S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

Every time Pan Jacobowitz meets me, he buttonholes me and starts a conversation. “With you, my friend,” says Pan Jacobowitz, “one can talk a word or two of Yiddish, for all those Jews have caught the ways of Vienna and talk half-German.” And since one can talk a word of Yiddish with me, he goes on talking. He sighs for the honor of the town, which has declined, and for the young Jews who do not know their Maker. They and their fathers, says Antos, are prepared to sell their God for a copper, but then their fathers’ God was worth a copper, while to the sons He is not worth even that much.

Antos speaks Yiddish in the way they used to speak it in Szibucz before the people were exiled and took on the ways of Vienna. And he tells me of the honor of his wealth and the glory of his sons. “My eldest,” says Antos, “is a rabbi and presides in the yeshiva, and one son-in-law is a dayan, and scholars crowd around his door. A frequent visitor in my house is Professor Lukaciewicz. He always comes to me,” says Antos, “on our Sabbath for the Closing Meal of the Holy Day, to eat pigs-feet with cabbage, and blood sausages, and liverwurst with us. This obstinate old man,” says Antos, “is a great glutton, heaven help us, and as he eats — blast him — so he drinks. He drinks, blast him, heaven help us, a whole vatful of Christian wine without getting drunk.”

Besides this Lukaciewicz, another frequent visitor in Antos’ house was the Russian Colonel Strachilo, who was in command in Szibucz during the occupation. After going half around the world and crossing Siberia and America he came to Szibucz. He was an old man with a bristling, erect mustache, tall, upright, and thin, and he dragged himself along leaning on his stick. Times have changed since Antos used to stand before him like a servant before his master. Now Antos is a respectable citizen, with much wealth and property, and Colonel Strachilo gets a pension from him. It is not enough to live on or to die on either, but Strachilo can’t be too fussy, for whoever has the power is entitled to do as he likes. Twice a month Pan Jacobowitz’s second son comes to Szibucz, to pay his respects to his father and eat whatever is cooking in his mother’s pots. Whenever he comes, Colonel Strachilo and Professor Lukaciewicz and two or three other gentlemen come to show him honor, and they sit together eating and drinking and reveling, and planning how to harm the Jews. However, all credit to Antos for not taking part in their plots. “Leave the Jews alone, poor creatures,” says he. “They’re more dead than alive; they haven’t the strength to kill a flea.”

Pan Jacobowitz is perfectly right: the Jews in Szibucz are more dead than alive, and they have no strength at all. First came the war and uprooted them, and they did not take root anywhere else. Then their chattels were taken from them. Then their money was taken. Then their children were taken. Then their homes were taken. Then their livelihoods were taken. And then they were given taxes and levies, and where should the Jews get strength?

Daniel Bach hobbles along with his stick and drags along his artificial leg. For several months no one has come in to buy wood, and no woman in labor has called for his wife. And there is another trouble in his house: trouble with his daughter. True, Erela is earning enough to keep herself and help her parents, but she is a grown girl and there are no bridegrooms to be seen. We thought at first that Yeruham Freeman would marry Erela, but he went and married Rachel.

Then that shopkeeper who went bankrupt (and we had thought there was going to be a new rich man in Szibucz!) had all his trouble for nothing. Riegel the agent’s lawyer, who had already helped Riegel to get rid of his wife, laid hands on the shopkeeper and got the merchandise out of the possession of the shopkeeper’s wife, and I’m afraid she may go to prison.

Their shop is closed; no one enters, no one leaves. After they had taken out their merchandise in secret, the authorities came and put a clay seal on the lock, so that no one should imagine that they had closed their shop because of some celebration. Their shop is closed — though all the other shops, which are open, have no customers either. Since there are no customers, they do not bring new merchandise, and since they bring no merchandise, Yehuda has nothing to do either — this is the Yehuda who used to bring merchandise for the shopkeepers from Lvov.

Once again Riegel the agent comes and lodges at our hotel. If rumor is to be believed, he did not listen to Babtchi’s advice and take his divorced wife back. And if seeing is believing, he is not sorry for it. He has little to say to Babtchi, and what he says will break no hearts. When Babtchi feels this and tries to make him talk, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes, takes a cigarette and lights it, and answers quietly, like a man whose heart is at ease, who feels no pressure. This, my friend, does not please Babtchi, like a maiden who is annoyed with the nightingale for not singing songs of love. But Mr. Riegel is not disturbed by her annoyance; he looks at his watch, as you and I do when we want to get rid of each other — I of you or you of me.

Times change and hearts change with them. For if Mr. Riegel were to behave to Babtchi as he once did, he might turn her heart to him. But Riegel is no longer concerned with turning hearts. So long as a man is married, he casts his eyes on other women; when he gets rid of his wife, he sees that it is possible to do without women.

So Riegel sits, with his glass in front of him and a cigarette case lying on the table. This case, my friend, and the matchbox, too, are of silver; his name is engraved on them and they are a gift from his master, or from himself. And they have changed his ways, for he no longer wonders whether to go to the kitchen to get an ember in order to talk with Mrs. Zommer, nor does he think of lighting his cigarette from Mr. Zommer’s pipe. If we were in the habit of conjecturing, we should conjecture that at this moment he is not thinking either of Babtchi’s father or of Babtchi’s mother. If so, what is he thinking of? That is easy to say and hard to conjecture.

Krolka came and stood in front of Mr. Riegel, bending her head modestly and asking, as usual, in a whisper, “Perhaps, sir, you would like a second glass?” “Go back to your pots, Krolka,” said Babtchi, “if Mr. Riegel wants anything I will bring it to him.” And she asked in a tender voice, “Perhaps you would like something, Mr. Riegel? I’ll bring it to you right away.” And as she spoke she fixed her eyes upon him and waited for his reply.

I did not hear what Riegel replied to Babtchi, and you, my dear sir, did not hear either, because Ignatz came in to ask the agent for alms. This Ignatz, though he has no nose, scents out anyone who comes to the town and goes to him to ask for pieniadze .

Mr. Zommer rose, leaning on his stick, and went to the kitchen. An hour ago he wanted to ask Krolka what Rachel was doing. It was several hours since his wife had gone to see how Rachel was, and she had not yet returned. Mr. Zommer came back and sat down, his pipe in his mouth. So Mr. Zommer sits every day and every hour from the Morning Service until the bedtime prayer.

Now let us ask how Rachel is. Perhaps Krolka knows more than she told Mr. Zommer. Krolka sighed and said, “What shall I say and what shall I tell? The pains of pregnancy are hard on Rachel.” And since Krolka had finished all her work in the kitchen and had nothing to do, she started to tell me the things we knew, such as that everyone had thought Mr. Yeruham Freeman, Miss Rachel’s husband, would marry Miss Erela Bach, that well-taught teacher, the daughter of our neighbor, Mr. Bach, from whom the Lord God had seen fit to take away one leg, and since Miss Rachel had cast her eyes on her girl friend’s mate and taken him away from her, that was why the Lord God was punishing her and giving her a hard pregnancy.