The Collected Stories

cheer. I’m dry as a bone. I’ve got an itching in my gullet, a twitching in my gut.”
    “Good people, help!” Zise Feige wailed. She dropped the candle and Reb Sheftel picked it up, for it could easily have set the wooden house on fire.
    Though it was late, the townsfolk came running. There are people everywhere with something bothering them; they cannot sleep nights. Tevye the night watchman thought a fire had broken out and ran through the street, knocking at the shutters with his stick. It was not long before Reb Sheftel’s house was packed.
    Liebe Yentl’s eyes goggled, her mouth twisted like an epileptic’s, and a voice boomed out of her that could not have come from a woman’s throat. “Will you bring me a glass of liquor or won’t you? What the devil are you waiting for?”
    “And what if we don’t?” asked Zeinvl the butcher, who was on his way home from the slaughterhouse.
    “If you don’t, I’ll lay you all wide open, you pious hypocrites. And the secrets of your wives—may they burn up with hives.”
    “Get him liquor! Give him a drink!” voices cried on every side.
    Reb Sheftel’s son, Tsadock Meyer, a boy of eleven, had also been awakened by the commotion. He knew where his father kept the brandy that he drank on the Sabbath, after the fish. He opened the cupboard, poured out a glass, and brought it to his sister. Reb Sheftel leaned against the chest of drawers, for his legs were giving way. Zise Feige fell into a chair. Neighbors sprinkled her with vinegar against fainting.
    Liebe Yentl stretched out her hand, took the glass, and tossed it down. Those who stood nearby could not believe their eyes. The girl didn’t even twitch a muscle.
    The dybbuk said, “You call that liquor? Water, that’s what it is—hey, fellow, bring me the bottle!”
    “Don’t let her have it! Don’t let her have it!” Zise Feige cried. “She’ll poison herself, God help us!”
    The dybbuk gave a laugh and a snort. “Don’t worry, Zise Feige, nothing can kill me again. So far as I’m concerned, your brandy is weaker than candy.”
    “You won’t get a drink until you tell us who you are and how you got in here,” Zeinvl the butcher said. Since no one else dared to address the spirit, Zeinvl took it upon himself to be the spokesman.
    “What does the meatman want here?” the dybbuk asked. “Go on back to your gizzards and guts!”
    “Tell us who you are!”
    “Do I have to repeat it? I am Getsl the fiddler from Pinchev. I was fond of things nobody else hates, and when I cashed in, the imps went to work on me. I couldn’t get into paradise, and hell was too hot for my taste. The devils were the death of me. So at night, when the watchman dropped off, I made myself scarce. I meant to go to my wife, may she rot alive, but it was dark on the way and I got to Shidlovtse instead. I looked through the wall and saw this girl. My heart jumped in my chest and I crawled into her breast.”
    “How long do you intend to stay?”
    “Forever and a day.”
    Reb Sheftel was almost speechless with terror, but he remembered God and recovered. He called out, “Evil spirit, I command you to leave the body of my innocent daughter and go where men do not walk and beasts do not tread. If you don’t, you shall be driven out by Holy Names, by excommunication, by the blowing of the ram’s horn.”
    “In another minute you’ll have me scared!” the dybbuk taunted. “You think you’re so strong because your beard’s long?”
    “Impudent wretch, betrayer of Israel!” Reb Sheftel cried in anger.
    “Better an open rake than a sanctimonious fake,” the dybbuk answered. “You may have the Shidlovtse schlemiels fooled, but Getsl the fiddler of Pinchev has been around. I’m telling you. Bring me the bottle or I’ll make you crawl.”
    There was an uproar at the door. Someone had wakened the rabbi, and he came with Bendit the beadle. Bendit carried a stick, a ram’s horn, and the
Book of the Angel Raziel
.
    III

    Once in the bedroom, the rabbi, Reb Yeruchim, ordered the ram’s horn to be blown. He had the beadle pile hot coals into a brazier, then he poured incense on the coals. As the smoke of the herbs filled the room, he commanded the evil one with holy oaths from the Zohar,
The Book of Creation
, and other books of the Cabala to leave the body of the woman Liebe Yentl, daughter of Zise Feige. But the unholy spirit defied everyone. Instead of leaving, he played out a succession of dances, marches,