I went down after supper. Margit received me as a hostess. The apartment looked clean, there were curtains at the windows, the table had a tablecloth and dishes that could only have belonged to Margit. I brought flowers; she kissed me and wiped away her tears. Margit and Morris continued to address each other as "you" instead of the familiar "thou," but I thought that I heard Margit forget herself once and use "thou." They talked to one another in a mishmash of German-English-Yiddish. When Morris Terkeltoyb ate herring with his fingers and started to wipe his hands on his sleeves, Margit said to him, "Use your napkin. This is New York, not Klimontow."

And Morris Terkeltoyb replied in a typical Polish Chassidic intonation, "Nu, so be it."

That winter Morris Terkeltoyb had a long spell of sickness. It started with the flu. Then the doctor discovered that he had diabetes and prescribed insulin. He stopped going down to the newspaper and sent his manuscripts by mail. Margit told me that Morris couldn't read his own articles in the paper, they contained so many errors. He got palpitations of the heart every time he read one. She asked me to bring proofs uptown for him. I was willing to help, but I rarely had time to go to the paper anymore. I lectured a lot, leaving the city for weeks. Once when I entered the composing room, I saw Margit Levy. She stood there waiting for proofs. She now took the subway downtown twice each week-first to pick up the proofs and the second time to return them. She said to me, "Aggravation does more damage to the health than any medicine can cure." She also said something that could only have come from Morris Terkeltoyb: "A writer doesn't die of medical errors, only of printing errors." Jake, the printer's devil, tossed the proofs to her hurriedly. Margit put on her glasses and began to look them over. Jake often ran off proofs so sloppily that letters were missing on the margins or lines were missing because the paper was too short to carry the whole column. Even though she didn't know Yiddish, she seemed to realize that some of the proofs were defective and she went to look for Jake among the humming linotype machines. The boy screamed at her and called her names, she complained when she came back. "Is this the way they treat literature in America?"

Toward spring, Morris Terkeltoyb began to go down to the newspaper again, but Margit had a gallstone attack and was taken to the hospital. Morris visited her twice a day. The doctors found all kinds of complications. They made many tests and took a good deal of blood for them. Morris claimed that American doctors had no respect for their patients; they cut them up as if they were already corpses. The nurses didn't come when they were called and the sick didn't get proper food. Morris had to prepare soup for Margit and bring her orange juice. He asked me, "In what way are doctors better than writers or theater directors? It's the same human species."

I left New York again for about three months. When I came back in the fall, I read in the newspaper that the Yiddish Writers' Union was having a memorial evening on the thirtieth day after the death of Morris Terkeltoyb. He had been stricken with a heart attack while reading proofs. Perhaps he died of a printing error. In the evening, I took Margit in a taxi to the hall. It was badly lit, half empty. Margit was wrapped in black. She did not understand the Yiddish speakers, but each time the name of Morris Terkeltoyb was mentioned she sobbed.

A few days after that, Margit knocked at my door. For the first time I saw her without cosmetics. She looked to me like a woman of ninety. I had to help her sit down on a chair. Her hands trembled, her head was shaking, and she spoke with difficulty. She said, "I don't want them to throw Morris's manuscripts into the garbage after my death." I had to give her a solemn promise that I would find an institution which would accept his manuscripts and books, the thousands of letters he kept in trunks and even in a laundry hamper.

Margit lived on for thirteen months. During that time she kept coming to me with projects. She wanted to publish a collection of Morris Terkeltoyb's best writing, but he had left so many manuscripts it would have taken years to choose among them. There was no chance of getting a publisher. She kept asking the same question: "Why didn't Morris write in an understandable language-Polish or Hungarian?" She wanted me to find a Yiddish grammar for her so that she could learn the language. Even though she had never read anything he had written, Margit called him a talent, possibly a genius. Another time Margit found a manuscript that looked like a play, and she urged me to offer it to a theater director or to find someone to translate it into English.

Margit Levy spent more of the last two months of her life in the hospital than at home. A few times I went to visit her. She was in the general ward, and her face had changed so much that on each visit I had trouble recognizing her. Her false teeth no longer fit her shrunken mouth. Her nose had become hooked, just like Morris's. She spoke to me in German, French, Italian. Once, I found her with another visitor-her lawyer, a German Jew. I heard her telling him that she had bought a plot in the cemetery of the Klimontow Society, near Morris's grave.

She died in January. It was a frosty day and the wind was blowing. Two people came to the chapel-the lawyer and myself. The rabbi quickly recited "God Full of Mercy," and delivered a brief eulogy. I heard him say, "The privilege of leaving a good name is for villagers only. In a city like New York, a person's name often dies before him." Then the coffin was put into a hearse and Margit Levy rode into eternity without anyone to accompany her.

I wanted to carry out my promise to find a place for Morris Terkeltoyb's packs of manuscripts, but the institutions I called all refused to take them. I kept in my apartment one valise filled with his writings and two albums that belonged to Margit Levy. All the rest the superintendent threw out into the street. That day I did not leave the house.

In Morris Terkeltoyb's valise I found, to my surprise, bundles of faded love letters that women had written him-all in Yiddish. One woman threatened that she would commit suicide if he did not return to her. No, Morris Terkeltoyb was not the psychopathic boaster I had thought him to be. Women did love him. I remembered Spinoza's saying that there are no falsehoods, there are only distorted truths. A strange idea ran through my mind: perhaps among these letters I would find one from Isadora Duncan. For a moment I had forgotten that Isadora Duncan did not know Yiddish.

A year after Margit Levy's death, I received an invitation from the Klimontow Society to attend the unveiling of a monument to Malkah Levy-the Society had given her a Hebrew name. But that Sunday a heavy snow fell, and I was sure that the unveiling would be postponed. Besides, I woke up with a severe attack of sciatica. I took a hot bath, but there was no one for whom to shave and dress. Neither did I miss anyone. After breakfast, I took out Margit's album, some of Morris's letters, looked at the pictures, and read the texts. I dozed, dreamed, and forgot my dreams the moment I wakened. From time to time I looked out the window. The snow descended sparsely, peacefully, as if in contemplation of its own falling. The short day neared its end. The desolate park became a cemetery. The buildings on Central Park South towered like headstones. The sun was setting on Riverside Drive, and the water of the reservoir reflected a burning wick. The radiator near which I sat hissed and hummed: "Dust, dust, dust." The singsong penetrated my bones together with the warmth. It repeated a truth as old as the world, as profound as sleep.

Translated by the author and Herbert R. Lottman.

Moon and Madness.

OUTSIDE, a thick snow was falling. It had begun at dawn and continued all day long and into the early evening. Then a frost set in. In the Radzymin study house it was warm. A pair of beggars with ropes around their loins sat by the oven roasting potatoes. Jeremiah, an old man, was reciting psalms. He had gone blind but had managed to learn the Book of Psalms by heart. At a long table across from the Ark of the Holy Scroll sat Zalman the glazier, Levi Yitzchok, who suffered from trachoma and wore dark glasses even at night, and Meir the eunuch, a Cabalist, who was known to be sane for half the month and insane the other half, after the moon became full. The conversation turned to pity, and Zalman the glazier said: "Of course, pity is virtuous, but too much of it can do damage. Not far from our town of Radoszyce lived a Polish squire, Count Jan Malecki, the owner of big estates. Long before the czar had decreed the serfs to be free, the Count called all his peasants to a meeting and said to them, 'The earth belongs not to me but to those who work it. You're not my slaves any more. Elect an elder and divide the grounds among yourselves.' I can see this Malecki before my eyes-a big man, fat, with a red face and with a blond mustache that reached almost to his shoulders. He had no children, but his wife, the squiress, had five sisters and two brothers. They each had many children and Malecki provided for the whole impoverished family. It is peculiar that although he freed the peasants, Malecki himself worked the fields-plowed, sowed, and harvested. He had acquired a machine to cut straw, which he mixed with hay for feeding cattle. He could stand for hours at this machine working like a hired hand, while his brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and their brats walked around idly, dressed up as if they were going to a ball. Once, his court Jew, Zelig, asked him what was the sense of allowing the others to behave this way and Malecki answered, 'Every man should do what he wants. I like to carry the burden, so I carry it. They like to be idle, so they should be.' By the way, all of Malecki's relatives indulged in quarrels and calumny. The young ones also stole. His nephews got drunk, walked around with pistols; they went hunting in the Count's forests and sometimes aimed at one another. The girls played the piano and went to parties. The people in Radoszyce gave the Count a nick-name-Jan Schmatte, which means 'rag.'

"Since he was not a rebel and never quarreled with anyone, the Russians held no grudge against him and made him the judge of Radoszyce and the whole county. He refused to take a salary. I am told that on the day he became judge the thieves held a banquet. They knew that Malecki would never put anyone in prison. And so it was. When they brought him a thief who defended himself by claiming that his boots were torn, he had a headache, he was penniless, Malecki not only let him go free but gave him a few rubles as well. He was satisfied with a promise from the accused to become honest from that day on. The thugs and pickpockets had something to laugh about.

"There was a man in Radoszyce by the name of Maciek Sokal, and they called him the Lawyer. He was as much a lawyer as I am a doctor. He could barely read. Just the same, whenever someone was on trial he would engage Sokal as a defender. Sokal himself was a swindler, a drunk, a low creature. Before he began to appear in court as a defender, he was known as Sokal the Year-Round Witness. For anyone accused of a crime, he would invent an alibi, come as a witness, and swear falsely. Sokal knew that Malecki was gullible and he taught the criminals how to fool him. Things reached such a state that thieves began to come to Radoszyce from other villages.

"Yes, it soon came out that Malecki had created a lot of trouble with his leniency. The storekeepers in Radoszyce did not sleep nights. They hired a watchman to guard their stores with a stick and a rattle, but the toughs beat him up and he lay sick in the poorhouse for weeks. They began to steal horses in the surrounding villages. When the peasants caught a thief and brought him into Radoszyce, Malecki immediately freed him. Some merchants were robbed so often that they sold their stores for a song and moved to other towns. Others left for America. The peasants began to say there was only one way out-to get rid of Malecki. But the Russians were on his side. What did they care if Polish peasants suffered? People maintained that because of Sokal's shrewdness and Malecki's pity life had become more miserable than ever.

"Not far from Radoszyce was a hamlet by the name of Bojary. There was a rascal there named Wojtek-a drunk, a murderer, a thief, a rapist. He had no father. His mother bore him from a wandering gypsy. He began to steal when he was five years old. After some time his mother died and Wojtek became a parobek, a field hand for a peasant who had acquired land of his own. This Wojtek used to come to the weekly fair at Radoszyce every Thursday, and he always created a scandal. He went into a store to buy a cap or a jacket and then refused to pay for it. He got drunk in the tavern, beat up the peasants, broke windowpanes, turned over tables and benches. He was known as an arsonist. Whenever he had a fight with somebody, he set fire to his house. Everyone knew about it. But when he was arrested and brought to trial there were never any witnesses against him.

"In Bojary there also lived a peasant, Stach Skiba, and he had a daughter, Stasia-a healthy lass, a good worker, able at home and in the fields. She had no mother. Many of the boys wanted her for a wife and came to her with gifts. More than anybody else, Wojtek ran after her. But the girl said to him, 'Sausage is not for a dog.' He threatened to stab her as well as her father and any man she married. But peasants are not easily frightened. Stasia finally got betrothed to a strong peasant boy, Stefan, and he told Wojtek that if he ever said a bad word to his fiancee he would break his neck. After a while there was a wedding, and all the peasants came to Stach Skiba's hut and they ate, drank, danced. In the middle of the celebration a scream and a lament broke out. The house had caught fire on all sides. Some of those who tried to push their way out through the narrow door were trampled to death. Somebody had piled big stones at the threshold. Over twenty people perished in the flames, among them the bride and the bridegroom. Some others were so burned that they remained crippled for life.

"This time there was a witness. An eight-year-old girl had seen Wojtek put rocks at Skiba's door. Also, a Jewish merchant from Radoszyce named Naphtali Gorszkower told the police that on the day before the fire Wojtek had bought an oversize can of kerosene from him. The peasants caught Wojtek, beat him, and took him on a cart to Radoszyce. Immediately Sokal emerged and began to scold the peasants for hurting an innocent lad. The only policeman in town put Wojtek in jail, but Sokal went directly to Count Malecki and told him that drunken peasants had attacked an innocent boy and broken his ribs. Sokal also told Malecki that Naphtali Gorszkower had been persuaded to bear false witness by the elder of the village, who had bought salt, kerosene, and axle grease from Gorszkower. Sokal demanded that His Excellency order the release of Wojtek at once and punish those who had beaten him. Why Sokal worked so hard for Wojtek was not clear, though people said that the thieves of Radoszyce paid a weekly salary to Sokal for defending every knave in town.

"While Sokal lingered in the courthouse, where the Count was sitting in his official robes, with a cross hanging from a golden chain around his neck, doing official business, a mob of peasants gathered outside waiting for news. Suddenly the door opened and Sokal appeared waving a paper. Malecki had given him a signed order releasing Wojtek immediately and compensating him for the abuse. When the peasants saw Sokal with the paper, they went mad. They began to scream in vile voices and threw themselves on him. I am told that in less than a minute Sokal was torn to pieces. The coffinmaker, a neighbor of ours, later told us that there was little left of the body to put in the coffin. From the courthouse to the jail was only two steps. The enraged peasants broke down the door and dragged out Wojtek; someone quickly got a rope, and they hanged him on a lamppost. With the noose on his throat, he managed to call, 'Brothers, remember that I am an orphan.' And one of the peasants called back, 'You will soon stop being an orphan.'

"When the Jews heard what was going on, they were frightened. The storekeepers in the market immediately closed their shops and everyone hid. It could easily have happened that the peasants in their fury would attack the Jews. Naphtali Gorszkower didn't even bother to close his store. He began to run and he kept on running until he reached America. I just say so. He disappeared, and his wife was considered a deserted woman. Only, a year later a letter came to her from New York. But I will make it short. One of the rabble called out, 'Let's get Malecki!' And that's all the peasants needed. They tore into the courthouse and killed the Count. All this took place in a matter of minutes.

"When the governor learned what the peasants had done, he sent a commission with a hundred Cossacks to Radoszyce, and an investigation began, which lasted months. First of all, they put the thieves in chains and sent them to the prison in Radom, or perhaps it was some other town. The merchants in Radoszyce were relieved. However, the Jews still had plenty to worry about. There were some county officials who incited the commission against them, saying that the Jews were the ones who had set fire to Stach Skiba's house and pointing out that this was the reason Naphtali Gorszkower had run away. They even put Naphtali's wife in jail for a few weeks.

"What could the Cossacks do? They rode back and forth on their small horses, waving their whips. Whoever happened to pass by on the street got whipped. About a dozen peasants in Bojary were sent to Siberia without a trial. One of them was the father of the little girl who saw Wojtek put stones before Skiba's door. He was accused of making his daughter bear false witness, because he had once quarreled with Wojtek about a pig Wojtek had stolen. How can a commission help? They cannot revive the dead. All I can say is, there was a lot of grief because of Count Malecki's misplaced pity. I once read in a Yiddish commentary on the Bible that those who pity the wicked end up by being cruel to the innocent."

"It's in the Gemara," Meir the eunuch corrected him.

It was quiet in the Radzymin study house, and one could hear the wick in the lamp sucking kerosene. Old Jeremiah happened to recite the chapter of the psalms which spoke of God's mercy in slaying Sihon the King of the Amorites and Og the King of Bashan and giving their land to Israel as a patrimony. The two beggars had opened the door of the oven, and with their bare fingers shoved out the roasted potatoes. Reb Levi Yitzchok removed the black glasses from his red eyes and wiped them with the hem of his coat. Meir the eunuch touched his hairless cheeks. He threw a glance toward the window and the sky. The moon was not yet full, but one could discern the missing crescent. After a while, Levi Yitzchok put his dark glasses back on and said: "There was no lack of crazy squires in Poland. Some lost their minds from too much drinking, others from too much luxury. That Count Malecki had perhaps heard of the Jewish law that no one should be judged for a sin without the testimony of two people who had admonished the culprit and told him of his crime's punishment before he committed it. It is said in the Mishnah that a court that pronounced a death sentence once in seventy years was called a killing court."

"What murderer is going to kill someone in the presence of two witnesses and after admonishment?" Zalman the glazier asked. "A murderer waits for a time when he won't be seen. They attack mostly at dark, when no one is there."

"God sees," Levi Yitzchok replied. "He is in no need of witnesses. He is Himself the witness, the judge, the punisher. But since you are talking about misplaced pity I have also a story to tell."

"Let's hear."

"In Kozienice there was a landowner by the name of Stanislaw Karlowski, a little man. He was called Crazy Karlowski. All his adult years he was involved in litigations with other landowners and he lost in these protracted wranglings a lot of money as well as prestige. He had inherited from both his grandparents so many cattle, so many fields and forests that he could indulge all his whims. He had a habit of standing in court and calling the judge bad names, accusing him of being ignorant and a bribetaker. His lawyers begged him to keep quiet. But when a man is crazy he won't listen to advice. The neighboring landowners knew of his temper and they constantly laid claim to some of his land, and he was always the loser. He had a wife, who was immensely rich, too. She came from a family of Polish kings. I never saw her, but I am told she was most beautiful and a harlot. Everyone knew that she had dozens of lovers. She even had love affairs with the squires who took her mad husband to court.

"In our times, duels are forbidden, but in those days the nobles were always dueling. One noble said about another that his racehorse didn't run as fast as it should and he was immediately challenged to a duel. A duel could not take place without seconds, as they were called. Their mission was to make peace between the antagonists, but actually they provoked them to more hatred, eager to see combat and bloodshed. Once, some noble called Karlowski's wife promiscuous. Immediately Karlowski challenged him to a duel. As always, the seconds poured oil on the fire. Karlowski took one pistol, his opponent took another, and they went to a clearing in a forest to shoot it out. The seconds lurked on both sides and waited to see who would kill whom. This is what the Gentiles called an affair of honor. According to the rules, both parties were supposed to shoot simultaneously. But how can you know the exact moment to pull the trigger? The other fired first and wounded Karlowski in the knee. After a duel the former enemies were obliged to forgive one another, shake hands, and sometimes even kiss. So the two men apologized to one another and went through the entire ceremony. The one who shot first rode home on his horse to celebrate his victory. Karlowski was bandaged, put into a britska, and taken home.

"Now, listen. At the time when Karlowski was engaged in the duel, his faithless wife took one of her paramours up to a balcony on a tower from which one could see far away, and both looked through field glasses to where the duel took place, all the while kissing and embracing and having their pleasure. Both expected Karlowski to be killed, and when they saw through the field glasses that he was being loaded into a britska, they thought he was already a corpse. They went down to drink wine and to be comforted. Later on, when Karlowski was brought back alive, his wife instantly fell into a swoon, but after she was revived she kissed him, pretended to cry from joy, and thanked him profusely for defending her reputation. He later recovered, but he walked with a limp.

"You haven't heard everything yet. After a while, she became tired of him altogether. She packed her fancy garments and all her jewelry, grabbed all the money she could get her hands on, and went abroad with a young lecher-perhaps to Paris or some such place. Her husband sent armed riders after her with warrants for her arrest, but the couple had already crossed the frontier and there was nothing their pursuers could do. Karlowski railed to the few friends he had that the young charlatan had seduced his innocent wife and made her leave the path of righteousness. Since he was embroiled in lawsuits up to his neck, he had not much time to brood about his disgrace. Every few months he had to sell another forest or piece of land to pay his litigants and advocates, as well as his penalties for contempt of court. He had to borrow money at high interest. He even became indebted to the Jew who managed the business of his ever-diminishing estates. Three years passed like this. One day a carriage approached Karlowski's castle, and who do you think was inside? His wife-not alone but with a small child, a bastard. The people who saw her arriving were sure Karlowski would come out with a gun or a sword and kill her. What can be worse than a wife who comes back to a husband with a child born of whoredom? But he forgave her. I wasn't there, but I am told that she fell on his throat, lamented, and swore that she had been yearning for him all the time. It was the fault of that young stallion who bewitched her, seduced her, and brought her to shame. How is it written? 'And thou hadst a whore's forehead, thou refusedst to be ashamed ...' She ate and wiped her mouth and said, 'I have done no harm.' She kept crying and Karlowski tried to soothe her. It didn't last long, and she again became ruler of the castle. She found other sinners, or perhaps the old ones returned. Karlowski, because of his litigations, had often to go to Lublin or Warsaw. He even appealed to the synod in Petersburg, hoping to find justice there. His debts had become so huge that he was on the verge of bankruptcy. But then a hundred-year-old aunt of his died and left him a small fortune. So he paid his debts and could afford new litigations.

"Don't think that you have heard the whole story. One day another carriage came to the castle, and who do you think was there? The father of the baby. He had committed some crime for which he could go to jail. He made believe he had come to see his child, but it was only a pretext to ask its mother for money. It seems that she could not forget him. I am told that she pawned her pearls to pay his debts. If I am not mistaken, he had played with marked cards and his parents had disowned him. I think he was also ill, from drunkenness or from bawdiness. Well, and what do you think Karlowski did? He became an ardent friend of his wife's debaucher, took him into his castle, called doctors to cure him. Even the priests in the surrounding villages condemned Karlowski and his insane behavior. However, Karlowski had a private chapel on his estate and his own deacon, who preached that his lord behaved as a pious Christian should, forgiving his enemy and turning the other cheek."

"What happened then?" Zalman the glazier asked.

"What could have happened?" Levi Yitzchok said. "That rake remained in the castle for a long time, rested, became healthy and fat. The wife was not young enough for him any more, and he was looking for younger prey. He soon found some governess or stewardess who was ready to put herself at his disposal. One day he broke open Karlowski's safe, took out everything of value, even his mistress's jewels, and ran away with that other woman. I think she was a distant relative of the wife's. Karlowski himself continued with his litigations. One day, when the judge brought a verdict against him, he became so shocked that he dropped dead. His wife tried to find solace with her coachman or some other servant, but meanwhile creditors seized the estate and evicted her. She died soon after."

"What happened to the illicit child?" Zalman the glazier asked.

"I really don't know," Levi Yitzchok said. "But what ever happens to the wicked and their seeds? As the psalmist says, they are like chaff driven by the wind."

For a long while it was quiet again in the study house. One of the beggars had stretched out on a bench and fallen asleep. He was snoring, murmuring, and from time to time a whistling came from his nostrils. The other beggar sat down to listen to the stories. He had a little yellow beard and large eyes, like those of a calf. He kept on nodding to every one of Levi Yitzchok's words until he, too, dozed off. Meir the eunuch wiped the frost off the windowpane with his palm and gazed toward the sky, as if to make sure that the moon was not yet completely full. He turned and said: "What Squire Malecki was doing had nothing to do with pity. Ecclesiastes has said, 'In the place of justice even there was wickedness.' All these judges and lawyers need criminals, just as a doctor needs patients. From the honest who were wronged they will not draw any profit. As for the other squire, what was his name-Karlowski-he knew quite well what his shrew was doing, but he enjoyed letting her have her rotten ways. What does the Gemara say? 'The slave exults in disorder.' When a man sinks in the Forty-nine Gates of Defilement, his nature turns topsy-turvy. Bad becomes good, shame becomes honor. They wallow in slime and are proud of it. What was Sodom? What was the generation of the Flood? Nothing but perversity. And what happened to Rabbi Joseph della Reina? He had already managed to fetter Satan in chains and was about to bring Redemption. But he was suddenly overcome with mistaken pity and offered Satan a sniff of tobacco. This gesture of compassion for the Archfiend was incense to the idols, and all Rabbi Joseph's efforts collapsed. Immediately the Evil One freed himself from his shackles, regained his malign powers, and the Redemption was obstructed. Rabbi Joseph could have repented, because the doors of repentance are always open, but he had fallen into resignation. Since he could not bring the End of Days, he tried to bring the end of the world. Just as he had invoked holy names before, so he now turned to the names of the Evil Hosts. There is only one step from light to darkness.

" 'The greater a man is, the greater is his passion,' says the Talmud. Rabbi Joseph was born with blood of fire. In those times, Spain belonged to the sons of Ishmael. Rabbi Joseph had heard that there was a caliph whose wife was the greatest beauty of all lands, and her name was Ptima. She was utterly lustful, a reincarnation of Cozbi, the daughter of Zur. Since Rabbi Joseph had thrown off the yoke of holiness and given up the goal of becoming totally righteous, he chose total guilt. He uttered a Satanic name and bade two demons bring him this Ptima. He was still living in a cave, as in the times when he was fasting and doing penance in order to bring the Messiah. It was said that he descended from Joseph the Righteous and was as graceful as his ancestor. No wonder that when he and Ptima met they indulged in all possible abominations.

"There is a proverb: 'In time one gets tired even of kreplech.' After some months Rabbi Joseph was told that the Grand Vizier's wife was even more voluptuous than Ptima. Her name was Grisha. Since he had given up the rewards of the soul, there was nothing to impede him from tasting this one, too. He bade the demons bring Grisha to him, and when they did he was overwhelmed by her carnal beauty. From then on, the evil spirits brought him both these females each night-Ptima from sunset to midnight, and after he sent Ptima back to her bed, a journey that lasted an instant, he enjoyed Grisha until dawn.

"Once when Ptima spent her hours with Rabbi Joseph, she found in the bed a cameo with the name Grisha engraved on it. She became jealous and asked Rabbi Joseph who this Grisha was. Just as Delilah coaxed Samson, Ptima pestered Rabbi Joseph so long that he finally divulged to her that she was the wife of the Grand Vizier. Ptima knew that Rabbi Joseph worked all these miracles by the force of an unholy name, and after she lulled him to sleep she began to search for this name. She found it inscribed on a piece of parchment that he kept in a little bag at his throat. Once she found the ungodly name, she had the upper hand. She bade the demons bind Rabbi Joseph with a sash and bring her the mightiest males in all the kingdoms of man.

"I wonder if you know that the Fallen Angels-as well as the descendants of Anak, who were seen by the spies Moses sent to Canaan-are still alive today. They're hiding behind the Black Mountains, or perhaps on the other side of the River Sambatyon. The Angel of Death has no dominion over them, since they are not of this world. Ptima ordered the demons to bring these giants to her. They did so, and she copulated with them in the presence of Rabbi Joseph for three days and three nights. You can imagine what anguish Rabbi Joseph suffered, but since she was in possession of the impure name, he could not free himself. The caliph searched for his wife, but she had disappeared.

"The first time Ptima told her evil messengers to bring her the Fallen Angels and the sons of Anak, she whispered the name so that Rabbi Joseph could not hear it. Before dawn on the fourth day, she had become so fatigued from her loathsome game that she ceased being careful and uttered the name out loud. Rabbi Joseph seemed to be asleep but he awoke at that moment. He had forgotten the name and was helpless, but now that he knew it he regained his power and commanded the messengers of the night to do his will instead of hers. Since both sides applied the same incantation for different purposes, they canceled each other's spell and the evil ones flew back to Mount Seir and stayed in equilibrium. Slowly Rabbi Joseph managed to unbind himself, and he clutched Ptima's throat, about to strangle her. How far is adultery from murder?

"When the cunning Ptima realized her end was near, she began to plead and speak sweet words to Rabbi Joseph and to defend herself by saying that she actually loved him, and that she surrendered to the celestial monsters only because of her jealousy. She said to him, 'What could you gain by killing me? You'll never find anyone more passionate.' When Rabbi Joseph answered that Grisha's flesh was even more gratifying than hers, Ptima said, 'Grisha is not among the living any more. I told my devils to do away with her, and they did. She was buried yesterday.' She went on, 'You let me live, and we two can conquer the world. You will conjure the most beautiful women, and I the richest men. We will put them to sleep and rob them of their diamonds, their medals, and all their possessions. You will become the king of the netherworld and I will be your loving queen. In gratitude for your mercy I will overcome my jealous nature and build a harem for you with more wives and concubines than King Solomon could ever boast of. We will revive the Queen of Sheba, Rahab the Harlot, and give loose rein to all our hearts' desires.'

"It is known that those who can persuade others are easily incited themselves. Rabbi Joseph asked her if she would consent to reviving Grisha and she replied, 'Your delight would be mine. Bring her back to life and we all three will rejoice together.' 'What would happen to your husband?' Rabbi Joseph asked, and she answered slyly, 'For your sake, I will make myself a widow.'

"Not only did Rabbi Joseph give in to aberrant pity but he made a fatal misjudgment. Those who study the Cabala know that with witchery one can accomplish anything but the resurrection of the dead. Once Rabbi Joseph and Ptima attempted to reanimate Grisha, they lost their potency. A wild laugh came down from Mount Seir. Satan and Lilith were laughing with such abandon that the blare echoed over all the deserts. Rabbi Joseph della Reina was deprived of both the power of holiness and the power of the diabolic. He became sick with contamination. Ptima was now more than willing to return to the caliph, but he was four hundred miles away. Besides, the guards wouldn't have let her into the palace, because her beauty had vanished and she had become nothing but a sack of bones. No one would have recognized her."

"What did they do then?" Zalman the glazier asked.

"Rabbi Joseph spat on her and left her to her own devices. She became a beggar at the mosque and died soon after. Rabbi Joseph was too proud to repent and he expired in rebellion. He was reincarnated as a dog."

"I've never heard of this," Levi Yitzchok remarked.

"So you hear it now," Meir said.

"Have you read it in some book?" Levi Yitzchok asked.

"I am the book," Meir answered.

He got up and began to pace from wall to wall. He rubbed his hands one against the other. The kerosene lamp flickered. The wick wavered and smoked. The Radzymin study house became full of shadows. Zalman the glazier said, "Really, I will be afraid to walk home."

Meir the eunuch seemed to have heard his words, because he stopped, laughed, and cried out, "Don't be a fool, Reb Zalman. The moon is shining. The heavens are bright. Evil is nothing but a coil of madness."

end.