Satan in Goray - Isaac Bashevis Singer [7]
4
The Old Goray and the New
October 1666. The rain had been coming down in torrents for a week, and every night that week the wind had blown as fiercely as though seven witches had hanged themselves. The downpour had flooded cellars, washed plaster off walls, put out fires in ovens. In the woods many trees were uprooted. The swift stream that ran near Goray had been blocked in its course and had overflowed the low places. The windmill sails had been torn from their chains, hence meal was dear. The few who were well off in Goray and who had laid in stocks of food during the summer months remained secluded at home, fearful of worshiping in congregation, lest they see the misery of the poor and hear their complaints. They dozed under goosefeather comforters, relished hot grits, smoked tobacco, dreamed of the fairs of old, and the mad, spendthrift gentry. For fear of thieves, they lit no lamps at night and would, at the slightest provocation, have buried their property and goods in the earth and made off. On the stoves of the poor, the pots stood empty and cold. The roads were dangerous, and no wagons dared venture into town. On rare occasions, a peasant carrying a small bag on his back would swim into view. He would sink above his knees in the mud, and plod from shop to shop, deliberating over where to sell his handful of rye. Women in mannish boots, their heads covered with torn shawls, would crawl forth to meet him like worms emerging from their holes. Tugging at his arms they would bargain for hours, until their toothless mouths became blue with cold. "A black year on you, dear sir," they would cajole, mockingly, half in Yiddish, half in Ukrainian. "Pharaoh's plagues fall on your head!" Goray was unquiet. A runner who had left for a distant village a day after the Feast of Tabernacles had not returned, and it was said that for his thirty- odd groschen the peasants had murdered him. Only by a miracle had a youth who traveled from farm to farm buying up produce escaped disaster. Spending the night in the silo of a peasant he had been wakened by the sound of his host murderously sharpening a hatchet. The feeble wasted away, and one by one they died. Each death brought Grunam the Beadle running through town in the early morning. Hurriedly, he would rap twice on each shutter with his wooden mallet, as a sign that the water was to be poured out of the house's water-run to thwart evil spirits (that no evil spirits might be mirrored there) and the household was to prepare for a funeral. Rabbi Benish labored to be with the poor in their hour of need. He issued a decree that the wealthy must share a tithe of their bread and grits, yellow peas and beans, linseed oil, and cords of wood. Tuesdays, two public-spirited citizens made the rounds of the town with a bag for the tithe; but the high cost of things had made people mean, and they hid their food. There should have been no lack of meat, since calves were cheap. But