When Yasha Schulevitz’s poem, “And Moses Made a Serpent of Brass,” was printed in Warsaw’s largest Yiddish daily newspaper, everyone suddenly hated him. It should have been his moment of supreme triumph. The newspaper had a massive distribution. It was in the hands of every Jew in every café along the fashionable streets that lined the Saxony Gardens; it was perused by every Jewish clerk and secretary on the trolleys waffling down Krochmalka Street; it was folded into the lunch pail of every Jewish proletariat in every factory that lined the Vistula, and of course it was spread out on every chipped mahogany table in the reading room of the Yiddish Writers’ Club. But the day after its publication, when everyone in Warsaw who could read a Yiddish word had slept on the poem and upon waking had formed their idiosyncratic exegeses of it, he found himself utterly despised.Strangers accosted
him on the street and berated him for all shades of sins and crimes. All but his most steadfast of friends turned
their backs to him, and even his family returned his letters unopened. The only mail he did receive was hate mail --
mountains of hate mail -- he was accused of being a capitalist, a communist, a
self-hating Jew, a servile Yiddishist, a fascistic Zionist, an anarchist, a
nihilist, and sometimes these often mutually contradictory charges were crowded
like bickering relations, two or even three at a time, into one missive. Atheists accused him of rank religiosity;
religious Jews accused him of godlessness.
One rabbi in a small town not far from where he grew up wrote a long
letter full of learned quotations and pious denunciations about the accumulated
perils of Yasha’s soul. The rabbi’s
arguments wandered around, then he ended oddly: He told Yasha that when Abraham
was in Egypt ,
he gave his wife Sarah to Pharaoh as his concubine, in order to save his
life. To prevent a terrible sin, God
struck Pharaoh with a plague, and that plague was impotence. The rabbi reminded Yasha that God controls
all things, even the intimate functions of a man.
Even the members
of the Yiddish Writers’ Club, no strangers to scandal and controversy, were
aghast at the poem. But some were merely
jealous. Who is that pup, they asked,
who garners such attention? He is in Warsaw from the provinces
for less than a year and already his name is on everyone’s lips! Besides jealousy, the writers also found
other faults with the poem, each according to his natural predilection. The Litvak writers found his Yiddish too
Galician, and thereby vulgar. The
writers who Germanized their Yiddish so it aligned more with Central
Europe found his propensity to use Yiddish words of Hebrew,
Aramaic, and Slavic provenance preposterous, insulting and backward. And of course the Hebraists were up in
arms. Just four months ago Yasha had
published a Hebrew poem in a Hebrew annual (circulation: one-hundred fifty) and
received warm letters of praise for his dexterous use of the Holy Tongue. But as word of his Yiddish poem spread, it
seemed to Yasha that all one-hundred fifty readers of the Hebrew annual now
hated him and wrote letters, seeking to use every pejorative word and
expression they could find in their thin Hebrew lexicons. He had stabbed the Hebraists in the back by
using Yiddish, that mongrel jargon, for “poetry.” There was no room for his like in the tents
of Jacob, one huffy Hebraist wrote, while not realizing, Yasha noted with
disgust, that his own Hebrew diction was simply translated Yiddish.
Things went on
like this for Yasha Shulevitz for some time.
His second-hand desk was crammed with poems and essays, both in Hebrew
and Yiddish, but no newspaper, magazine or journal would touch them. Yasha thought he would be forgotten, but the
river of mail continued to pour through his door. He daily carried it to the Writers’ Club and
read every word mailed to him, no matter how harsh. His face must have reflected the words in his
hands, for an older writer, Zaide Mendelbaum, originally from Lublin , who had written a novel over forty
years ago that had made quite a splash (and now was all but forgotten) was
suddenly sitting across from him.
“Why do you read
those? Are you a masochist?” Zaide
Mendelbaum spoke with a slight lisp, and when he breathed, he wheezed, a habit
exacerbated by continually sucking on a cigar.
“What else is
there to do, Herr Mendelbaum?” Yasha answered with a shrug of his
shoulders. “Even if I wrote down the
alef-bet, no one would print it!”
“The best part
about literary attention is the women,” Zaide Mendelbaum said, as if to
himself, raising his bushy eyebrow in silent revelry.
“Pardon?” Yasha
asked, and Zaide Mendelbaum shuddered, as if an act of mental coitus had been
consummated and completed.
“Women. The ladies.
When my book was wagging everyone’s tongues, nearly every girl or woman
I met hitched up her skirt for me.
Virgins, matrons, newlyweds – it hardly mattered. Even some religious types – Chasdic matrons
with wigs!” Zaide Mendelbaum stopped talking, as if he expected Yasha to say
something elegiac about his past amorous adventures. But the young man just
looked at him, a letter drooping in his hand like a banner of defeat.
“Anyway,” Zaide
Mendelbaum continued, puffing on his cigar, “I suppose your kind of fame won’t
lift any skirts.”
“No one will talk
to me, Herr Mendelbaum, let alone take me to bed,” Yasha managed to say at
last. Zaide Mendelbaum shook his head
mournfully, like a man paying respects to a sick man who is sure to die, and
retired to his chair with a newspaper.
So Yasha picked up yet another envelope.
The handwriting was female. This
was odd. Most of his correspondents were
men. He slit the envelope and opened the
letter. The script was precise, neat,
and intriguingly feminine. The paper was
mauve and bore the unmistakable scent
of Eau de Cologne. The smell filled Yasha’s nostrils. He imagined a boudoir filled with erotically
suggestive bric-a-brac, a chemise folded over a plush velour chair, garters and
stockings and negligees, odiferous with the promising stench of recently vacated
female pulchritude, strewn everywhere.
Images of the chaos of Eros cluttered his overheated mind. The tone of the letter, therefore, surprised
him. It was a line by line
interpretation of his poem, complete with citations and even references. This woman, this Fruma Frumkin, had read “And
Moses Made a Serpent of Brass,” from a decidedly Freudian angle. “Your image of the Nehustan,” she wrote in
her summarizing penultimate paragraph, “or the bronze snake or serpent which
Moses fashioned, is, of course, overtly phallic. But your words ‘The people worship the snake
like a mother / As a thing dripping with milk,’ show a decided mother fixation,
and an unresolved Oedipal Complex. No
doubt you seek your mother image in older women, but here you sublimated that
drive masterfully, in poetic images.
Moses constructed the brazen serpent, the Nehustan, to cure the
Israelites of deadly snake bites. Here
you display your fear and fixation on the maternal vagina, a place of great
erotic attraction and physical repulsion.
Furthermore, the act of apostasy in your poem, as the people of Israel
burn incense to the idol -- and King Hezekiah’s destruction of the Nehustan in
an iconoclastic rage -- illustrates the tension inherent in the poem (and
perhaps in you?): you wish to possess the mother, and also destroy her.”
Yasha continued to read the letter. When he finished, he read it again. This Fruma Frumkin got the poem all wrong, of
course, but unlike the other letters, her analysis was bereft of mockery and
rage. It was more clinical: it was as
though Yasha was lying on a psychoanalyst’s couch listening in rapt attention
as his most erotically perverse dreams were dissected in precise Viennese
German. And of course, there was this:
“I would very much like to meet the young man who wrote such a masterful
poem. My husband is out most afternoons
after three. We can talk then without
interruption. Sincerely, Fruma Frumkin,”
and her address card was attached to the letter. The Frumkins’ house was in one of the more
fashionable quarters of Warsaw .
Yasha sent a short note to Fruma Frumkin
saying he would be pleased to meet her.
The next day a private courier arrived at Yasha’s apartment. He tipped the man a groschen and opened the
letter: Fruma Frumkin would be delighted to meet him at 4’o clock today for
tea.
Yasha took his good suit out of a box beneath
the bed and had it pressed. He went down
to the newsstand and had his shoes shined to a high buff. When he alighted from the trolley, he found a
florist around the corner from the Frumkin house and purchased a bouquet of
multicolored carnations. At 3:55 he stood on the top step of the
well apportioned townhouse and rang the bell.
A butler led Yasha into a bright, warm sitting room and asked him to
please take a chair. But Yasha was only
seated for a moment. A woman quickly
entered the room. She was large but well
proportioned, somewhere between forty-five and fifty (Yasha could not tell)
with a significant but well-formed bosom, a tapered waist, and pleasingly wide,
almost flared hips. She wore a
fashionable short skirt with black hose, and her legs were rather thick but
firm, lengthy without being leggy. Her
face was round and white and studded with minute freckles. Her red hair was piled high on her head,
styled like a matron’s, with stray curls dangling down here and there like
reddish wisps of a deflated crown. She
had a long nose, and wide-set brown eyes.
Yasha quickly sized her up as an Ashkenazi female type: the red-headed
Jewess whose markers of Jewishness are spread about her carelessly, even
randomly. She took the flowers that
Yasha offered her, and smiled, revealing a row of strong, white teeth. She appeared to appreciate the flowers’
beauty, but she was really looking at Yasha.
“Why thank you, Herr Schulevitz,” she said in
a mellifluous tone. Her Yiddish had the
strong, resonant ring of a Jew who had lived in urban Warsaw her whole life. “This is so kind of you. But not as kind as the poem that you have
bequeathed to the world – to the Jews.
It is quite an innovation in Yiddish letters.”
“Why thank you, Frau Frumkin. I do wish that others shared your opinion,”
Yasha answered modestly, and Fruma Frumkin raised her hand, as if to object.
“Whenever a true cultural innovation is
thrust upon the public, and especially on us Jews, people try to stone it and
its creator. No one wants to embrace an
uncertain future. It frightens people to
believe that things must and will change.
So instead, we Jews retreat into a dead past.”
“I think ‘And Moses Made a Serpent of Brass’
is really about our past,” answered Yasha.
“Really?” Fruma Frumkin was shocked. “How extraordinary! I think of it as a prophecy of our future
lives. The life of the Jews and ultimately
of the Gentiles.” Yasha asked how that
may be, and Fruma Frumkin gestured to the young man to sit. She sat across from and surprising close to
him, their knees nearly touching. For
the first time, Yasha noticed that the room was rather hot.
“Why,
here is your poem,” and Fruma Frumkin reached for the Yiddish daily that
contained his poem, now two weeks old, from a Chippendale table. Her pink arm brushed against Yasha’s on the
return, and his body went from very hot to very cold. “The Lord sent the fiery serpents to his
people,” she read crisply. “And the
people died, and died/ And Moses fashioned the idol from brass, and screwed it
onto a pole / And all Israel
worshipped it.” She stopped and looked Yasha in the face for a long time. “Why, it is not only a brilliant paraphrase
of the Torah. Of course, it is much
more. It says more about where we are
going than where we have been. This is a
cleverly crafted allegory, Herr Shulevitz.
The fiery serpent is our sexual inhibitions; the bronze serpent, or
Nehustan, is our desire to be free of them.
The destruction of the Nehustan by the father figure, King Hezekiah,
represents the forces of repression.”
“I thought,” Yasha answered cautiously, “that
my poem revealed Oedipal impulses,” and then, with great effort, “and the
desire to sexually conquer my mother.”
On hearing this Fruma Frumkin smiled shyly, and her color rose. Then she stood and went to the far corner of
the room, retrieved something, and returned to her chair. In her hand was the Hebrew language journal
which had printed Yasha’s poem.
Evidently, Frau Frumkin was one among the one-hundred fifty. She began to read the poem, which was not
pointed, in excellent Hebrew. Then, in
Yiddish, she began to elucidate Yasha’s mother fixation, line by line, and at
times, word by word, betraying an excellent knowledge of Hebrew grammar and
etymology.
“Do not get me wrong, Herr Schulevitz,” she
said as she placed the Hebrew journal gently on a credenza. “I do not mean that you literally wish to have intercourse with your mother…”
“I’m sure this will please her,” Yasha
interrupted, and Frau Frumkin smiled indulgently.
“…but it manifests, in itself, a strong
attraction for older women as sexual partners.
This powerful Hebrew poem illustrates this urge even more pointedly than
your Yiddish poem. Ahh, the tea…” and
mercifully for Yasha, a maid entered with a tray of tea and cookies and for the
remainder of the afternoon at the Frumkin residence, the conversation did not
again veer toward matters sexual. As
Fruma Frumkin saw Yasha to the door, she demurely took his hand. They said goodbye with great precision, and
Yasha walked down the steps and out into the street.
Three days later he was at the Writers’ Club,
nursing a cup of coffee and reading a stack of hate mail. One man from Hungary accused him of being a
Czarist spy. A fellow in Belgrade illustrated,
from the anagrams he found in his poem, that he was in the employ of
Lenin. He then picked up a letter with a
Warsaw
postmark. The return address was
familiar. It was from Herr Frumkin, Herr
Boaz Frumkin, as he introduced himself in the body of the letter. He invited Yasha to his office at his
earliest convenience to discuss a proposal of mutual advantage.
The next day, Yasha sat across from a portly,
bald-headed man, with a sloping forehead and prominent nose. Yasha thought Boaz Frumkin looked not unlike
the caricatures of the “Capitalistic Jews” in the anti-Semitic
broadsheets. He wore a suit one or two
sizes too small for his large frame. His
wedding ring cut tightly into his finger, forming twin halos of white around
his pink, pudgy ring finger. He
carefully rolled and then cracked walnuts with a little brass mallet on his
desk blotter, only to then carelessly wipe the shells onto his carpet. The sign at the front of his factory said
“Frumkin Fittings,” and Boaz Frumkin responded to Yasha’s polite question that
he manufactured parts for all the new-fangled toilets being installed all over
Warsaw.
“But I did not bring you here to discuss
ballcock fittings, Herr Schulevitz,” Boaz Frumkin explained, narrowing his eyes
craftily. “I brought you here to discuss my wife.”
“Yes,” Yasha answered. “I had the pleasure of
meeting Frau Frumkin the other day. She
was kind enough to enjoy a poem of mine that appeared in the Yiddish Sun.”
“Yes, my wife is devoted to the arts…” Boaz
Frumkin answered, cracking a nut with his mallet, and then, upon seeing that
the contents were black, he brushed the whole mess to the carpet. “That is why I brought you here. As a poet, I imagine you don’t make a great
deal of money. Well, I have a ton of
it. As an artist, you are no doubt
progressive in your thinking. And I am a
progressive man myself. I’ll prove
it. You see, last year I had an affair
with a secretary here, a shiksa…”
“I don’t think that is any of my business,”
Yasha interrupted primly.
“Please, hear me out. You artists aren’t the only ones who take a
bite out of life, you know. This is a
good story. One day you can write a poem
about it. This affair with the shiksa didn’t turn out well. But you should have seen her: a real Slavic
beauty, with narrow Tartar eyes, high cheekbones, blond hair down to here,
quite a tasty piece. And what a mouth on her in the sack! She could have made a Russian sailor
blush. Well, my wife found out about it. People wag their tongues. Our Sages say gossip deprives a man of the
World to Come. Well the girl – the shiksa secretary, she committed suicide
from the strain of it all, jumped into the Vistula and sank like a stone… and
the whole affair, even after a year, has made me impotent…”
“Herr Frumkin!”
“…please, please, call me Boaz. I can no longer perform the sexual act. Not with any woman. This is not fair to my wife. She’s no maiden, but she’s not a babushka, either. She needs what a man like you can do for her,
satisfy her artistic and other needs, and of course, a stipend is in order…”
“Really, Herr Frumkin!” Yasha spat and stood
up to leave. “I don’t know how you can
insult me with such an offer. And insult
your wife by treating her like nothing more than a whore!” and Yasha Schulevitz
turned on his heel and fled.
The next day Yasha sat at a table at the
Writers’ Club, smoking cigarette after cigarette, a stack of unopened mail
before him, as accusatory as a silent but angry crowd. He had no desire to give life to those voices
by opening the letters. It seemed that
every Jew in Europe wished to project his or
her delusions onto his defenseless poem, which he had written, more or less,
for no other reason than to write it.
Suddenly, the doorman of the club was in front of him, and Yasha
realized that he had escorted someone to his table. When the man turned and left, Yasha saw Fruma
Frumkin in front of him. Most of the
members of the club were men, and every head turned to study her every curve
and bulge. Yasha felt his face grow
hot. He feared a scene here, among the
Yiddish writers, who were worse gossipers than old washer women. Jewish Warsaw
was like a small town, and he was afraid that a scandal with a married woman
would, when joined with the printing of that blasted poem, further ruin his
‘career.’
“Herr Schulevitz, I beg your pardon. I do not wish to disturb you while you work…”
“Frau Frumkin,” Yasha rose a little but found
he had no strength in his legs.
“My husband called you to him, but I had no
knowledge of this. I did not give my
consent, you must realize…”
“Please, please, Frau Frumkin,” Yasha
whispered hoarsely, for he felt as if a tourniquet was being wound around his
neck. “If we must speak of this, please come with me,” and he led her out to
the balcony. The winter air was crisp
and the light was bright. When Yasha
looked at Frau Frumkin’s face in the unforgiving intensity of the winter sun he
realized that she was old enough to be his mother. The balcony had once held potted plants, but
they were long gone. Now the writers
used the soil-filled pots to tamp out their cigars and cigarettes.
“Herr Schulevitz, my husband called you
without my knowledge…”she continued, but Yasha cut her off.
“Frau Frumkin, we really don’t need to…”
“But you must understand, Herr
Schulevitz. You are a poet, an artist, a
modern man. We are no longer primitive shtetl Jews. We live in the modern world. Will a man die if he makes love to a woman
who is menstruating, for instance? Or
will he suffer if he engages in any of the other forbidden sexual practices in
Leviticus 20? What kind of God cares if
a man sleeps with a woman and her mother?”
“Madame, my grandfather was the Viznitzer
Rebbe. And his father before him. It is true that I am no longer a practicing
Jew, but I take seriously the moral strictures of the Torah, one of those being
adultery, which is treated as a capital offense…”
“But my grandfather was a rabbi too,” Fruma
Fromkin pleaded, and took a step toward Yasha, until all that separated them
was a thin sliver of winter light. “And
I believe in my own way. The Law is an
illuminating light! When Moses came down
from Sinai, his face was so bright he had to place a veil over his head! But Herr Schulevitz, I’ve suffered so. My husband.
Our marriage. That dead secretary
seems to lie between us at night, preventing our intimacy. When I read your poem, I fell in love with
you. Spiritually, of course. The carnal aspect was absent when I read your
poem. And then, when I saw you in my
sitting room, I was reminded of the body again…”
“Frau Frumkin, I implore you…” but Yasha could not finish
his sentence. Fruma Frumkin was kissing
him. From some depth within him, he kissed
her back. He felt her enormous breasts
pressing against his chest. Then Frau
Frumkin pulled away. Her hair was
disheveled from its bun. Her face was
wild with strange confusion. She looked
like an Chasdic matron disturbed by a great domestic disorder, such as finding
an egg with a spot of blood in the yoke.
“Oh Yasha! Yasha!” she managed to wail before
she ran out of the balcony, through the crowded room of writers, and out the
door.
Yasha stepped off the balcony and every head
turned toward him and then quickly away.
As he retrieved his coat from the hat boy, Zaide Mendelbaum
approached him, his large, sad eyes wet with moisture, twirling a new cigar
suggestively between two fat fingers. He
said: “I suppose that oyster produced a pearl after all, my boy,” and casually
strolled away.
Yasha hoped that
the incident with Boaz and Fruma Frumkin was the apogee of the dementia created
by the printing of “And Moses Made a Serpent of Brass,” for a few days after he
kissed Frau Frumkin on the balcony of the Writer’s Club, the letters nearly
halted. It appeared the readers of the
Yiddish newspapers, ever-eager for something new to scandalize their
sensibilities, had forgotten about Yasha Schulevitz and his poem. Then, a popular Communist Yiddish language
daily that had somehow missed the poem during the initial feeding frenzy
reviewed it. Yasha was skewered as a
“bourgeois reactionary,” and reprimanded for “feudal obscurantism,” and
“pedaling medieval superstition and fear.”
The letters began to pour in again, but this time Yasha did not open
them. The Jews are lost, he heard
himself wail in his room. He concluded
that the Jews have been thrust into modernity without being ready; they adopted
every political faction with the ferocity they once had for the Talmud and the
Torah. The same drive toward
fractiousness that led rival Chasidic houses to excommunicate each other, or
the Mitnagidim to excommunicate the Chassids, was played out in politics, or in
the arts. Yasha thought of himself, Boaz
Frumkin, and Fruma Frumkin; of Boaz
Frumkin’s impotence and his pimping of his wife! All the Jews are lost in this new world. He thought of the rabbi who wrote to him
about Abraham offering his wife to Pharaoh to save his life. This was in the Torah! Only God saved Abraham and Sarah from
disgrace by rendering Pharaoh impotent.
Apparently, God meddled with men’s erections too, as well as moving the
heavens around, and destroying and creating entire worlds! It was madness! Yasha imagined the hapless
Pharaoh, ignorant that Sarah was Abraham’s wife, climbing upon the recumbent
Hebrew beauty, only to find he had no power to consummate the act. He no doubt wondered: what kind of god is
this Hebrew god who tampers with a man’s member?
So Yasha stayed in
his apartment and did not venture out.
Some of his diehard friends banged on his door to coax him out, but he
sent them on their way. They yelled
through the door, explaining that an avalanche of mail was in the hall, but
that only made Yasha retreat deeper into the apartment. He lied awake at night but sleep did not
come. He thought he may commit
suicide. The Vistula
was frozen, but there were great cracks in the ice, like fissures into
Gehenna. All Yasha would need to do, he
reasoned, was leap into one from a bridge.
But he only remained in bed, or stared out the window at the gray Warsaw day.
One morning, there
was a gentle rap at his door. Yasha felt
compelled by some hidden impulse to answer it, and saw, when he swung the door
open, that Fruma Frumkin was in his threshold.
“Oh, my dear Yasha,”
she said piteously, on seeing his disheveled clothes, his scraggly beard, and
the deep rings below his eyes. She wrung
her hands, once more looking like the Chasidic matron confronted with some
abomination. “Look at what they’ve done to you!
My poor boy,” and she reached out and stroked his face, as if comforting
a young boy. Yasha pulled her into the room.
They were on each other quickly.
Yasha roughly removed Fruma Frumkin’s clothes, tearing some of her
garments in his haste. He pushed her onto
his bed, which was tangled with brown sheets and yellow blankets. Her body was nude and white, and she opened
herself to him. Yasha pulled down his
pants and fell on her. He thrashed
about, ground his teeth, cursed Moses, the Torah, God, and the prophets, but
nothing happened. Nothing stirred.
He stood up and
began to laugh manically. Frau Frumkin
grew alarmed and pulled a blanket over herself defensively. But Yasha no longer saw or heard her. She said words to him, but all he heard was a
laughter that was not his own, as if the cosmos found his puniness a great
source of merriment, and was laughing, doubled over from its exertions. He pulled up his pants and sprinted out the
apartment, down the stairs, and into the street toward the frozen river,
laughing along.
