The Collected Stories

mother like one who was altogether unsettled. Zise Feige thought to herself that it was fortunate the girl avoided people. But how long can anything remain a secret? It was already whispered in town that Liebe Yentl was not all there. She played with the cat. She took solitary walks down the Gentile street that led to the cemetery. When anyone addressed her, she turned pale and her answers were quite beside the point. Some people thought that she was deaf. Others hinted that Liebe Yentl might be dabbling in magic. She had been seen on a moonlit night walking in the pasture across the bridge and bending down every now and then to pick flowers or herbs. Women spat to ward off evil when they spoke of her. “Poor thing, unlucky and sick besides.”
    II

    Liebe Yentl was about to become betrothed again, this time to a young man from Zawiercia. Reb Sheftel had sent an examiner to the prospective bridegroom, and he came back with the report that Shmelke Motl was a scholar. The betrothal contract was drawn up, ready to be signed.
    The examiner’s wife, Traine, who had visited Zawiercia with her husband (they had a daughter there), told Zise Feige that Shmelke Motl was small and dark. He did not look like much, but he had the head of a genius. Because he was an orphan, the householders provided his meals; he ate at a different home every day of the week. Liebe Yentl listened without a word.
    When Traine had gone, Zise Feige brought in her daughter’s supper—buckwheat and pot roast with gravy. But Liebe Yentl did not touch the food. She rocked over the plate as though it were a prayer book. Soon afterwards, she retired to her room. Zise Feige sighed and also went to bed. Reb Sheftel had gone to sleep early, for he had to rise for midnight prayers. The house was quiet. Only the cricket sang its night song behind the oven.
    Suddenly Zise Feige was wide awake. From Liebe Yentl’s room came a muffled gasping, as though someone were choking there. Zise Feige ran into her daughter’s room. In the bright moonlight she saw the girl sitting on her bed, her hair disheveled, her face chalk-white, struggling to keep down her sobs. Zise Feige cried out, “My daughter, what is wrong? Woe is me!” She ran to the kitchen, lit a candle, and returned to Liebe Yentl, bringing a cup of water to splash at her if, God forbid, the girl should faint.
    But at this moment a man’s voice broke from Liebe Yentl’s lips. “No need to revive me, Zise Feige,” the voice called out. “I’m not in the habit of fainting. You’d better fetch me a drop of vodka.”
    Zise Feige stood petrified with horror. The water spilled over from the cup.
    Reb Sheftel had also wakened. He washed his hands hastily, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and came into his daughter’s room.
    The man’s voice greeted him. “A good awakening to you, Reb Sheftel. Let me have a schnapps—my throat’s parched. Or Slivovitz—anything will do, so long as I wet my whistle.”
    Man and wife knew at once what had happened: a dybbuk had entered Liebe Yentl. Reb Sheftel asked with a shudder: “Who are you? What do you want?”
    “Who I am you wouldn’t know,” the dybbuk answered. “You’re a scholar in Shidlovtse, and I’m a fiddler from Pinchev. You squeeze the bench, and I squeezed the wenches. You’re still around in the Imaginary World, and I’m past everything. I’ve kicked the bucket and have already had my taste of what comes after. I’ve had it cold and hot, and now I’m back on the sinful earth—there’s no place for me either in heaven or in hell. Tonight I started out flying to Pinchev, but I lost my way and got to Shidlovtse instead—I’m a musician, not a coachman. One thing I do know, though—my throat’s itchy.”
    Zise Feige was seized by a fit of tembling. The candle in her hand shook so badly it singed Reb Sheftel’s beard. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but her voice stuck in her throat. Her knees buckled, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
    Reb Sheftel pulled at his sidelock as he addressed the dybbuk. “What is your name?”
    “Getsl.”
    “Why did you choose to enter my daughter?” he asked in desperation.
    “Why not? She’s a good-looking girl. I hate the ugly ones—always have, always will.” With that, the dybbuk began to shout ribaldries and obscenities, both in ordinary Yiddish and in musician’s slang. “Don’t make me wait, Feige dear,” he called out finally. “Bring me a cup of