Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran (26 page)

“You do when it’s possessed!” Aunt Rifke looked utterly exasperated with everybody. “I don’t know how it could happen, but Chaim’s angel’s got a
dybbuk
in her—” she whirled on her husband “—which is why she makes you just keep painting her and painting her, day and night. You finish – really finish, it’s done, over – she might have to go back out where it’s not so nice for a
dybbuk
, you know about that? Look at her!” She pointed an orange-nailed finger straight in the blue angel’s face. “She hears me, she knows what I’m talking about. You know what I’m talking, don’t you, Miss Angel? Or I should say, Mister Dybbuk? You tell me, okay?”

I had never seen Aunt Rifke like this; she might have been possessed herself. Rabbi Shulevitz was trying to calm her, while Uncle Chaim fumed at the intruders disturbing his model. To my eyes, the angel looked more than disturbed – she looked as terrified as a cat I’d seen backed against a railing by a couple of dogs, strays, with no one to call them away from tearing her to pieces. I was anxious for her, but much more so for my aunt and uncle, truly expecting them to be struck by lightning, or turned to salt, or something on that order. I was scared for the rabbi as well, but I figured he could take care of himself. Maybe even with Aunt Rifke.

“A
dybbuk
cannot possibly possess an angel,” the rabbi was saying. “Believe me, I majored in Ashkenazic folklore – wrote my thesis on Lilith, as a matter of fact – and there are no accounts, no legends, not so much as a single
bubbemeise
of such a thing.
Dybbuks
are wandering spirits, some of them good, some malicious, but all houseless in the universe. They cannot enter heaven, and Gehenna won’t have them, so they take refuge within the first human being they can reach, like any parasite. But an angel? Inconceivable, take my word. Inconceivable.”

“In the mind of God,” the blue angel said, “nothing is inconceivable.”

Strangely, we hardly heard her; she had almost been forgotten in the dispute over her possession. But her voice was that other voice – I could see Uncle Chaim’s eyes widen as he caught the difference. That voice said now, “She is right. I am a
dybbuk
.”

In the sudden absolute silence, Aunt Rifke, serenely complacent, said, “Told you.”

I heard myself say, “Is she bad? I thought she was an angel.”

Uncle Chaim said impatiently, “What? She’s a model.”

Rabbi Shulevitz put his glasses back on, his eyes soft with pity behind the heavy lenses. I expected him to point at the angel, like Aunt Rifke, and thunder out stern and stately Hebrew maledictions, but he only said, “Poor thing, poor thing. Poor creature.”

Through the angel’s mouth, the
dybbuk
said, “Rabbi, go away. Let me alone, let me be. I am warning you.”

I could not take my eyes off her. I don’t know whether I was more fascinated by what she was saying, and the adults having to deal with its mystery, or by the fact that all the time I had known her as Uncle Chaim’s winged and haloed model, someone else was using her the way I played with my little puppet theater at home – moving her, making up things for her to say, perhaps even putting her away at night when the studio was empty. Already it was as though I had never heard her strange, shy voice asking a child’s endless questions about the world, but only this grown-up voice, speaking to Rabbi Shulevitz. “You cannot force me to leave her.”

“I don’t want to force you to do anything,” the rabbi said gently. “I want to help you.”

I wish I had never heard the laughter that answered him. I was too young to hear something like that, if anyone could ever be old enough. I cried out and doubled up around myself, hugging my stomach, although what I felt was worse than the worst bellyache I had ever wakened with in the night. Aunt Rifke came and put her arms around me, trying to soothe me, murmuring, half in English, half in Yiddish, “Shh, shh, it’s all right,
der rebbe
will make it all right. He’s helping the angel, he’s getting rid of that thing inside her, like a doctor. Wait, wait, you’ll see, it’ll be all right.” But I went on crying, because I had been visited by a monstrous grief not my own, and I was only ten.

The
dybbuk
said, “If you wish to help me, Rabbi, leave me alone. I will not go into the dark again.”

Rabbi Shulevitz wiped his forehead. He asked, his tone still gentle and wondering, “What did you do to become . . . what you are? Do you remember?”

The
dybbuk
did not answer him for a long time. Nobody spoke, except for Uncle Chaim muttering unhappily to himself, “Who needs this? Try to get your work done, it turns into a
ferkockte
party. Who needs it?” Aunt Rifke shushed him, but she reached for his arm, and this time he let her take it.

The rabbi said, “You are a Jew.”

“I was. Now I am nothing.”

“No, you are still a Jew. You must know that we do not practice exorcism, not as others do. We heal, we try to heal both the person possessed and the one possessing. But you must tell me what you have done. Why you cannot find peace.”

The change in Rabbi Shulevitz astonished me as much as the difference between Uncle Chaim’s blue angel and the spirit that inhabited her and spoke through her. He didn’t even look like the crew-cut, blue-eyed, guitar-playing, basketball-playing (well, he tried), college-student-dressing young man whose idea of a good time was getting people to sit in a circle and sing “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You” or “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” together. There was a power of his own inhabiting him, and clearly the
dybbuk
recognized it. It said slowly, “You cannot help me. You cannot heal.”

“Well, we don’t know that, do we?” Rabbi Shulevitz said brightly. “So, a bargain. You tell me what holds you here, and I will tell you, honestly, what I can do for you.
Honestly.
”

Again the
dybbuk
was slow to reply. Aunt Rifke said hotly, “What is this? What
help
? We’re here to expel, to get rid of a demon that’s taken over one of God’s angels, if that’s what she really is, and enchanted my husband so it’s all he can paint, all he can think about painting. Who’s talking about
helping
a demon?”

“The rabbi is,” I said, and they all turned as though they’d forgotten I was there. I gulped and stumbled along, feeling like I might throw up. I said, “I don’t think it’s a demon, but even if it is, it’s given Uncle Chaim a chance to paint a real angel, and everybody loves the paintings, and they buy them, which we wouldn’t have had them to sell if the – the
thing
– hadn’t made her stay in Uncle Chaim’s studio.” I ran out of breath, gas and show-business ambitions all at pretty much the same time, and sat down, grateful that I had neither puked nor started to cry. I was still grandly capable of both back then.

Aunt Rifke looked at me in a way I didn’t recall her ever doing before. She didn’t say anything, but her arm tightened around me. Rabbi Shulevitz said quietly, “Thank you, David.” He turned back to face the angel. In the same voice, he said, “Please. Tell me.”

When the
dybbuk
spoke again, the words came one by one – two by two, at most. “A girl . . . There was a girl . . . a young woman . . .”

“
Ai
, how not?” Aunt Rifke’s sigh was resigned, but not angry or mocking, just as Uncle Chaim’s “
Shah
, Rifkela,” was neither a dismissal nor an order. The rabbi, in turn, gestured them to silence.

“She wanted us to marry,” the
dybbuk
said. “I did too. But there was time. There was a world . . . there was my work . . . there were things to see . . . to taste and smell and do and be . . . It could wait a little. She could wait . . .”

“Uh-huh. Of course. You could die waiting around for some damn man!”

“
Shah
, Rifkela!”

“But this one did not wait around,” Rabbi Shulevitz said to the
dybbuk
. “She did not wait for you, am I right?”

“She married another man,” came the reply, and it seemed to my ten-year-old imagination that every tortured syllable came away tinged with blood. “They had been married for two years when he beat her to death.”

It was my Uncle Chaim who gasped in shock. I don’t think anyone else made a sound.

The
dybbuk
said, “She sent me a message. I came as fast as I could. I
did
come,” though no one had challenged his statement. “But it was too late.”

This time we were the ones who did not speak for a long time. Rabbi Shulevitz finally asked, “What did you do?”

“I looked for him. I meant to kill him, but he killed himself before I found him. So I was too late again.”

“What happened then?” That was me, once more to my own surprise. “When you didn’t get to kill him?”

“I lived. I wanted to die, but I lived.”

From Aunt Rifke – how not? “You ever got married?”

“No. I lived alone, and I grew old and died. That is all.”

“Excuse me, but that is
not
all.” The rabbi’s voice had suddenly, startlingly, turned probing, almost harsh. “That is only the beginning.” Everyone looked at him. The rabbi said, “So, after you died, what did happen? Where did you go?”

There was no answer. Rabbi Shulevitz repeated the question. The
dybbuk
responded finally, “You have said it yourself. Houseless in the universe I am, and how should it be otherwise? The woman I loved died because I did not love her enough – what greater sin is there than that? Even her murderer had the courage to atone, but I dared not offer my own life in payment for hers. I chose to live, and living on has been my punishment, in death as well as in life. To wander back and forth in a cold you cannot know, shunned by heaven, scorned by purgatory . . . do you wonder that I sought shelter where I could, even in an angel? God himself would have to come and cast me out again, Rabbi – you never can.”

I became aware that my aunt and uncle had drawn close around me, as though expecting something dangerous and possibly explosive to happen. Rabbi Shulevitz took off his glasses again, ran his hand through his crew cut, stared at the glasses as though he had never seen them before, and put them back on.

“You are right,” he said to the
dybbuk
. “I’m a rabbi, not a
rebbe
– no Solomonic wisdom, no magical powers, just a degree from a second-class seminary in Metuchen, New Jersey. You wouldn’t know it.” He drew a deep breath and moved a few steps closer to the blue angel. He said, “But this
gornisht
rabbi knows anyway that you would never have been allowed this refuge if God had not taken pity on you. You must know this, surely?” The
dybbuk
did not answer. Rabbi Shulevitz said, “And if God pities you, might you not have a little pity on yourself? A little forgiveness?”

“Forgiveness . . .” Now it was the
dybbuk
who whispered. “Forgiveness may be God’s business. It is not mine.”

“Forgiveness is everyone’s business. Even the dead. On this earth or under it, there is no peace without forgiveness.” The rabbi reached out then, to touch the blue angel comfortingly. She did not react, but he winced and drew his hand back instantly, blowing hard on his fingers, hitting them against his leg. Even I could see that they had turned white with cold.

“You need not fear for her,” the
dybbuk
said. “Angels feel neither cold nor heat. You have touched where I have been.”

Rabbi Shulevitz shook his head. He said, “I touched you. I touched your shame and your grief – as raw today, I know, as on the day your love died. But the cold . . . the cold is yours. The loneliness, the endless guilt over what you should have done, the endless turning to and fro in empty darkness . . . none of that comes from God. You must believe me, my friend.” He paused, still flexing his frozen fingers. “And you must come forth from God’s angel now. For her sake and your own.”

The
dybbuk
did not respond. Aunt Rifke said, far more sympathetically than she had before, “You need a
minyan
. I could make some calls. We’d be careful, we wouldn’t hurt it.”

Uncle Chaim looked from her to the rabbi, then back to the blue angel. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t.

The rabbi said, “You have suffered enough at your own hands. It is time for you to surrender your pain.” When there was still no reply, he asked, “Are you afraid to be without it? Is that your real fear?”

“It has been my only friend!” the
dybbuk
answered at last. “Even God cannot understand what I have done so well as my pain does. Without the pain, there is only me.”

“There is heaven,” Rabbi Shulevitz said. “Heaven is waiting for you. Heaven has been waiting a long, long time.”

“
I am waiting for me!
” It burst out of the
dybbuk
in a long wail of purest terror, the kind you only hear from small children trapped in a nightmare. “You want me to abandon the one sanctuary I have ever found, where I can huddle warm in the consciousness of an angel and sometimes – for a little – even forget the thing I am. You want me to be naked to myself again, and I am telling you
no, not ever, not ever, not ever.
Do what you must, Rabbi, and I will do the only thing I can.” It paused, and then added, somewhat stiffly, “Thank you for your efforts. You are a good man.”

Rabbi Shulevitz looked genuinely embarrassed. He also looked weary, frustrated and older than he had been when he first recognized the possession of Uncle Chaim’s angel. Looking vaguely around at us, he said, “I don’t know – maybe it
will
take a
minyan
. I don’t want to, but we can’t just . . .” His voice trailed away sadly, too defeated even to finish the sentence.

Or maybe he didn’t finish because that was when I stepped forward, pulling away from my aunt and uncle, and said, “He can come with me, if he wants. He can come and live in me. Like with the angel.”

Uncle Chaim said, “
What?
” and Aunt Rifke said, “
No!
” and Rabbi Shulevitz said, “
David!
” He turned and grabbed me by the shoulders, and I could feel him wanting to shake me, but he didn’t. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. He said, “David, you don’t know what you’re saying.”