:





     "The collected stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer"
     Publisher: Farrar Straus & Giroux, Paperback ISBN:0-374-51788-6
     ("Taibele and her demon" translated from the Yiddish by Mirra Ginsburg)

     In the town of Lashnik, not far from Lublin,  there lived a man and his
wife. His  name was Chaim  Nossen, hers Taibele.  They had no children.  Not
that the marriage  was barren; Taibele had borne her husband  a son  and two
daughters, but all three had died in infancy - one of whooping cough, one of
scarlet  fever, and one of diphtheria.  After that Taibele's womb closed up,
and  nothing availed: neither prayers,  nor spells, nor potions. Grief drove
Chaim  Nossen to withdraw  from  the world.  He kept  apart  from  his wife,
stopped eating meat  and no  longer slept at home,  but on  a  bench  in the
prayer house. Taibele owned  a dry-goods  store, inherited from her parents,
and she  sat there all day, with a yardstick on her right, a  pair of shears
on her left, and the women's prayer book in Yiddish in front of her.
     Chaim Nossen, tall, lean, with  black eyes and a wedge of a  beard, had
always been a morose,  silent man even at the best times.  Taibele was small
and  fair,  with blue  eyes and a round face. Although punished by Almighty,
she still smiled easily, the dimples playing  on her cheeks.  She had no one
else to  cook for now,  but  she  lit the stove  or the tripod every day and
cooked some  porridge or soup for herself. She also went  on with knitting -
now a pair of stockings, now a vest;  or else she would embroider  something
on canvas. It wasn't in her nature to rail at fate or cling to sorrow.
     One day Chaim Nossen put his prayer shawl and phylacteries, a change of
underwear, and a  loaf of bread  into a sack and  left  the house. Neighbors
asked where he was  going; he  answered:  "Wherever my  eyes lead me."  When
people told Taibele that her husband had  left her, it was too late to catch
up with him. He was already across the river. It was discovered  that he had
hired a cart  to take him to Lublin. Taibele sent a  messenger to  seek  him
out, but neither her  husband nor the messenger  was  ever  seen  again.  At
thirty-three, Taibele found herself a deserted wife.
     After a period of  searching, she realized that she had nothing more to
hope for. God  had taken  both her children and her husband. She would never
be able to marry again;  from now on she  would have to live alone. All  she
had left  was her house, her  store,  and  her  belongings.  The townspeople
pitied  her,  for  she was  a  quite woman, kindhearted  and  honest  in her
business dealings. Everyone asked: how did she deserve such misfortunes? But
God's ways are hidden from man.
     Taibele had several friends  among the town  matrons whom she  had know
since childhood.  In  the daytime housewives are busy  with  their pots  and
pans, but in the evening Taibele's friends often dropped in  for  a chat. In
the  summer,  they would sit  on  a bench  outside the house, gossiping  and
telling each other stories.
     One moonless summer evening when the town was as dark as Egypt, Taibele
sat with her friends on the  bench,  telling them  a tale she had  read in a
book bought from a peddler. It was  about  a young Jewish woman, and a demon
who had ravished her and lived with her as man and  wife.  Taibele recounted
the story  in all its  details. The women huddled  closer  together,  joined
hands,  spat to ward of evil, and laughed  the  kind of laughter  that comes
from fear.
     One of them asked: "Why didn't she exorcise him with an amulet?"
     "Not every demon is frightened of amulets," answered Taibele.
     "Why didn't she make a journey to a holy rabbi?"
     "The  demon warned her  that he  would choke her if  she  revealed  the
secret."
     "Woe is me, may Lord protect us, may no one  know  of such  things!"  a
woman cried out.
     "I'll be afraid to go home now", said another.
     "I'll walk with you," a third one promised.
     While they were talking, Alchonon, the teacher's helper who  hoped  one
day  to become a  wedding jester, happened  to be passing by. Alchonon, five
years a widower, had the reputation  of  being a  wag and a prankster, a man
with a screw loose.  His steps  were silent  because  the soles of his shoes
were worn  through and  he walked on  his  bare feet. When  he heard Taibele
telling the story, he halted  to listen. The darkness  was so thick, and the
woman so engrossed in the  weird  tale, that  they  did  not see  him.  This
Alchonon was a  dissipated  fellow, full of cunning goatish tricks.  On  the
instant, he formed a mischievous plan.

     After  the women had  gone, Alchonon stole into  Taibele's yard. He hid
behind a tree  and watched through the window. When he saw Taibele go to bed
and  put out the candle, he slipped  into the house.  Taibele had not bolted
the door; thieves were unheard of in that town. In the hallway, he took  off
his shabby caftan, his fringed garment, his trousers,  and stood as naked as
his mother  bore  him.  Then  he tiptoed  to  Taibele's bed. She was  almost
asleep, when suddenly  she saw a figure  looming  in  the dark. She  was too
terrified to utter a sound.
     "Who is it?" she whispered, trembling.
     Alchonon replied in a hollow voice: "Don't scream, Taibele. If you  cry
out, I will destroy you. I am the demon Hurmizah, ruler over darkness, rain,
hail, thunder and wild  beasts.  I am the evil spirit who espoused the young
woman  you  spoke  about tonight.  And because you told the  story with such
relish, I heard  your words from the abyss and was filled with lust for your
body. Do not try to resist, for I drag away those  who refuse  to do my will
beyond  the Mountains  of Darkness - to  Mount  Sair,  into wilderness where
man's foot is unknown, where no beast dares to thread, where the earth is of
iron and  the sky of copper. And  I roll  them in thorns and  in fire, among
adders and scorpions, until every bone  of their body is ground to dust, and
they are lost for eternity in  the nether depths.  But if you comply with my
wish, not a hair of your head will be harmed, and I will send you success in
every undertaking..."
     Hearing these  words,  Taibele lay motionless as in a  swoon. Her heart
fluttered and seemed  to  stop. She thought her end had come. After a while,
she gathered courage and murmured: "What do  you want of me? I am  a married
woman!"
     "Your husband is dead. I followed  in  his funeral  procession myself."
The  voice of the teacher's helper boomed  out. "It is true that I cannot go
to  the rabbi  to testify and free  you to remarry,  for  the  rabbis  don't
believe our kind.  Besides, I don't dare step  across  the threshold of  the
rabbi's chamber - I fear the Holly Scrolls. But I am not lying. Your husband
died in  an epidemic, and the worms have already  gnawed away his  nose. And
even were he alive, you would not be forbidden to lie with me, for  the laws
of the Shulchan Aruch do not apply to us."
     Hurmizah the teacher's helper went on with his persuasions, some sweet,
some threatening. He  invoked  the  names of  angels and devils, of  demonic
beasts and vampires. He swore that Asmodeus, King  of the  Demons,  was  his
step-uncle. He said that  Lilith, Queen of the Evil  Spirits, danced for him
on  one  foot and  did  every  manner of thing to  please him. Shibtah,  the
she-devil who stole babies from women in childbed, baked poppyseed cakes for
him  in Hell's ovens and  leavened them  with the  fat of wizards and  black
dogs. He argued so long,  adducing  such witty parables and  proverbs,  that
Taibele was finally obliged to smile, in her extremity.
     Hurmizah vowed that he had loved Taibele for a  long time. He described
to her the dresses and shawls she had worn that year and the year before; he
told her the secret thoughts that came to her as she kneaded dough, prepared
her Sabbath meal, washed  herself in the bath,  and  saw  her  needs  at the
outhouse.  He also reminded her of the morning when she  had wakened with  a
black  and  blue mark on her  breast. She had thought it was the  pinch of a
ghoul. But it was really the  mark  left by a kiss  of  Hurmizah's  lips, he
said.
     After a  while, the demon got  into Taibele's  bed  and had his will of
her.  He  told her that  from  then on he would visit  her twice a week,  on
Wednesdays  and on Sabbath evenings,  for  those  were the nights  when  the
unholy ones were abroad in the world.  He warned her, though, not to divulge
to  anyone  what  had  befallen her, or even  hint at  it, on  pain  of dire
punishment: he would pluck put the hair from her skull, pierce her eyes, and
bite out her navel. He would cast her into a desolate wilderness where bread
was dung  and water is blood,  and where the wailing  of Zalmaveth was heard
all day  and all night. He commanded  Taibele to swear by  the bones of  her
mother  that  she would keep  the secret to  her last day. Taibele saw  that
there was  no escape  for her. She  put  her hand on  his thigh and swore an
oath, and did all that the monster bade her.
     Before  Hurmizah left,  he kissed her long and lustfully, and since  he
was  a demon  and  not a man, Taibele returned his kisses  and moistened his
beard  with  her  tears.  Evil spirit  though  he was, he  had  treated  her
kindly...
     When Hurmizah was gone, Taibele sobbed into her pillow until sunrise.
     Hurmizah  came every Wednesday  night and  every Sabbath night. Taibele
was  afraid that  she might find herself  with child  and give birth to some
monster with tail and horns - an imp or a mooncalf. But Hurmizah promised to
protect her  against shame.  Taibele  asked whether she  need  to go  to the
ritual bath to cleanse herself after the impure days, but Hurmizah said that
the laws concerning menstruation did not extend to those who consorted  with
the unclean host.

     As the saying  goes,  may God  preserve us  from all  that  we can  get
accustomed  to. And so  it was with Taibele. In the beginning she had feared
that her nocturnal  visitant might do  her harm, give her boils or elflocks,
make  her bark like  a dog or drink urine, and bring disgrace upon  her. But
Hurmizah  did not whip her or  pinch her or spit on her. On the contrary, he
caressed her, whispered endearments, made puns and rhymes for her. Sometimes
he pilled such pranks and babbled such devil's nonsense, that she was forced
to laugh. He tugged at the lobe  of her ear  and gave her love  bites on the
shoulder, and in the morning she found the marks of his teeth on  her  skin.
He  persuaded  her to let  her hair grow under her cap  and he wove it  into
braids. He taught  he charms and  spells, told her about his night-brethren,
the  demons with  whom he flew over ruins and fields of toadstools, over the
salt marshes of Sodom, and the frozen wastes of the Sea  of  Ice. He did not
deny that he had other wives, but they  were all she-devils; Taibele was the
only human wife he possessed. When Taibele asked him the names of his wives,
he  enumerated them:  Namah,  Machlath, Alf, Chuldah,  Zluchah,  Nafkah  and
Cheimah. Seven altogether.
     He told  her that Namah  was black as pitch and full of rage.  When she
argued with  him,  she  spat  venom  and  blew  fire and smoke  through  her
nostrils.
     Machlath had  face of a  leech,  and those  whom she  touched with  her
tongue were forever branded.
     Alf  loved to adorn  herself with silver, emeralds,  and diamonds.  Her
braids were spun gold. On her ankles she wore bells and  bracelets; when she
danced, all the deserts rang put with their chiming.
     Chuldah had the shape of  a  cat. She  meowed instead of  speaking. Her
eyes were  green as gooseberries.  When  she  copulated,  she  always chewed
bear's liver.
     Zluchah was the enemy of brides. She  robbed bridegrooms of potency. If
a bride stepped outside alone during the Seven Nupital Benedictions, Zluchah
danced up  to her and the bride lost  the power of speech or was taken  by a
seizure.
     Nafkah  was  lecherous, always betraying  him  with  other  demons. She
retained his affection only  by her  vile and insolent talk, which delighted
his heart.
     Cheimah should have, according to her  name, been as  vicious as  Namah
should have been mild, but reverse was true: Cheimah was a she-devil without
gall. She was forever doing charitable deeds, kneading dough  for housewives
when they were ill, or bringing bread to the homes of the poor.
     Thus Hurmizah  described his wives, and  told  Taibele how he disported
himself  with  them,  playing  tag  over roofs and engaging in all  sort  of
pranks. Ordinarily, a woman is jealous when a man consorts with other women,
but how can a  human  be  jealous  of a female  devil?  Quite  the contrary.
Hurmizah's  tales  amused  Taibele,  and  she was  always  plying  him  with
questions. Sometimes he revealed to her mysteries no mortal may know - about
God, his angels and seraphs, his heavenly mansions,  and  the seven heavens.
He also told her  how sinners, male and female, were tortured  in barrels of
pitch and caldrons of fiery coals, on beds studded with nails and in pits of
snow, and how the Black  Angels beat the bodies of the sinners  with rods of
fire.
     The greatest punishment in Hell was tickling, Hurmizah said.  There was
a  certain  imp  in Hell  by  the name of  Lekish. When  Lekish  tickled  an
adulteress on her soles or under the arms, her tormented laughter echoed all
the way to the island of Madagascar.
     In  this way, Hurmizah entertained Taibele all  through  the night, and
soon it came  about that she began to miss him when he was away. The  summer
nights seemed too short, for Hurmizah  would leave soon after cockcrow. Even
winter nights  were  not  long  enough. The truth  was  that  she now  loved
Hurmizah, and though she knew a  woman  must  not lust  after  a  demon, she
longed for him day and night.

     II

     Although Alchonon had been  a widower for many years, matchmakers still
tried to marry him off. The girls they proposed were from mean homes, widows
and divorcees, for a teacher's helper was  a poor provider, and Alchonon had
besides  the  reputation  of  being  a  shiftless  ne'er-do-well.   Alchonon
dismissed the offers on various pretexts: one  woman was too ugly, the other
had a  foul tongue, the third was  a slattern. The matchmakers wondered: how
could a teacher's helper who earned nine groschen a week presume to  be such
a picker and a  chooser? And how long could a man live alone? But no one can
be dragged by force to the wedding canopy.
     Alchonon  knocked  around  town -  long,  lean, tattered,  with  a  red
disheveled beard, in a crumpled shirt, with his pointed Adam's apple jumping
up and down. He waited for the wedding jester  Reb Zekele to die, so that he
could take over his  job. But Reb  Zekele was in no  hurry  to die; he still
enlivened weddings with an inexhaustible flow of quips and rhymes, as in his
younger  days.  Alchonon  tried  to  set up  on  his  own as  a  teacher for
beginners, but no householder would entrust  his child  to him. Morning  and
evenings, he took the boys to and from the cheder. During  the day he sat in
Reb Itchele  the  teacher's  courtyard, idly  whiting  wooden  pointers,  or
cutting  out paper  decorations  which  were  used  only  once  a  year,  at
Pentecost, or modeling figurines from clay.
     Not  far from Taibele's store there was a well, and Alchonon came there
many times a day, to draw  a pail  of water or to take a drink, spilling the
water over  his red beard.  At these times, he would throw a quick glance at
Taibele. Taibele pitted him: why  was the man knocking about all by himself?
And  Alchonon would say to himself each time: "Woe, Taibele, if you knew the
truth!"
     Alchonon lived in a garret, in the house of  an old widow who  was deaf
and half-blind. The crone often chided him for not going to the synagogue to
pray like  other Jews. For as soon as Alchonon had taken the  children home,
he said a  hasty  evening prayer  and went  to  bed. Sometimes the old woman
thought she heard the teacher's helper get up in the middle of the night and
go  off  somewhere. She asked him  where he wandered at night, but  Alchonon
told her  that she  had  been dreaming. The women who  sat on benches in the
evenings, knitting socks and gossiping, spread the rumor that after midnight
Alchonon turned into a  werewolf. Some  women said he  was consorting with a
succubus. Otherwise, why should a man remain so many  years without  a wife?
The rich  men would  not trust  their children to  him  any longer.  He  now
escorted only the  children of  the  poor, and seldom ate a  spoonful of hot
food, but had to content himself with dry crusts.
     Alchonon became thinner and thinner, but his feet remained as nimble as
ever. With his lanky legs, he seemed  to stride down the street as though on
stilts. He must have suffered constant thirst, for he was always coming down
to  the well. Sometimes he would merely help a dealer or a peasant to  water
his horse. One day, when Taibele noticed  from the distance how  his  caftan
was torn  and ragged,  she called him into  her shop. He threw a  frightened
glance and turned white.
     "I see your caftan is torn," said Taibele. "If you wish, I will advance
you a few yards of cloth. You can pay it off later, five pennies a week."
     "No."
     "Why not?" Taibele asked in astonishment. "I won't haul you  before the
rabbi if you fall behind. You'll pay when you can."
     "No."
     And he quickly walked out of the store, fearing she might recognize his
voice.
     In summertime it  was easy to visit Taibele in the middle of the night.
Alchonon  made his way  through back lanes, clutching  his caftan around his
naked body. In winter, the dressing and undressing in Taibele's cold hallway
became increasingly painful. But worst of all were the nights after a  fresh
snowfall. Alchonon was worried that Taibele or  one  of the  neighbors might
notice his  tracks. He caught cold and began to cough. One night he got into
Taibele's  bed  with his  teeth chattering; he could not warm up  for a long
time. Afraid that she might discover his hoax, he  invented explanations and
excuses. But Taibele neither probed nor wished to probe to closely.  She had
long discovered that  a  devil  had all the habits and  frailties of  a man.
Hurmizah perspired, sneezed, hiccupped, yawned. Sometimes his breath smelled
of onion, sometimes  of garlic.  His body felt like the body of her husband,
bony and  hairy, with  Adam's apple and a navel. At times, Hurmizah was in a
jocular mood, at other times a sigh broke from  him. His feet were not goose
feet, but human, with nails and frost blisters. Once Taibele asked  him  the
meaning of  these things,  and Hurmizah explained: "When  one of us consorts
with a human female, he assumes the shape of a man. Otherwise, she would die
of fright."
     Yes, Taibele got used to him and loved him. She was no longer terrified
of him or his impish antics. His tales were inexhaustible, but Taibele often
found contradictions in them. Like all liars, he had a  short memory. He had
told her at first that devils  were immortal. But  one night he asked: "What
will you do if I die?"
     "But devils don't die!"
     "They are taken to the lowest abyss..."
     That winter there  was an  epidemic  in town. Foul winds came  from the
river, the woods, and the swamps. Not only children, but adults as well were
brought down with the ague. It rained and it hailed. Floods broke the dam of
the river. The storms blew off an arm of the windmill.  On Wednesday  night,
when Hurmizah came into Taibele's bed, she noticed that his body was burning
hot, but  his feet were icy. He shivered and moaned. He  tried  to entertain
her with  talk of  she-devils,  of  how  they  seduced young men,  how  they
cavorted with other devils, splashed about in the ritual bath, tied elflocks
in old men's beards, but he was weak and unable to possess her.
     She had never seen him in such a wretched state. Her heart misgave her.
She asked: "Shall I get you some raspberries with milk?"
     Hurmizah replied: "Such remedies are not for our kind."
     "What do you do when you get sick?"
     "We itch and we scratch..."
     He spoke  little after  that. When  he  kissed Taibele, his breath  was
sour.  He always  remained with her until cockcrow,  but this  time  he left
early. Taibele lay silent, listening to his movements in the hallway. He had
sworn  to her  that he  flew out  of  the window even whet it was closed and
sealed,  but she heard the door creak. Taibele  knew, that it  was sinful to
pray for devils, that one must curse them and blot them from memory; yet she
prayed to God for Hurmizah.
     She cried in anguish: "There  are  so  many  devils,  let there  be one
more..."

     On the  following Sabbath,  Taibele  waited in  vain for Hurmizah until
dawn; he never came. She called him inwardly and mutterer  the spells he had
taught her, but  the  hallway was silent. Taibele lay benumbed. Hurmizah had
once boasted that he had danced for Tubal-cain and Enoch, that he had sat on
the roof of Noah's Ark, licked  the salt from the nose  of Lot's  wife,  and
plucked  Ahasuerus  by  the  beard.  He  had prophesied  that she  would  be
reincarnated after  a  hundred years  as a princess, and that  he, Hurmizah,
would capture  her,  with the  help of  his slaves  Chittim and Tachtim, and
carry her off to the palace of Bashemath, the wife of Esau. But  now he  was
probably lying  somewhere  ill,  a helpless demon, a lonely orphan - without
father or  mother, without a faithful wife to care for him. Taibele recalled
how his breath came rasping like s saw when he  had been with her last; when
he  blew  his  nose, there  was  a  whistling  in his  ear.  From  Sunday to
Wednesday, Taibele went out as one in a dream. On Wednesday she could hardly
wait until the clock struck  midnight, but the night went, and  Hurmizah did
not appear. Taibele turned her face to the wall.
     The  day began, dark as evening.  Fine snow dust was falling  from  the
murky sky. The smoke  could not rise from the chimneys; it  spread  over the
roofs  like  ragged sheets. The rooks cawed harshly. Dogs  barked. After the
miserable night, Taibele had no strength to go to  her store.  Nevertheless,
she dressed and went outside. She saw four pallbearers carrying a stretcher.
From under the snow-swept coverlet protruded the blue feet of a corpse. Only
sexton followed the dead man.
     Taibele  asked who  it  was, and the  sexton answered:  "Alchonon,  the
teacher's helper."
     A strange idea came to  Taibele - to escort Alchonon, the feckless  man
who had lived alone and died  alone, on his last journey.  Who would come to
the  store today? And what  did she care  for  business?  Taibele  had  lost
everything. At least, she would be doing a  good deed. She followed the dead
on  the  long road to the cemetery. There  she waited while the  gravedigger
swept  away  the show  and  dug a  grave  in the frozen earth.  They wrapped
Alchonon the teacher's helper in a prayer shawl and a cowl, placed shards on
his eyes, and  stuck between his fingers a  myrtle twig that he would use to
dig his was to  Holy Land when Messiah  came. Then  the grave was closed and
the gravedigger recited the Kaddish. A cry broke from Taibele. This Alchonon
had lived a  lonely  life,  just as she did. Like her, he left no heir. Yes,
Alchonon the teacher's  helper  had  danced his last dance.  From Hurmizah's
tales,  Taibele  knew that the deceased did not go straight to Heaven. Every
sin creates a devil, and these devils are  a man's children after his death.
They come to demand their share. They call the dead man Father  and roll him
through forest and wilderness until  the measure of his punishment is filled
and he is ready for purifications in Hell.
     From then  on,  Taibele remained alone, doubly deserted - by an ascetic
and by a devil. She aged quickly. Nothing was left to her of the past except
a secret that could never be told and would be believed by no one. There are
secrets that the heart  cannot reveal to the  lips. They are carried  to the
grave. The willows murmur of them, the rooks caw about them, the gravestones
converse about them silently, in the language of stone. The dead will awaken
one  day,  but  their secrets will abide  with the Almighty and His judgment
until the end of all generations.




Last-modified: Thu, 25 Mar 2004 19:27:38 GMT
: