The Secret – Commentary

Salepage : The Secret – Commentary

In our family, few strange divorces were granted, but the one I’m going to tell was the strangest of them. One day, the front door opened to allow the proprietor of a nearby haberdashery and dry goods business. He was approximately forty years old and had a black beard that appeared nearly blue. His eyes were neither sly or crafty, but appeared to be staring into the distance. Since then, I’ve met Italians and Spaniards with the same dark eyes. He was dressed like a Hasid, but a really nice one. His alpaca kapote glistened, as did his fabric cap and plush collar with the black, silk tie. Mordecai Meir was his name.

“Good day, Rabbi.”

“Good day, Reb Mordecai Meir. Welcome. Please take a seat. “How may I assist you?”

Mordecai Meir let out a grunting sound. “I want a divorce right now.”

“So?”

“I’m not doing this for frivolous reasons, Rabbi.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Rabbi, I’m really sick,” he said quietly. “The doctors have given up on me.” We don’t have any children; if I leave, my wife will be forced to leave a levirate marriage. 2 My lone brother resides in the United States. So it’s preferable to obtain a divorce right away.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

My father paled as the man whispered something to him.

“The physicians are occasionally wrong,” he said after a little pause. “It’s all up to Providence.”

“I’m no Kohen [priest].” We can always remarry if I live.”

“I see. But what’s the rush?”

“Why should I wait?”

“What’s the harm?” You should seek advice from someone else. Maybe a specialist. In Vienna, there are some excellent doctors.”

“I know. I’ve already seen them.”

Father became aware of my presence. “Out!” I went to another room, upset and terrified by what I had overheard from the man who sold us thread, buttons, and other such items. I recognized the issue: the wife of a Jew who died childless must be released from a levirate marriage. Mordecai Meir was willing to divorce his wife and live out his final months alone in order to spare his wife the agony of having to deal with her brother-in-law. But how could a man speak of such matters so calmly? Tears welled up in my eyes, and I feared this man, who now appeared to be a walking corpse.

Mordecai Meir quickly exited the house. My father summoned my mother and informed her of what had occurred. I went outside and walked past Mordecai Meir’s store after hearing their whispers and sighs. I was curious about his wife. Was she sobbing? Absolutely not. She stood behind the counter, using a wooden rule to measure the length of sacking. She smiled and spoke with the customer as she went about her work. She was dark like her husband, with a rounded figure, plump cheeks, and a high bosom, but she maintained the usual amiability and decorum of a shopkeeper and matron. Her expression was devoid of any concern. She carefully counted the money she had just received and placed it in the cash drawer. “But this is impossible,” I told myself, “because it’s her husband.” She must be aware that he is going to die.”

It was strange; I, a stranger, was in pain, while his wife appeared unmoved. Later in life, I would have many similar experiences: losing sleep over people I barely knew, even though their closest relatives were unconcerned. For the first time, I realized that there are people who are so tough that no misfortune can shake them. They trudge on toward the grave, their thoughts on food and trivial matters of the day. Even when confronted with death, they are preoccupied with the most trivial ambitions.

But back to Mordecai Meir. I became increasingly interested in him and his wife after that. I walked past their store at every opportunity. And, like his wife, he kept chatting with customers, displaying and selling his goods as usual, counting the day’s receipts, or working on his accounts. However, as he went about his business, he would occasionally look off into the distance, as if he could see beyond the houses, across the roofs, and over the clouds. As the weeks passed, his face turned pale, then green, as if he had gone on a long fast; his pallor made his beard appear even darker.

The divorce was granted one day in our home. The terms were written out by the scribe with his quill pen. The two witnesses practiced signing their names. Mordecai Meir turned to face the scribe, while his wife sat on a bench. A single tear escaped her eye and landed on her cheek. Her expression expressed the resignation of a simple woman dealing with issues beyond her comprehension. She knew how to sell thread, buttons, and safety pins, as well as how to manage a maid and clean the house, but how to deal with a husband who was about to die baffled her. I noticed her mind wandering, and she appeared to be counting the fringes on her shawl for a while. Then she abruptly turned and twisted her wedding ring. Father sat reading from a holy book. He bowed his head and put his hand over his eyes. He had no doubt that what was happening was divinely ordained; but why had Providence denied Mordecai Meir his full complement of years? He was, after all, a nice guy. But who dared to question the Almighty’s ways?

Mordecai Meir’s wife finally stretched out her hands and was handed the bill of divorcement. Only then did she start crying. Father said what he always said on such occasions: the divorced woman would be barred from remarrying for ninety days. This triggered a new wave of tears.

I’m not sure what arrangements Mordecai Meir and his wife made after that. They were not allowed to sleep under the same roof under the law. I forgot about them, or rather forced myself to forget about them.

 

I saw a procession one day. It was Mordecai Meir’s funeral procession. His widow walked with her arms raised, weeping and moaning. A group of men followed her, chatting as they walked. “Mordecai Meir is Mordecai Meir, and we are we,” their demeanor seemed to say. He’s dead, but we’re still alive. He’s about to be buried, but we need to pay our rent and our children’s school fees. We no longer share any interests.”

Six or nine months later, I went into Mordecai Meir’s store to buy thread and encountered a strange man. What a contrast to Mordecai Meir. Mordecai Meir was slim and delicate, whereas this man was burly, with a large head, a flat nose, and a thick, wide beard. Hair grew from his long ears and wide nostrils, and a small beard sprouted from each finger. He spoke in a shaky tone. It was discovered that his kapote was unbuttoned. It was the second husband’s fault. Mordecai Meir’s wife, his home, and his store had all been taken over by him. He casually opened the cash drawer and took a handful of coins out, shuffled over the account books and papers, and addressed his wife as if they had been married for years. Mordecai Meir had vanished, as if he had never existed.

Mordecai Meir’s wife eventually had a child who was just as husky and slovenly as his father. She cooed and clucked as she played with the baby, “A-cuckoo, cuckoo.”

 

That isn’t the end of the story. During World War I, Warsaw was ravaged by a typhus epidemic. Krochmalna Street had the highest number of fatalities of any street in the city. Mordecai Meir’s widow was among those taken. “Such a young person, a mother of small children, and as lovely as a rose,” a neighbor lamented to my mother. “Woe to us.”

Mother, her matron’s wig awry, nodded at this new episode in the never-ending disaster to which one never grows accustomed. It was just more proof to her that life was a dream and that sin against God was pointless. Perhaps no one should have been born…

But what should one do if one was born?

After a few months, a strange woman was seen in Mordecai Meir’s store.

1 Copyright Isaac Bashevis Singer, 1965.

2 A law requiring the brother of a deceased man who left a widow but no children to marry the widow.

—Ed.

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