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be near Avigdor.
    ‘You could have married me,’ Avigdor said.
    ‘I wanted to study the Gemara and Commentaries with you, not darn your socks!’
    For a long time neither spoke. Then Avigdor broke the silence: ‘I’m afraid Hadass will get sick from all this, God forbid!’
    ‘I’m afraid of that, too.’
    ‘What’s going to happen now?’
    Dusk fell and the two began to recite the evening prayer. In his confusion Avigdor mixed up the blessings, omitted some and repeated others. He glanced sideways at Anshel, who was rocking back and forth, beating her breast, bowing her head. He saw her, eyes closed, lift her face to Heaven, as though beseeching: You, Father in Heaven, know the truth … When their prayers were finished, they sat down on opposite chairs, facing one another yet a good distance apart. The room filled with shadows. Reflections of the sunset, like purple embroidery, shook on the wall opposite the window. Avigdor again wanted to speak but at first the words, trembling on the tip of his tongue, would not come.
    Suddenly they burst forth: ‘Maybe it’s still not too late? I can’t go on living with that accursed woman … You …’
    ‘No, Avigdor, it’s impossible.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’ll live out my time as I am …’
    ‘I’ll miss you. Terribly.’
    ‘And I’ll miss you.’
    ‘What’s the sense of all this?’
    Anshel did not answer. Night fell and the light faded. In the darkness they seemed to be listening to each other’s thoughts. The Law forbade Avigdor to stay in the room alone with Anshel, but he could not think of her just as a woman. What a strange power there is in clothing, he thought.
    But he spoke of something else: ‘I would advise you simply to send Hadass a divorce.’
    ‘How can I do that?’
    ‘Since the marriage sacraments weren’t valid, what difference does it make?’
    ‘I suppose you’re right.’
    ‘There’ll be time enough later for her to find out the truth.’
    The maidservant came in with a lamp, but as soon as she had gone, Avigdor put it out. Their predicament and the words which they must speak to one another
could not endure light. In the blackness Anshel related all the particulars. She answered all Avigdor’s questions. The clock struck two, and still they talked. Anshel told Avigdor that Hadass had never forgotten him. She talked of him frequently, worried about his health, was sorry – though not without a certain satisfaction – about the way things had turned out with Peshe.
    ‘She’ll be a good wife,’ said Anshel. ‘I don’t even know how to bake a pudding.’
    ‘Nevertheless, if you’re willing …’
    ‘No, Avigdor. It wasn’t destined to be …’
VII
    It was all a great riddle to the town: the messenger who arrived bringing Hadass the divorce papers; Avigdor’s remaining in Lublin until after the holidays; his return to Bechev with slumping shoulders and lifeless eyes as if he had been ill. Hadass took to her bed and was visited by the doctor three times a day. Avigdor went into seclusion. If someone ran across him by chance and addressed him, he did not answer. Peshe complained to her parents that Avigdor paced back and forth smoking all night long. When he finally collapsed from sheer fatigue, in his sleep he called out the name of an
unknown female – Yentl. Peshe began talking of a divorce. The town thought Avigdor wouldn’t grant her one or would demand money at the very least, but he agreed to everything.
    In Bechev the people were not used to having mysteries stay mysteries for long. How can you keep secrets in a little town where everyone knows what’s cooking in everyone else’s pots? Yet, though there were plenty of persons who made a practice of looking through keyholes and laying an ear to shutters, what happened remained an enigma. Hadass lay in her bed and wept. Chanina the herb doctor reported that she was wasting away. Anshel had disappeared without a trace. Reb Alter Vishkower sent for Avigdor and he