Free More Stories from My Father's Court by Isaac Bashevis Singer

afraid that he might, God forbid, depart this world and lie buried in exile, in a land belonging to gentiles. The rebbetzin could under no circumstances decide to leave her family, so it gradually became clear that a divorce was the only way out.
    The rabbi was apparently quite a bit older than the rebbetzin. His beard was as white as milk. He was dressed not like a rabbi but like a Hasidic rebbe: in a broad silk coat and shoes with white socks and a sable hat. For some time he had radiated the sanctity of the far-off places which he would visit. Father said that the rabbi was studying Kabbalah and assumed self-imposed fast days. When he stood to pray the Afternoon Service in our apartment, it took him exactly an hour to finish. He muttered, sighed, raised his hands up high. He pounded his chest as a Jew does on Yom Kippur when he recites the “For the sins that we have committed” prayer. He bent and bowed like Jews had once done in the Holy Temple. For supper he ate a piece of dried challah and drank a glass of curdled milk.
    The rebbetzin had red cheeks, lively eyes, and a mouth that loved to nosh. She had arrived with a kerchief full of biscuits and candies on which she continually nibbled. She sat in our
kitchen and said, “This isn’t for me, Rebbetzin. I’m used to this place. I have my apartment, my bedding, my children and grandchildren, may they live to be one hundred and twenty years old. How could one leave all this behind? Sure, the Land of Israel is a holy land. When the Messiah comes, we will all be there, God willing …” The rebbetzin took out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.
    â€œThis is all rather strange,” Mother said half to the rebbetzin and half to herself.
    â€œRebbetzin, he is a sage!” the woman said. “He is more in heaven than on earth. He was quite ready to go without a divorce, but I knew that he would suffer. Who would care for him there? He’s the father of my children, may he live to be one hundred and twenty years old.”
    Mother sat silently. I saw on her face that she was angry at the rebbetzin. My mother felt that a wife must accompany her husband wherever he goes. All the more so when one has a husband like this one. The man was a saint! But what could be done? The rebbetzin had her own reasons. Just as part of her husband was in heaven, so she, the rebbetzin, stood with both her slippered feet on the ground. She loved her children with a passion. From time to time she stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips. After a while she looked around to see how my mother kept house and I could tell by her expression that she was dissatisfied with my mother’s domesticity.
    While the scribe was writing the divorce document, and even before that, when the witnesses were being instructed how to affix their signatures, the rebbetzin spoke about fish, meat, fritters, beans, and pancakes. She gave my mother all
kinds of advice regarding cooking and baking. The more the rebbetzin spoke, the clearer it became how earthbound she was, how deeply she was immersed in the pleasures of this world.
    Mother nodded, but I saw that she had no patience for all this talk. Finally she broke in: “What’s the point of being so occupied with eating?”
    The rebbetzin looked askance. “If you’re already eating, why shouldn’t it taste good?” she asked.
    â€œIt has a good taste.”
    â€œI feel that if the dish is not prepared exactly as it should be, I can’t put it in my mouth,” the rebbetzin declared. “My mother, may she have a bright Paradise, would say, ‘What one puts into the pot is what you take out. The pot cannot be fooled.’”
    â€œIt’s better to fool the pot than oneself,” my mother answered sharply.
    In the other room sat the rabbi. He swayed back and forth, holding his high forehead, and for a while was lost in thought. The man was no longer here but somewhere in