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As far as I know (I'm reciting now), Sam Lipp went back to the theater he had been sunk in forever and didn't know it, so maybe the words "went back" are superfluous, like the word "deceased" mentioned above.
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From a letter written by the prisoner (Number 3321/A) Kramer, to the PEN association of writers in the city of Cologne, a few weeks before he was turned over to the Polish authorities:
The letter and the journal I gave to your distinguished society, but as far as I understand, it used them adversely. Since they have not yet hanged (or shot) me, I am permitted to express my amazement that the writers of our nation are capable of distorting things like that and betraying the belief of a commander who served our homeland loyally. And as for Samuel Lipker, whom you ask about, I must say that when he associated in the camp with Ebenezer, I knew that his bestiality would someday be translated into troubles for us. Nevertheless, he remains alive. There was no decision on the matter. I remember Samuel once told me: Commander, maybe all of us betray something more sublime than we are, and judging should be a blissful act, right? Those were words on the tip of my tongue. I must state that if Samuel Lipker does something in his life he will appeal to the dark alleys of our great spirit, and not like a great many of you, he will not be afraid to ask why he betrayed our nation with his Fuhrer, will not be afraid to touch what the Americans call in weather reports "the eye of the hurricane."
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Lily sits and combs her hair while Sam looks at her trying to understand. The beauty of her movements, holding the comb in the hair, the head bent above and behind to right or left, fill him with a dim sense of joy he never knew before.
Sam and Riba-Riba at the Easter service in church. The sorcerer is about to don garments of authority, his face is white and pale. He dons a gigantic hat that looks like a miniature church building. With his terrifying magic the sorcerer stops a great erosion of force that becomes thin and pleasant. The pulpit is high and gilded. Music bursts from all sides of the church, people in their best clothes, looking like they're embalmed, kneel at the altar of colored lights and a smell of incense rises into the air. Sam thinks that a temple like that can imprison divinity, speak in its name, tame it, and at the same time not let it in. The words whispered there are important and unimportant at the same time. The service isn't about life, but death. He thinks of the synagogue where he'd spent Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah eve in his childhood, its low ceiling, the poor God with a white beard sitting in the locked Ark with a few meager ornaments, and facing Him men wrapped in prayer shawls and a charred smell of tobacco rising from them. Sam stands at the mysterious service held in the pulpit and thinks that God has a place only through the mask, since only there is He truly strong and false. The confessionals furnish feelings with institutionalization that turns into a linguistic inquisition, a rule of power and force for a gossipy human mumbling, and like that, an ancient and savage Torah can become noble, full of splendor and so sexy. Sam didn't really know how close that notion of his was to the opinion of SS Sturmbahnfuhrer Kramer, to whom he once bowed whenever he saw him passing by.
One day, after Lily wrote two hundred words on his body starting with the letter A and drank fine rose wine that had been chilled in the refrigerator before she went to abort a German child at an abortion farm in the mountains of Pennsylvania (at that time Lionel was sitting offended with himself and imprisoned in guilt feelings and trying to write a story while wearing new house slippers he claimed sharpened his ability to think and Sam was trying to write for himself the nightmares of the past night), Sam looked at Lionel and said to him: Statistics, Lionel, write statistics in crappy rhymes! Make a ceremony. See a church. See a sorcerer with words in Latin. And Lionel said: She went to abort a son, Sam, and Sam said: Blessed be the just Judge, and went to Riba-Riba. She wanted to take him to the village, to her parents' house, to lie with him on the soft green lawn, introduce him to the cows and horses of her childhood, but he wanted to celebrate mysterious ceremonies and understand to whom the disaster truly happened. He introduced Riba-Riba to a fellow and told him, with premeditation (because he knew that the fellow was in love with Riba-Riba and would tell her what he would tell him) about their sex life and he did tell her. And then, he told Lily with a savage laugh, she was offended and phoned, and I hung up. She went with that Trevor and lay with him on the damp lawn near her stinking horses and cows and they got wet and came to the little church where a bored priest married them, and after that Sam tried to rape Lily in the kitchen and she said: They took a child out of me, Sam, don't touch me, and he slapped himself instead of slapping her.
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Question: Have you ever known a person named Sam Lipp?
Ebenezer Schneerson: No.
Question: Where did Samuel Lipker disappear?
Ebenezer: He went for a moment and disappeared…
Question: Did Samuel Lipker have any connection with the theater?
Ebenezer: I was his puppet. He took money. He's also my son.
Question: What year are we living in?
Ebenezer: The clocks and calendars were set by Samuel. He doesn't come now. I need him.
Question: Thank you.
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At night he'd wander around the city, to hear jazz at Bop City, Minton Playhouse, Birdland. Sam loved the organized improvisation, the celebratory sadness they made from New Orleans funeral music. He'd sit in a little bar on Eighth Avenue and order drinks for girls who would giggle at the sight of his eyes. "Awful eyes," one woman called him. Once he sat next to a girl with unstylish gray eyes, who reeked of perfume. The short hair no longer symbolized any regret and was deliberately miserable, cheap dye poured from it. When they drank, she mixed whiskey with water. Then they went to a small hotel, and when he fell asleep after she took pity on him and he called her: Crystal Heart, and she told him he was a darling wolf, she stole his money. The gonorrhea started two days later. The doctor gave him penicillin injections and then he went to see a play in the Village and fell asleep. On the fourth evening, he passed by the bar and saw her. He went to Washington Depot, came to the gate of the house, and the dog ran to him wagging its tail. He yelled: I love Melissa. Through the window Mrs. Brooks saw him and ran to the telephone, but he yelled: I've got American gonorrhea now! He kicked the dog and ran to the boulevard, where rain was falling on the thick treetops and didn't get to the lush ground full of the moisture of crushed leaves. He lay on the edge of a small field, between pines and oaks, and thought of why he had kicked the dog. He went into the forest and yelled: Melissa, Melissa, until he became hoarse and then he kissed a cow lying on the ground chewing. A person passing by said: Cows lying is a sign of rain. Sam wondered if the cows also knew that there really had been rain. He took the bus back to the city, and even though he was soaked to the skin, he fell asleep. When he returned to the bar to look for Crystal Heart, he was thrown out by the bartender in an apron, who had little eyes with a cold metallic glint in them. At dawn, he lay in wait for the bartender near the parking lot Mr. Blau had recently bought to build the biggest store for colored shirts in the eastern United States. He knocked down the bartender, wrapped him in a bag, and beat him until he heard his bones grow faint. Sam whispered to him: I wasn't born yesterday!