Shayke

Once this was the heart of Warsaw—this labyrinth of sad narrow streets between tall tenement houses. Now this is a remote place, an ancient tumor on the body of the modern city, where its blood flows differently, and differently, too, throbs its pulse.

The Mokem—as Jews call the Old-City—has its own breath, its own light, which does not flow with the light of the rest of Warsaw. Likewise, the residents of Mokem have a different appearance, both Jews and Christians. They are withered, the residents of Mokem, as if the dust of past generations were stuck to them, were pressed into the folds of their clothes, into the wrinkles of their faces. And they are gray.

They carry with themselves the shadow of the cramped streets between tall tenements. Presently they shuffle along the wall, over the narrow sidewalks, like children, brushing against their mother’s knee. And the mothers—the tenements—are narrow and tall and, it seems, they stand, those tenements, on swollen knees: they are broader below than above, and the gray wall slides down onto the sidewalk in a slope, so as not to collapse. There are no gates here. Narrow arched doors with ancient grease lead from the street into dark arched corridors. And by day with their darkness, in evening—with the only lantern, which hangs down from the arched ceiling—the narrow archways exhale a fright and a warning into the cramped street: Watch out, people! There are witches in the world! And devils lurk in every corner. And evil people, even worse than devils, have concealed themselves within their darkness.

Not for nothing are alcoves present in the thick walls above the first floor. And there stand, nailed in their eternal watch, madonnas and saints. And however old and however neglected the walls—the madonnas with their holy lusters, with the sky-blue oil paint of their freshly painted clothes, wear fresh little garlands on their heads. [ . . . ]

If the Old-City is the ancient heart of Warsaw, then the old marketplace is the heart of the heart.

The old marketplace is a large quadrangular box. Its walls are the four rows of narrow, tall tenements—tall as five or six stories, narrowing down to three or four windows. And all the tenements here are gray and all, it seems, all so alike. And clearly—they are distinct. Every tenement with its face, with its air of an impoverished aristocrat. Great individualists they are, the tenements of the old marketplace. What holds them together here, shoulder to shoulder, squeezed together in crampedness? They have been staring intently with their browless eyes at the Water-Dame who sits on her pedestal in the middle of the cobblestoned square. A witch she is, the Warsaw Water-Dame, with wanton breasts and a perverse tail of scales. With her shield and with her sword, which she holds in her hands, she has bewitched the old tall tenements with their madonnas, with their saints, and the old stone individualists have lined themselves up in four rows and locked the square into a box.

It is no longer a square, but a giant room without a roof, a community-room to be used by the hands of the local residents.

Little children play in haste around the Water-Dame. They cannot run far away. She has also bewitched them. Older women sit on the stone steps of the pedestal, count their stocking-stitches and complain about their bitter lots. One about this—that her old man doesn’t make a living; the second—that her old man drinks and beats her; the third is jealous of them both: her man has long been resting in peace.

On summer evenings workers strike out in blue vests with cigarettes in their mouths to catch some conversation at the Water-Dame.

One people, one house, but without a roof. Therefore one can at least breathe freely.

Jews feel closer and more at home here with Christians than they would somewhere else. The tenements have packed them together here in crampedness. Heavy want oppresses everyone equally. No rich men live in the Old-City. And the shadows of past generations weave them together with a common secret.

On the square, near the Water-Dame, toward evening, two workers stopped. They had met, walking from work, and paused to talk a bit.

“Well, you’ve got some work?” the taller, blond one asked—he asked for no reason, only so as to talk. It really did interest him, whether his friend had work or not—chiefly, whether he wanted to work.

His friend responded after a brief hesitation.

“I want to tell you, Yisroel, you know very well that I am not fond of work. What’s the purpose, Shayke, I ask you, of painting flowers on the houses in Franciscan Street? I’ve got a good design for them, those potbellies! Oh yes, you see, it was truly worthwhile to come to Warsaw. . . .”

The blond man good-naturedly clapped him on the shoulder:

“Take it easy! Kraków was not built all of a sudden.” [ . . . ]

“Shush, Yisroel,” Shayke grew earnest and shoved his hat down on the hair over his forehead. “What’s the story with my poems? When will I see a published word?”

Yisroel promised him that in the party’s forthcoming review he would find his poems published. But Shayke would not relent. “When?”

“Obviously one cannot fill a political review with poems, you yourself know that well. It’s still missing material. Today I’ll be going to Shmuel for the editorial.”

Shayke had no patience. His muse was not waiting. Just then he already had another poem in the pocket of his painting pants. But to go show Yisroel, when the man has still not published the first poem. No, he will not show it.

He again gazed upward in wonder. In his little Chinese eyes there glowed a little flame, and his lips opened in a childlike smile. High on a roof there stood a little street urchin and he waved in the wind with a stick, five times longer than he was himself. To the stick a rag was tied. It waved in the wind, as if bewitched. Perhaps he wanted to paint over the whole sky above the old marketplace. And perhaps he waved this to the setting sun, so that it would return. No, with this the dark little silhouette on the roof was conducting a flock of silver doves. High, high ringed their number in airy wantonness. Silver little flowerbuds poured from a rose-colored cloud. And with a drop downwards—a pile of dark little rags. And with a scale upwards—once more silver flowers. Just then they flared up rose.

“You know, Yisroel, for us in the shtetl the turkey hens are already going to sleep. They nestle into one another and before sleep they recount their nightly dreams:

Too—loo! Loo—loo—loo! Tool, lool! Loo—loo— loo!”

Like so, Shayke performed such an ingenious whistle, as the turkey hens recount their dreams, that Yisroel burst into laughter.

“Get lost, you singular poet! Shayke the Piper, good night!”