I t ’s a tum m el, a jo y fu l shouting in the fa ce o f sorrow, an uplifting. I t ’s a fa ir y tale with Jewish words— and that presents a problem. To quote Harlan Ellison, “There are three ways to write a story using words in a foreign tongue. The first is to explain every single word as it is used, by restating its m eaning in English, or by hoping its use in context w ill clarify fo r the reader. The second is to attem pt by syntactical m anipulation an approxim ation o f the dialect and tongue, eschewing the use o f any foreign words. The third is to provide a glossary. ” Therefore, “E llison’s Gram m atical Guide and Glossary fo r G o yim ” has been appended to the end o f the story to aid the reader and provide a fe w belly-laughs. A n d since a fa ir y tale should have a picture, aw ard-w inning artist Tim K irk has drawn the hero, Evsise, the Zsouchmoid. J D.

E d i t o r ’s N o t e : This is an original story w ritten expressly fo r this vol­

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u ’l l p a r d o n m e but my nam e is Evsise and I’m standing here in the m iddle of sand, talking to a butterfly, and if I sound like I’m talking to myself, again you’ll pardon but w hat can I tell you? A grown person standing talking to a butterfly. In sand. So nu? W hat else can you expect? T here are times you got to m ake adjustm ents, you got to let be a little. Just to get along. I’m not all that happy about this, if you w ant the specific truth. I’ve learned, God knows I’ve learned. I’m a Jew, and if th ere is a thing Jews have learned in over six thousand years, it’s that you got to com prom ise if you w ant to m ake it to seven thousand. So, let be. I’ll talk to this butterfly, hey you butterfly, and I’ll pray for the best. You don’t understand. You got that look. Listen: I read once in a book that they found a tribe of Jewish Indians, som ew here deep in the heart of South America. T hat was on the Earth. The E arth, shtum ie! I t’s been in all the papers. So. Jewish Indians. W hat a thing! And everyone w ondered and yelled and m ade such a mishegoss that they had to send historians and sociologists and anthropologists and all m anner of very learned types to establish if this was a tru e thing or m aybe som e­ body was just lying. And w hat they found was that m aybe w hat had happened was that some galus from Spain, fleeing the Inquisition, got on board with C ortez and cam e to T he New W orld, kayn-ahora, and w hen no one was looking, he ran away. So then he got fa rb lo n d jet and wound up in some little place full of very suggestible native types, and being som ething of a tum m eler he started teaching them about being Jewish—just to keep busy, you know w hat I m ean?

Yo

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because Jews have never been missionaries, none of that “convert­ ing” crap; other, I shouldn’t nam e names, religions need to keep going, unlike Judaism which does very cute thank you on its own —and by the tim e all the smart-alecks found the tribe, they w ere keeping kosher, and having brises w hen the sons w ere born, and observing the High Holy Days, and not doing any fishing on the Shabbes, and it was a very nice thing altogether. So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that th ere are Jews here on Zsouchmuhn. Zoochhhhhh-moooohn. W ith a chhhhh, not a kuh. You got a no-accent like a Litvak. It shouldn’t even surprise that I’m a Jew and I’m blue and I have eleven arms thereby defying the Law of Bilateral Sym m etry and I am squat and round and move very close to the ground by a series of caterpillar feet set around the rim of ball joints and sock­ ets on either side of my tuchis which obeys the Law of Bilateral Sym m etry and w hen I’ve wound the feet tight I have to jum p off the ground so they can unw ind and then I move forw ard again which makes my m ovem ent very peculiar I’m told by tourists w ithout very m uch class. In the Universal Ephem eris I am referred to as a native of T heta 996:VI, Cluster Messier 3 in Canes Venatici. The VI is Zsouch­ m uhn. A baedeker from some publisher in the Crab cam e here a few turns ago and w rote a travel pam phlet on Zsouchmuhn; he kept calling m e a Zsouchmoid; he should grow in the ground, headfirst like a turnip. I am a Jew. I don’t know w hat a turnip is. Now I’m raving. W hat it’ll do to you, talking to a butterfly. I have a mission, and it’s m aking m e crazy, giving m e shpilkess, you could die from a mission like this. I’m looking for Kadak. Hey you butterfly! A blink, a flutter, a m ovem ent it w ouldn’t hurt, you should m ake an indication you can hear m e, I shouldn’t stand like a schlem iel telling you all this. Nothing. You w ouldn’t give m e a break. Listen: if it wasn’t for that oysvorf, that bum , Snodle, I w ouldn’t be here. I would be w ith my family and my lust-nest concubines

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on T heta 996:III, w hat the E phem eris calls Bromios, w hat we Jews call Kasrilevka. T here is historical preced en t for our nam ing Bromios another nam e, Kasrilevka. You’ll read Sholom Aleichem, you’ll understand. A planet for schlimazels. I don’t w ant to discuss it. T h at’s w here th ey ’re m oving us. Everyone w ent. A few crazy ones stayed, th ere are always a few. But mostly, everyone went: who would w ant to stay? T hey’re m oving Zsouchm uhn. God knows w here. Every tim e you look around th ey ’re dragging a place off and putting it som ew here else. I don’t w ant to go into that. T errible people, they got no hearts in them . So we w ere sitting in the yeshiva, the last ten of us, a proper m inyan, getting ready to sit shivah for the whole planet, for the last days we would be here, w hen that oysvo rf Snodle had a sei­ zure and up and died. Oh, a look: a question, maybe? Why w ere we sitting shivah in the rabbinical college w hen everybody else was running like a thief to get off the planet before those gonifs from th e Relocation C enter cam e w ith their skyhooks, a glitch if ever I saw one, shady, disreputable, to give a yank and drag a place out of orbit and give a shove and jam in big m eshiginah m agnets to float around w here a nice, cute world was, just to keep the Cluster running smooth, w hen they pull out a world everything shouldn’t go bum p together . .. ? Why, you ask me. So, I ’ll tell you why. Because, Mr. I-W on’t-Talk-Or-Even-Flap-My-W ings Butterfly, shivah is the holiest of the holies. Because the Talm ud says w hen you m ourn the dead you get ten Jewish m en who com e to the hom e of the deceased, not eight or seven or four, but ten m en, and you sit and you pray, and you hold services, and you light the yorzeit candles, and you recite the kaddish which as every intelli­ gent life-form in the C luster except m aybe a n u t butterfly knows is the prayer for the dead, in honor and praise of God and the deceased. And why do we w ant to sit shivah for a w orld that was such a good hom e for us for so m any turns? Because, and it strikes m e foolishness to expect a farchachdah butterfly to grasp w hat I m

I ’m L ooking fo r Kadak

trying to say here, because God has been good to us here, and w e’ve property (which now is gone) and w e’ve got families (which now are gone) and w e’ve got our health (which, if I continue talking to you, I’ll be losing shortly) and G od’s nam e can be hal­ lowed by w ord of m outh only in the presence of others—the com ­ m unity of worshippers—the congregation—the m inyan of ten, and th a t’s why. You know, even for a butterfly, you don’t look Jewish. So nu, now you understand a little maybe? Zsouchm uhn was the goldeneh m edina for us, the golden country; it was good here, we w ere happy here, now we have to move to Kasrilevka, a world for schlimazels. Not even a Red Sea to be parted, it isn’t slavery, it’s just a world th a t’s not enough, you know w hat I m ean? So we w anted to pay last respects. It’s not so crazy. And everyone w ent, and only the ten of us left to sit the seven turns till we w ent away and Zsouchm uhn was gonijfed out of the sky to go God-knowsw here. It would have been fine, except for that Snodle, that crazy. Who seized up and died on us. So w here would we get a ten th m an for the m in y a n P T here w ere only nine Jews on the whole planet. T hen Snodle said, “T h e re ’s always Kadak.” “Shut up, you’re dead,” Reb Jeshaia said, but it d idn’t do any good. Snodle kept suggesting Kadak. You should understand, one of the drawbacks of my species, which m aybe a butterfly w ouldn’t know, is that w hen we die, and pass on, th e re ’s still talking. N uhdzhing. Oh. You w ant to know how that can be. How a dead Jew can talk, through the veil, from the other side. W hat am I, a science authority, I should know how that works? I w ouldn’t lie on you: I don’t know. Always it’s been the same. O ne of us seizes up and dies, and the body squats there and doesn’t decay the way the tourists’ do w hen they get shikker in a blind pig bar in dow ntow n H oum itz and stagger out in the g utter and get knocked over by a tum brel on the way to the casinos. But the voice starts up. N uhdzhing!

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It probably has som ething to do with the soul, but I w ouldn’t put a bet on that; all I can say is thank God we don't worship ancestors here on Zsouchm uhn, because w e’d have such a sky full of n u h d zh in g old farts telling us how to run our lives, it w ouldn’t be w orth it to keep on this side of the veil. Bless the nam e of Abraham, after a while they shut up and go off somewhere. Probably to n u h d z each other, they should rest in peace already and stop talking. But Snodle wasn’t going away. He died, and now he was d e­ m anding we not only sit shivah out of courtesy for having lived here so prosperously, but we should also, you shouldn’t take it as an imposition, sit shivah for him ! An oysvorf, that Snodle. “T h e re ’s always Kadak,” he said. His voice cam e from a no­ w here spot in the air about a foot above his body, which was dum ped upside-down on a table in the yeshiva. “Snodle, if you don’t m ind,” said Shmuel w ith the one good antenna, “would you kindly shut your face and let us handle this?” T hen seeing, I suppose for the first tim e, that Snodle was upsidedown, he added, but softly he shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, “I always said he talked through his tuchis. ” “I’ll tu rn him over,” said Chaim with the defective unw ind in his hop. “L et b e,” said Shmuel. “I like this end b e tte r than the o th er.” “This is getting us now here,” said Yitzchak. “The gonifs come in a little while to take away the planet, we can’t stay, we can’t go, and I have lust-nest concubines lubricating and lactating on Bromios this very m inute.” “Kasrilevka,” said Avram. “Kasrilevka,” Yitzchak agreed, his prop-arm , the one in the back, curling an ungram m atical apology. “A planet of ten million Snodles,” said Yankel. “T h e re ’s always Kadak,” said Snodle. “Who is this Kadak the o y sv o rf s babbling about?” asked M eyer Kahaha. The rest of us rolled our eyes at the rem ark. Ninety-six ísum -fìlled eyes rolled. M eyer Kahaha was always the town

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schlemiel; if there was a bigger oysvorf than Snodle, it was M eyer Kahaha. Yankel stuck the tip of his pointing arm in M eyer K ahaha’s ninth eye, the one with the cataract. “Quiet!” We sat and stared at each other. Finally, Moishe said, “H e’s right. I t’s another tragedy we can m ourn on Tisha B a ’b (if they have enough turns on Kasrilevka for Tisha Ba ’b to fall in the right m onth), but the oysvo rf and the schlem iel are right. O ur only hope is Kadak, lightning shouldn’t strike m e for saying it.” “Someone will have to go find him ,” said Avram. “Not m e,” said Yankel. “A mission for a fool.” Then Reb Jeshaia, who was the wisest of all the blue Jews on Zsouchm uhn, even before the great exodus, one or two of them it w ouldn’t have h u rt if they’d stayed behind to give a lit­ tle help so we shouldn’t find out too late we w ere in this m iser­ able state of things because Snodle seized up and died, Reb Je­ shaia nodded that it was a mission for a fool and he said, “W e’ll send Evsise.” “Thanks a lot for th at,” I said. He looked at m e with the six eyes on the front, and he said, “Evsise. Should we send Shm uel with one good antenna? Should we send Chaim with a defective hop? Should we send Yitzchak who is so crippled with lust he gets cramps? Maybe we should send Yankel who is older than even Snodle and would die from the journey then w e’d have to find two Jews? Moishe? Moishe argues with everyone. Some cooperation h e ’d g et.” “W hat about Avram?” I asked. Avram looked away. “You w ant I should talk about A vram ’s problem here in front of an open Talm ud, here in front of the dead, right h ere in front of God and everyone?” Reb Jeshaia looked stern. “F orget it. I ’m sorry I m entioned,” I said. “Maybe I should go myself, the Rabbi should go? Or m aybe you’d prefer we sent M eyer Kahaha?” “You m ade your point,” I said. “I’ll go. I’m far from a happy person about this, you should know it before I go. But I’ll do it.

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You’ll nev er see m e again, I’ll die out there looking for that Kadak, but I’ll go.” I started for the burrow exit of the yeshiva. I passed Yitzchak, who looked sheepish. “C ram ps,” I m uttered. “It should only w ither up and fall off like a dead leaf.” T hen I rolled, hopped and unw ound my way up the tunnel to the street, and w ent looking for Kadak. The last tim e I saw Kadak was seventeen turns ago. H e was squatting in the synagogue during Purim , and suddenly he rolled into the aisle, tore off his yarm ulkah, his tallis and his t ’fillin , all at once w ith his top th ree arm s on each side, threw them into the aisle, yelled he had had it w ith Judaism, and was converting to the Church of the Apostates. T hat was the last any of us saw of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, you ask me. Kadak, to begin with, was never my favorite person, if you w ant the truth. He snuffled. Oh, that isn’t such an averah, I can see you think I’m m aking a big som ething out of a big nothing. Listen, Mr. Terrific-I-FlapMy-Wings-And-You-Should-Notice-Me, I ’m a person who says w hat’s on his m ind, I don’t m ake no moofky-foofky with anyone. You w ant someone who beats around the bushes you should talk to that Avram. Me, I’ll tell you I couldn’t stand that Kadak’s snuffl­ ing, all th e tim e snuffling. You sit in the shoul and right in the m iddle of the Shema, right in the direct absolute center of “H ear O Israel, the Lord, O ur God, the Lord is O ne,” comes a snuffle that sounds like a double-snouted peggalom er in a mud-wallow. H e had a snuffle m ade you w ant to go take a bath. A terrible snuffle, if you’ll listen to m e for a m inute. H e was the kind, that Kadak, he w ouldn’t care when h e ’d snuffle. W hen you w ere sleeping, eating, shtupping, m aking a ka-ka, he didn’t care . . . would come a blast, a snort, a ro tten snuffle could m ake you w ant to get rid of your last th re e or four meals. And forget talking to him: how can you talk to a person who punctuates w ith a snuffle?

I ’m Looking fo r K adak

So w hen he w ent off to convert to the Apostates, sure th ere was a scandal . . . there w eren ’t that m any Jews on Zsouchm uhn . . . anything was a scan d al. .. but to be absolutely frank w ith you, I’ll speak my m ind no m atter what, we w ere very relieved. To be free of that snuffle was already a naches, like getting one free. Or seven for five. So now I had to go all over th ere and back, looking for that terrible snuffle. It was an ugliness I could live without, you should pardon my frankness. But I w ent through dow ntow n H oum itz and w ent over to the Holy C athedral of the C hurch of the Apostates. T he city was in a very bad way. W hen everyone had gone to Kasrilevka, they took everything that wasn’t bolted down. They also took everything that was bolted down. They also took the bolts. Not to m ention a lot of the soil it was all bolted down into. Big holes, everyw here. Zsouchm uhn was not, at this point in tim e I’m telling you about, such a cute little world anymore. It looked like an old m an with a krenk. Like a pisher w ith acne. Very unpleasant, it wasn’t a trip I care to talk about. But th ere was a little left of that crazy farchachdah C athedral still standing. Why shouldn’t they let it stand: how m uch does it cost to m ake a new one? String. The dum m ies, they m ake a holy place from string and spit and bits of dried crap off the streets and their bodies, I don’t even w ant to think about w hat a sacrilege. I rolled inside. T he smell, you could die from the smell. On Zsouchm uhn here, we got a groundw orm , this filthy little seg­ m ented thing everyone calls a pincercrusher. Lum bricus rubellus Venaticus my Uncle Beppo, the lunatic zoologist, calls it. It isn’t at all peculiar why I rem em ber a foreign nam e like that—Latin is w hat it is, I’m a bissel scholar, too, you know, not such a dum m y as you m ight think, and it’s no w onder Reb Jeshaia sent m e on this it-could-kill-a-lesser-Jew mission to find Kadak. I rem em ber b e­ cause once I had one of them bite m e in the tuchis w hen I w ent swimming, and you learn these things, believe you m e, you learn them . This ro tten little w orm it’s got pinching things in the front

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and on the sides, and it lies in wait for a juicy tuchis and w hen you’re just ready to relax in a swim, or m aybe to take a nap on a picnic, chomp!, it goes right for the tuchis. And it hangs on with those triple-dam ned the entire species should go straight to G ehenna pinch-things, and it makes m e sick to rem em ber, but it sucks the blood right out of you, right through your tuchis. And you couldn’t get one off, m edical science as hootsy-tootsy as it is, you could v a rf from the size of a doctor’s bill, even the hootsytootsies can’t get one off you. The only thing that does it, is you get a m usician and he bangs together a pair of cymbals, and it falls off. All bloated up w ith your blood, leaving a bunch of little pinchmarks on your tuchis you’re asham ed to let your lust-mates see it. And don’t ask why the doctors don’t carry cymbals w ith them for such occasions. You w ouldn’t believe the union problem s h ere on Zsouchm uhn, which includes musicians and doctors both, so you’d b e tte r be near a band and not a hospital w hen a pincercrusher bites you in the tuchis, otherw ise forget it. And w hen the terrible thing falls off, it goes pop! and it bursts, and all the awful crap it had in it makes a stink you shouldn’t even think about it, the eyes, all tw elve of them could roll up in your head, w ith the smell of all that fe h ! and blood and crap. Inside the C athedral of the Church of the Apostates, the smell. Like a million popped pincercrushers. I almost w ent over on my face from that smell. It took three hands to hold all of my nose, a little whiff shouldn’t slip through. I started reeling around, hitting the strings they called walls. Fortunately, I rolled around near the entrance, and I stretched my nose a couple of feet outside, and I took a very deep breath, and snapped my nose back, and held it, and looked around. T here w ere still half a dozen of them who h ad n ’t run off to Kasrilevka, all down on their stomachs, their feet w inding up and unwinding, very fast, their faces down in the m ud and crap in front of the altar, doing w hat I suppose they call praying. To that idol of theirs, Seymour, or Simon, or Shtumie, w hatever they call

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it. I should know the nam e of a heathen idol, you bet your life never, b e tte r I should know the Latin nam e of a m iserable w orm that stinks first, let m e tell you. So there they w ere, and let m e assure you it pained m e in several m ore than a couple of ways to have to go over to them , but . . . I ’m looking for Kadak. “H ey,” I said to one of them . A terrific look at his tuchis I got. Such a perfect tuchis, if ever there was one, for a pincercrusher to come and chomp! Nothing. “Hey!” I yelled it a second tim e. No attention. Crazy with their faces down in the crap. “Listen, hey!” I yelled at the top of my voice, which isn’t such a soft niceness w hen I’m suffocating holding my nose with three hands and I w ant to get out of that place already. So I gave him a zetz in the tuchis. I wound up every foot on the left side, and I let it unw ind right w here a pincercrusher would have brunch. Then the dum m y looked up. A sight you could becom e very ill with. A nose covered with crap from the floor, a bunch of eyes filled w ith blue jelly, a m outh from out of which could only come h eathen hosannahs to a dum m y idol called Shaygets or something. “You kicked m e,” he said. “All by yourself you figured that out, eh?” He looked at m e w ith six, and blinked, and started to fall over on his p unim again, and I started to wind up I ’d give him such a zetz I ’d kick him into a b e tte r life. “We don’t accept violence,” he said. “T h at’s a terrific saying,” I told him. “M eanwhile, I don’t accept an unobstructed view up your tuchis. So if you w ant I should go away and stop kicking you, so you can go root around in the dreck some m ore, w hat you’d b e tte r do is come up here a m inute and talk to m e.” H e kept looking. I wound up tighter. You could hear my sockets creaking. I’m not such a young one anym ore. He got up.

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“W hat do you want? I’m worshipping to Seymool.” Seymool. T hat’s a nam e for a God. I w ouldn’t even hire some­ thing called a Seymool. “You’ll worship later. T hat buhbie isn’t going anyw here.” “But Zsouchm uhn is. ” “Very correct. Which is the same reason I got to talk to you now. Tim e is a thing I got very little of, if you catch my m eaning h ere.” “Well, w hat is it you want, precisely?” Oy, a Talm udic scholar, no less. Precisely. “Well, Mr. Precisely, I’ll tell you w hat it is precisely I want. You know w here it is I can find a no-good snuffler called Kadak?” H e stared at m e with six, th en blinked rapidly, in sequence— two and four, three and five, one and six—th en w ent back in reverse order. “You have a nauseating sense of hum or. May Sey­ mool forgive you.” T hen he fell back on his face, his legs up w inding and unw ind­ ing, his nose deep in dreck. “I say Kadak, he says Seymool. I’ll give you a Seymool!” I started to wind up for a kick would put that m om zer in the next tim e-zone, w hen a voice stopped me. From over the side of that stinking C athedral—and you can b et I was turning yellow from not breathing—a wom an said, “Com e outside. I’ll tell you about your friend Kadak.” I tu rn ed to look, and th ere was this shikseh, all dolled up in such a pile of colored shm atehs and baubles and bangles and crap from the floor, I thought to myself, Gevalt! this turn I should never have crawled out o f the burrow. So anyhow I followed her outside, thank God, and let my nose extend to its full length and breathed such a deep one my cheeksacs puffed up like I had a pair of bialies stuffed in. So now this bum m erkeh, this floozie, this painted hussy says to m e, “W hat do you w ant with Kadak?” “W ait a m inute,” I said, “I’ll get upw ind from you, m eaning no offense, lady, but you smell like your C hurch.” I rolled around her and got a little away, and w hen it was possible to breathe like a

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person, I said, “W hat I w ant is to go join my lust-mates on Kas—, on Bromios, but what I got to do, is I got to find Kadak. W e need him for a very sacred religious service, you’ll excuse m e for saying this, dear lady, but you being Gentile, you w ouldn’t understand w hat it is.” She b atted four eyelids and flapped phony eyelashes on th ree of them . Oy, a nafkeh, a lady of easy virtue, a courtesan of the byways, a bum m erkeh. “W ould you contribute to a w orthy charity to find this Kadak?” I knew it. I knew som ew here on that dam ned looking for Kadak it would cost m e a little som ething out of pocket. She was looking directly at m y pouch. “You’ll take a couple of coins, is that right? “It isn’t exactly w hat I was thinking of,” she said, still looking at my pouch, and I suddenly realized with w hat I ’ll tell you honestly was a chill, that she was cross-eyed in four of her front six. She was staring at my pupik. W hat? I’m trying to tell you, butterfly, that she wasn’t staring at my pouch which was hanging to the left side of my stomach. She was staring with that cockeye four at my cute little pupik. W hat? You’ll forgive m e, Mr. Silent Butterfly W ith the Very D um b Expression, I should know that butterflies don’t have pupiks? A navel. A belly-button. Now you understand w hat it is a pupik? W hat? Maybe I should get gross and explain to a butterfly that shtups flowers, that we have sex through our pupiks. The fem ale puts her long m iddle finger of the bottom arm on the right side, straight into the pupik and goes moofky-foofky, and th at’s how we shtup. You needed that, is that right? You needed to know how we do it. A filth you are, butterfly; a very dirty mind. But not as dirty as that nafkeh, that saucy baggage, that whore of Babylon. “Listen,” I said, “m eaning no offense, lady, b ut I’m not that kind of a person. I’m saving myself for my lust-mates. I’m sure you’ll understand. Besides, m eaning no offense, I don’t shtup with strangers. It w ouldn’t be such a good thing for you, either, believe me. Every body says Evsise is a ro tten shtup. I got very little feeling in my pupik, you w ouldn’t like it, not even a little. Why don’t I give you a few nice coins, you could use them on Kasri—

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on Bromios. You could m aybe set yourself up in business there, a p retty lady such as yourself.” God shouldn’t strike m e down with a bolt of lightning in the tuchis for telling this filthy-mind cockeye heathen nafkeh w hat a cutie she is. “You w ant to find this Kadak?” she asked, staring straight at two things at the same time. “Please, lady,” I said. My nose started running. “D on’t cry,” she said. “Seymool is my God, I trust in Seymool.” “W hat the hell has that got to do with anything?” “We are the last of the Faithful of the Church. We plan to stay on Zsouchm uhn w hen they Relocate it. Seymool has decreed it. I have no hope of living through it. I understand cataclysms are com m onplace w hen they pull a planet out of orbit.” “So ru n ,” I said. “W hat kind of dum m ies are you?” “We are the Faithful.” It gave m e pause. Even Gentiles, even n ut cases like these worshippers of Shmoe-ool, whoever, even they got to believe. It was nice. In a very dum b way. “So w hat has all that got to do in even the slightest way w ith m e, lady?” “I’m horny.” “Well, why not go in your Cathedral th ere and shtup one of your playm ates?” “T hey’re w orshipping.” “To that statue that looks like a big bug picking its nose, with the dreck and crap and m ud all over it?” “D on’t speak disrespectfully of Seymool.” “I’ll cut out my tongue.” “That isn’t necessary, just stick out your navel.” “Lady, you got a dirty m outh.” “You w ant to know w here Kadak is?” I w on’t tell w hat nasty indignities cam e next. It makes m e very asham ed to even think about it. She had a dirty fingernail. So I’ll tell you only that w hen she was done ravaging my pupik and left m e lying there against a mud-wall of a building, the pink

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schmootz running down my stomach, I knew that Kadak had been as lousy an Apostate as he had been a Jew. O ne afternoon, just like in the synagogue years before, he ran am uck and started biting the statue of that bug-God they got. Before they could pry him off, he had b itten off the kneecap of Shmoogle. So they threw him out of the Church. This nafkeh knew w hat had happened to him, b e ­ cause he had used her services, you could brechh from such a thought, and he still owed her some coins. So she’d followed him around, trying to get him to pay, and she’d seen h e ’d bounced from religion to religion until they accepted him as a Slave of the Rock. So I got up and w ent to a fountain and washed myself the best way I could, and said a couple of quick prayers that I w ouldn’t get knocked up from that dirty finger, and I w ent looking for the Slaves of the Rock, still looking for that dam ned Kadak. I walked with an uneven roll, hop, unwind. You would, too, if you’d been ravished, butterfly. Just a second you’d think on it, how would you feel if a flower grabbed you by the tuchis and stuck a pistil and stam en in your pupik? W hat? Oh, terrific. Butterflies don’t have pupiks. Talking to you, standing here in sand, is not necessarily the most sensational thing I’ve ever done, you w ant to know. The Slaves of the Rock w ere all gathered in a valley just outside the city limits of Houm itz. The Governors w ouldn’t let them in­ side the city. Who can blam e them . If you think those Apostates w ere pukers, you should only see the Rocks. Such cuties. It is to varf! Big rocks they tu rn ed them selves into. W ith tongues like string, six or seven feet long, all rolled up inside. And w hen a krendl or a znigh or a buck-fly goes whizzing past, slurp! out comes that ugly tongue like a shot and snags it and wraps around and comes w hip­ ping back and smashes the bug all over the rock, and then the rock gets soft and spongy like a piece ro tten fruit and absorbs all the dreck and crap and awfulness squished there. Oh, such terrifies,

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those Rocks. Just the kind of thing I would expect a Kadak to be w hen he couldn’t stand being him self no m ore. Thank you oh so very greatly, Reb Jeshaia for this looking mission. So I found the head Rock and I stood th ere in that valley, all surrounded by Rocks going slurp! and squish! and sucking up bug food. This was not the best p a rt of my life I’m telling you about. “How do you do?” I figured it was the most polite way to talk to a rock. “How did you know I was the chief Slave?” the Rock said. “You had the longest tongue.” Slurp! A znigh on the wing, cruising by hum m ing a tune, m ind­ ing its own business, got it right in the punim , a tongue like a w et noodle, splat right in the punim , and a quick overhead twist and squish! all over the Rock. It splattered on m e, gooey and al­ together puke-making. Definitely not the kind of individual to have a terrific dinner out with. The guderim was all over me. “Excuse the mess,” said the chief Slave. He really sounded sorry. “Think nothing,” I said. “T hat was a very cute little overhand twist you gave it th ere at the last m inute.” H e seem ed flattered. “You noticed that, did you?” “How could I help? Such a class m ove.” “You know, you’re the first one w ho’s ever noticed that. T here have been lots of studies m ade, by all kinds of foreigners, from other worlds, other galaxies, even, but never once did one of them notice th at move. W hat did you say your nam e was?” The bug ooze was dripping down my stomach. “My nam e is Evsise, and I’m looking for a person who used to be a person nam ed Kadak. I was given to understand that h e ’d becom e a Rock a few years ago. I have a great need to find this Kadak rock, he should drop dead already such a ro tten tim e h e ’s been m aking for m e.” “Listen,” said the chief Slave (as the rem ains of the znigh oozed down through the spongy surface), “I like you. Have you ever thought of converting?” “Forget it.”

I ’m Looking fo r Kadak

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“No, really, I’m serious. To W orship the Rock is such an enrich­ ing experience, it really isn’t sm art to dismiss it w ithout giving it a try. W hat do you say?” I figured I had to be a little smartsy then, just a little. “Say, I wish I could. You got no idea w hat a nice proposition that is you’re m aking to m e. And in a quick second I ’d take you up on it, but I got this one bissel tot of a problem .” “Would you like to talk about it?” A psychiatrist rock, yet. I really needed this. “I’m afraid from bugs,” I said. H e didn’t say anything for a m om ent. Then, “I see your point. Bugs are a very big p art of our religion.” “I can see th at.” “Ah, well. I’m sorry for you. But let’s see if I can help you. W hat did you say his nam e was?” “Kadak.” “O h yeah, I rem em ber now. W hat a creep.” “T h at’s him .” “L et m e see now,” said the Rock. “If I recall correctly, w e threw him out of the order for being a disruptive influence, oh, it m ust have been fifteen years ago. H e used to m ake the ugliest noises I’ve ever heard out of a Rock.” “Snuffling.” “I beg your pardon?” “Snuffling is w hat he did. A terrible snort noise, all w et and cloggy, it could m ake you sick to be near it.” “Yes, that was it.” “So w hat happened to him, I’m afraid to ask.” “H e reconstituted his atoms and becam e just like you again.” “Not like m e, please.” “Well, I m ean the sam e species.” “And he w ent off?” “Yes. H e said he was going to try the Fleshists.” “I wish you h ad n ’t told m e th at.” “I’m sorry.”

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