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Yiddish Story Collection A Ghetto Dog Isaiah Spiegel
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Yiddish Story Collection A Ghetto Dog Isaiah Spiegel
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- [00:01]
Isaiah Spiegel
Our next author, Isaiah Spiegel, was born and raised in Lodz, Poland, where he taught Yiddish literature up until the time of the 1939 German invasion. Confined to the Lodz ghetto until his deportation to Auschwitz in 1944, he wrote many short stories. As a talented writer who survived the Holocaust, Spiegel manages to convey something of the immensity of the catastrophe by focusing on individual stories, individual details. A Ghetto Dog by Isaiah Spiegel Our reader is Loren Bacall.
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Loren Bacall
Anna Nikolaevna, widow of Jacob Simon Temkin, the fur dealer, had only time enough to snatch up a small framed photograph of her husband, for the German was already standing in the open doorway, shouting raus. There were no more Jews in the house by now, and if she had failed to hear the noise they made as they fled, it was because with age she had grown hard of hearing and and because that very morning before the light had seeped through the heavy portieres, a desire had come over her to open her piano, a grand piano, black, and let her old parchment like fingers glide over its yellowed keys. One could scarcely call what she was playing music, since her fingers, which were as gnarled as old fallen bark, had been tremulous with age for years. The echoes of several tunes had been sounding in her deaf ears the whole morning, so that she had failed to hear the German when he appeared, shouting on the threshold. All the while Nicky, the widow's dog, had been lying near one of the heavy portieres, dozing and dreaming of an old dog's dream, his pointed muzzle resting on his outstretched paws. He was well along in years. His coat was shedding and light patches showed in its sandy hue. His legs were weak, but his big eyes, brownish with a blue glint, reminded one that he too had once been a puppy. The widow and her dog led a lonely life. Nicky wandered through the rooms on his weak, stumpy legs, his head drooping and swayed mournfully, his whining quieted by weary thoughts. The tempkins had got him from a farm a long time ago, after his master's death. The widow used to listen all day to Nicky moving through the stillness of the house whenever she sat by the table and Nicky was in the bedroom opposite. He had refused for several days to leave the bed where his master had died. It seemed to her as though her late husband were again walking through the bedroom in his house slippers. She used to listen to the least noise from the bedroom, pricking up her deaf ears, and as a sudden pallor spread over her wrinkled forehead. She seemed actually to hear Jacob Simon's soft sleep, slow tread. Any moment now he would appear on the threshold of the bedroom, seat himself in the plush fauteuil, reach out for a plaid rug and throw it over his knees, which had been rheumatic for so many years. Between the widow and her dog there had formed a mesh of otherworldly thoughts and dreams. She saw in his drooping old head, in his worn out fur and his pupils with their blue glint, a shadow of her husband. Perhaps this was because Nicky had been close to his master for so many years and had been ready to lay down his life for him. Or perhaps because, with time, he had taken on his master's soft tread over the rugs, his master's lax mouth and watery eyes. Whichever it was, the widow had never clasped the dog's head without feeling some inner disquiet between them. There was that bond which sometimes springs up between two lonely creatures, one human and the other brute. While the German was still in the open doorway, and before the widow had time to snatch up the photograph, Nickey had already taken his stand at the threshold. He raised his old head against the German, opened his mouth wide to reveal his few remaining teeth, let out three wild howls, and was set to leap straight for the German's throat. One could see Nicky's hackles rise and hear his old paws scrape as he dashed about, ready to leap at the stranger in the outlandish green uniform. Suddenly the dog had shed his ears, his legs straightened and hot saliva drooled from his muzzle, as if he would say, I know you're our enemy, I know. But you just wait. Wait. The German at the door became confused for a moment, taken aback by the fire glinting in the old dog's eyes. He clutched at his pistol holster. Have pity, the old woman quavered. It's only a poor animal. With her old body she shielded Nikki from the German and at the same time began patting the dog. In a moment he lay quiet and trembling in the old woman's arms. At last the widow tugged at his leash and the two of them made their way through the dark hallway and into the street. As she hurried through the hallway, she seized a small black cane with a silver knob. Without this cane, a memento of her husband, she could hardly take a step. She found herself in the street, leaning on the black cane with a silver knob, the rescued photograph safe in her bosom, and tugging the dog on his leash. Her eyes could scarcely be said to perceive what was going on around her. The day was frosty blue, a blue silvery web of mist spun by the early Polish. Winter was spreading over the houses, the street, the sidewalks. The faces of fleeing Jews were yellow, pallid. Nicki was still restless and was drawing back all the time. He did not know where his mistress was leading him. From time to time he fixed his eyes on the widow's face while she, as she trudged along, felt a sudden icy fear grip her heart. From the dog's eyes raised to hers, there peered the watery, lifeless gaze of her late husband, and here were the two of them, linked together in the web of frosty mist that was swirling under a lowering dark sky. The two of them were now plodding close to each other, their heads downcast. Cold, angry thoughts kindled in her drowsy old mind. She actually felt a chill breath swishing about her ears, and she caught words far off, words cold and dead. The widow who had for so long lived a life apart from Jews and Jewishness had suddenly come to herself, as if awakening from a state of unconsciousness. She had been driven out of her house, of course, as a Jew, like any other, although for many years her house had been like any Christian's. Her only son had become an apostate and married a Christian girl and gone off to Galicia long before the war, with where he was living on his father in law's estate. During the Christian holidays various gifts would arrive from him. She knew beforehand what he would send. A big well fattened turkey and half a dozen dyed Easter eggs. The turkey she could use. But when it came to the colored eggs, the old woman had a strange, oppressive feeling. They would lie around for months gathering dust on their shells until some evening she peeled them in the bright light of the Girandol and then left them on the windowsill for the hungry sparrows. She herself had been estranged from Jewishness since her very childhood. For years on end no Jewish face appeared at her threshold. The war which had come so suddenly to the town had during the first few days failed to reach her comfortable home. The catastrophe that had befallen the Jews had not touched her, and the angry prophecy of the storm that was raging in the streets had not beaten upon her door when the German opened it that morning. He had aroused the little old woman from her torpor and had reminded her that she was a Jew and that heavy days had come for her and all the other Jews. And though the old woman had during so many years been cut off from Jewishness and Jews, she had accepted the sudden misfortune with courage and resignation, as if an invisible thread had connected her to her people all through the years. Now she was trudging through the streets with so many others whose faces were strange and distracted. She recognized these faces from her remote youth, faces framed in black, unkempt Jewish beards and surmounted by small round skull caps which Jacob Simon used to ridicule. So in his lifetime, Jews and gabardines, Jewish women wearing head kerchiefs and marriage wigs, were dragging their children by the hand. Anna's heart was filled with a friendly feeling as, leaning on her black silver knob cane, she led Nicky with her left hand. The fleeing Jews cast surly sidelong looks at her and the dog. Nicki plodded on without once lifting up his head. The light had gone out of his eyes. A small spotted dog suddenly emerged from the crowd, ran up to Nicki, and placed a paw on the old dog's neck as if seeking consolation. Thereafter, both dogs walked side by side. Nicki sensed the strange atmosphere as they turned into the next street. It was poorly paved with gaping pits. The press was greater here. He could barely make his way among the thousands of unfriendly feet. They kept stepping on his paws, and once his mistress almost fell. Anna held her head higher and was pulled along by the crowd of Jews. She drew the leash closer to her every so often, saving Nicky from being trampled. By now he kept closer to her, mournful, and with his head still lower. Fine wet snowflakes swirled in the air, unwilling to fall to the ground, and settled on Nicky's grizzled, closely curled coat. The widow found herself in a narrow, squalid street in the Ballute district of Lodge, where where all the hack drivers, porters, and emaciated Jewish street walkers lived. She had come here with a host of strangers who quickly made themselves at home in a huge empty barn. The Jewish street walkers brought them all sorts of good things baked of white flour. The widow sat in the barn, her gray disheveled head propped on the silver knob of her cane, while Nikki sprawled at her feet and took in the angry din made by the strange people. It was late at night before everyone in the barn was assigned quarters in the district. The widow found herself in the room of a tart known as Big Rose, a very much disgruntled tart who did not want a dog in the house. It's enough that I have to take in a female apostate, she kept yelling. What do I need a sick old hound for? Anna stood on the threshold before the tart the dog close to her on his unsteady legs. His body emanated a forlornness that was both animal and human. Quiet, quiet. The widow's hand fell shakily on Nicki's drooping head and patted it. The room where Big Rose lived lay under a gabled roof. It held a small, shabby sofa strewn with yellow and red cushions. A low ceiling made the place dreary and depressing. Outside the window was the hostile night spattered with the silver of the first frost. This night, silver interlaced with the reflections of light from the room and fell on the window panes like dancing stars. The nook that sheltered the widow and her dog was very dark. The warmth lingered there as if in a closed, warm cellar. Throughout the room there hovered a sour odor of sin and lust. The old woman did not realize where she had come to. Nothing mattered any longer. She and her dog huddled in their nook and for a long while squatted there like two huge, rigid shadows. From time to time Nicky put his head in her lap and a soft, long, drawn out whine issued from the dark nook like the moan of a hopelessly sick man. Later that night, when the old woman and the dog had stretched out in their nook on some rags, Big Rose closed the red hangings which screened the shabby sofa from the rest of the room. The little red flame of the small night lamp hanging on the wall wavered slowly and angrily, licking at the musty darkness around it. Only now, when everything had become utterly quiet, did certain huge shadows appear in the darkness of the threshold. The shadows entered one by one. Each hovered for a moment on the threshold, looked about, then disappeared within the hangings in the dark little hallway on the other side of the door. Open. Other shadows gathered and waited for the door to open. They did not have to wait long. Each shadow, after darting out from behind the hangings, rushed through the door and disappeared down the dark stairs. The widow was dozing by now. From time to time she awoke and put her arms around Nicky's warm neck. The dog continued snoring with a low canine snore each time the door opened and a shadow darted within the hangings, for from which there immediately issued big roses, which, like Snicker Nikki, would emit a low growl. This suddenly angered Big Rose. She sprang up naked by the drawn back hangings and, brandishing her arms, shouted at the widow in the nook. My grand Madam, may a curse light on you. Maybe madam would like to step out for a little while on the balcony with the Hound. He's driving everybody away. May the devil overtake him. I'll poison that hound. The widow, startled from her sleep, was frightened by Big Rose's stark nakedness and its pungent reek. Sh, sh, sh. She at last managed to whisper to the dog. She stood up in her nook, took Nicky's head and started for the door. Through the small, dark hallway, the two of them, the widow and the dog, reached the deserted balcony. Below them lay a tangle of dark balute streets. The wind drove nearer and scattered the grayish, tenuous whiteness of the still swirling night snow. From the south side of the city the dusty glow of electric lights was born. Through the night the widow watched these lights blinking on and off like inflamed eyes. See there, Nicki, over there. There. That's our house, our street. The dog lifted his head, stood up on his hind legs and peered into the darkness. For a while he stood thus with the widow's arms around him, then suddenly let out a howl. It rent the sky like lightning, beat against the clouds, and then died away in the cold darkness of the earth. In the morning, when the chilled widow awoke in her nook, the dog was no longer by her side. Nobody had any idea where he had vanished to. Big Rose kept saying that this was no dog but a werewolf and that she hadn't even heard the dog leaving the house. He was gone the whole day, and only toward evening did they hear him scraping at the door. He fell into the nook in great excitement, with foam on his hanging tongue, and threw himself on the frightened widow's lap. Nicky lay on her knees, quivering with an ardent old dog sob. The widow took his shivering head and for some time gazed into his watery pupils as if into the small openings of two wells. She could not understand what had happened to the dog. He barked in a subdued way, as if some words were struggling to escape him, as if he was straining to tell everything to the old woman bending over him. His whole body quivered and his narrow face seemed to wear the twisted grimace of a dog in lament. Yet this was not whining, rather a noisy outburst of joy and consolation. He kept lifting his paws and putting them on the old woman's knees. The widow took the paws and brought them to her aged, withered lips, bent over and for a long, long time, with her eyes closed, rested her head upon them. For a long time the widow sat in the darkness embracing the dog, while the night lamp, which had been turned low and had been burning all day near the red hangings and now cast a mysterious reddish reflection on the wall. The sharp silhouette of the dog's pointed head and the widow's arms swayed on the ceiling in a network of dancing shadows. The next morning, Nicky again disappeared and did not come back until nightfall. This was repeated day after day. These disappearances coincided with the time the Germans built a wall around the ghetto, but barbed wires dividing the Ballute from the rest of the city. Nobody was allowed to leave or enter the Jewish district. But just the same, Nicky used to disappear every day and come back only at night. Once, when Nicky returned as excited as always, the old woman put her hands on his head and drew them back. They were sticky with blood. His fur was split and torn with open wounds. He was holding his paws on her knees as always. But this time his pupils were reddish glowing and little green fires kept dancing across his watery eyes. The widow applied rag after rag soaked in cold water to the dog's open wounds. Only now did she realize that Nicki had been crawling through the barbed wire, that each morning he had run off to the city and each evening he had come running home. The widow kept on washing the warm blood and and applying the cold, wet rags, while Big Rose ran to fetch basins of water. The bitterness she had felt in her heart for the dog had quickly vanished. She took a white blouse from her closet and tore it into narrow bandages. She also procured from somewhere a salve that was good even for human wounds. She smeared torn strips with the salve and then, kneeling by the door, started to bind the dog's wounds. A sudden fright came over Big Rose. An otherworldly expression appeared on her face, as if she felt a cold breath upon her. She could have sworn by all that was holy that as she had been binding the dog's wounds, he had given her a mournful human look. From the day Big Rose had bound the open wounds the dog had got by crawling through the barbed wire strung around the ghetto. From that day, her attitude toward the widow had undergone a complete change. She took down the red hangings that had divided the room in two and asked the old woman to leave her dark nook and share the room with her. All three of them, the two women and the dog, now used the sofa. Nicki lay propped up by the coloured cushions, lost in an old dog's dream. This happened just about the time the Germans issued an order that all animals, horses, cows, goats and dogs must be turned over to them. Only two broken down horses were allowed to remain in the whole ghetto. For generations. The old Jewish residents of The Ballute had made their meager living as animal breeders. The hack drivers and cabbies, the milk dealers, small middlemen, organ grinders and innkeepers had to give up the horses and cows they attended. In the crowded dark stables and stalls they unharnessed their horses for the last time and and embraced the warm necks of their cows. They let out the mournful Jewish cows and the frightened Jewish goats. The draymen led their beautiful glossy chestnut draft horses through the streets, the whole family marching in step with them, wringing their hands as if they were following the dead to a yawning grave. The women dragged the cows and goats along. The animals became stubborn and refused to budge. At the tail end of the procession, on ropes and leashes, other Jews were leading watchdogs, Dalmatians, poodles with mournful eyes, and common household pets with bob tails. The Jews hoped that their dumb creatures would be better fed than they had been in the ghetto. The horses and cows were taken into the city, but the dogs were immediately shot in a field close to the marketplace. At daybreak Big Rose had thrown a torn black shawl with long fringes over her, and the widow, without uttering a word, had taken Nicky on his leash with one hand and her small silver knob cane in the other. Both women were going to take the dog to the marketplace. Big Rose kept mauling her cheeks and softly weeping. The widow's dishevelled hair, grey and lifeless, hung over her ashen face. The compulsory surrender of her dog had come as such a shock to the widow that at first, when Big Rose had shouted the news into her face, she had clutched her head with her withered fingers and had remained still for several minutes. Big Rose thought the old woman had died. Standing with her fingers in her hair and her eyes not even blinking. She just stood there, stunned and stone cold. The dog let them do with him whatever they liked. He dropped at their feet and held his pointed head up to them, then yawned and let his muzzles sink to the cold floor. The two women started out through the small courtyard, Nicki on his long leash. Between them. The snow was coming down in flakes, as slender and chill as needles, and stabbed their hands, their faces, and the dog's fur. It was bitter cold. Although dawn had broken a comparatively short while ago, the ghetto seemed already to be in twilight. Night can fall abruptly in that region. Be. Big Rose bit her lips as she walked along. She peered out from the black shawl in which she was wrapped and could see nothing but the widow's half dead Face Nickey still had his back bound in rags. As they neared the marketplace, they saw Jewish children emerging from the surrounding little streets, leading gaunt, emaciated dogs on ropes and leashes. There was a pound in the marketplace where the Germans collected the dogs. The horses and cows had already been transferred to German civilians to bring into the city proper. The dogs within the pound were looking out on the ghetto through barbed wire, their eyes watering. A shadowy terror was frozen upon their frightened, pointed muscles. A German stationed near the wicket leading into the pound relieved each owner of his or her dog, pushed the wicket open, kicked the dog with the point of his boot, and the animal found itself in the pound. Rarely or ever did any dog snarl at the German. Sudden shock paralyzed the dogs, depriving them of their strength and numbing their rage. Perhaps this was due to the reek that now came to them from the field where the dogs were being killed. By the time the widow and Big Rose approached the pound with Nicky, it was full of Jewish dogs. They were jammed together, huddled in twos and threes, their heads resting on one another's shoulders. Perhaps they did this because of the cold which beat down upon them from the sky. A few of them were close to the barbed wire, prodding it with their paws in an attempt to get free. But they had to fall back with a childlike whimper when they felt their paws become sticky with blood. The barbs of the wire were sharp and rusty and stuck out like little knife points. The widow and Big Rose halted before the German. He was waiting for the old woman to let go of the leash. But instead of letting go, she wound the leash still tighter about her wrist and even her forearm. She did this with her eyes closed, the way a Jew winds the straps of a phylactery on his forearm. The German snatched at the leash. The widow staggered on her old legs. Since Nicky was by now pulling her into the pound, she let herself be dragged along. In the meantime, the German kicked the wicket shut. His loud, tinny laughter ran along the barbed wire. Big Rose saw the widow standing inside the enclosure, ringed by a pack of dogs and still holding Nicky on the leash. In her left hand she had the small cane with the silver knob and was keeping it high over the heads of the dogs. She stood there with her cane raised, her hair dishevelled, the dog circling at her feet. Some of the dogs lifted up their mournful heads and looked into the old woman's face. Nicki alone, remained unperturbed. His back was still bound up in the white rags torn from Big Rose's blouse. From time to time he lifted his head toward the wicket where Big Rose was standing. Petrified, exhausted, the widow sank to her knees in the snow. By now one could barely make out her body. The snow was falling more heavily in bright, shimmering stars. The widow's head stood out in the whiteness like a dazzling aureole. Big Rose saw another wicket fly open on the other side, and someone began driving the dogs out into an open field. The widow stood up, leaned on her small silver knob cane, and with Nicki leading, started toward the field. Big Rose wrapped the small black shawl more tightly about her head. She did not want to hear the dull, tinny sounds that came from the sharp edged shovels scooping up the frozen ground of the ballute. It was only the wind playing upon the shovels that delved the narrow black pits, only the wind chanting its chill night song.
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Isaiah Spiegel
That Was a Ghetto Dog, written by Isaiah Spiegel and read by Lauren Bacall. The translation by Bernard Gurney may be found in A Treasury of Yiddish Stories, edited by Irving Howe and eliezer Greenberg. Copyright 1953 by Viking Penguin. Renewed 1982 by Irving Howe and Eva Greenberg. The story was used by permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Incorporated. And that concludes today's program of Jewish short stories from Eastern Europe and beyond. Produced by the National Yiddish Book center and public radio station KCRW Santa Monica. The series was directed by Joan Micklin Silver and produced in the studios of KCR D by Laurie, Alana McGlinchey, and Johanna Cooper, with assistance from Roz Abraham. Original music was composed and arranged by Hank Esnatsky. Narration was written by Leonard Glick, Kenneth Turan, Aaron Lansky, and Laurie McGlinchey. Our engineers are Theo Mondal, Ledchik Vojcik, and Jerry Larosa. Music engineered by Steve Revolak and John Cervies with production assistance by George B. Hicks and Stefan Weibel sound mixing by Theo Mondl and Ray Guana. Our executive producers are Aaron Lansky and Ruth seymour. The full 13 hour series of Jewish short stories from Eastern Europe and beyond is available on cassette from the National Yiddish Book Center. For information, please call 1-800-9-Sesame 1-800-973-7437. Major funding for this series was provided by the Joseph S. And Diane Steinberg Charitable Trust of New York City. Additional support was provided by the Nathan Cummings foundation, the Dora Teitelbaum foundation, the Lewis and Helen Padnos foundation, the California Arts Council, the Joseph Meyerhoff Memorial Trusts Irving and Trudy Lehrer, the National Endowment for the Arts and the members and friends of KCRW and the National Yiddish Book Center. Support for the distribution of this program comes from National Public Record Radio member stations and National Public Radio, whose contributors include the Lila Wallace Reader's Digest Fund, helping people make the arts part of their everyday lives. For KCRW and the National Yiddish Book Center, I'm Leonard Nimoy. This is npr, National Public Radio.