S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

Though he had reason to be angry at the fish, he dismissed all resentment toward it. On the contrary, he looked at it benevolently and spoke nicely to it. He said to it, “Now that you’ve left off your wild ways, I’ll treat you well in return and conceal you from people’s view, so they won’t give you the evil eye. For there’s nothing harder to eat than the evil eye. As my grandmother used to say, ‘A stranger’s eye on food is like bones on a full stomach.’ You might say that a man is valued according to the foods and beverages that come to his table. But you should know that just as people honor the rich for their money, although they lock it away from others, so it is with food and drink. If you have them, you’d better not show yourself at mealtime or display what you’re preparing for dinner.” Another reason why Fishl promised to hide the fish from people’s view was because in those days Buczacz had forsworn the eating of fish. Since the fishermen had raised the price of fish, the entire city was refusing to buy fish, even for the Sabbath, except for one family that didn’t share in the public grief, as I’ve told you elsewhere. Therefore he comforted the fish, saying he would hide it from public resentment. Just as he was about to keep his promise, he found it hard to do so. Why? Because he couldn’t find any place to hide the fish. He thought to hide it between his belly and his clothing, like a smuggler, but they who are skinny because of all the pains they take to make a living can do so, whereas his belly was so ample that it would not tolerate any external addition. He thought to stuff the fish against his chest, but his double chin wouldn’t permit it. He looked at the fish like a man asking advice of a friend. The fish, which was mute by nature, was all the more mute at that time because of its sorrows, and it did not answer him. Were it not for his tallit and tefillin bag, Fishl could not have kept his promise, and people would have given the fish the evil eye.

As I have said, his tallit and tefillin bag was made of the skin of an entire calf, and to my eye it resembled those musical instruments that the musician inflates out to make a sound. But while the instrument makes a sound and does not absorb anything, the bag is silent and accepts whatever you put into it. Were that not so, how could he put in it meat and fish and fruit and vegetables and sometimes even a pair of pigeons or a hen or a goose that he purchased on his way to synagogue? At any rate, that sack had never in all its days seen a creature as rebellious as that scaly, finny one. When the fish was only a year old, its length was already close to that of Fishl’s arm, and since then it had further increased itself by a third and half a third.

The tallit and tefillin huddled together and acted hospitably, as did the prayer book. Fishl shoved the fish in among them and the bag stretched itself to receive the fish. The fish, which was weak because of the change in place, the rigors of travel, and Fishl’s manhandling, accepted its torments in silence and did not say: The place is narrow for me. But unwittingly it took revenge against Fishl, since it was very heavy and hard for Fishl to carry.

3

A Man’s Emissary

Fishl got himself to the synagogue and found that even the latest service was over. He said to himself: It would be worth knowing what breakfast was waiting for them, putting them in such a hurry to pray. Now I’ll pray without a minyan and I won’t hear Kedushah and Barekhu. In any event he did not pin the blame on the fish or say to it: You are the one that made me late for public prayer and deprived my soul of Kedushah and Barekhu and the privilege of responding Amen. On the contrary, he thought well of the fish. He would make such a breakfast meal out of it that even the books that heap condemnation on eating and drinking would sing its praises. Since he always took great care to eat breakfast, a meal that the sages praise extravagantly, humility gripped him. He said, “It makes no difference to the fish who hands it over to be cooked, whether it’s me or someone else.”

He found Bezalel Moshe, the son of Israel Noah the House Painter, who, as was his habit, was sitting in the synagogue. The house painter had been killed when he fell from the church roof while he was repairing one of their statues, and broke his neck, and his only son, Bezalel Moshe, was left an orphan. The beadle of the synagogue took him to the synagogue and found a few householders who took it upon themselves to give him food, each on a different day of the week. He used to live in the synagogue and eat day by day with different householders. Whatever he lacked in food, the beadle supplied, and what the beadle lacked, he supplied with his own hands. For he would make mizrahim, plaques for the eastern wall of the home, indicating the direction in which one prays, and rotating plaques for counting the omer, and he would draw letters and drawings for the cloths that girls embroider to cover challot and matzot. He also made playing cards for Hanukkah and, by contrast, for Christmas Eve, when it is forbidden to study Torah, and in payment he would take a penny or a farthing or something to eat. Even the tombstone engraver would use him occasionally to draw the hands of Aaron the Priest on the stone, or a pitcher for a Levite, twins for someone born under the sign of Gemini, or fish for someone born under Pisces. Bezalel Moshe would draw on the stone in ink, and the engraver would engrave it on the monument.

At that moment Bezalel Moshe was sitting in the corner behind the pulpit, next to the holy ark, a spot hidden from all eyes. He was busy making a mizrah and was in the midst of the sign of Pisces. Said Fishl, “He’s sitting there like someone who got a saucer of jam and hides so he won’t have to share with others.” Fishl inspected the beasts and animals and fowl and fish that the orphan had drawn. Fishl was astonished that this poor son of poor folk had it in him to draw offhandedly what the Holy One, blessed be He, had taken six days to create. And I — Fishl went on to reflect — and I, if I’ve got to sign my name, I distrust my fingers all day. Fishl chirped with his lips, “Pish, pish, pish,” as though to say: Miracle of miracles I see here. The orphan heard and was startled. He covered the mizrah with his hands.

Said Fishl to Bezalel Moshe, “What are you sitting around for, you idler? On a sheet of paper that size we could write the names of all the portions of the Torah with compound interest on each and every portion. Show me what you’ve heaped together here. What’s that, the fruits of the tree in the Garden? Don’t be afraid that I’ll take one to eat. They’re not even worth sending to the judge and the cantor as Purim gifts. And what’s this? The sign of Pisces? Fish you call those miserable things?” He extended his finger toward the two fish that were drawn on the mizrah, the head of one against the tail of the other, and the fins of one against the fins of the other. Great sadness bubbled up from the eyes, as if they didn’t know that Pisces was the constellation of Adar, the month in which we are meant to rejoice. Fishl laughed and said, “You call those fish? If you want to see what a fish is, I’ll show you.”

He took his tallit and tefillin bag and removed the fish, saying, “I reckon that in your prayer book you won’t find a blessing for a fish like this! From now on, picture to yourself how lovely it will be, stewed or roasted or fried or pickled. Now take it to Hentshi Rekhil my wife and tell her, ‘Reb Fishl desires a fish meal.’ You can count on her to catch the hint, and I promise you that before I finish my prayers, the meal will be ready.”

Bezalel Moshe looked at the fish, which was quivering in Fishl’s hands the way his father Israel Noah had quivered after falling from the church roof. At that moment the fish mustered its last strength and tried to escape from the hands of that human being, who was torturing him with words as harsh as wormwood. Fishl grasped him powerfully and said, “You’re shivering, you’re cold, a chill has gripped you. I’ll send you to my house right away, and Hentshi Rekhil my wife will make a fire and warm up a hot drink for you, and she’ll feed you onions and peppers to warm you up and abate the chill.”