The Collected Stories

of his own. They all said the usual things that young men say to girls. They repeated the editorials in the newspapers almost verbatim and read all the books the reviewers recommended. Some of them offered to marry me, but how could I go and live with a man who made me yawn even at our first meeting? Conversation with a man is of high importance to me. Of course he must be a man, but this is not everything. Then I met Vanvild Kava and I found all the qualities in him I was looking for since I grew up—a person with knowledge and with opinions of his own. I began playing chess when I was twelve and I guess you know that Kava is a splendid chess player. He could have become a grand master if he had devoted his time to it. Of course he’s older than I am, and poor, but I never looked for riches. I make a living as a teacher and don’t need to be supported. I don’t know what you think of his writing, but I consider him a mighty good writer. I hope that near me he will work on a regular basis and produce good works. That’s all I can tell you.”
    Mrs. Kava’s every word expressed decisiveness. It was the first time someone had spoken about Kava without laughing at him and mocking his mannerisms. I told her I knew Kava and admired his erudition and strong opinions, although they were overly extreme at times. She said to me, “He’s original. Never banal. His trouble is that he writes in Yiddish. In another medium he would be highly appreciated, whether they agreed with him or not.”
    When I came to the Writers’ Club the next day and told my cronies that I had met Kava’s wife and repeated what she told me, they all looked disappointed. One of them asked, “How can you love someone like Kava?” And I gave him the usual answer: “No one has yet determined who can be loved and who cannot be.”
    After a while I stopped going to the house where I had met Kava’s wife and Kava’s visits to the Writers’ Club became less frequent than in his bachelor years. The only news I heard about him was that he gave up his job as a substitute proofreader. I began to believe that he might mellow with this woman and perhaps write something of value. I had no doubt that the man possessed high literary potential. A person who demands so much from others might also demand much of himself under the right circumstances.
    But then something so peculiar occurred that I’m still puzzled by it forty years later. A year or two had passed, and my friend Aaron Zeitlin, who had become the editor of a trimonthly magazine, offered me a position as an associate editor. We were looking for an important essay about Yiddish literature or literature in general for the first issue, and I proposed to Zeitlin that Kava write it. At first Zeitlin demurred. “Kava, of all people?” he said. “First of all, it would take him a year or two. Secondly, he will make mincemeat out of everybody. It will give us a bad name from the very beginning.” But I answered, “Don’t be so sure. My impression is that he has changed since he married. But even if he does tear everyone to pieces, we can always say in a footnote that we disagree with him. It might even help the magazine to come out with something totally negative.”
    After long haggling, I managed to persuade Zeitlin to give it a try, but he stipulated that Kava must agree to an eventual footnote of disagreement, and he must also give a definite date of delivery. I was happy that Zeitlin let himself be persuaded. Somehow I felt that Kava might surprise us.
    It so happened that Kava came the next day to the Writers’ Club, and when I made this proposition to him he seemed shaken. He said, “You ask me to write the leading article? I have been excommunicated from Yiddish literature for years. The name Kava was not kosher. Suddenly you choose me.”
    I assured Kava that both Zeitlin and I had a high opinion of him. I pleaded with him not to demand the impossible from writers and I also assured him that we would change nothing in his essay. If worst came to worst, we would add a footnote that we disagreed. That would be all.
    After much hesitation Kava consented to write the essay and gave me a date of delivery. He promised that in no case would the essay be longer than fifty pages. I told Kava my premonition that this essay would be a turning point in his literary career. Kava shrugged, and said in his laconic way, “Time will tell.”
    The time to deliver the manuscript was close but we had