In the Dybbuk’s Pocket

I first met Uncle Henry at my aunt's seder, I guess, well, back in the late 1980s. He wasn't really an uncle -- at least, not mine -- but he looked like an uncle, and I was a kid, and that's what my aunt and my parents and everyone else called him.

He had eye sockets with big, sallow rings -- like he usually walked around with silver dollars jammed in his face. He had a hollow, hunted look. His lips were an unpleasant blue. But his voice was sheer warm magic. And his hands were long and detailed, like a piano player or a surgeon or someone who could reach in and take out a jagged piece of glass from a wound without causing you the slightest discomfort.

"You interested in coins, young man?" he asked me after dinner, sipping what must've have been his tenth glass of sweet red holiday wine. The liquid left an odd small stain on the corner of his lips, like some sort of crushed bright berry, or blood.

"Uh, yes, I am," I answered. At 11, foreign coins, old coins, coins of any kind were still my passion. He put his hand in his pocket and played around with something there -- I thought it was his pocket watch. But he pulled out an old German coin -- a pfennig, I realized as soon as I could see it clearly -- and he gave it to me.

I looked to see if either mom or dad were around -- they didn't like me taking gifts from strangers, even from people at my aunt's seder -- but fortunately they were out of the room.

It was just me and Henry at the table.

"From the shtetl, a long time ago," he said, his worried yellowed eyes looking straight into mine. "Please. This is the way I'd like to repay your aunt for this fine Passover dinner."

I didn't know what to say, but the coin had already melded, it seemed, by some strange heat that didn’t hurt, onto the center of my hand. I knew I couldn't give it back. I stammered out a thank you and left the room.

It was weeks before I discovered that the coin was at least 400 years old. I told my parents and they were furious. They told me that Henry hadn't realized the value of the coin, and I'd have to give it back. I screamed and cried, and watched through my tantrum as my father called my aunt and told her what had happened.

"That boy has a dybbuk in him," my father told her, as my mother made background moans of general agreement. "He always wants what he shouldn't have..."

Fortunately, Henry was no longer in Brooklyn -- not even in the city -- and no one knew where to reach him in Boston. So I got to keep the coin, and my memories of Henry. But this was not by a long shot the last time I'd see him.

***

The next time was maybe seven years later at a dance at the Temple. I was staring hard at Laura, wondering just how I would get the nerve to ask her for a slow dance. I'd been fantasizing about her for months, but didn't have the vaguest idea what to do.

"You like her?" a familiar voice said from right behind my ear. I knew it wasn't Hall or Oates.

"Henry?" I was more embarrassed that he knew my predicament than surprised to see him. He looked exactly as I'd remembered him. Considering the weirdos that showed up at these dances, the truth is he didn't even look that much out of place.

"So you like that young madel? Would you like my help with her?" He still had that warm, hot butter voice.

I laughed nervously. "How? You gonna pull another coin out of your pocket and bribe her?" Then I felt bad -- no reason to insult this old guy. "Look, I'm sorry--"

"No, no," Henry said, holding his hands up in a gesture that said no problem. Then, before I could say anything else, he put his hand in that deep, greasy grey pocket of his, and pulled out a small sparkling jewel -- I don't know, maybe a diamond or something. "Not to worry," Henry said, "I'll use this to sparkle her eyes, just for a second, and you'll see, she'll melt in your arms."

"Henry wait, no," I objected. But he walked off and the next thing I knew he was walking right by Laura, with that diamond or whatever it was gleaming in his hand. I saw Laura look at it and smile.

What was I to do? Shout out that some lunatic was trying to get you to like me by dazzling you with the jewel in his hand? I'd probably be arrested as the lunatic.

So I kept my mouth shut, barely able to breathe, and walked quickly over to Laura. I half expected her to fall on the floor, unconscious or dead, but instead she turned around and smiled at me, an even bigger smile than she had before, and it went through every neuron in my body.

"Would you, uh, would you like to dance?" I finally managed.

She said yes, and pulled me very close to her. The skin on her neck smelled like heaven. We made love later that summer -- the first time for both of us -- and we got married about two years later.

***

And this guy Henry shows up in my life once every few years, more or less, and pulls something out of his pocket to help me. A medieval pfennig for a coin collector, a gleaming jewel for a horny kid -- he once even pulled out a small crumbling book from the 1700s that I was able to quote in my doctoral dissertation. It blew my professors away -- my Ph.D. was a breeze after that.

I guess I always knew that eventually I'd have to pay a price for this. I mean, I became an historian, and historians know better than most that you don't get anything for nothing in this world -- never.

He came to me a few days after my 50th birthday. "So young man, you've been having a happy life? Health and happiness, that's all that counts."

I shook my head. "I'm no longer a young man, Henry. But it's good to see you again anyway."

He shook his head yes in return. "To me you're young," he said, "and always will be."

"I guess so," I smiled. "So why are you here? I'm pretty well set now -- thanks largely to you."

He nodded. "I'm glad. That's as it should be. But now I'm here to ask you to do something for me."

"Ah, I'm not surprised," I said. "I've seen this scene --­ you coming to me and asking me for something in return -- many many times in my mind over the years. For that matter, I've seen it even more in the movies -- a classic deal with the devil. But I don't believe in devils, Henry."

"I don't either," he said, a slight rasp in his butterscotch voice. "Devils are for children. But do you know what a dybbuk is?"

"Some sort of Jewish spirit?" I scoured my brain for associations with the term. That boy has a dybbuk in him, I heard my father say again, half a lifetime ago.

"A soul who is wronged in this world, badly, and therefore can't go on to rest until the wrong is righted -- until justice is done!"

"Who wronged you, Henry?" I felt genuine concern. I didn't like seeing him in such pain.

"I want you to kill someone for me -- an evil man, an evil spirit, who has eluded me for 400 years."

"Who is this man?" I asked again, trying to ignore the killing part.

"Adolf Hitler."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Hitler's dead, Henry. And anyway he obviously was a product of the 20th not the 16th century."

For the first time, I saw a shadow of anger in Henry's stained eyes. "Hitler in the flesh is dead, but the evil spirit that animated him is yet alive. And it's still the enemy of our people, of all good people. One more killing of the flesh -- the current flesh of this spirit -- should send this spirit to its just desert, to its death."

"I see. And where is this flesh now?"

"Many places. In hate-mongers. In political leaders. In those who take it on themselves to order people to kill other innocent people."

Great -- I was dealing here not only with a dybbuk, but a dybbuk libertarian. "Isn't that just what you're ordering me to do?"

"No," Henry shook his head. "Your target isn't innocent. And I'm asking, not ordering. You'll do this for me only because you really want to."

"Kill politicians?"

"No. Many leaders are to blame, but killing just one will suffice for my needs."

“Why can’t you can’t kill this … monster yourself?” I asked Henry.

“Only someone completely flesh and blood can do that,” he replied.

"And can you tell me who he is?"

"He'll be speaking at the United Nations tomorrow."

***

I know about moral dilemmas and guilt. I have a PhD and I'm Jewish.

I know killing is wrong, but would I have put a bullet through Hitler's head if I had the chance and knew what I knew about Hitler? Damn straight I would. Most of my grandparents' family had been wiped out by Hitler. Not to mention John Stuart Mill's utilitarian principle of the greatest good for the greatest number of people that killing Hitler would do.

But what do I know of this man whose head is now between the beads of my rifle sights?

He's a vicious dictator, sure, and the world would be better off without him. He has nuclear weapons, and no shame about using them. The new nationalist premier of Russia, worse than Putin -- the same old country that wiped out most of the grandparents of my grandparents with Cossacks and fire and pogroms in the cold rainy night. He's already killed many people. He funds the worst terrorists who still attack Jews all over the world. He deserves to die.

But do I have the right to kill him?

Not a right, maybe, but an obligation to my people, an obligation to Henry. To repay the gift of a coin and a girl at a dance who became my wife and I kissed goodbye just this morning ... and all those other parts of my life Henry had given me....

My father's words wound their way back into my ears....

That boy has a dybbuk in him.

But maybe I'm crazy. Maybe there is no dybbuk. Maybe I'm sitting here on this roof, looking down at this piece of garbage through this super powerful rifle, and making up all of these memories, conjuring up my past with Henry just like false memories of parental abuse or UFO visitations. Maybe I'm just another sick assassin on a roof or a sixth floor -- who knows how many Lee Harvey Oswalds had dybbuks in their personas when they pulled their goddamned triggers.

No, the rifle is real, I know that. I believe it can fire through floors and guide me with some kind of x-ray view. And the threat of this man in the ridiculous brown military uniform, the threat of this man to my people, that’s real, too. Very real. I know that. But what will happen to me if I pull this trigger?

Henry said not to worry -- he pulled the parts and the bullets out of that same deep pocket, and assembled the weapon right before my eyes. No way anyone'll be able to trace the bullets or rifle to me, Henry said -- they come from a place that doesn't exist yet. Another assassination chalked up to the ineffable. The dybbuk's pocket extends through all time.

I know, I’m nervous -- of course I am -- who wouldn't be in such circumstances? My thoughts are leaping around in so many directions. Who cares where the dybbuk's pocket comes from... What matters is what’s in it...

I'd be plagued by doubts at this last minute, Henry had said, but I had to struggle with all my will to overcome them. You're not killing a man, remember, you're killing an evil spirit. But why then must my bullet cause flesh to splatter?

Maybe I should err on the side of not doing this -- life holds more possibilities than death. He's come to the UN to speak peace, hasn't he?

No.

Everyone knows he's a liar.

Everything out his mouth is a lie.

That boy has a dybbuk in him.

That’s true.

And now that boy is pulling the trigger...

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Note from the author: If you like science fiction and fantasy about Jewish themes, check out Jack Dann's classic anthology, Wandering Stars, which I discussed in a brief essay here on Vocal seven years ago.

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