The Glatstein Chronicles (51 page)

“Maybe, on second thought, I’m just rationalizing my own colossal failure. For I must admit, I’ve often resented our more pretentious men of letters, those who write as though we were a public of Frenchmen or Norwegians. I used to belong to some of their organizations, but I always felt like yesterday’s man. It was like being in a chilly church. Their concerns seemed remote from our living people, as if Jews were some tribe in Hotzeplotz. What our people needs is a warm, popular literature, full of moral tales, like in olden times. Because the moment we turn an illiterate into a reader, he moves on to Gentile culture. Those who come to us are starved for popular literature; what they need is a word to warm their bones, to move them to tears.

“Still, I went too far in the direction of popularizing or vulgarizing, of giving the Jewish reader prechewed, softened, easily digestible spiritual food. I had a natural talent for history. The Polish government recognized my abilities and my contributions in the field of ancient Polish history. But I squandered that too, settling for much less grand achievement. And do you know why? Because the Jewish people breaks my heart. It can have the shirt off my back any time—it engages me body and soul. How can I set myself the goal of a personal career when the career of my people is so desperate? It would be asking them to carry me on their shoulders were I to become famous at their expense. How could I ask to be honored and respected, when I know that they need bread, milk, health, and a roof over their heads for at least a few generations? Not books about bread and milk, but actual bread and milk, to eat and to drink. How could I strut about like a peacock among them, saying what a great writer I am!”

Steinman gave a deep sigh, not attempting to conceal it this time. “Believe me, our people arouses infinite compassion in me. I am not exaggerating things—our people really deserves compassion, it is truly a tragic people. Every time it has been about to recover strength, to catch its breath, the Almighty has dealt it so much punishment that not all the hundreds of millions of Chinese or Hindus could have endured it. We too often forget that we are a small people, without much strength.”

He took off his black hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I’m beginning to get out of breath—these steep hills are closing in on me. Let’s get away from here. Maybe we’ll stop and look at the royal palace. I know every corner of it. It’s a fine bit of Polish history studded with beautiful episodes. Very few people realize that we can learn a lot from Polish history, with its winged dreams of freedom and democracy, and its aristocratic closeness to the people. But the finest Poles, who have been so marvelously humane, forgot to leave heirs. Only the bullies have been fruitful and multiplied, and they have such a deep-rooted hatred of the Jews that nothing will ever knock it out of their heads.”

He was now walking quite slowly, although it was clear that he wanted to get away from the damp woods. Now and then he would stop still, but without interrupting the flow of talk.

“Do you know what? I didn’t mean to imply that I compare myself with our great ancestors, but now that I am approaching the end of my allotted years—for I am just approaching threescore and ten—I can see the past, the present, and even the future spread out in front of me like a green field. I can see our whole people—the aged, the young, and the children. I can see them class by class, the rich and the poor, those who stick to the national ways and those who become assimilated, the intelligent and the foolish—it’s a colorful crew. I feel like Jacob on his deathbed. I should like to gather them all around my bed so I could tell them many things, so I could admonish them. I’m talking about real people. Writers tend to imagine a people, to dream up the characters of a people of their own invention; it is easier to write for an imaginary public. But I see real people face to face every day. I see their confusion, the chaos and uncertainty, the deterioration of the stalwart man of faith with his marvelous powers of endurance.

“I don’t mean to say that he has wholly disappeared. He is still to he found, both among pious Jews and among the radicals. There is a great spirit of self-sacrifice in the Jewish Labor Bund, it has organizational energy, and it has done marvelous things for the working class. And among the Communist zealots there are fanatics who risk their lives daily, quite aware that they may end up in the torture chambers of Kartuz-Bereza. They live holed up like mice, they keep ‘under cover,’ as we say. Nor should we overlook the virtuous Jew whose heart is generous and whose door is always open to the poor. But at the same time, you cannot ignore the erosion of the ‘image of God,’ the stampeding assimilation, the panicky flight from Judaism. I see also the masses of poor, whose children still burn with the eternal flame—for education, knowledge, enlightenment. I should like to gather them all around my bed, just as Jacob gathered the tribes, and here is what I would say to them …

“What actually would I say to them? Now, don’t rush me, here, as the expression goes, is where the dog lies buried… . Obviously, the same language won’t do for all tribes. But perhaps I could explain to them an old-fashioned notion: that the beauty of the Jewish people lies in its capacity for martyrdom. Yes, yes, I know, it sounds outmoded, obsolete, the same old story. But don’t rush me. By
martyrdom
I want to suggest a single term descriptive of the great many different burdens we carry on our shoulders. Socialism, for example, which I think premature as a reform program, but nonetheless something for which we are tortured. Zionism, for example, the rallying point of a people eager to stand again on its own soil, together as one people. Religious piety too, purity of soul, and generosity—the challenge to look after every household, every hungry mouth.

“I don’t care what kind of burden a Jew chooses to bear all his life, but he should never be without one. We ought to amaze our neighbors by the purity of our lives. It would be truly marvelous if we never went in pursuit of great wealth. The Rothschilds and their ilk haven’t done much for us in any case. Yes, it would be marvelous if we could get along on so little that there would be nothing to take away from us!”

We had by now reached the regular highway. My muddy shoes looked grotesque in the afternoon sunshine on the dry road—no less grotesque than Steinman’s heavy galoshes. We sat down on a bench in front of a little house.

“Stefan Żeromski, the famous Polish writer, spent many summers in this house,” Steinman informed me. “And over there”—he pointed—“is a monument to his son who died young. Are you in the mood for more? Żeromski has helped me collect my thoughts again. The sense of our mission must be reflected in our literature—our writing should be obsessed with it. Our literature ought to be purer and more elevated than other literatures. Actually, Gentile peoples have been fertilized by the Bible and produced literary giants as a result, whereas we Jews have turned our backs on the Book of Books.

“Just think a minute, and you’ll see my point. What is the glory of our past? The prophet, the pure man, the fiery chastiser, the man of conscience unable to tolerate wrongdoing. Well, this is the secret of our existence going forward. We must recover the spirit of the prophets—prophets, mind you, not profits! Since it is our fate to be a gadfly to the world, we must protest every injustice, not just wrongs against ourselves. We ought to speak up for every living creature. When all is said and done, it isn’t a bad specialty—conscience. That is the word to be inscribed on our banner. There must a party above all parties—a party of modern prophets who seize every occasion to sing out or, rather, to shout, into the ears of the world, unafraid of anything.

“But to give substance to our protests and warnings, every Jew—from the highest to the lowest, from the richest to the poorest—must become a high priest. The others invented one Christ on one cross, but we who have been crucified for centuries, we can and must become the embodiment of the highest purity, so that we may conquer them by sheer moral strength, without rifles, artillery, or airplanes, by the resurrected voice of our eternal prophets.”

He was speaking more calmly now, as though he had caught his breath. “Without moral strength we are on the same footing as any Wojtek or Staszek—but unlike us, Wojtek and Staszek have something to stand on, a country and legal rights, while all we have is pieces of paper, promissory notes forever due, and we can only complain that we have been maltreated.

“And there is something else I’d like to say to the assembled tribes. Every generation must reformulate Judaism in accordance with its own ideas and needs. This was what the writers of the Mishna did, and the Amoraim, and the Gaonim, and that was what the Rambam and the Ba’al Shem tried to do. That should form also the very core of our literature. It must become a mirror of our own idea of Judaism. If you will assess our literature from this point of view, you’ll come to some interesting conclusions.”

A woman who walked by waved a cheerful greeting to Steinman. She went by so fast that I did not catch a glimpse of her face. Steinman gallantly raised his hat. His eyes lit up.

“Do you know who she is? She is a famous Polish Jewish historian. Several of her monographs caused a stir among Polish historians. Shall I tell you how I made her acquaintance? One day I was strolling around in the old Jewish cemetery—yes, the one in Lublin—copying inscriptions from old tombs. Suddenly I saw this woman lying there next to a grave, but in highly unhistorical circumstances. She was not lying there alone, but with a young man, and in a very intimate pose at that. Of all places, she had chosen the old cemetery, with all its evocations of the dead centuries, for some most lively behavior. If I’m not mistaken, she married the same young man. As a matter of fact he is excessively thin—a real skeleton, while she herself is as ugly as sin. To care for her, real historical lust would be needed, and to gratify it in a cemetery would be highly appropriate.” He laughed loudly, like a boy.

“This is all very well, but I have a daughter—may she live a hundred years—a dear child, but she’s out to destroy me. Let’s see whether I can manage to slip into the hotel by the side door. Then I’ll pretend that I’ve been looking for her.”

He set off, walking on tiptoes in his galoshes, as though on his way to commit a burglary. “You’d better get back now, too. It’s almost supper time,” he said, looking back with a friendly glint in his eyes.

Immediately after supper they got busy in the main lounge moving tables and chairs. The women all disappeared, to come back one by one, freshly rouged, their hair twisted into various fantastic structures, and with all visible areas of flesh freshly powdered.

When the men saw that the women were taking this thing seriously, they too did what they could under the circumstances. They changed, combed their hair, and some even went so far as to shave again. The latter could be recognized by their bluish faces when they came downstairs—it looked as though they had tried to shave down to the bone.

The hotel guests were assembling for a “dancing,” as they called it. The women pronounced the English word as though some more elegant category than a mere dance were involved. The term derived from some imperfectly grasped usage in American movies.

Buchlerner was hopping about in a pair of slippers, made by cutting the uppers off a pair of high shoes, and with a skullcap on the back of his head. Nobody paid any attention to his incessant orders. In the confusion of tables and chairs being moved about, his appearance gave one the impression that an old-fashioned Jewish wedding was about to take place.

Finkel came down in a frock coat, his double chin wedged behind a stiff collar. He walked about gingerly, hands behind his back, testing the floor to see whether it was too slippery. He gave out advice and suggestions in an imperious Polish, addressed to the Gentiles who were working on an improvised stage and did not even turn around to look at him. Other men were putting colored shades over the electric light bulbs, to make them look like paper lanterns.

Finkel was so firmly caught up in the Polish language that he even spoke Polish to the few old ladies who, exuding a scent of eau de cologne, grouped themselves around him. Finkel was bragging about his dancing exploits as a young man. Whenever the waltz was performed, at all the entertainments, he had always been the leader. He had been a master of the dance—one, two, three, one, two, three, he chanted as he briskly performed the traditional steps of the waltz. Gradually the waltzes and three-steps gave way to a
kozatzke.
Half-squatting, he held up the ends of his frock coat like black wings and demonstrated how many times he could still kick up his heels in the strenuous position.

The officer who had been sitting in a remote dark corner of the lobby working on a chess problem suddenly got up and joined Finkel in his Cossack dance. Several women marked time by clapping their hands, and Finkel hopped on like a demon. Even when the officer stopped, Finkel went right on kicking out his short legs, which by now were getting tangled in his coattails. When he saw Steinman and me, he came up to us. “I’ve been recalling my exploits as a young man,” he said, stammering with embarrassment at having been caught by us in so ridiculous a pose. “It’s a good thing my wife didn’t see me.”

He was panting, wiping the perspiration off his face, and straightening the sparse clumps of hair around his shining bald dome. Then, picking up some courage, “Well, how about it, Mr. Steinman,” he said. “Shall we join the young people today and dance a bit?”

“What young people? Those girls over there?” Steinman asked, pointing to the group of old women. “No, Mr. Finkel, I’m through with dancing. I’m willing to leave it to the younger generation”—again pointing to the old women—“they can have it.”

The room was filling up. Guests from neighboring hotels appeared. Three violinists mounted the little stage, tuned their instruments, strummed the opening bars of a familiar fox-trot, and then stopped abruptly.

Steinman walked toward one corner of the room, and I followed him there. The younger men and women were flexing their muscles, moving about now as though tuning up their bodies, getting ready to slip into the dance at any moment. The colorful shades on the electric lamps threw grotesque shadows on the ceiling, like shadows of imaginary creatures, and spread a colorful half-light through the room. The air was tense with the impending dance.