The Entertainer and the Dybbuk Read Online Free PDF

pencil out of her frizz of hair and set to work.
    â€œM’sieu Freddie, where did you get ze idea for ze dybbuk in your act? Extraordinaire!”
    Freddie cleared his throat to give himself an extra moment before answering. “The idea just grabbed hold of me, you might say.”
    â€œZe dybbuk is a child, no?”
    â€œYes. I’ll let him speak for himself, mademoiselle.”
    Freddie picked up the puppet and gave its head stick a turn to face the Frenchwoman.
    â€œNu?” said the dybbuk.
    â€œMay I ask how you were presumably killed?” asked the reporter.
    â€œIn the usual way. With a gun. And what do you mean, presumably? You think I’m making this up?”
    She gave a small laugh. “But of course. It’s show biz, no?”
    â€œNo,” Freddie put in. “It’s life.”
    â€œTrue?”
    Said the puppet, “I was the last Jew left alive in Olyk.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œBetween Lvov and Rovno, in southern Russia. The Ukraine.”
    â€œI’ll look it up,” said the reporter, tongue in cheek, making a note.
    â€œLook up August 22, 1944,” said the dybbuk. “That was one of the special days acertain SS officer in his vulture black uniform had put aside to hunt Jewkids, as he called us. He and his men regarded it as a national sport. Children, they’d snatch us out of yards. Infants, from the arms of our mothers. The soldiers knotted us in sacks and heaved us like potatoes onto trucks. The trucks took us to the cattle cars and then it was a free trip for Jewbrats to the death camps. You’re not taking notes.”
    The reporter ignored his comment. “You remember all zis? A piece of firewood?”
    â€œYes, me, dodging Colonel Junker-Strupp for two years, sometimes dyeing my red hair, hiding like a chameleon among the Aryans. I joined the underground to blow up traintracks and spit at the Nazis. The colonel, smoking his Egyptian cigarettes, came to know about me.
    â€œBut that day, in Olyk, my luck went kaput. German soldiers on motorcycles were chasing us, me and my nine-year-old sister, Sulka. We found haystacks to hide in. The soldiers flushed her out. Sulka ran like a mouse, but she was caught by the hair. They killed her on the spot. Another Jewbrat less for Germany. As soon as I felt safe, I slipped away.”
    â€œTo where?”
    â€œMy village. I knew better hiding places than a haystack. A dog began to bark and follow me. Soon a Jew hunter saw us. FinallyGerman soldiers and the Ukrainian police were chasing me through the lanes. And my neighbors in the village, hearing such a commotion, joined in to rid themselves of vermin like me. I remember yelling back over my shoulder, ‘Dear sirs, let me go home to my mother! Dear sirs, let me go home!’ My mother was already dead, but I hoped to soften a few Ukrainian hearts. Our old neighbors. Hah! Their hearts were tangles of vipers.”
    The reporter peered at the ventriloquist. “Alors, that’s more make-believe than I need for my article, no?”
    Freddie gave a snort. “Make-believe? Trust me. The story is true.”
    The reporter shot back sarcastically. “But of course! You’re saying someone actually murdered zis carved hunk of wood?”
    â€œSix bullet holes,” said the dybbuk. “Colonel Junker-Strupp blocked the lane in his Mercedes open car. He stood, smoking a cigarette, a Luger pistol in one hand. There I came, around the corner, the mob after me. I was blocked. I picked up a stone and heaved it at the vulture.
    â€œâ€˜With the compliments of Colonel Gerhard Junker-Strupp,’ he said, and shot. Quick! Schnell! No second thoughts. The bullet spun me around like a top. He emptied his pistol. He left me in the street, bleeding from six holes, the last Jew in Olyk.”
    â€œMon Dieu! A wooden dummy bleeding in ze street?” With a roll of her eyes, the reporter closed her notebook. “Am I to