Why the Geese Shrieked
In our home there was always talk about spirits of the dead that possess the bodies of the living, souls reincarnated as animals, houses inhabited by hobgoblins, cellars haunted by demons) My father spoke of these things, first of all because he was interested in them, and second because in a big city children so easily go astray. They go everywhere, see everything, read profane books. It is necessary to remind them from time to time that there are still mysterious forces at work in the world.
One day he told us a story that is found in one of the holy books. If I am not mistaken, the author of that book is Rabbi Eliyahu Graidiker, or one of the other Graidiker sages., The story was about a girl possessed by four demons. It was said that they could actually be seen crawling around in her intestines, blowing up her belly, wandering from one part of her body to another, slithering into her legs. The Rabbi of Graidik had exorcised the evil spirits with the blowing of the ram's horn, with incantations, and the incense of magic herbs.
When someone questioned these things, my father became very excited. He argued: "Was then the great Rabbi of Graidik, God forbid, a liar? Are all the rabbis, saints, and sages deceivers, while only atheists speak the truth? Woe is us! How can one be so blind?"
Suddenly the door opened, and a woman entered. She was carrying a basket in which there were two geese. The woman looked frightened. Her matron's wig was tilted to one side. She smiled nervously.
Father never looked at strange women, because it is forbidden by Jewish law, but Mother and we children saw immediately that something had greatly upset our unexpected visitor.
“What is it?” Father asked, at the same time turning his back so as not to look upon her.
“Rabbi, I have a very unusual problem.”
“What is it? A woman's problem?”
Had the woman said yes, I would have been sent out of the room immediately. But she answered: “No, it's about these geese.”
“What is the matter with them?”
“Dear Rabbi, the geese were slaughtered properly. Then I cut off their heads. I took out the intestines, the livers, all the other organs, but the geese keep shrieking in such a sorrowful voice .... ”
Upon hearing these words, my father turned pale.
A dreadful fear befell me, too. But my mother came from a family of rationalists and was by nature a skeptic.
“Slaughtered geese don't shriek,” she said.
“You will hear for yourself,” replied the woman.
She took one of the geese and placed it on the table. Then she took out the second goose. The geese were headless, disemboweled‑in short, ordinary dead geese. A smile appeared on my mother's lips.
“And these geese shriek?”
“You will soon hear.”
The woman took one goose and hurled it against the other. At once a shriek was heard. It is not easy to describe that sound. It was like the cackling of a goose, but in such a high, eerie pitch, with such groaning and quaking, that my limbs grew cold. I could actually reel the hairs of my earlocks pricking me. I wanted to run from the room. But where would I run? My throat constricted with fear. Then 1, too, screamed and clung to my mother's skirt, like a child of three.
Father forgot that one must avert one's eyes from a woman. He ran to the table. He was no less frightened than 1. His red beard trembled. In his blue eyes could be seen a mixture of fear and vindication. For my father this was a sign that not only to the Rabbi of Graidik, but to him, too, omens were sent from heaven. But perhaps this was a sign from the Evil One, from Satan himself?
"”What do you say now?” asked the woman.
My mother was no longer smiling. In her eyes there was something like sadness, and also anger.
“I cannot understand what is going on here,” she said, with a certain resentment.
“Do you want to hear it again?”
Again the woman threw one goose against the other. I And. again the dead geese gave forth an uncanny shriek—the shriek of dumb creatures slain by the slaughterer's knife, who yet retain a living force, who still have a reckoning to make with the living, an injustice to avenge., A chill crept over me. I felt as though someone had struck me with all his
My father's voice became hoarse. It was broken as though by sobs. “Well, can anyone still doubt that there is a Creator?” he asked.
“Rabbi, what shall I do and where shall I go?” The woman began to croon in a mournful singsong. "What has befallen me? Woe is me! What shall I do with them? Perhaps I should run to one of the Wonder Rabbis? Perhaps they were not slaughtered properly? I am afraid to take them home. I wanted to prepare them for the Sabbath meal, and now, such a calamity! Holy Rabbi, what shall I do? Must I throw them out? Someone said that they must be wrapped in shrouds and buried in a grave. I am a poor woman. Two geese! They cost me a fortune!”
Father did not know what to answer. He glanced at his bookcase. If there was an answer anywhere, it must be there. Suddenly he looked angrily at my mother.
“And what do you say now, eh?”
Mother's face was growing sullen, smaller, sharper. In her eyes could be seen indignation and also something like shame.
“I want to hear it again.”
Her words were half pleading, half commanding.
The woman hurled the geese against each other for the third time, and for the third time the shrieks were heard. It occurred to me that such must have been the voice of the sacrificial heifer.
“Woe, woe, and still they blaspheme .... It is written that the wicked do not repent even at the very gates of hell.” Father had again begun to speak. "They behold the truth with their own eyes, and they continue to deny their Maker. They are dragged into the bottomless pit and they maintain that all is nature, or accident ......
He looked at Mother as if to say: You take after them.
For a long time there was silence. Then the woman asked, “Well, did I just imagine it?”
Suddenly my mother laughed. There was something in her laughter that made us all tremble. I knew, by some sixth sense, that Mother was preparing to end the mighty drama that had been enacted before our eyes.
“Did you remove the windpipes?” my mother asked.
“The windpipes? No .... ”
“Take them out,” said my mother, “and the geese will stop shrieking.”
My father became angry. “What are you babbling? What has this got to do with windpipes?”
Mother took hold of one of the geese, pushed her slender finger inside the body, and with all her might pulled out the thin tube that led from the neck to the lungs. Then she took the other goose and removed its windpipe also. I stood trembling, aghast at my mother's courage. Her hands had become bloodied. On her face co be seen the wrath of the rationalist whom someone has tried to frighten in broad daylight.
Father's face turned white, calm, a little disappointed. He knew what had happened here: logic, cold logic, was again tearing down faith, mocking it, holding it up to ridicule and scorn.
“Now, if you please, take one goose and hurl it against the other!” commanded my mother.
Everything hung in the balance. If the geese shrieked, Mother would have lost all: her rationalist's daring, her skepticism which she had inherited from her intellectual father. And I? Although I was afraid, I prayed inwardly that the geese would shriek, shriek so loud that people in the street would hear and come running.
But alas, the geese were silent, silent as only two dead geese without windpipes can be.
“Bring me a towel!” Mother turned to me.
I ran to get the towel. There were tears in my eyes.
Mother wiped her hands on the towel like a surgeon after a difficult operation.
“That's all it was!” she announced victoriously.
“Rabbi, what do you say?” asked the woman.
Father began to cough, to mumble. He fanned himself with his skullcap.
“I have never before heard of such a thing,” he said at last.
“Nor have I,” echoed the woman.
“Nor have I,” said my mother. “But there is always an explanation. Dead geese don't shriek.”
“Can I go home now and cook them?” asked the woman.
“Go home and cook them for the Sabbath.” Mother pronounced the decision. “Don't be afraid. They won't make a sound in your pot.”
“What do you say, Rabbi?”
“Hmm ... they are kosher,” murmured Father.
“They can be eaten.” He was not really convinced, but he could not now pronounce the geese unclean.
Mother went back to the kitchen. I remained with my father. Suddenly he began to speak to me as though I were an adult. “Your mother takes after your grandfather, the Rabbi of Bilgoray. He is a great scholar, but a cold‑blooded rationalist. People warned me before our betrothal.... ”
And then Father threw up his hands, as if to say: It Is too late now to call off the wedding.