524
PARTISAN REVIEW
Soap. A furious tug on the cord, the plug is pulled out, and the trol–
lop is forced to shut up.
There is a lingering darkness now in the world, or else only in
the room, or perhaps only inside his eyes which are a dulled blue like
water in a fog. As he feels for the switch of the electric fire his lips will
mutter:
S'is gurnisht. Sha. Shtil. Geendikt.
The thunderstorm outside
has abated. He shuffles over to the window, pulls open the curtains
with feeble rage and looks out at the street in the rain. February in
Jerusalem. The rain is heavy and steady. An occasional burst of low
thunder comes back like a beaten warrior. Along the pavement a
procession of drenched dustbins; one of them has been upset by the
wind and has spilled a mass of rainsoaked newspapers which cling to
the railings . Bare trees dripping. A gray half-light and tatters of mist
caught on tiled roofs and low stone walls. Over the road a derelict
plot full of thistles, cluttered with rusting scrap iron, lashed by the
rain. In front of it is a huge sign in three languages: On this site will
be erected the Center for the Promotion of Brotherhood sponsored
by the Jewish Community of Montreal and the Eisenstadt family.
Eisenstadt, Grandpa Isidore grumbles with disgust and loathing,
but these too pass and are gone . A woman in a raincoat trips lightly
across the street and disappears. A dark motor makes its way to–
wards Talpiyot or Rachel's Tomb. The strong horses and the gun
carriages have receded far into the distance while in Jerusalem the
heavy steady rain keeps falling . Now Grandpa Isidore is shivering in
the overheated room. Gone are the calculations and the reciprocal
politeness. He is alone as usual. A furious, infuriating man was
Shneur Zalman Rubashov, alias President Shazar, and he too has
passed away. There is nothing left. The old understanding will
never be resumed . He was an antisemite, a bloodthirsty pogrom–
maker, a fool and a confirmed drunkard-General Shevchenko, of
accursed memory. His bones have long since rotted under the snow.
And the bones of the worthy Halberstamm and Zondel the
Gubbay,
may God avenge their martyred blood and have mercy on their pure
souls. Halberstamm was no saint and Zondel talked too much and
never knew when to be quiet and which of the three of us was
deemed worthy to see Jerusalem and only this endless rain.
Geendikt.
Only because he has become hard of hearing he will not hear
Mathilda Azikri come in in her blue apron to put the breakfast down
on his bedside table and to say good morning. He will not touch his
breakfast this morning in any case. The brass guns on the riverbank
are firing mercilessly at the great forest across the water and the
