The Entertainer and the Dybbuk by Sid Fleischman Page A

friends had a clue.
    Packing for the trip, he said in mournfultones, “Dybbuk! See what a mess you’re making of my life? Why am I going to New York for you? What a sap I am!”
    â€œYou wouldn’t let me down,” said the dybbuk.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause you’re a mensch.”
    â€œDon’t give me that Jewish stuff. I can get along without you in the act.”
    â€œAlmost, yes. Have you looked in a mirror lately, Professor? I see you are now talking without moving the lips.”

CHAPTER 19
    T he steamship picked up its last passengers in Ireland and set out across the Atlantic Ocean. A sea wind was blowing up whitecaps like dollops of meringue. It was going to be a choppy crossing.
    The third day, just before Freddie left his cabin for breakfast, the dybbuk spoke up. “Please, Professor, no bacon with youreggs this morning. Ask for the kosher meals.”
    Freddie’s mouth dropped. “Kosher. No!”
    â€œDo us a favor and eat kosher, yes.”
    Freddie pulled open the stateroom door. “Us?”
    â€œI’m feeling a little seasick.”
    Freddie let his breath whistle out. How was someone possessed by a demon supposed to live? Like a prisoner? But what was he going to do if he discovered a seasick dybbuk under his skin? The thought almost turned him green. “Okay, Avrom Amos. Kosher for a couple of days, until we land. Boy, it’s not easy to be a Jew.”
    â€œYou just finding out?” remarked the dybbuk. “Did I tell you what I used to carry in my pocket?”
    â€œA kosher slingshot?”
    â€œA bottle of carbolic acid.”
    â€œNothing about you surprises me.”
    â€œI was hiding from the Nazis, eleven years old. When I heard them getting close I’d sprinkle carbolic on my sister’s clothes and mine. We’d curl up like dead. Oh , how we stunk of sickness! We’d hear the SS killers yell warnings. ‘Typhus! Don’t touch them!’ Until the bottle ran dry, the carbolic saved our lives. Yes, it’s hard to be one of the chosen people. Did we volunteer? Did the Almighty ask for a show of hands?”
    Freddie had blintzes for breakfast.
    Â 
    Of course it was Polly. That showgirl with her hair cut gamine short. That figure in the deck chair wrapped in a blanket against the cold. She had followed him and now was busy hiding her face behind a book.
    Freddie barked in astonishment. “Polly! Sweetheart! How did you get here?”
    She lowered the book. “Do I know you?”
    â€œI’ve got to talk to you, Polly.”
    â€œSome other time. I’m going home for a visit. There are people there who love me.”
    â€œI adore you!” Freddie declared. “I’ve missed you. I don’t want to lose you. I’ll tell you everything. But hang on to your hat.”
    â€œTell me what? You’ve got a wife in Toledo?”
    â€œWorse.”
    â€œYour doctor has given you only twenty minutes to live?”
    â€œMuch worse.” Freddie pushed aside her feet and sat on the edge of the lounge chair. “I’ve been possessed.”
    He waited for a reaction. She turned a page of her book. “Imagine.”
    â€œYou’re not taking this very seriously,” he protested. “I’m possessed by a demon. It’s not just part of my act.”
    â€œOh, come on,” Polly said.
    â€œA Jewish demon. A dybbuk. I tried to have it exorcised, but it didn’t take.”
    â€œDid you try Epsom salts?”
    â€œPolly, please.”
    She put down her book. “Freddie, this is not the dark ages. Someone turned on the lights. Who believes in that possessed-by-demon stuff anymore? I don’t.”
    â€œI don’t either. Didn’t. But the dybbuk is here. So I couldn’t let you marry me. Understand?”
    â€œFreddie, have you talked to a psychiatrist?”
    â€œYou can talk to him yourself.”
    â€œA