ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER
211
multitudes of people and animals were giving up their lives. At least
one hundred thousand men and women lay dying; many more would
die the following day, and the next, and a week hence.
He partially covered his face with his hat, like a passenger on a
train, and drifted into a half-sleep . He had brooded about his rela–
tionship with Bessie for years, but he could never explain it to him–
self. On the surface it appeared simple enough, but behind their
mutual affection hovered a kind of enmity. They could neither stay
together nor remain apart. Eventually they were able to get along
only in the dark .
How had they spent their last night together, he wondered.
How could they have known that this was to be their final meeting?
What had they said to each other? What were the last words between
them? Unfortunately, this last night had blended in his memory
with many other nights . Most likely he'd promised to telephone the
following day , but he never called her again, nor she him. Yet dur–
ing those fifteen months he had thought of her every day, perhaps
every hour. More than once he had put his hand on the receiver, and
was about to lift it, but the power which had the final say ordained,
No. Every time his telephone rang his hope soared that it was she.
Then the day came when her brother called and told him the shatter–
ing news.
The radiator had grown still . Drowsily, he tried to listen to his
dreams, but there was nothing therein he could grasp. The visions
changed as quickly as they do in a fever. In one dream he was in a
narrow side street somewhere.
It
was lined with wooden shacks, with
roofs like boys' caps, housing a race of dwarfs . In the middle of the
alley stood a straw bed stripped of linen . He lay on this pallet and
gave a tattered urchin, an occupant of one of the huts, a dollar with
the understanding that the boy was to change the bill and bring back
ninety cents in silver. But the boy never returned. "He's stolen the
dollar!" he berated himself, and deplored his stupidity in having
trusted the youngster. And mingled with his regret was self-pity.
What was he doing here in a strange bed, in this forsaken alleyway
far from home, among a race of dwarfs? It all had to do with his
many failures .
He woke up . The clock showed a quarter past three. He'd slept
away half the night with nothing to show for it but a senseless
dream. Later he showered and shaved and dressed in his finest suit.
The previous day he'd sent a huge wreath of flowers to the funeral
parlor. He was anxious to appear prosperous before Bessie's friends
