The Dance of the Demons
328
The Dance of the Demons
328eBook
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Overview
In this autobiographical novel—originally published in Yiddish as Der Sheydim Tanz in 1936—Esther Kreitman lovingly depicts a world replete with rabbis, yeshiva students, beggars, farmers, gangsters, seamstresses, and socialists as seen through the eyes of the girl who served as Isaac Bashevis Singer’s inspiration for the story “Yentl, the Yeshiva Boy.”
Barred from the studies at which her idealistic rabbi father and precocious brother excel, Deborah revels in the books she hides behind the kitchen stove, her brief forays outside the household, and her clandestine attraction to a young Warsaw rebel. But her family confines and blunts her dreams, as they navigate the constraints of Jewish life in a world that tolerates, but does not approve, their presence.
Forced into an arranged marriage, Deborah runs away on the eve of World War into a world that would offer more than she ever dreamed . . .
This edition includes memorial pieces by Kreitman’s son and granddaughter.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781558616462 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Feminist Press at CUNY, The |
| Publication date: | 01/11/2019 |
| Series: | Helen Rose Scheuer Jewish Women's Series |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 328 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
It was the Sabbath. And even the wind and the snow rested from their labors. The village of Jelhitz, a small cluster of wooden cottages and hovels, stood hidden away from sight at the edge of the Polish pine-woods — to all appearances nothing more than one of the many snowdrifts covering the land. But within Jews were comfortably asleep in their beds after the heavy Sabbath dinner.
All was silent in the village, but nowhere was the quietude so impressive as in the large house by the synagogue which stood facing the common meadowland and the frozen river. Here lived the Rabbi, Reb Avram Ber, and unlike most of his flock, he did not snore in his sleep. As for Raizela, his wife, her breathing was so gentle, that whenever Deborah peeped into the bedroom to see whether her parents were astir yet, the fourteen-year-old child grew anxious, wondering whether her mother was breathing at all.
The warmth and the shadowiness of falling dusk were cozy inside the Rabbi's house, but Deborah, as she sat beside the tiled stove, reading, felt lonely and sorry for herself to the point of tears.
Earlier in the day she had overheard her father say:
"Michael is showing great promise in his studies, the Lord be praised! One day he will be a brilliant Talmudist."
Michael was her younger brother who, in accordance with the centuries' old custom of Orthodox Jews, was being brought up to spend all the days of his life in the study of the Talmud.
"And Father, what am I going to be one day?" Deborah then suddenly inquired, half in jest, half in earnest, for, as long as she could remember, never had a word of praise fallen to her lot.
Reb Avram Ber was taken aback. It was an accepted view among pious Jews that there was only one achievement in life a woman could hope for — the bringing of happiness into the home by ministering to her husband and bearing him children. Therefore he did not even vouchsafe Deborah a reply, but when she pressed him, he answered simply:
"What are you going to be one day? Nothing, of course!"
This response did not at all satisfy Deborah. It was quite true that most girls grew up only to marry and become drudges, but there were exceptions, such as her own mother, Raizela, who was highly educated, a real lady, and as wise as any man.
To be sure, in his heart of hearts Reb Avram Ber disapproved of his wife's erudition. He thought it wrong for a woman to know too much, and was determined that this mistake should not be repeated in Deborah's case. Now there was in the house a copy of Naimonovitch's Russian Grammar, which Deborah always studied in her spare moments, but whenever her father caught her at this mischief he would hide the book away on top of the tiled stove out of her reach, and then she would have to risk her very life to recover it. She would move the table up against the stove, set a chair on the table, herself on the chair, and after all that trouble, clouds of dust and loose leaves from torn books, disused feather dusters and God knows what else would come fluttering and tumbling down — everything, in fact, except the Russian Grammar. Nevertheless, during her fourteen years of life, she had managed to learn all its contents by heart, and still she was dissatisfied. How tediously morning changed into afternoon and evening into night! How wearisome was her housework, and yet, beyond that, she had few real interests. She was forever lacking something, herself hardly knowing what. A strange yearning would stir in her, an almost physical gnawing sensation, but it had never before been so painful as on this wintry Sabbath afternoon, when all was quiet within and the world outside was muffled with snow.
She sought refuge in daydreams. She recalled how the family had first come to Jelhitz many years ago, arriving at nightfall; how the bearded pious Jews, in long gabardines, black top boots and peaked cylindrical caps — a fashion surviving from the Middle Ages — came forward with lighted candles to greet their new rabbi, crying in unison:
"Blessed be thy coming!"
What a splendid figure Reb Avram Ber had cut in his rabbinical garb — black buckled shoes, white stockings, satin gabardine and broad-brimmed black felt hat.
As she remembered all this, and saw again the smile — grateful and almost childish — that had settled in Reb Avram Ber's longish fair beard, hot tears slowly trickled down her flushed cheeks, senseless tears for which she could find no justification.
When Michael burst into the room and found his sister crying, a psalter in her hand, he laughed so boisterously, that his parents woke up in the next room. Michael and Deborah were never on very friendly terms. And he snatched this opportunity of poking fun at her, calling her a fool for staying indoors, for poring over the Psalms with tears in her eyes like a miserable old sinner whiling away dull old age with penitence. As for himself, he had been out on the river, which stretched away frozen, hard as a sheet of steel, with snow-covered fields all around, with a blue, transparent, Sabbath sky hanging above wonderfully silent. After his exertions, Michael's cheeks were flushed, his ears tingling with frostbite, and the bright gleam in his eyes flashed with ever-changing tints — now black, now brown, then coppery. He had come back brimming over with life, and his sister, who always stayed indoors and meekly bore the stagnation of their home-life, seemed to him now more pitiful than ever.
He became more subdued when his father entered the room.
"Have you been getting on with your studies, Michael?" Reb Avram Ber asked with a sleepy yawn.
"Yes, father."
Deborah gaped. She endeavored to catch Michael's eye, but he was reading some religious tract very studiously, and there was nothing in his now thoughtful face to betray his lie. Good God, what a wicked boy! And what was worse, he thought himself so clever and dared to make fun of her. She had a good mind to give him away. But Reb Avram Ber was asking her for a glass of hot tea, and seemed to have forgotten all about Michael by now.
Anyhow, not that her own conscience was any too clear! Exchanging one of her father's religious books for a work of fiction was surely an even more heinous sin than going for a slide on the ice on the Sabbath. If her father was to know of it, he would — she could not imagine what he might do ... Good God! How awful to exchange a holy book for a story book! Conscience-stricken herself, she kept her tongue, but as she poured out the tea she reflected that had she been a boy instead of a girl, she would not have found herself driven to commit such iniquities. She would have spent all her time in the study of the Talmud. But hers was a dreary lot, and even when she erred, life was still maddeningly dull. As for the bookseller, he only came down to the village once in every four weeks, on market day.
That was the only day which broke the humdrum silence of the village. When she woke up on market day, to the rumble of springless peasant carts and the sound of strange voices, a thrill passed through her, as though having gone to sleep in an isolated hut far from all human habitation she had suddenly awakened to find herself in new surroundings, where life simply tumbled over itself. Indeed, Jelhitz was unrecognizable on market day. Gone was the sovereignty of the ragged goats that otherwise rambled about the village as if they were the masters of all they surveyed. All was transformed. Even the leaning houses seemed to wear an air of alertness on market day. Peddlers did not leave by candlelight, in the dark before dawn, to tramp the surrounding farms. None of the menfolk idled their time away in the warmth of the synagogue, relating strange tales of events in the unknown beyond. The very womenfolk had no time for the least tittle-tattle. The blanket of snow that stretched away from Jelhitz to the forest and to the horizon was broken by countless footsteps and wheel-ruts. And peasants, in carts and on foot, crowded into Jelhitz, driving cattle before them, or dragging unwilling pigs behind them; with their wives accompanying them in festive attire, while competing merchants from close by villages brought their own wares — anything from lace veils to top boots, carved crosses to sheepskin jackets, sweetmeats to quack medicines. Gypsies were there, and conjurors, and drunkards, and idlers and loungers. And lastly came the bookseller, whom Deborah sought out with more eagerness than the rest, only to be bitterly disappointed. For, as it always turned out, he had nothing of real interest. His was a burden of holiness: prayer books, prayer shawls, ritual fringes, and a miscellany of religious tracts. Only by chance would a profane book get mixed up with this spiritual load. So during the intervals of waiting she would have to read The Fate of the Enchanted Princess or The Tale of the Three Brothers ten times over, and in the end return to the wrinkled pages of the psalter after all!
The wintry light was beginning to fail by the time Raizela joined the family in the living room. She got out of bed and immediately climbed onto the couch by the window, where she spent most of her waking hours, absorbed in philosophic and religious books. Absentmindedly the family drank their tea, all of them except Deborah preoccupied with their reading. And yet, though they all seemed to be unaware of each other's presence, everyone breathed a breath of gentle disapproval on his neighbor. Michael was grieved to have to stop indoors under his parents' eye, and indeed, as soon as he could, he slipped out unnoticed. Deborah felt slighted by them all. And husband and wife were displeased with one another on an old, old score.
Raizela was accustomed to a different life from that which she had been leading during the past ten years in Jelhitz. She had been brought up in a house of plenty — plenty, in the material as well as the spiritual sense of the word. Her father was one of the best-known rabbis in Poland and perhaps the most learned Jew of his day. His very presence commanded the reverence of all who saw him — even of such plain folk who live by the sweat of their brow and usually feel nothing but contempt mingled with hatred for those who do no work but "wear out the seats of their pants" over the Talmud. He was very tall, with a dark lean face, magnificent black, silky beard and large black eyes which showed a fine sense of humor that was eternally being stifled by a stern sense of duty and of the Holy Presence. He rarely spoke, only studying from early morning till late at night, with many scholars, or rather disciples, some of them middle-aged men, at his side, and around him in the house moved his many sons and daughters and grandchildren. It was the custom of pious Jews to marry off their children at the age of fifteen or so, and then to keep them at home until they became self-supporting.
Thus Raizela, his favorite daughter, had been wed at the age of fifteen. And the husband chosen for her, a youngster a year older than herself, was Reb Avram Ber, because of his great learning and the renown attaching to his name. Some of his ancestors were among the great of Israel, household names in the Jewish world, and moreover he claimed descent from King David. So it had seemed a promising match. However, Reb Avram Ber turned out to be a failure. True, there were few to compare with him in learning; but he was unworldly, needed looking after like a child. Beyond the realm of the Talmud, he was just a simpleton.
He went on with his studies in his father-in-law's house until he was himself a father of two children, and still he gave no thought to the future. At length it was decided that Reb Avram Ber must set up for himself. The only course open to this simple-minded young man was to become a rabbi, but in order to qualify for such a position in a town of any importance he was required by the law of that time to pass an examination in the Russian language and in other temporal subjects, so that he might combine the functions of registrar of births, marriages, and deaths with that of rabbi.
After much persuasion, Reb Avram Ber was finally torn away from the Talmud and made to journey to the town of Plotck, where he took up residence with a tutor who specialized in preparing future rabbis for the official examination. With thoughtless willingness he paid the full fee in advance; with thoughtless reluctance he turned to his new subjects. And still all might have gone well, but for the chance arrival of another future rabbi — a handsome young man with twinkling eyes, a cynical mouth and a delightfully pointed silken little beard. This young man was soon on friendly terms with the tutor's wife and, among other things, told Reb Avram Ber that this woman wore no wig, as prescribed by Jewish law, according to which no married woman may expose her hair lest the charm of her tresses provoke sinful thoughts. In any case, Reb Avram Ber was tired of the whole business. He simply could not concentrate on the new, queer education. Nor did he relish the tutor's continual reproaches about not doing as he was told. He was weary to death of the uncongenial surroundings generally, but when his eyes were opened and he saw that the tutor's wife was not wearing a wig as prescribed by Jewish law, that was the last straw.
For once in his life he became a man of action — and he ran away. Lacking courage to return to his father-in-law's house, he decided to go into the "wide world." The "wide world" was the nearest village to Plotck. The Jewish inhabitants, finding a stranger in their midst, shook hands with him, bade him "Peace!" then asked him who he was, what was his business, whence had he come, whither was he going. And many more questions besides did they ask him, as the custom is. But Reb Avram Ber answered briefly. He merely begged the beadle to announce that a preacher had arrived and would deliver a sermon immediately after the evening service.
Reb Avram Ber was well versed in parables, and his rambling sermon, full of deep knowledge of the law, was mingled with many fascinating tales which held his audience spellbound.
"His words flow sweet as wine!" said the womenfolk, not a little impressed by his good looks.
"A great scholar!" declared the menfolk.
Thus it was he went from village to village, until he at last came to Jelhitz, which had been without a rabbi for some time. And Reb Avram Ber found great favor in the eyes of the Jews of Jelhitz. The community of three hundred souls determined not to let this erudite young man continue on his travels. After several heated meetings, at which everybody tried to speak at the same time, Reb Avram Ber was appointed Rabbi of Jelhitz.
But Raizela never forgave him his escapade. And on this wintry Sabbath afternoon it all came back to her. The family were in great distress. The stipend paid by the community was far from adequate, and driven by the sheer force of circumstances, Reb Avram Ber was that evening going to ask for an increase.
Earlier in the week he had consulted her how to go about it. She was his adviser in all secular matters. Reclining on her couch, ailing and feeble, she would turn his problems over in her mind and drop words of counsel.
"Whatever you do, don't be apologetic," she had said in a quiet voice that seemed to heighten her frailty.
"Oh no, I'll be very firm with them this time," replied Reb Avram Ber.
Raizela's thin lips spread into a faint smile. She could not help thinking that her husband looked rather ridiculous promising to be firm, with his blue eyes so gentle, with so pleasant a smile playing on his face.
Reb Avram Ber, usually short-sighted and unaware of what was going on around him, had by this time learned to interpret that flickering little smile as a bitter reproach to himself for his past errors, and whenever he noticed it he began to defend himself stoutly, as though her thoughts had been audible. And then, when Raizela made no reply, he invariably transferred to his father-in-law that flush of anger which had risen in him momentarily against his wife. He blamed the father for having encouraged the daughter to study, for having supplied her with reading-matter (orthodox books, of course, though afterwards it was whispered that she read all sorts!) and for generally having taken her — a mere female — into his confidence.
With that, the "scene" always ended, and calm was restored to the home. But now, on this wintry Sabbath afternoon, when any talk on worldly matters was out of place, husband and wife were again having the same old quarrel, even though not a word passed between them. And Reb Avram Ber felt relieved when the time came for him to put on his overcoat and go into the synagogue, only a few steps away, for the evening service.
In a hushed murmur the sound of prayers reached the house. Deborah listened intently. In her imagination she saw the all too familiar bearded faces of the congregation in the candle-lit synagogue, and she wondered what the heads of the community would say to her father's request. But Reb Avram Ber returned immediately after the service was over. He looked very grave, and he brought bad news.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Dance of The Demons"
by .
Copyright © 1936 Esther Singer Kreitman.
Excerpted by permission of Feminist Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Introduction by Ilan Stavans,
The Dance of the Demons,
Afterword by Anita Norich,
Biographical Essays,
My Uncle Yitzhak by Maurice Carr,
My Grandmother Esther by Hazel Karr,
