The Collected Stories

But she could not go on sleeping on the bench at the widow’s. With an effort she rose and, taking the bag that held her phylacteries, set out for the study house. On the way whom should she meet but Hadass’s father. Anshel bade him a respectful good morning and received a friendly greeting in return. Reb Alter stroked his beard and engaged her in conversation:
    “My daughter Hadass must be serving you left-overs. You look starved.”
    “Your daughter is a fine girl, and very generous.”
    “So why are you so pale?”
    Anshel was silent for a minute. “Reb Alter, there’s something I must say to you.”
    “Well, go ahead, say it.”
    “Reb Alter, your daughter pleases me.”
    Alter Vishkower came to a halt. “Oh, does she? I thought yeshiva students didn’t talk about such things.”
    His eyes were full of laughter.
    “But it’s the truth.”
    “One doesn’t discuss these matters with the young man himself.”
    “But I’m an orphan.”
    “Well … in that case the custom is to send a marriage broker.”
    “Yes … ”
    “What do you see in her?”
    “She’s beautiful … fine … intelligent …”
    “Well, well, well … Come along, tell me something about your family.”
    Alter Vishkower put his arm around Anshel and in this fashion the two continued walking until they reached the courtyard of the synagogue.
    IV

    Once you say “A,” you must say “B.” Thoughts lead to words, words lead to deeds. Reb Alter Vishkower gave his consent to the match. Hadass’s mother Freyda Leah held back for a while. She said she wanted no more Bechev yeshiva students for her daughter and would rather have someone from Lublin or Zamosc; but Hadass gave warning that if she were shamed publicly once more (the way she had been with Avigdor) she would throw herself into the well. As often happens with such ill-advised matches, everyone was strongly in favor of it—the rabbi, the relatives, Hadass’s girl friends. For some time the girls of Bechev had been eyeing Anshel longingly, watching from their windows when the youth passed by on the street. Anshel kept his boots well polished and did not drop his eyes in the presence of women. Stopping in at Beila the baker’s to buy a
pletzl
, he joked with them in such a worldly fashion that they marveled. The women agreed there was something special about Anshel: his sidelocks curled like nobody else’s and he tied his neck scarf differently; his eyes, smiling yet distant, seemed always fixed on some faraway point. And the fact that Avigdor had become betrothed to Feitl’s daughter Peshe, forsaking Anshel, had endeared him all the more to the people of the town. Alter Vishkower had a provisional contract drawn up for the betrothal, promising Anshel a bigger dowry, more presents, and an even longer period of maintenance than he had promised Avigdor. The girls of Bechev threw their arms around Hadass and congratulated her. Hadass immediately began crocheting a sack for Anshel’s phylacteries, a hallah cloth, a matzoh bag. When Avigdor heard the news of Anshel’s betrothal, he came to the study house to offer his congratulations. The past few weeks had aged him. His beard was disheveled, his eyes were red.
    He said to Anshel: “I knew it would happen this way. Right from the beginning. As soon as I met you at the inn.”
    “But it was you who suggested it.”
    “I know that.”
    “Why did you desert me? You went away without even saying goodbye.”
    “I wanted to burn my bridges behind me.”
    Avigdor asked Anshel to go for a walk. Though it was already past Succoth, the day was bright with sunshine. Avigdor, friendlier than ever, opened his heart to Anshel. Yes, it was true, a brother of his had succumbed to melancholy and hanged himself. Now he too felt himself near the edge of the abyss. Peshe had a lot of money and her father was a rich man, yet he couldn’t sleep nights. He didn’t want to be a storekeeper. He couldn’t forget Hadass. She appeared in his dreams. Sabbath night when her name occurred in the Havdala prayer, he turned dizzy. Still it was good that Anshel and no one else was to marry her … At least she would fall into decent hands. Avigdor stooped and tore aimlessly at the shriveled grass. His speech was incoherent, like that of a man possessed.
    Suddenly he said: “I have thought of doing what my brother did.”
    “Do you love her
that
much?”
    “She’s engraved in my heart.”
    The two pledged their friendship and promised never