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JEWISH CHILDREN

NEW BORZOI NOVELS
SPRING, 1922

Wanderers

Knut Hamsun
Men of Affairs

Roland Per twee
The Fair Rewards

Thomas Beer
I Walked in Arden

Jack Crawford
Guest the One-Eyed

Gunnar Gunnarsson
The Garden Party

Katherine Mansfield
The Longest Journey

E. M. Forster
The Soul of a Child

Edwin Bjorkman
Cytherea

Joseph Hergesheimer
Explorers of the Dawn

Mazo de la Roche
The White Kami

Edward Alden Jewell

JEWISH CHILDREN

TRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH OF

"SHALOM ALEICHEM"
By HANNAH B E R M A N

new york ALFRED ■ A ■ KNOPF u&axn

Published January, 1922

*3S

Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binyhamton, N. Y.
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y.
^Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

A Page from the ''Song

of Songs"

PAGE

Passover in a Village.

An Idyll

Elijah the Prophet

Getzel

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"

Murderers

Three Little Heads

Greens for "SHEFUOUS"

Another Page from the

"Song of Songs"

A Pity for the Living

The Tabernacle

106

The Dead Citron

119

Isshur the Beadle

131

Boaz the Teacher

143

The Spinning-Top

153

Esther

178

The Pocket-Knife

187

On the Fiddle

210

This Night

241

A Page from the "Song of
Songs"

Busie is a name; it is the short for Esther-Liba:
Libusa : Busie. She is a year older than I, perhaps
two years. And both of us together are no more
than twenty years old. Now, if you please, sit down
and think it out for yourself. How old am I, and
how old is she? But, it is no matter. I will rather
tell you her history in a few words.

My older brother, Benny, lived in a village. He
had a mill. He could shoot with a gun, ride on a
horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he was
bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him
they said the proverb had been invented: "All
good swimmers are drowned." He left after him
the mill, two horses, a young widow, and one child.
The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the
young widow married again, and went away, some-
where, far; and the child was brought to us.

The child was Busie.

• • • • •

That my father loves Busie as if she were his
own child; and that my mother frets over her as
if she were an only daughter, is readily understood.
They look upon her as their comfort in their great

Jewish Children

sorrow. And I ? Why is it that when I come from
"cheder," and do not find Busie I cannot eat? And
when Busie comes in, there shines a light in every
corner. When Busie talks to me, I drop my eyes.
And when she laughs at me I weep. And when
she . . .

• • • • •

I waited long for the dear good Feast of Pass-
over. I would be free then. I would play with
Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down the
hill to the river, and show her the ducks in the water.
When I tell her, she does not believe me. She
laughs. She never believes me. That is, she says
nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be laughed
at. She does not believe that I can climb to the
highest tree, if I like. She does not believe that I
can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. When
the Passover comes — the dear good Passover — and
we can go out into the free, open air, away from my
father and mother, I shall show her such tricks that
she will go wild.

• • . . •

The dear good Passover has come.

They dress us both in kingly clothes. Every-
thing we wear shines and sparkles and glitters. I
look at Busie, and I think of the "Song of Songs"
that I learnt for the Passover, verse by verse:

"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art

fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks; thy hair

is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

'Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even

A Page from The "Song of Songs"

shorn, which come up from the washing; whereof
every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy
speech is comely; thy temples are like a piece of
pomegranate within thy locks."

Tell me, please, why is it that when one looks at
Busie one is reminded of the "Song of Songs"?
And when one reads the "Song of Songs," Busie
rises to one's mind?

• • • • •

A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm.

"Shall we go?" asks Busie. And I am all afire.
My mother does not spare the nuts. She fills our
pockets. But she makes us promise that we will not
crack a single one before the "Seder." We may play
with them as much as we like. We run off. The
nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful and fine out of
doors. The sun is already high in the heavens, and
is looking down on the other side of the town.
Everything is broad and comfortable and soft and
free, around and about. In places, on the hill the
other side of the synagogue, one sees a little blade
of grass, fresh and green and living. Screaming and
fluttering their wings, there fly past us, over our
heads, a swarm of young swallows. And again I
am reminded of the "Song of Songs" I learnt at
school:

"The flowers appear on the earth; the time of
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
turtle is heard in our land."

I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings,
and can rise up and fly away.

Jewish Children

• • • • •

A curious noise comes from the town, a roaring,
a rushing, a tumult. In a moment the face of the
world is changed for me. Our farm is a courtyard,
our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a
princess. The logs of wood that lie at our door are
the cedars and firs of the "Song of Songs." The
cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is
a roe, or a young hart; and the hill on the other side
of the synagogue is the mountain of Lebanon. The
women and the girls who are washing and scrubbing
and making everything clean for the Passover are
the daughters of Jerusalem.

Everything, everything is from the "Song of
Songs."

I walk about with my hands in my pockets. The
nuts shake and rattle. Busie walks beside me, step
by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried along.
I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle.
I let myself go. Busie follows me. I jump from
one log of wood to the other. Busie jumps after
me. I am up; she is up. I am down; she is down.
Who will tire first? "How long is this to last?"
asks Busie. And I answer her in the words of the
"Song of Songs" : " 'Until the day break, and the
shadows flee away.' Ba ! Ba! Ba! You are tired,
and I am not."

• • • • •

I am glad that Busie does not know what I know.
And I am sorry for her. My heart aches for her.
I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature.
12

A Page from The "Song of Songs"

She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in
a corner and weeps silently. My mother comforts
her, and my father showers kisses on her. But, it
is useless. Busie weeps until she is exhausted. For
whom? For her father who died so young? Or
for her mother who married again and went off with-
out a good-bye? Ah, her mother! When one
speaks of her mother to her, she turns all colours.
She does not believe in her mother. She does not
say an unkind word of her, but she does not believe
in her. Of that I am sure. I cannot bear to see
Busie weeping. I sit down beside her, and try to
distract her thoughts from herself.

• • • • •

I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, and
say to her:

"Guess what I can do if I like."

"What can you do?"
If I like, all your nuts will belong to me."

'Will you win them off me?"

'We shall not even begin to play."

"Then you will take them from me?"

"No, they will come to me of themselves."

She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me — her
beautiful, blue, "Song of Songs" eyes. I say to her:

'You think I am jesting. Little fool, I know
certain magic words."

She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I
explain myself to her, like a great man, a hero :

"We boys know everything. There is a boy at
school. Sheika the blind one, we call him. He is
blind of one eye. He knows everything in the world,

Jewish Children

even 'Kaballa.' Do you know what 'Kaballa' is?"

"No. How am I to know?"

I am in the seventh heaven because I can give her
a lecture on "Kaballa"

" 'Kaballa/ little fool, is a thing that is useful.
By means of 'Kaballa' I can make myself invisible
to you, whilst I can see you. By means of 'Kaballa'
I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall.
By means of 'Kaballa' I can manage that we two
shall rise up into the clouds, and even higher than
the clouds."

• • • • •

To rise up in the air with Busie, by means of
"Kaballa," into the clouds, and higher than the
clouds, and fly with her far, far over the ocean — that
was one of my best dreams. There, on the other
side of the ocean, live the dwarfs who are descended
from the giants of King David's time. The dwarfs
who are, in reality, good-natured folks. They live
on sweets and the milk of almonds, and play all day
on little flutes, and dance all together in a ring,
romping about. They are afraid of nothing, and
are fond of strangers. When a man comes to them
from our world, they give him plenty to eat and
drink, dress him in the finest garments, and load him
with gold and silver ornaments. Before he leaves,
they fill his pockets with diamonds and rubies which
are to be found in their streets like mud in ours.

"Like mud in the streets? Well!" said Busie to
me when I had told her all about the dwarfs.

"Do you not believe it?"

"Do you believe it?"

A Page from The "Song of Songs"

"Why not?"

"Where did you hear it?"

"Where? At school."

"Ah! At school."

The sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky with
red gold. The gold was reflected in Busie's eyes.
They were bathed in gold.

• • • • •

I want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika's
tricks which I can imitate by means of "Kaballa."
But they do not surprise her. On the contrary, I
think they amuse her. Why else does she show me
her pearl-white teeth? I am a little annoyed, and I
say to her:

"Maybe you do not believe me?"

Busie laughs.

"Maybe you think I am boasting? Or that I am
inventing lies out of my own head?"

Busie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must
show her. I know how. I say to her:

"The thing is that you do not know what 'Kaballa'
means. If you knew what 'Kaballa' was you would
not laugh. By means of 'Kaballa/ if I like, I can
bring your mother here. Yes, yes! And if you beg
hard of me, I will bring her this very night, riding
on a stick."

All at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles
on her beautiful face. And I imagine that the sun
has disappeared. No more sun, no more day! I
am afraid I went a little too far. I had no right to
pain her — to speak of her mother. I am sorry for
the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I must ask

Jewish Children

her forgiveness. I creep close to her. She turns
away from me. I try to take her hand. I wish to
say to her in the words of the "Song of Songs" :
"'Return, return, O Shulamite!' Busie!" Suddenly
a voice called from the house :

"Shemak! Shemak!"

I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to
the synagogue with father.

To go to the synagogue with one's father on the
Passover eve — is there in the world a greater
pleasure than that? What is it worth to be dressed
in new clothes from head to foot, and to show off
before one's friends? Then the prayers themselves
— the first Festival evening prayer and blessing.
Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared
for his Jewish children.

"Shemak! Shemak!"

My mother has no time.

"I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I only
want to say a word to Busie — no more than a word."

I confess to Busie that I told her lies. One can-
not make people fly by means of "Kaballa" One
may fly one's self. And I will show her, after the
Festival, how I can fly. I will rise from this same
spot on the logs, before her eyes, and in a moment
reach the other side of the clouds. From there, I
will turn a little to the right. You see, there all
things end, and one comes upon the shore of the
frozen ocean.

A Page from The "Song of Songs"

Busie listens attentively. The sun is sending down
its last rays, and kissing the earth.

"What is the frozen sea?" asks Busie.

"You don't know what the frozen sea is? It is
a sea whose waters are thick as liver and salt as
brine. No ships can ride on it. When people fall
into it, they can never get out again."

Busie looks at me with big eyes.

"Why should you go there?"

"Am I going, little fool? I fly over it like an
eagle. In a few minutes I shall be over the dry land
and at the twelve mountains that spit fire. At the
twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and
walk seven miles, until I come to a thick forest.
I shall go in and out of the trees, until I come to a
little stream. I shall swim across the water, and
count seven times seven. A little old man with a
long beard appears before me, and says to me:
'What is your request?' I answer: 'Bring me the
queen's daughter.' "

"What queen's daughter?" asks Busie. And I
imagine she is frightened.

"The queen's daughter is the princess who was
snatched away from under the wedding canopy and
bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal seven
years ago."

"What has that to do with you?"

"What do you mean by asking what it has to do
with me? I must go and set her free."

"You must set her free?"

"Who else?"

Jewish Children

uYou need not fly so far. Take my advice, you
need not."

. • • • •

Busie takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little
white hand is cold. I look into her eyes, and I see in
them the reflection of the red gold sun that is bid-
ding farewell to the day — the first, bright, warm
Passover day. The day dies by degrees. The sun
goes out like a candle. The noises of the day are
hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the street.
In the little windows shine the lights of the festival
candles that have just been lit. A curious, a holy
stillness wraps us round, Busie and myself. We feel
that our lives are fast merging in the solemn stillness
of the festive evening.

"Shemak! Shemak!"

■ • • • •

My mother calls me for the third time to go with
my father to the synagogue. Do I not know my-
self that I must go to prayers? I will sit here
another minute — one minute, no more. Busie hears
my mother calling me. She tears her hand from
mine, gets up, and drives me off.

"Shemak, you are called — you. Go, go! It is
time. Go, go !"

I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is
extinguished. Its gold beams have turned to blood.
A little wind blows — a soft, cold wind. Busie tells
me to go. I throw a last glance at her. She is not
the same Busie. In my eyes she is different, on this
bewitching evening. The enchanted princess runs
18

A Page from The "Song of Songs"

in my head. But Busie does not leave me time to
think. She drives me off. I go. I turn round to
look at the enchanted princess who is completely
merged into the beautiful Passover evening. I
stand like one bewitched. She points to me to go.
And I imagine I hear her saying to me, in the words
of the "Song of Songs" :

"Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a
roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices."

Passover in a Village

AN IDYLL

Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the
world turn upside down. The old oak, which has
been standing since the creation of the world, and
whose roots reach to God-knows-where — what does
he care for winds? What are storms to him?

The old tree is not a symbol — it is a living being,
a man whose name is Nachman Veribivker of
Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a
giant. The townspeople are envious of his
strength, and make fun of him. "Peace be unto
you. How is a Jew in health?" Nachman knows he
is being made fun of. He bends his shoulders so as
to look more Jewish. But, it is useless. He is too

big.

Nachman has lived in the village a long time.
"Our 'Lachman,' " the peasants call him. They
look upon him as a good man, with brains. They
like to have a chat with him. They follow his
advice. "What are we to do about bread?"
"Lachman" has an almanack, and he knows whether
bread will be cheap or dear this year. He goes to
the town, and so knows what is doing in the world.

It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without
20

Passover in a Village

Nachman. Not only was his father, Feitel, born in
Veribivka, but his grandfather, Arya. He was a
clever Jew, and a wit. He used to say that the
village was called Veribivka because Arya
Veribivker lived in it, because, before Veribivka was
Veribivka, he, Arya Veribivker was already Arya
Veribivker. That's what his grandfather used to
say. The Jews of those times !

And do you think Arya Veribivker said this for no
reason? Arya was not an ordinary man who made
jokes without reason. He meant that the
catastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. At
that time they already talked of driving the Jews
out of villages. And not only talked but drove them
out. All the Jews were driven out, excepting Arya
Veribivker. It may be that even the governor of
the district could do nothing, because Arya
Veribivker proved that according to the law, he
could not be driven out. The Jews of those times!

• • • • •

Certainly, if one has inherited such a privilege,
and is independent, one can laugh at the whole
world. What did our Nachman Veribivker care
about uprisings, the limitations of the Pale, of
Circulars? What did Nachman care about the
wicked Gentile Kuratchka and the papers that he
brought from the court? Kuratchka was a short
peasant with short fingers. He wore a smock and
high boots, and a silver chain and a watch like a
gentleman. He was a clerk of the court. And he
read all the papers which abused and vilified the
Jews.

Jewish Children

Personally, Kuratchka was not a bad sort. He
was a neighbour of Nachman and pretended to be a
friend. When Kuratchka had the toothache,
Nachman gave him a lotion. When Kuratchka's
wife was brought to bed of a child, Nachman's wife
nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows
why, Kuratchka had been reading the anti-Semitic
papers, and he was an altered man. "Esau began
to speak in him." He was always bringing home
news of new governors, new circulars from the min-
ister, and new edicts against Jews. Each time,
Nachman's heart was torn. But, he did not let the
Gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile,
and held out the palm of his hand, as if to say,
"When hair grows here."

Let governors change. Let ministers write circu-
lars. What concern is it of Nachman Veribivker
of Veribivka?

Nachman lived comfortably. That is, not as
comfortably as his grandfather Arya had lived.
Those were different times. One might almost say
that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He
had the inn, the store, a mill, a granary. He made
money with spoons and plates, as they say. But,
that was long ago. Today, all these things are
gone. No more inn; no more store; no more
granary. The question is why, in that case, does
Nachman live in the village? Where then should
he live? In the earth? Just let him sell his house,
and he will be Nachman Veribivker no more. He
will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he has at
least a corner of his own, a house to live in, and a

Passover in a Village

garden. His wife and daughters cultivate the
garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have
greens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole
winter, until long after the Passover. But, one
cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said that one
wants bread with potatoes. And when there's no
bread, a Jew takes his stick, and goes through the
village in search of business. He never comes home
empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys —
some old iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else
a hide. The hide is stretched and dried, and is
taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the tanner.
And on all these one either earns or loses money.

Abraham-Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish
nose and fingers as black as ink, laughs at Nachman,
because he is so coarsened through living with
Gentiles that he even speaks like them.

• ■ • • •

Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He
grows coarser each year. Oh, if his grandfather
Reb Arya — peace be unto him ! — could see his grand-
son. He had been a practical man, but had also
been a scholar. He knew whole passages of the
Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews of
those times! And what does he, Nachman, know?
He can only just say his prayers. It's well he knows
that much. His children will know even less.
When he looks at his children, how they grow to the
ceiling, broad and tall like himself, and can neither
read nor write, his heart grows heavy. More than
all, his heart aches for his youngest child, who is
called Feitel, after his father. He was a clever

Jewish Children

child, this Feitel. He was smaller in build, more
refined, more Jewish than the others. And he had
brains. He was shown the Hebrew alphabet once,
in a prayer-book, and he never again confused one
letter with the other. Such a fine child to grow up
in a village amongst calves and pigs! He plays
with Kuratchka's son, Fedoka. He rides on the
one stick with him. They both chase the one cat.
They both dig the same hole. They do together
everything children can do. Nachman is sorry to
see his child playing with the Gentile child. It
withers him, as if he were a tree that had been
stricken by lightning.

• • • • •

Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant
face and a dimpled chin, and flaxen hair. He loves
Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All the
winter each child slept on his father's stove. They
went to the window and longed for one another.
They seldom met. But now the long angry winter
is over. The black earth throws off her cold white
mantle. The sun shines; and the wind blows. A
little blade of grass peeps out. At the foot of the
hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the
soft air through distended nostrils. The cock
closes one eye, and is lost in meditation. Every-
thing around and about has come to life again.
Everything rejoices. It is the Passover eve.
Neither Feitel nor Fedoka can be kept indoors.
They rush out into God's world which has opened
up for them both. They take each other's hands,
and fly down the hill that smiles at them — "Come

Passover in a Village

here, children!" They leap towards the sun that
greets them and calls them: "Come, children!"
When they are tired of running, they sit down on
God's earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile, but
whispers invitingly: "Children, come to me, to me."

They have much to tell each other, not having
met throughout the whole winter. Feitel boasts
that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka
boasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it is
the eve of Passover. They have "matzos" for the
whole festival and wine. "Do you remember,
Fedoka, I gave you a 'matzo' last year?"
" 'Matzo/ " repeats Fedoka. A smile overspreads
his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste
of the "matzo." "Would you like to have some
'matzo' now, fresh 'matzo'?" Is it necessary to ask
such a question ? "Then come with me," says Feitel,
pointing up the hill which smiled to them invitingly.
They climbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun
through their fingers. They threw themselves on
the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Feitel drew
out from under his blouse a whole fresh, white
"matzo" covered with holes on both sides. Fedoka
licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke the
"matzo" in halves, and gave one half to his friend.
"What do you say to the 'matzo' Fedoka?" What
could Fedoka say when his mouth was stuffed with
"matzo" that crackled between his teeth, and melted
under his tongue like snow? One minute, and there
was no more "matzo." "All gone?" Fedoka
threw his grey eyes at Feitel's blouse as a cat looks

Jewish Children

at butter. "Want more?" asked Feitel, looking at
Fedoka through his sharp black eyes. What a
question! "Then wait a while," said Feitel.
"Next year you'll get more." They both laughed
at the joke. And without a word, as if they had
already arranged it, they threw themselves on the
ground, and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly,
quickly downwards.

• • • • •

At the bottom of the hill they stood up, and
looked at the murmuring river that ran away to the
left. They turned to the right, going further and
further over the broad fields that were not yet green
in all places, but showed signs of being green soon —
that did not yet smell of grass, but would smell of
grass soon. They walked and walked in silence
bewitched by the loveliness of the earth, under the
bright, smiling sun. They did not walk, but swam.
They did not swim, but flew. They flew like birds
that sweep in the soft air of the lovely world which
the Lord has created for all living things. Hush !
They are at the windmill which belongs to the village
elder. Once it belonged to Nachman Veribivker.
Now it belongs to the village elder whose name is
Opanas — a cunning Gentile with one ear-ring, who
owns a "samovar." Opanas is a rich Epicurean.
Along with the mill he has a store — the same store
which once belonged to Nachman Veribivker. He
took both the mill and the store from the Jew by
cunning.

The mill went round in its season, but this day it
was still. There was no wind. A curious Passover
26

Passover in a Village

eve without winds. That the mill was not working
was so much the better for Feitel and Fedoka.
They could see the mill itself. And there was much
to see in the mill. But to them the mill was not so
interesting as the sails, and the wheel which turns
them whichever way the wind blows. They sat
down near the mill, and talked. It was one of
those conversations which have no beginning and no
end. Feitel told stories of the town to which his
father had once taken him. He was at the fair.
He saw shops. Not a single shop as in Veribivka,
but a lot of shops. And in the evening his father
took him to the synagogue. His father had
"Yahrzeit" after his father. "That means after my
grandfather," explained Feitel. "Do you under-
stand, or do you not?"

Fedoka might have understood, but he was not
listening. He interrupted with a story that had
nothing to do with what Feitel was talking about.
He told Feitel that last year he saw a bird's nest in
a high tree. He tried to reach it, but could not."
He tried to knock it down with a stick, but could not.
He threw stones at the nest, until he brought down
two tiny, bleeding fledglings.

'You killed them?" asked Feitel, fearfully, and
made a wry face.

"Little ones," replied Fedoka.

"But, they were dead?"

"Without feathers, yellow beaks, little fat
bellies."

"But killed, but killed!"

Jewish Children

It was rather late when Feitel and Fedoka saw by
the sun in the heavens that it was time to go home.
Feitel had forgotten that it was the Passover eve.
He remembered then that his mother had to wash
him, and dress him in his new trousers. He jumped
up and flew home, Fedoka after him. They both
flew home, gladly and joyfully. And in order that
one should not be home before the other, they held
hands, flying like arrows from bows. When they
got to the village, this was the scene which con-
fronted them : —

Nachman Veribivker's house was surrounded by
peasants, men and women, boys and girls. The
clerk, Kuratchka, and Opanas the village elder and
his wife, and the magistrate and the policeman — all
were there, talking and shouting together.
Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the
crowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman
was bent low and was wiping the perspiration from
his face with both hands. By his side stood his
older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly,
the whole picture changed. Some one pointed to
the two children. The whole crowd, including the
village elder and the magistrate, the policeman and
the clerk, stood still, like petrified. Only Nachman
looked at the people, straightened out his back, and
laughed. His wife threw out her hands and began
to weep.

The village elder and the clerk and the magistrate
and their wives pounced on the children.

"Where were you, you so-and-so?"
'Where were we? We were down by the mill."
28

Passover in a Village
. • • • •

The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got
punished without knowing why.

Feitel's father flogged him with his cap. UA boy
should know." What should a boy know? Out of
pity his mother took him from his father's hands.
She gave him a few smacks on her own account, and
at once washed him and dressed him in his new
trousers — the only new garment he had for the
Passover. She sighed. Why? Afterwards, he
heard his father saying to his mother: "May the
Lord help us to get over this Festival in peace. The
Passover ought to have gone before it came."
Feitel could not understand why the Passover should
have gone before it came. He worried himself
about this. He did not understand why his father
had flogged him, and his mother smacked him. He
did not understand what sort of a Passover eve it
was this day in the world.

• • • • •

If Feitel's Jewish brains could not solve the
problems, certainly Fedoka's peasant brains could
not. First of all his mother took hold of him by
the flaxen hair, and pulled it. Then she gave him a
few good smacks in the face. These he accepted like
a philosopher. He was used to them. And he
heard his mother talking with the peasants. They
told curious tales of a child that the Jews of the
town had enticed on the Passover eve, hidden in a
cellar a day and a night, and were about to make
away with, when his cries were heard by passers-by.

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They rescued him. He had marks on his body —
four marks, placed like a cross.

A cunning peasant-woman with a red face told
this tale. And the other women shook their shawl-
covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka
could not understand why the women looked at him
when they were talking. And what had the tale to
do with him and Feitel? Why had his mother
pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did
not care about these. He was used to them. He
only wanted to know why he had had such a good
share that day.

• • • • •

"Well?" Feitel heard his father remark to his
mother immediately after the Festival. His face
was shining as if the greatest good fortune had
befallen him. "Well? You fretted yourself to
death. You were afraid. A woman remains a
woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone,
and nothing."

"Thank God," replied his mother. And Feitel
could not understand what his mother had feared.
And why were they glad that the Passover was gone?
Would it not have been better if the Passover had
been longer and longer?

Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could
not contain himself, but told him everything — how
they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh, how
they had eaten! He told him how nice all the
Passover dishes were, and how sweet the wine.
Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes on
Feitel's blouse. He was still thinking of "matzo"
30

Passover in a Village

Suddenly there was a scream, and a cry in a high-
pitched soprano :

"Fedoka, Fedoka!"

It was his mother calling him in for supper.
But Fedoka did not hurry. He thought she would
not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not been
at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover.
After the Passover there was no need to be afraid
of the Jews. He stretched himself on the grass, on
his stomach, propping up his white head with his
hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head
propped up by his hands. The sky is blue. The
sun is warm. The little wind fans one and plays
with one's hair. The little calf stands close by.
The cock is also near, with his wives. The two
heads, the black and the white, are close together.
The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot
finish talking

. . . • •

Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in
the morning he took his stick, and let himself go
over the village, in search of business. He stopped
at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning,
calling each one by name, and talked with them on
every subject in the world. But he avoided all
reference to the Passover incident, and never even
hinted at his fears of the Passover. Before going
away, he said : "Perhaps, friend, you have something
you would like to sell?" "Nothing, 'Lachman,1
nothing." "Old iron, rags, an old sack, or a hide?"
"Do not be offended, 'Lachman,' there is nothing.
Bad times!" "Bad times? You drank everything,

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maybe. Such a festival!" "Who drank? What
drank? Bad times."

The Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed.
They talked of different things. Nachman would
not have the other know that he came only on
business. He left that Gentile, and went to another,
to a third, until he came upon something. He would
not return home empty-handed.

Nachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring,
tramped home, thinking only of one problem — how
much he was going to gain or lose that day. He
has forgotten the Passover eve incident. He has
forgotten the fears of the Passover. The
clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars
have gone clean out of the Jew's head.

Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the
world turn upside down. The old oak which has
been standing since the creation of the world, and
whose roots reach to God-knows-where — what does
he care for winds? What are storms to him?

Elijah the Prophet

It is not good to be an only son, to be fretted
over by father and mother1 — to be the only one left
out of seven. Don't stand here. Don't go there.
Don't drink that. Don't eat the other: Cover up
your throat. Hide your hands. Ah, it is not good
— not good at all to be an only son, and a rich man's
son into the bargain. My father is a money
changer. He goes about amongst the shopkeepers
with a bag of money, changing copper for silver, and
silver for copper. That is why his fingers are
always black, and his nails broken. He works very
hard. Each day, when he comes home, he is tired
and broken down. "I have no feet," he complains
to mother. "I have no feet, not even the sign of a
foot." No feet? It may be. But for that again
he has a fine business. That's what the people say.
And they envy us that we have a good business.
Mother is satisfied. So am I. "We shall have a
Passover this year, may all the children of Israel
have the like, Father in Heaven!"

That's what my mother said, thanking God for
the good Passover. And I also was thankful.
But shall we ever live to see it — this same Passover?

Passover has come at last — the dear sweet Pass-
over. I was dressed as befitted the son of a man

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of wealth — like a young prince. But what was the
consequence? I was not allowed to play, or run
about, lest I caught cold. I must not play with poor
children. I was a wealthy man's boy. Such nice
clothes, and I had no one to show off before.
I had a pocketful of nuts, and no one to play with.

It is not good to be an only child, and fretted
over — the only one left out of seven, and a wealthy
man's son into the bargain.

My father put on his best clothes, and went off to
the synagogue. Said my mother to me: "Do you
know what? Lie down and have a sleep. You
will then be able to sit up at the 'Seder' and ask
the 'four questions'!" Was I mad? Would I go
asleep before the "Seder"?

"Remember, you must not sleep at the 'Seder?
If you do, Elijah the Prophet will come with a bag
on his shoulders. On the two first nights of Pass-
over, Elijah the Prophet goes about looking for
those who have fallen asleep at the 'Seder} and takes
them away in his bag." . . . Ha! Ha! Will I
fall asleep at the "Seder"? I ? Not even if it were
to last the whole night through, or even to broad
daylight. "What happened last year, mother?"
"Last year you fell asleep, soon after the first
blessing." "Why did Elijah the Prophet not come
then with his bag?" "Then you were very small,
now you are big. Tonight you must ask father
the 'four questions.' Tonight you must say with
father: — 'Slaves were we.' Tonight, you must eat
with us fish and soup and 'Matzo' -balls. Hush,
here is father, back from the synagogue."

Elijah the Prophet

"Good 'Yom-tovT

Thank God, father made the blessing over wine.
I, too. Father drank the cup full of wine. So did
I, a cup full, to the very dregs. "See, to the dregs,"
said mother to father. To me she said: "A full
cup of wine ! You will drop oft to sleep." Ha 1
Ha! Will I fall asleep? Not even if we are to sit up
all the night, or even to broad daylight. "Well,"
said my father, "how are you going to ask the 'four
questions'? How will you recite 'Haggadah'f
How will you sing with me — 'Slaves were we'?"
My mother never took her eyes off me. She smiled
and said: "You will fall asleep — fast asleep."
"Oh, mother, mother, if you had eighteen heads,
you would surely fall asleep, if some one sat opposite
you, and sang in your ears: 'Fall asleep, fall
asleep' !"

Of course I fell asleep.

I fell asleep, and dreamt that my father was
already saying: "Pour out thy wrath." My
mother herself got up from the table, and went to
open the door to welcome Elijah the Prophet. It
would be a fine thing if Elijah the Prophet did come,
as my mother had said, with a bag on his shoulders,
and if he said to me: "Come, boy." And who else
would be to blame for this but my mother, with her
"fall asleep, fall asleep." And as I was thinking
these thoughts, I heard the creaking of the door.
My father stood up and cried: "Blessed art thou
who comest in the name of the Eternal." I looked
towards the door. Yes, it was he. He came in so

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slowly and so softly that one scarcely heard him.
He was a handsome man, Elijah the Prophet — an
old man with a long grizzled beard reaching to his
knees. His face was yellow and wrinkled, but it was
handsome and kindly without end. And his eyes!
Oh, what eyes ! Kind, soft, joyous, loving, faithful
eyes. He was bent in two, and leaned on a big, big
stick. He had a bag on his shoulders. And
silently, softly, he came straight to me.

"Now, little boy, get into my bag, and come."
So said to me the old man, but in a kind voice, and
softly and sweetly.

I asked him: "Where to?" And he replied:
"You will see later." I did not want to go, and
he said to me again: "Come." And I oegan to
argue with him. "How can I go with you when I
am a wealthy man's son?" Said he to me: "And
as a wealthy man's son, of what great value are
you?" Said I: "I am the only child of my father
and mother." Said he : "To me you are not an
only child!" Said I: "I am fretted over. If they
find that I am gone, they will not get over it, they
will die, especially my mother." He looked at me,
the old man did, very kindly, and he said to me, softly
and sweetly as before: "If you do not want to die,
then come with me. Say good-bye to your father
and mother, and come." "But, how can I come
when I am an only child, the only one left alive out
of seven?"

Then he said to me more sternly: "For the last
time, little boy. Choose one of the two. Either
you say good-bye to your father and mother, and

Elijah the Prophet

come with me, or you remain here, but fast asleep
for ever and ever."

Having said these words, he stepped back from
me a little, and was turning to the door. What
was to be done? To go with the old man, God-
knows-where, and get lost, would mean the death of
my father and mother. I am an only child, the only
one left alive out of seven. To remain here, and
fall asleep for ever and ever — that would mean that
I myself must die. . . .

I stretched out my hand to him, and with tears in
my eyes I said: "Elijah the Prophet, dear, kind,
loving, darling Elijah, give me one minute to think."
He turned towards me his handsome, yellow,
wrinkled old face with its grizzled beard reaching to
his knees, and looked at me with his beautiful, kind,
loving, faithful eyes, and he said to me with a smile :
"I will give you one minute to decide, my child — but,
no more than one minute."

• • • • •

I ask you. "What should I have decided to do
in that one minute, so as to save myself from going
with the old man, and also to save myself from
falling asleep for ever? Well, who can guess?"

Getzel

"Sit down, and I will tell you a story about nuts."

"About nuts? About nuts?"

"About nuts."

"Now? War-time?"

"Just because it's war-time. Because your heart
is heavy, I want to distract your thoughts from the
war. In any case, when you crack a nut, you find a
kernel."

• •'•••

His name was Getzel, but they called him
Goyetzel. Whoever had God in his heart made fun
of Getzel, ridiculed him. He was considered a bit
of a fool. Amongst us school-boys he was looked
upon as a young man. He was a clumsily built fel-
low, had extremely coarse hands, and thick lips.
He had a voice that seemed to come from an empty
barrel. He wore wide trousers and big top-boots,
like a bear. His head was as big as a kneading
trough. This head of his"Reb" Yankel used to
say, was stuffed with hay or feathers. The "Rebbe"
frequently reminded Getzel of his great size and
awkwardness. "Goyetzel," "Coarse being," "Bul-
lock's skin," and other such nicknames were be-
stowed on him by the teacher. And he never
seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a

Getzel

corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a
calf. You must know that Getzel was fond of eat-
ing. Food was dearer to him than anything else.
He was a mere stomach. The master called him a
glutton, but Getzel didn't care about that either.
The minute he saw food, he thrust it into his mouth,
and chewed and chewed vigorously. He had sent
to him, to the "Cheder," the best of everything.
This great clumsy fool was, along with everything
else, his wealthy mother's darling — her only child.
And she took the greatest care of him. Day and
night, she stuffed him like a goose, and was always
wailing that her child ate nothing.

"He ought to have the evil eye averted from him,"
our teacher used to say, behind Getzel's back, of
course.

"To the devil with his mother," the teacher's wife
used to add, in such a voice, and making such a
grimace over her words that it was impossible to
keep from laughing. "In Polosya they keep such
children in swaddling clothes. May he suffer
instead of my old bones!"

"May I live longer than his head," the teacher
put in, after her, and pulled Getzel's cap down over
his ears.

The whole "Cheder" laughed. Getzel sat silent.
He was sulky, but kept silent. It was hard to get
him into a temper. But, when he did get into a
temper, he was terrible. Even an angry bear could
not be fiercer than he. He used to dance with
passion, and bite his own big hands with his strong
white teeth. If he gave one a blow, one felt it — one

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enjoyed it. This the boys knew very well. They
had tasted his blows, and they were terribly afraid
of him. They did not want to have anything to do
with him. You know that Jewish children have a
lot of respect for beatings. And in order to
protect themselves against Getzel, all the ten boys
had to keep united — ten against one. And that was
how it came about that there were two parties at
"Reb" Yankel's "Cheder." On the one side, all the
pupils; on the other, Getzel. The boys kept their
wits about them; Getzel his fists. The boys worked
at their lessons; Getzel ate continually.

• • • • •

It came to pass that on a holiday the boys got
together to play nuts. Playing nuts is a game like
any other, neither better than tops, nor worse than
cards. The game is played in various ways. There
are "holes" and "bank" and "caps." But every
game finishes up in the same way. One boy loses,
another wins. And, as always, he who wins is a
clever fellow, a smart fellow, a good fellow. And
he who loses is a good-for-nothing, a fool and a
ne'er-do-well; just as it happens in the big cities, at
the clubs, where people sit playing cards night and
day.

The ten boys got together in the "Cheder" to play
nuts. They turned over a bench, placed a row of
nuts on the floor, and began rolling other nuts down-
wards. Whoever knocked the most nuts out of the
row won the whole lot. Suddenly the door opened,
and Getzel came in, his pockets loaded with nuts,
as usual.

Getzel

"Welcome art thou — a Jew!" cried one of the
boys.

"If you speak of the Messiah," put in a second.

"Vive Haman!" cried a third.

"And Rashi says, 'The devil brought him
here.' " cried a fourth.

"What are you playing? Bank? Then I'll play
too," said Getzel, to which he got an immediate
reply :

"No, with a little cap."

"Why not?"

"Just for that."

"Then I won't let you play."

He didn't hesitate a moment, but scattered the
nuts about the floor with his bear's paws. The boys
got angry. The cheek of the rascal!

"Boys, why don't you do something?" asked one.

"What shall we do?" asked a second.

"Lets break his bones for him," suggested a
third.

"All right. Try it on," cried Getzel. He turned
up his sleeves, ready for work.

And there took place a battle, a fight between the
two parties. On the one side was the whole
"Cheder," on the other Getzel.

Ten is not one. It was true they felt what
Getzel's fists tasted like. Bruises and marks around
the eyes were the portion of the ten. But for that,
again, they gave him a good taste of the world with
their sharp nails and their teeth, and every
other thing they could. From the front and from
the back and from all sides, he got blows and kicks

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and pulls and thumps and bites and scratches. Well,
ten is not one. They overcame him. Getzel had
to get himself off, disappear. And now begins the
real story of the nuts.

• • • • •

After he left the "Cheder" bruised and scratched
and torn and bleeding, Getzel stood thinking for a
while. He clapped his hands on his pockets, and
there was heard the rattling of nuts.

"You don't want to play nuts with me, then may
the Angel of Death play with you. I want you for
ten thousand sacrifices. I can manage. We two
will play by ourselves. "

That was what Getzel said to himself. The
next minute he was off like the wind. He stopped
in the middle of the road to say aloud, as if there
was some one with him:

"Where to? Where, for instance, shall we go,
Getzel?" And at once he answered himself:
"There, far outside the town, on the other side of
the mill. There we shall be alone, the two of us.
No one will disturb us. Let any one attempt to
disturb us, and we will break bones, and make an
end."

Talking with himself, Getzel felt that he was not
alone. He was not one but two; and he felt as
strong as two. Let the boys dare to come near
him, and he would break them to atoms. He would
1 educe them to a dust-heap. He enjoyed listening
to his own words, and did not stop talking to him-
self, as if he really had some one beside him.

"Listen to me. How far are we going to go?"
42

Getzel

he asked himself. And he answered himself almost
in a strange voice :

"Well, it all depends on you."

"Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play
nuts Well? What do you say, Getzel?"

"It's all the same to me."

Getzel sat down on the ground, far beyond the
town, behind the mill, took out the nuts, counted
them, divided them in two equal parts, put one
lot in his right-hand pocket, and the other in
his left. He took off his cap, and threw into it a
few nuts from his right-hand pocket. He said to
himself:

"They imagine I can't get on without them.
Listen, Getzel, what game are we playing?"

"I don't know. Whatever game you like."

"Then let us play 'odd or even.' "

"I'm quite willing."

He shook his cap.

"Now, guess. Odd or even? Well, speak out,"
he said to himself. He dug his elbow into his own
ribs, and said to himself:

"Even."

"Even did you say? Who'll thrash you? You
have lost. Hand over three nuts."

He took three nuts from his left-hand pocket, and
put them into the right. Again he shook the cap,
and again he asked:

"Odd or even this time?"

"Odd."

"Did you say odd? May you suffer for ever!
Hand them over here. You have lost four nuts."

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He changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket to
the right, shook the cap and said again:

"Well, maybe you'll guess right now. Odd or
even?"

"Even."

"Even did you say? May your bones rot!
You rascal, hand out here five nuts."

"Isn't it enough that I lose. Why do you curse
me?"

"Whose fault is it that (you are a fool and that you
guess as a blind man guesses a hole? Well, say
again — odd or even ? This time you must be right."

"Even."

"Even? May you live long! Hand out seven
nuts, you fool, and guess again. Odd or even?"

"Even."

"Again even. May you be my father! Good-
for-nothing, hand over five more nuts, and guess
again. Maybe you will guess right for once. Odd
or even? Why are you silent — eh?"

"I have no more nuts."

"It's a lie, you have!"

"As I am a Jew, I haven't."

"Just look in your pocket, like this."

"There isn't even a sign of one."

"None? Lost all the nuts? Well, what good
has it done you? Aren't you a fool?"

"Enough ! You have won all my nuts, and now
you torment me."

"It's good, it's all right. You wanted to win all
my nuts, and I have won yours."

Goyetzel was well satisfied that Getzel had lost,

Getzel

whilst he, Goyetzel had won. He felt it was doing
him good to win. He felt equal to winning all the
nuts in the whole world. "Where are they now, the
'ChedetJ boys? I would have got my own back
from them. I would not have left them the smallest
nut, not even for a cure. They would have died
here on the ground in front of me."

Getzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists,
clenched his teeth, and spoke to himself, just as if
there was some one beside him.

"Well, try now. Now that I am not by myself.
Now that there are two of us. Well, Getzel, why
are you sitting there like a bridegroom? Let's
play nuts another little while."

"Nuts? Where have I nuts? Didn't I tell you
I haven't a single one?"

"Ah, I forgot that you have no more nuts. Do
you know what I would advise you, Getzel?"

"For instance?"
'Have you any money?"
I have. Well, what of that?"
'Buy nuts from me."

'What do you mean by saying I should buy nuts
off you?"

"Fool! Don't you know what buying means?
Give me money, and I'll give you nuts. Eh?"

"Well, I agree to that."

He took from his purse a silver coin, bargained
about the price, counted a score of nuts from the
right-hand pocket to the left, and the play began all
over again.

An experienced card-player, the story goes, half

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an hour before his death called his son — also a
gambler — to his bedside, and said to him:

"My child, I am going from this world. We
shall never meet again. I know you play cards.
You have my nature. You may play as much as
you like, only take care not to play yourself out."

These words are almost a law. There is nothing
worse in the world than playing yourself out.
Experienced people say it deprives a man even of
his last shirt. It drives a man to desperate acts.
And one cannot hope to rise at the Resurrection after
that. So people say. And so it happened with our
young man. He worked so long, shaking his cap,
"odd or even," taking from one pocket and putting
into the other, until his left-hand pocket hadn't a
single nut in it.

"Well, why don't you play?"

"I have nothing to play with."

'Again you have no nuts, good-for-nothing!"
'You say I am a good-for-nothing. And I say
you are a cheat."

"If you call me a cheat again, I will give you a
clout in the jaw."

"Let the Lord put it into your head."

Getzel sat quiet for a few minutes, scraping the
ground with his fingers, digging a hole, and
muttering a song under his breath. Then he said:

"Dirty thing, let us play nuts."

"Where have I nuts?"

"Haven't you money? I will sell you another

ten."

"Money? Where have I money?"

Getzel

"No money and no nuts? Oh, I can't stand it.
Ha! ha! ha!"

The laugh echoed over the whole field, and re-
echoed in the distant wood. Getzel was convulsed
with laughter.

"What are you laughing at, you Goyetzel you?"
he asked himself. And he answered himself in a
different voice :

"I am laughing at you, good-for-nothing. Isn't
it enough that you lost all my nuts on me? Why
did you want to go and lose my money as well?
Such a lot of money. You fool of fools! Oh, I
can't get over it. Ha! ha! ha!"

"You yourself brought me to it. You wicked
one of wicked ones! You scamp! You rascal!"

"Fool of the night! If I were to tell you to cut
off your nose, must you do it? You idiot! You
animal with the horse's face, you! Ha! ha! ha!"

"Be quiet, at any rate, you Goyetzel, you. And
let me not see your forbidding countenance."

And he turned away from himself, sat sulky for
a few minutes, scraping the earth with his fingers.
He covered the hole he had made, as he sang a little
song under his breath.

"Do you know what I will tell you, Getzel?" he
said to himself a few minutes later. "Let us
forgive one another. Let us be friends. The Lord
helped me. It was my luck to win so many nuts —
may no evil eye harm them ! Why should we not
enjoy ourselves? Let's crack a few nuts. I should
think they are not bad! Well, what do you say,
Getzel?"

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"Yes, I also think they ought not to be bad," he
answered himself. He thrust a nut into his mouth,
a second, a third. Each time, he banged his teeth
with his fists. The nut was cracked. He took out
a fat kernel, cleaned it round, threw it back in his
mouth, and chewed it pleasurably with his strong
white teeth. He crunched them as a horse crunches
oats. He said to himself:

"Would you also like the kernel of a nut, Getzel?
Speak out. Do not be ashamed."

"Why not?"

That was how he answered himself. He
stretched out his left hand, but only smacked it with
his right.

"Will you have a plague?"

"Let it be a plague."

"Then have two."

And he did not cease from cracking the nuts, and
crunching them like a horse. It was not enough
that he sat eating and gave none to the other, but
he said to him:

"Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How,
for example, do you feel while I am eating and you
are only looking on?"

"How do I feel? May you have such a year!"

"Ah, I see you've got a temper. Here is a kernel
for you."

And Getzel's right hand gave the left a kernel.
The right turned upside down. The left hand
smacked the right. The left hand smacked the
right cheek. Then the right hand smacked the left
cheek twice. The left hand caught hold of the

Getzel

right lapel of his coat, and the right hand at once
tore off the left lapel, from top to bottom. The
left hand pulled the right earlock. The right hand
gave the left ear a terrible bang.

"Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my advice,
and let go of my earlock!"

"A plague!"

"Then you'll have no earlock, Getzel."

"Then you, Goyetzel, will have no ear."

"Oh!"

"Oh! Oh!"

Epilogue

For several minutes our Getzel rolled on the
ground. Now he lay right side up, and now he lay
left side up. He held his pocketful of nuts with
both hands. . . . One minute Goyetzel was vic-
torious. The next it was Getzel, until he got up
from the ground covered with dirt, like a pig. He
was torn to pieces, had a bleeding ear, and a torn
earlock. He took all the nuts from his pocket, and
threw them into the mud of the river, far away,
behind the mill. He muttered angrily:

"That's right. It's a good deed."

"Neither you — nor me."

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"

Our teacher, i(Reb,y Nissel the small one — so
called on account of his size — allowed himself to
be led by the nose by his assistants. Whatever they
wanted they got. When the first assistant said the
children were to be sent home early that day, he sent
them home early. The second assistant said that
the boys would turn the world upside down, and
ought to be kept at school, and he kept them at
school. He could never decide anything for him-
self. That was why his assistants controlled the
school, and not he. At other schools the assistants
teach the children to wash their hands and say the
blessing. At our school, the assistants would not
do this for us, nor fetch us our meals, nor take us to
school on their shoulders. No, they liked to go for
our meals. They ate them themselves on the road.
We did not dare to tell the master of this. The
assistants kept us in fear and trembling. If a boy
whispered a word of their doings to the teacher, he
would be flogged, his skin would be cut. Once, a
daring boy told the master something; and the
assistant beat him so terribly that he was laid up in
bed for months. He warned the boys never to tell
the master anything, no matter what the assistants
did.

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"

This period of our schooldays might be called the
Tyranny of the Assistants.

And it came to pass that we were under the yoke
of the assistants. One year, we had a cold "Uag
Beomer." It was a cold, wet May, such as we
sometimes had in our town, Mazapevka. The sun
barely showed itself. A sharp wind blew, brought
us clouds, tore open our coats, and threw us off our
feet. It was not pleasant out of doors.

Just then the assistants took it into their heads
to take us for a walk outside the town, so that we
might play at wars, with swords and pop-guns and
bows and arrows.

It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to
become war-like on the <(L'ag Beomer." They arm
themselves from head to foot with wooden swords,
pop-guns and bows and arrows. They take food
with them, and go off to wage war. Jewish children
who are the whole year round closed up in small
"Chedorim" oppressed by fears of the master, and
trembling under the whips of the assistants, when
"L'ag Beomer } comes round, and they may go out
into the open, armed from head to foot, imagine
that they are giants who can overcome the strongest
foe and reduce the world to ruins. All at once
they grow brave. They step forward eagerly,
singing songs that are a curious mixture of Yiddish
and Russian.

"One, two, three, four!
Jewish children

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Learn the 'Tor ah/

Believe in miracles,

Are not afraid.

Hear, O Israel! Nothing matters.

We are not afraid of any one,

Excepting God."

And we carried out the old custom. We took
down our swords of last year from the attic, and we
made bows from the hoops of old wine barrels.
Pop-guns the assistants provided us with, for
money, of course — fine guns with which one could
shoot flies if they only stood still long enough. In
a word, we had all the Jewish weapons to frighten
tiny infants to death. And we provided ourselves
with food in good earnest, each boy as much as
the Lord had blessed him with, and his mother
would give him, out of her generosity. We arrived
at <(Chederyy armed from head to foot, and our
pockets bulging out with good things — rolls, cakes,
boiled eggs, goose-fat, cherry-wine, fruit, fowls,
livers, tea and sugar, and preserves and jam, and
also many " groschens" in money. Each boy tried
to show off by bringing the best and the largest
quantity. And we wished to please the assistants.
They praised us, and said we were very good boys.
They took our food and put it into their bags.
They placed us in rows, like soldiers, and com-
manded us.

"Jewish children, take hands, and march across
the bridge, straight for Mezritzer fields. There
you will meet the sea-cats, and do battle with them."

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"

"Hurrah for the sea-cats!" we shouted in one
voice. We took hands and went forward, like
giants, strong and courageous.

• • • • •

We called the Free School boys sea-cats because
they were short little children in the ABC class.
They appeared to us "Chumash" boys like flies, ants.
We imagined that with one blow — phew! we
would make an end of them. We were certain
that when they saw us, how we were armed from
head to foot with swords and bows and arrows and
pop-guns, they would surely fly away. It was no
trifle to encounter such giants. You play with
"Chumash" boys, warriors with long legs !

We had never fought the sea-cats before. But
we had every reason to believe, we were convinced,
we would conquer these squirrels with a glance,
destroy them, make an end of them. Along with
giving them a good licking, we would take spoil
from them, that is to say, their food, and let them
go hungry.

We were so full of our own courage, and so
enthusiastic about the brave deeds we were going
to do that we pushed each other forward, clapped
each other on the shoulder. Then, too, the assist-
ants urged us forward.

"Why do you crawl like insects?" they asked
us. They themselves stopped frequently, opened
the bags, and tasted our food and cherry-wine,
which they praised highly.

"Excellent cherry-wine," they said, passing

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round the bottles, and letting the liquid gurgle down
their throats. "Splendid liquor. The best I ever
tasted."

That was what the assistants said. They
actually licked their fingers. They remained in
the distance, but indicated with their hands that
we must go forward, forward.

We went on and on, over the wide Mezritzer
field, though the wind blew stronger and stronger.
The sky grew black with clouds, and a cold, thick
rain beat into our faces. Our hands were blue with
the cold. Our boots squelched in the mud. We
had long given up singing songs. We were tired
and hungry, very hungry. We decided to sit down
and rest, and have something to eat.

"Where are the assistants? Where is the food
— where is it?"

The boys began to murmur against the assistants.

"It is a dirty trick to take all our food from us,
and our cherry-wine and our few 'groschens' and to
leave us here in the desert, cold and hungry. May
the devil take them!"

"May a bad end come to the assistants!"

"May the cholera strike down all the assistants
in the world!"

"May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest nails!"

"Hush. Let there be silence. Here come our
foes, our enemies."

"Little squirrels with big sticks."
. "The sea-cats — the sea-cats!"

"Hurrah for the sea-cats!"

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer

The moment we saw them, we rushed towards
them, like fierce starving wolves. We were ready
to tear them to pieces. But there happened to us
a misfortune, a great misfortune which no one could
possibly have foreseen.

If it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength
nor smartness are of any avail. Listen to what
can happen.

. » • • •

The sea-cats, though they were small, short little
squirrels, were evidently no fools. Before going
to do battle on the broad Mezritzer field, they had
prepared themselves well at home, gone through
their drill. Afterwards, they fed up. They also
took with them warm clothing and rubber goloshes.
They were armed from head to foot no worse than
we were, with swords and pop-guns and bows and
arrows. They would not wait until we had taken
the offensive. They attacked us first, and began
to break our bones. And how, do you think?
From all sides at once, and so suddenly that we
had no time to look about us. Before we realized
it, they were upon us. They were not alone, but
had their assistants to urge them on and encourage
them.

"Pay out the 'Chumash' boys. Beat them, the
boys with the long legs."

Naturally we were not silent either. We stood
up against the squirrels, like giants, beat them with
our swords, aimed our arrows at them, and shot
at them with our pop-guns. But, alas ! our swords

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were dull as wood; and before we could set our
bows, they had thrashed us. I say nothing of the
guns. What can you do with a pop-gun if the
foe will not wait until you have taken aim at him?
They rushed forward and knocked the guns out
of our hands. What could we do?

We had to throw away our weapons, our swords
and pop-guns and bows and arrows, and fight as
the Lord has ordained. That is to say, we fought
with our fists. But we were hungry and tired and
cold, and fought without a plan, because our
assistants had remained behind. They let us
fight whilst they ate our food and drank our cherry-
wine — the devil take them ! And they, the little
squirrels, well-fed and well-clad, had crept upon
us from three sides at once, each moment growing
stronger and stronger. They rained down on us
blows and thumps and digs. The same blows that
we had reckoned on giving them they gave us. And
their assistants went in front of them, and never
ceased from urging them on.

"Pay back the 'Chumash' boys. Beat them, beat
them, the boys with the long legs."

Who was the first to turn his back on the enemy?
It would be hard to say. I only know we ran
quickly, helter-skelter, back home, back to Maz-
apevka. And they, the little squirrels — may they
burn! — ran after us, shouting and yelling and
laughing at us, right on top of us.

"Hurrah! 'Chumash' boys! Hurrah! Big
boys !"

A Lost "L'Ag Beomer

>»

:•'

We arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised,
beaten. And we giants imagined that our parents
would pity us, give us cakes because of the blows
we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. No
one thought of us. We thanked God we were so
fortunate as to escape without beatings from our
parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. But
next morning we got a good whipping from our
teacher, Nissel the small one, for the bruises we
had on our foreheads and the blue marks around
our eyes. It is shameful to tell it — we were each
whipped in the true style. This was a mere
addition, as if we had not had enough.

We were not sorry for anything but that the
assistants gave us another share. When a father
or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When
a teacher beats one it is because he is a teacher.
And what is his rod for, anyway? But the
assistants! Our curses upon them! As if it were
not enough that they had eaten all our food, and
drunk our cherry-wine — may they suffer for it,
Father of the Universe ! — as if it were not enough
that they had left us to fight alone, in the middle
of the field, but when they were whipping us they
held our feet, so that we might not kick either.

• • • • «

And that was how our holiday ended up. It was
a dark, dreary, lost l<Lyag Beomer."

Murderers

u
u

"Is he still snoring?"
'And how snoring!"
;May he perish!"

"Wake him up. Wake him up."

"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!"

"Get up, my little bird."

"Open your little eyes."

I barely managed to open my eyes, raise my head,
and look about me. I saw a whole crowd of
rascals, my school-fellows. The window was open,
and along with their sparkling eyes I saw the first
rays of the bright, warm early morning sun. I
looked about me, on all sides.

"Just see how he looks."

"Like a sinner."

"Did you not recognize us?"

"Have you forgotten that it is 'L'ag Beomer'
today?"

The words darted through all my limbs like a
flash of lightning. I was carried out of bed by
them. In the twinkling of an eye, I was dressed.
I went in search of my mother, who was busy with
the breakfast and the younger children.

"Mother, today is 'Uag Beomer.' "

Murderers

"A good 'Yom-tov* to you. What do you
want?"

"I want something for the party."

"What am I to give you? My troubles? Or
my aches?"

So said my mother to me. Nevertheless, she
was ready to give me something towards the party.
We bargained about it. I wanted a lot. She
would only give a little. I wanted two eggs. Said
she: "A suffering in the bones!" I began to grow
angry. She gave me two smacks. I began to cry.
She gave me an apple to quieten me. I wanted an
orange. Said she: "Greedy boy, what will you
want next?" And my friends on the other side of
the window were kicking up a row.

"Will you ever come out, or not?"

"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!"

"The day is flying!"

"Quicker! Quicker!"

"Like the wind."

After much arguing, I got round my mother. I
snatched up my breakfast and my share of the
party, and flew out of the house, fresh, lively, joy-
ful, to my waiting comrades. All together we flew
down the hill to the "Cheder"

• • • • •

The "Cheder" was full of noise and tumult and
shouting that reached to the sky. A score of
throats shouted at the one time. The table was cov-
ered with delicacies. We had never had such a
party as we were going to have that "L'ag Beomer."
We had wine and brandy, for which we had to

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thank Berrel Yossel, the wine-merchant's son. He
had brought a bottle of brandy and two bottles of
wine made by Yossel himself. His father had
given him the brandy, but the wine he had taken
himself.

"What do you mean by saying he took it him-
self?"

"Don't you understand, peasant's head? He
took it from the shelf when no one was looking."
"Gracious me! That means he stole?"
"Fool of the night! Well, what then?"
"What do you mean? Then he is a thief?"
"For the sake of the party, fool."
"Is it a good deed to steal for that?"
"Certainly. What do you say to the wise one
of the 'Four questions'?"
"Where is it written?"

"He wants us to tell him where it is written?"
"Tell him it is written in the Book of Jests."
"In the chapter called 'And he took.' "
"Beginning with the words 'Bim-bom.' "
"Ha! ha! ha!"

"Hush, children, Mazeppa comes."
All at once there was silence. We were sitting
around the table quiet as lambs, like angels, golden
children who could not count two, and whose souls
were innocent.

* • • • •

Mazeppa was the teacher's name. That is to
say, his real name was Baruch-Moshe. He had
come to our town from Mazapevka not long before,
and the people called him the Mazapevkar. We
60

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boys shortened his name to Mazeppa. And when
pupils crown their teacher with such a lovely name,
he must be worthy of it. Let me introduce him.

He is small, thin, dried-up, hideously ugly. He
hasn't even the signs of a moustache or beard or
eyebrows. Not because he shaved. God forbid,
but simply because they would not grow. But for
that again he had a pair of lips and a nose. Oh,
what a nose ! It was curved like a ram's horn
And he had a voice like a bull. He growled like a
lion. Where did such a creature get such a terrible
roar? And where did he get so much strength?
When he took hold of you by the hand with his
cold, bony fingers, you saw the next world. When
he boxed your ears, you felt the smart for three
days on end. He hated arguing. For the least
thing, guilty or not guilty, he had one sentence :
"Lie down."

" 'Rebbe,' Yossel-Yakov-Yossels thumped me."

"Lie down."

" 'Rebbe,' it's a lie. He first kicked me in the
side."

"Lie down."

" 'Rebbe,' Chayim-Berrel Lippes put out his
tongue at me."

"Lie down."

" 'Rebbe,' it's a lie of lies. He made a noise at
me."

"Lie down."

And you had to lie down. Nothing would avail
you. Even Elya the red one, who is already "Bar-
mitzvah," and is engaged to be married, and wears

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a silver watch — do you think he is never flogged?
Oh yes! And how? Elya says he will be avenged
for the floggings he gets. Some day or other he
will pay back the "Rebbe" in such a way that his
children's children will remember it. That's what
Elya says after each flogging. And we echo his
words.

"Amen! May it be so! From your mouth into
God's ears!"

• • • • •

We said our prayers with the teacher, as usual.
(He never let us pray by ourselves because he
thought we might skip more than half the prayers.)
Mazeppa said to us in his lion's roar:

"Now, children, wash your hands and sit down
to the party. After grace I will let you go for a
walk."

We used to hold our "L'ag Beomer" party out-
side the town, in the open air, on the bare earth, un-
der God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of bread
to the birds. Let them also know that it is <lLyag
Beomer" in the world. But one does not argue with
Mazeppa. When he told one to sit down, one sat
down, lest he might tell one to lie down.

"Eat in peace," he said to us, after we had
pronounced the blessing.

"Come and eat with us," we replied out of
politeness.

"Eat in health," he said. "I do not wish to eat
yet. But, if you like, I will make a blessing over
the wine. What have you in that bottle?
Brandy?" he asked, and stretched out his long,
62

Murderers

dried-up hand with its bony fingers to the bottle of
brandy. He poured out a glassful, tasted it, and
made such a grimace that we must have been
stronger than iron to control ourselves from
exploding with laughter.

"Whose is this terrible thing?" he asked, taking
another drop. "It's not a bad brandy." He filled
a third glass and drank our health.

"Long life to you, children. May God grant
that we be alive next year, and — and . . .
Haven't you anything to bite? Well, in honour
of (L'ag Beomer' I will wash my hands and eat with
you."

What is wrong with our teacher? He's not the
same Mazeppa. He is in good humour, and
talkative. His cheeks are shining; his nose is red;
and his eyes are sparkling. He eats and laughs and
points to the bottle of wine.

"What sort of wine have you there? Passover
wine?" (He tasted it and pursed up his lips.)
"P-s-ss! The best wine in the world." (He drank
more.) "It's a long time since I tasted such wine."
(To Yossel the wine-merchant's son, with a laugh.)
"The devil take your father's cellar. I saw there
barrels upon barrels. And of the finest raisins.
Ha ! ha ! To your health, children. May the
Lord help you to be honest, pious Jews, and may you
— may you open the second bottle. Take glasses
and drink to long life. May God grant that —

that " (He licked his lips. His eyes were

closing.) "All good to the children of Israel."
• • • • •

Jewish Children

Having eaten and said grace, Mazeppa turned to
us, his tongue failing him as he spoke :

"Then we have carried out the duty of eating to-
gether on 'L'ag Beomer! Well, and what next,
eh?"

"Now we will go for the walk."

"For the walk, eh? Excellent. Where do we

go?"

"To the black forest."

"Ha? To the black forest? Excellent. I go
with you. It is good to walk in a forest, very
healthy, because a forest . . . Well, I will explain
to you what a forest is."

We went off with our teacher, beyond the town.
We were not altogether comfortable having him
with us. But, shah ! The teacher walked in the
middle, waving his hands and explaining to us
what a forest was.

"The nature of the forest, you must know, is as
the Lord has created it. It is full of trees. On
the trees are branches; and the branches are
covered with leaves that give out a pleasant,
pungent odour."

As he spoke, he sniffed the air that was not yet
either pleasant or pungent.

"Well, why are you silent?" he asked. "Say
something nice. Sing a song. Well, I was also a
boy once, and mischievous like you. I also had a
teacher. Ha! ha!"

That Mazeppa had once been a mischievous
boy and had had a teacher we could not believe.
It was curious. Mazeppa playful? We exchanged

Murderers

glances, and giggled softly. We tried to imagine
Mazeppa playful and having a teacher. And did

his teacher also ? We were afraid to think of

such a thing. But Elya stopped to ask a question:

" 'Rebbe/ did your teacher also flog you as you
flog us?"

"What? And what sort of floggings? Ha!
ha!"

We looked at the teacher and at each other. We
understood one another. We laughed with him,
until we were far from the town, in the broad fields,
close to the forest.

• ••••

The fields were beautiful — a Garden of Eden.
Green, fragrant grass, white boughs, yellow flowers,
green flies, and above us the blue sky that stretched
away endlessly. Facing us was the forest in holiday
attire. In the trees the birds hopped, twittering,
from branch to branch. They were welcoming us
on the dear day of "L'ag Beomer." We sought
shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a
thick tree. We sat down on the ground in a row,
the "Rebbe" in the middle.

He was worn out. He threw himself on the
ground, full-length, his face upwards. His eyes
were closing. He could hardly manage to speak.

"You are dear, golden children. . . . Jewish
children. . . . Saints. ... I love you, and you
love me. . . . Oh yes, you l-love me?"

"Like a pain in the eyes," replied Elya.

"Well, I know you l-love me," went on the
teacher.

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"May the Lord love you as we do," said Elya.

We were frightened, and whispered to Elya :

"The Lord be with you I"

"Fools!" he said with a laugh. "What are you
afraid of? Don't you see he is drunk?"

"What?" queried the teacher, one of whose eyes
was already closed. "What are you saying?
Saints? Of course. . . . The guardian of Israel.
Hal! Hal! Hal! Rrrssss!"

And our teacher fell fast asleep. The snores
burst from his nose like the blasts from a ram's horn,
sounding far into the forest. We sat around him,
and our hearts grew heavy.

Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we
fear? Is this Mazeppa?

"Children," said Elya to us, "why are we sitting
like lumps of stone? Let us think of a punishment
for Mazeppa."

A great fear fell upon us.

"Fools, what are you afraid of?" he went on.
"He is now like a dead body, a corpse."
We trembled still more. Elya went on :
"Now we may do with him what we like. He
flogged us the whole winter, as if we were sheep.
Let us take revenge of him this once, at least."
"What would you do to him?"
'Nothing. I will only frighten him."
'How will you frighten him?"
'You shall soon see." And he got up from the

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ground. He went over to the teacher, took off his
leather strap and said to us:

"See, we will fasten him to the tree with his own
belt in such a way that he will not be able to free
himself. Then one of us will go over to him and
shout in his ear: u (Rebbe,' murderers!"

"What will happen?"

"Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout,
'Hear, O Israel!"'

"How long will he shout?"

"Until he gets used to it."

Without another word, Elya tied the "Rebbe" to
the tree by the hands. We stood looking on, and a
shudder passed over our bodies.

Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we
fear? Is this Mazeppa?

"Why do you stand there like clay images?" said
Elya to us. "The Lord has performed a miracle.
Mazeppa has fallen into our hands. Let us dance
for joy."

We took hands and danced around the sleeping
Mazeppa like savages. We danced and leaped and
sang like lunatics.

We stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher
and shouted into his ear in a voice to waken the
dead:

"Help, (Rebbey\ Murderers! Murderers! Mur-
derers !"

We flew off together, like arrows from bows.
We were afraid to stop a moment. We were even

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afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon
us, even upon Elya, although he never ceased from
shouting at us:

"Donkeys, fools, animals! Why do you run?"

"Why do you run?"

"When you run I run too."

We got into the town full of excitement, and still
shouting:

"Murderers ! Murderers I"

When the people saw us running, they ran after
us. Seeing them running another crowd ran after
them.

"Why are you running?"

"How are we to know? Others run, and we run
too."

After some time, one of our boys stopped. And
seeing him, we also stopped, but still snouted:

"Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"

"Where? Where? Where?"

"There, in the black forest, murderers beset us.
They bound our teacher to a tree, and God knows
if he is still alive."

If you envy us because we are free, because we do
not go to "Cheder" (the "Rebbe" is lying ill), it is
for nothing — for nothing. No one knows whom
the shoe pinches — no one. No one knows who the
real murderers are. We rarely see one another.
When we meet, the first words are: "How is the
teacher ?" (He is no more Mazeppa. ) And when

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we pray, we ask God to save the teacher. We
weep in silence: "Oh, Father of the Universe!
Father of the Universe!" And Elya? Don't ask
about him. May the devil take him — that same
Elya!

Epilogue

When the "Rebbe" recovered (he was ill six
weeks, in the height of fever, and babbled constantly
of murderers) and we went back to "Cheder," we
hardly recognized him, so greatly had he changed.
What had become of his lion's roar? He had put
away his strap, and there was no more "Lie down,"
and no more Mazeppa. On his face there was to be
seen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole
into our hearts. And Mazeppa suddenly grew dear
to us, dear to our souls. Oh, if he had only scolded
us! But it was as if nothing had happened. Sud-
denly, he stopped us in the middle of the lesson, and
asked us to tell him again the story of that "Uag
Beomer" day, and of the murderers in the forest.
We did not hesitate, but told him again and again
the story we knew off by heart — how murderers had
come upon us in the forest, how they fell upon him,
tied him to the tree, and were going to kill him with a
knife, and how we rushed excitedly into the town,
and by our shouting and clamours saved him.

The "Rebbe" listened to us with closed eyes.
Then he sighed, and asked us suddenly:

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"Are you quite sure they were murderers?"

"What else were they?"

"Perhaps bandits?"

And the teacher's eyes sought the distance. And
we imagined that a curiously cunning smile was
hovering around his thick lips.

Three Little Heads

If my pen were an artist's brush, or at the very
least a photographic camera, I would create for you,
my friend, a picture, for a present in honour of
"Shevuous" of a rare group of three pretty little
heads, of three poor naked, barefoot Jewish chil-
dren. All three little heads are black, and have
curly hair. The eyes are big and shiny and burning.
They gaze out in wonder, and seem to be always ask-
ing of the world the one question: Wherefore?
You look at them, and marvel at them, and feel
guilty towards them, just as if you were really re-
sponsible for them — for the existence of three little
superfluous mortals in the world.

The three pretty little heads are of two brothers
and a little sister, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and
Dvairke. They were brought up by their father in
the true Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their
father was Peisa the box-maker. And if he had not
been afraid of his wife, Pessa, and if he had not been
such a terribly poor man, he would have changed his
Jewish name of Peisa into the Russian name of
Petya. But, since he was a little afraid of his wife,
Pessa, and since he was extremely poor — may it
remain far from us! — he kept to his own name of
Peisa the box-maker, until the good time comes,
when everything will be different, as Bebel says, as

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Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise peo-
ple say — when everything, everything will be differ-
ent. But until the good and happy time comes, one
must get up at the dawn of day, and work far into
the night, cutting out pieces of cardboard and past-
ing boxes and covers of books. Peisa the box-maker
stands at his work all day long. He sings as he
works, old and new songs, Jewish and non-Jewish,
mostly gay-sorrowful songs, in a gay-sorrowful voice.

"Will you ever give up singing those Gentile
songs? Such a man! And how he loves the Gen-
tiles. Since we have come to this big town, he has
almost become a Gentile."

All three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and
Dvairke, were born and brought up in the same
place — between the wall and the stove. They al-
ways saw before them the same people and the same
things: the gay father who cut cardboards, pasted
boxes, and sang songs, and the careworn, hollow-
cheeked mother who cooked and baked, and rushed
about, and was never finished her work. They were
always at work, both of them — the mother at the
stove, and the father at the cardboards. What
were all the boxes for? Who wanted so many
boxes? Is the whole world full of boxes? That
was what the three little heads wanted to know.
And they waited until their father had a great pile
of boxes ready, when he would take them on his
head and in his arms — thousands of them — to the
market. He came back without the boxes, but with
money for the mother, and with cakes and buns for
the children. He was a good father — such a good

Three Little Heads

father. He was gold. The mother was also gold,
but she was cross. One got a smack from her some-
times, a dig in the ribs, or a twist of an ear. She
does not like to have the house untidy. She does
not allow the children to play "fathers and moth-
ers." She forbids Abramtzig to pick up the pieces
of cardboard that have fallen to the floor, and
Moshetzig to steal the paste from his father, and
Dvairke to make bread of sand and water. The
mother expects her children to sit still and keep
quiet. It seems she does not know that young heads
will think, and young souls are eager and restless.
They want to go. Where? Out of doors, to the
light. To the window — to the window.

• • • • •

There was only one window, and all three heads
were stuck against it. What did they see out of it?
A wall. A high, big, grey, wet wall. It was always
and ever wet, even in summer. Does the sun ever
come here? Surely the sun comes here sometimes,
that is to say, not the sun itself, but its reflection.
Then there is a holiday. The three beautiful heads
press against the little window. They look up-
wards, very high, and see a narrow blue stripe, like
a long blue ribbon.

"Do you see, children?" says Abramtzig. He
knows. He goes to "Cheder." He is learning
"Kometz Aleph." The "Cheder" is not far away,
in the next house, that is to say, in the next room.
Ah, what stories Abramtzig tells about the
"Cheder"! He tells how he saw with his own
eyes — may he see all that is good ! — a big building,

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with windows from top to bottom. Abramtzig
swears that he saw — may he see all that is good! —
a chimney — a high chimney from which there
came out smoke. Abramtzig tells that he saw
with his own eyes — may he see all that is good! —
a machine that sewed without hands. Abramtzig
tells that he saw with his own eyes — may he see all
that is good ! — a car that went along without horses.
And many more wonderful things Abramtzig tells
from the "Cheder." And he swears, just as his
mother swears — that he may see all that is good.
And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and
sisjh. They envy Abramtzig because he knows
everything — everything.

For instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree
grows. It is true he never saw a tree growing.
There are no trees in the street — none. But he
knows — he heard it at "Cheder" — that fruit grows
on a tree, for which reason one makes the blessing
— "Who hast created the fruit of the tree."
Abramtzig knows — what does he not know? —
that potatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic
grow on the ground. And that's why one says
the blessing over them — "Who hast created the
fruit of the ground." Abramtzig knows every-
thing. Only he does not know how and by what
means things grow, because, like the other children,
he never saw them. There is no field in their street,
no garden, no tree, no grass — nothing — nothing.
There are big buildings in their street, grey walls
and high chimneys that belch out smoke. Each
building has a lot of windows, thousands and thou-

Three Little Heads

sands of windows, and machines that go without
hands. And in the streets there are cars that go
without horses. And beyond these, nothing —
nothing.

Even a little bird is seldom seen here. Some-
times an odd sparrow strays in — grey as the grey
walls. He picks, picks at the stones. He spreads
out his wings and flies away. Fowls? The chil-
dren sometimes see the quarter of one with a long,
pale leg. How many legs has a fowl? "Four,
just like a horse," explains Abramtzig. And
surely he knows everything. Sometimes their
mother brings home from the market a little head
with glassy eyes that are covered with a white
film. "It's dead," says Abramtzig, and all three
children look at each other out of great black eyes;
and they sigh.

Born and brought up in the big city, in the huge
building, in the congestion, loneliness and poverty,
not one of the three children ever saw a living crea-
ture, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other ani-
mal, excepting the cat. They have a cat of their
own — a big, live cat, as grey as the high damp grey
wall. The cat is their only play-toy. They play
with it for hours on end. They put a shawl on her,
call her "the wedding guest," and laugh and laugh
without an end. When their mother sees them,
she presents them — one with a smack, a second with
a dig in the ribs, and the third with a twist of the
ear. The children go off to their hiding-place be-
hind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a
story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke,

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listen to him. He says their mother is right.
They ought not to play with the cat, because a cat
is a wicked animal. Abramtzig knows everything.
There is nothing in the world that he does not
know.

>: s y

Abramtzig knows everything. He knows there
is a land far away called America. In America
they have a lot of relatives and friends. In that
same America the Jews are well-off and happy —
may no evil eye rest on them! Next year, if God
wills it, they will go off to America — when they
get tickets. Without tickets no one can go to
America, because there is a sea. And on the sea
there is a storm that shakes one to the very soul.
Abramtzig knows everything.

He even knows what goes on in the other
world. For instance, he knows that in the other
world there is a Garden of Eden, for Jews,j of
course. In the Garden of Eden there are trees
with the finest fruits, and rivers of oil. Diamonds
and rubies are to be found there in the streets.
Stoop down and pick them up and fill your
pockets. And there good Jews study the Holy
Law day and night, and enjoy the holiness.

That is what Abramtzig tells. And Moshet-
zig's and Dvairke's eyes are burning. They envy
their brother because he knows everything. He
knows everything, even to what goes on in the
heavens. Abramtzig swears that twice a year, on
the nights of "Hashono Rabo" and "Shevuous,"
the sky opens. It is true he himself never saw the

Three Little Heads

sky opening, because there is no sky near them.
But his comrades saw it. They swore — may they
see all that is good! — And they would not swear
to a lie. How can one swear to a lie? It's a
pity they have no sky in their street, only a long,
narrow blue stripe, like a long, narrow blue ribbon.
What can one see in such a tiny scrap of sky, be-
yond a few stars and the reflection of the moon?
In order to prove to his little sister and brother
that the sky opens, Abramtzig goes over to his
mother, and pulls her by the skirt.

"Mother, is it true that in the very middle of
'Shevuous' night the sky opens?"

"I will open your head for you."

When he got no satisfaction from his mother,
Abramtzig waited for his father, who had gone
off to the market with a treasure of boxes.

"Children, guess what present father will
bring us from the market," said Abramtzig. And
the children tried to guess what their father would
bring them from the market. They counted on
their fingers everything that was in the market —
everything that an eye could see, and a heart de-
sire— cakes and buns and sweets. But no one
guessed aright. And I am afraid you will not
guess aright either. Peisa the box-maker brought
from the market this time neither cakes, nor buns
nor sweets. He brought the children grass —
curious, long, sweet-smelling grass.

And all three children gathered around their
father.

"Father, what is it — that?"

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"It is grass."

"What is grass?"

"It is a bunch of greens for 'Shevuous' Jews
need grass for 'Shevuous.' "

"Where do they get it, father?"

"Where do they get it? H'm! They buy it.
They buy it in the market," said their father.
And he strewed the green, sweet-smelling grass
over the freshly-swept floor. And he was de-
lighted; it was green and smelt sweet. He said
to the mother gaily, as is his way:

"Pessa, good 'Yom-tov* to you!"

"Good luck! A new thing! The young devils
will now have something to make a mess with," re-
plied the mother, crossly, as is her way. And she
gave one of the children a smack, the second a dig in
the ribs, and the third a twist of the ear. She is
never satisfied, always cross, and always sour, exactly
the opposite of father.

The three pretty heads looked at the mother,
and at the father, and at one another. The mo-
ment their parents turned away, they threw them-
selves on the floor, and put their faces to the sweet-
smelling grass. They kissed it — the green grass
that Jews need for "Shevuous" and which is sold
at the market.

Everything is to be found at the market, even
greens. The father buys everything. Jews want
everything, even greens — even greens.

Greens for "Shevuous"

On the eve of "Shevuous," I induced my mother
— peace be unto her! — to let me go off outside the
town, by myself, to gather greens for the Festival.

And my mother let me go off alone to gather the
greens for the Festival. May she have a bright
Paradise for that!

A real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by
one's self, without a companion, and without a
single argument. I was alone, free as a bird, in
the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of
the blue cap called "the sky." For me alone
shone the beautiful queen of the day, the sun.
For my sake there came together, here in the
big field, all the singers and warblers and dancers.
For my sake there was spread before me the row
of tall sunflowers, and the delicate growths were
scattered all over the field by a benevolent nature.
No one bothered me. No one prevented me from
doing what I liked. No one saw me but God.
And I could do what I liked. If I liked I might
sing. If I liked I might shout and scream at the
top of my voice. If I liked I might make a horn
with my hands, and blow out a melody. If I liked
I might roll on the green grass just as I was, curl-
ing myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to

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give me orders? And whom would I pay heed to?
I was free — I was free.

The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the
sky so clear, the field so green, the grass so fresh,
my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful that I forgot
completely I was a stranger in the field and had
merely come out to cut green boughs for "Shevu-
ous." I imagined I was a prince, and the whole
field that my eyes rested on, and everything in the
field, and even the blue sky above it — all were mine.
I owned everything, and could do what I liked with
it — I, and no one else. And like an overlord who
had complete control of everything, I longed to
show my power, my strength, my authority — all
that I could and would do.

• • • • •

First of all I was displeased with the tall giants
with the yellow hats — the sunflowers. Suddenly
they appeared to me as my enemies. And all the
other plants with and without stalks, the beans and
beanstalks, were enemies too. They were the
Philistines that had settled on my ground. Who
had sent for them? And those thick green plants
lying on the ground, with huge green heads — the
cabbages, what are they doing here? They will
only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me.
Let them go into the earth. I do not want them.
Angry thoughts and fierce instincts awoke within
me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took posses-
sion of me. I began to avenge myself of my en-
emies. And what a vengeance it was!

I had with me all the tools I would need for cut-

Greens for "Shevuous"

ting the green boughs for the Festival — pocket-
knife with two blades, and a sword — a wooden
sword, but a sharp one.

This sword had remained with me after "L'ag
Beomer." And although I had carried it with me
when I had gone with my comrades to do battle out-
side the town, yet I could swear to you, though you
may believe me without an oath, that the sword
had not spilled one drop of blood. It was one of
those weapons that are carried about in times of
peace. There was not a sign of war. It was
quiet and peaceful around and about. I carried
the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of
peace, one must have in readiness swords and guns
and rifles and cannon, horses and soldiers. May
they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to
say when she was making preserves,

« » « • •

It is the same all the world over. In a war,
one aims first at the leaders, the officers. It is
better still if one can hit the general. After that
the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore
you will not be surprised to hear that, first of all,
I fell upon Goliath the Philistine. I gave him a
good blow on the head with my sword, and a few
good blows from the back. And the wicked one
was stretched at my feet, full length. After that I
knocked over a good many more wicked ones. I
pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them
to the devil. The short, fat green enemies I
attacked in a different manner. Wherever I could,
I took the green heads off. The others I trampled

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down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of
them.

During a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is
carried away by excitement, one cuts down every-
thing that is at hand, right and left. When one
is spilling blood, one loses one's self, one does not
know where one is in the world. At such a time,
one does not honour old age. One does not care
about weak women. One has no pity for little
children. Blood is simply poured out like water.
. . . When I was cutting down the enemy, I felt
a hatred and a malice I had never experienced be-
fore, immediately after I had delivered the first
blow. The more I killed the more excited I be-
came. I urged myself to go on. I was so beside
myself, so enflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up,
and destroyed everything before me. I cut about
me on all sides. Most of all the "little ones"
suffered at my hands — the young peas in the fat
little pods, the tiny cucumbers that were just show-
ing above ground. These excited me by their si-
lence and their coldness. And I gave them such a
share that they would never forget me. I knocked
off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to atoms,
beat, murdered, killed. May I know of evil as
little as I know how I came to be so wicked.
Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay deep in the
earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was
no hiding from me. Little onions and green garlic
I tore up by the roots. Radishes flew about me
like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even
tasted a single bite of anything. I remembered

Greens for "Shevuous"

the law in the Bible forbidding it. And Jews do
not plunder. Every minute, when an evil spirit
came and tempted me to taste a little onion or a
young garlic, the words of the Bible came into my
mind. . . . But I did not cease from beating,
breaking, wounding, and killing and cutting to
pieces, old and young, poor and rich, big and little,
without the least mercy. . . .

On the contrary, I imagined I heard their wails
and groans' and cries for mercy, and I was not
moved. It was remarkable that I who could not
bear to see a fowl slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or
a dog insulted, or a horse whipped — I should be
such a tyrant, such a murderer. . . .

"Vengeance," I shouted without ceasing, "ven-
geance. I will have my revenge of you for all the
Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay you
for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and Portugal,
and for the Jews of Morocco. Also for the Jews
who fell in the past, and those who are falling to-
day. And for the Scrolls of the Law that were
torn, and for the . . . Oh! oh! oh! Help!
Help! Who has me by the ear?"

Two good thumps and two good smacks in the
face at the one time sobered me on the instant. I
saw before me a man who, I could have sworn, was
Okhrim, the gardener.

• * • • •

Okhrim the gardener had for years cultivated
fields outside the town. He rented a piece of
ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it mel-
ons and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and rad-

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ishes and other vegetables. He made a good liv-
ing in this way. How did I know Okhrim? He
used to deal with us. That is to say, he used to
borrow money off my mother every Passover eve,
and about "Succoth" time, he used to begin to pay
it back by degrees. These payments used to be en-
tered on the inside cover of my mother's prayer-
book. There was a separate page for Okhrim, and
a separate account. It was headed in big writing,
"Okhrim's account." Under these words came
the entries: "A 'rouble* from Okhrim. Another
'rouble' from Okhrim. Two 'roubles' from
Okhrim. Half a 'rouble' from Okhrim. A sack
of potatoes from Okhrim," and so on. . . . And
though my mother was not rich — a widow with
children, who lived by money-lending — she took no
interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in gar-
den-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We
never quarrelled with him.

If the harvest was good, he filled our cellar with
potatoes and cucumbers to last us all the winter.
And if the harvest was bad, he used to come and
plead with my mother:

"Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest
is bad."

My mother forgave him, and told him not to be
greedy next year.

"You may trust me, Mrs, Abraham, you mav
trust me," Okhrim replied. And he kept his word.
He brought us the first pickings of onions and gar-
lic. We had new potatoes and green cucumbers
before the rich folks. I heard our neighbours say,

Greens for "Shevuous"

more than once, that the widow was not so badly
off as she said. "See, they bring her the best of
everything." Of course, I at once told my mother
what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses
on our neighbours.

"Salt in their eyes, and stones in their hearts!
Whoever begrudges me what I have, let him have
nothing. I wish them to be in my position next
year."

Naturally, I at once told my neighbours what
my mother had wished them; and, of course, for
these words they were enraged against her. They
called her by a name I was ashamed to hear. . . .
Naturally I was angry, and at once told my mother
of it. My mother gave me two smacks and told
me to give up carrying " 'Purim9 presents" from one
to the other. The smacks pained, and the words
" 'Purim* presents" gnawed at my brain. I could
not understand why she said " * Purim9 presents."

I used to rejoice when I saw Okhrim from the
distance, in his high boots and his thick, white,
warm, woollen pellisse which he wore winter and
summer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing
us a sackful of garden produce. And I flew into
the kitchen to tell my mother the news that Okhrim
was coming.

• • • • •

I must confess that there was a sort of secret
love between Okhrim and myself — a sort of sympa-
thy that could not be expressed in words. We
rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did
not understand his language, that is to sav, I under-

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stood his but he did not understand mine. Sec-
ondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big
Okhrim? I had to ask my mother to be our inter-
preter.

"Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some
grapes."

"Where is he going to get them? There are no
grapes growing in a vegetable garden."

"Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?"
'Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables."
'Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?"

'Why — why — why? You are a fool," cried my
mother, and gave me a smack in the face.

"Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child," said
Okhrim, defending me.

That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And
it was in his hands I found myself that day when I
waged war against the vegetables.

This is what I believe took place: When Okhrim
came up and saw his garden in ruins, he could not at
once understand what had happened. When he saw
me swinging my sword about me on all sides, he
ought to have realized I was a terrible being, an evil
spirit, a demon, and crossed himself several times.
But when he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was
fighting so vigorously, and with a wooden sword, he
took hold of me by the ear with so much force that
I collapsed, fell to the ground, and screamed in a
voice unlike my own :

"Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Who is pulling me by the ear ?"

It was only after Okhrim had given me a few
good thumps and several resounding smacks that

Greens for "Shevuous"

we encountered each other's eyes and recognized
one another. We were both so astonished that we
were speechless.

"Mrs. Abraham's boy!" cried Okhrim, and he
crossed himself. He began to realize the ruin I
had brought on his garden. He scrutinized each
bed and examined each little stick. He was so over-
come that the tears filled his eyes. He stood fac-
ing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one
solitary question:

"Why have you done this to me?"

It was only then that I realized the mischief I had
done, and whom I had done it to. I was so amazed
at myself that I could only repeat:

"Why? Why?"

"Come," said Okhrim, and took me by the hand.
I was bowed to the earth with fear. I imagined
he was going to make an end of me. But Okhrim
did not touch me. He only held me so tightly by
the hand that my eyes began to bulge from my head.
He brought me home to my mother, told her every-
thing, and left me entirely in her hands.

■ • • • •

Need I tell you what I got from my mother?
Need I describe for you her anger, and her fright,
and how she wrung her hands when Okhrim told
her in detail all that had taken place in his garden,
and of all the damage I had done to his vegetables?
Okhrim took his stick and showed my mother how
I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had
smashed and broken, and trampled down everything
with my feet, pulled the little potatoes out of the

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ground, and torn the tops oft the little onions and
the garlic that were just showing above the earth.

"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abra-
ham— why?"

Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in
his throat and choked him.

I must tell you the real truth, children. I would
rather Okhrim with the strong arms had beaten me,
than have got what I did from my mother, before
Shevuons," and what the teacher gave me after
Shevuous" . . . And the shame of it all. I
was reminded of it all the year round by the boys
at "Cheder" They gave me a nickname — "The
Gardener." I was Yossel "the gardener."

This nickname stuck to me almost until the day
I was married.

That is how I went to gather greens for "Shevu-

OtIS."

Another Page from "The
Song of Songs"

"Quicker, Busie, quicker !" I said to her the day
before the "Shevuous." I took her by the hand,
and we went quickly up the hill. "The day will not
stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such
a high hill. After the hill we have another stream.
Over the stream there are some boards — a little
bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the
boards shake and tremble. On the other side of
the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden —
over there begins my real property."

"Your property?"

"I mean the Levada — a big field that stretches
away and away, without a beginning and without an
end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled
with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red
nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most
fragrant spices in the world are there. I have trees
there beyond the counting, tall many-branched trees.
I have a little hill there that I sit on when I like.
Or else, by pronouncing the Holy Name, I can rise
up and fly away like an eagle, across the clouds, over
fields and woods, over seas and deserts until I come

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to the other side of the mountain of darkness."

"And from there," puts in Busie, "you walk seven
miles until you come to a little stream."

"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out
of the trees, and after that I come to the little
stream."

"You swim across the water, and count seven
times seven."

"And there appears before me a little old man
with a long beard."

"He asks you: 'What is your desire?' "

"I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daugh-
ter.' "

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down
the hill. I run after her.

"Busie, why are you running off?"

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes
the story I told her excepting the part about the
Queen's daughter.

» • • ■ •

You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told
you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell
you again.

I had an older brother, Benny. He was
drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young
widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was
neglected; the horses were sold; the widow married
again, and went away, somewhere far; and the child
was brought to us. This child was Busie.

Ha ! ha ! ha ! Everybody thinks that Busie and I
are sister and brother. She calls my mother
"mother," and my father "father." And we two
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live together like sister and brother, and love one
another, like sister and brother.

Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie
ashamed before me?

It happened once that we two were left alone
in the house — we two by ourselves in the whole
house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My
father had gone to the synagogue to recite the
mourners' prayer after my dead brother Benny, and
my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie
and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories.
Busie likes me to tell her stories — fine stories of
"Cheder," or from the "Arabian Nights." She
crept close to me, and put her hand into mine.

"Tell me something, Shemak, tell me."

Softly fell the night around us. The shadows
crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and
stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one
another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard
her little heart beating. I saw her eyes shin-
ing in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from
mine.

"What is it, Busie?"

"We must not."

"What must we not?"

"Hold each other's hands."

"Why not? Who told you that?"

"I know it myself."

"Are we strangers? Are we not sister and
brother?"

"Oh, if we were sister and brother," cried Busie.
And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from

Jewish Children

the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as my
brother."

It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always

think of the "Song of Songs."

Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of
the "Shevuous" Well, we ran down hill, Busie in
front, I after her. She is angry with me because of
the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories ex-
cepting the one about the Queen's daughter. But
Busie's anger need not worry one. It does not last
long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is
again looking up at me with her great, bright,
thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says
to me:

uShemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a
sky! You do not see what is going on all around

us."

"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see
a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the
birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads.
It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are
ours too — everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me
your hand, Busie."

No, she will not give me her hand. She is
ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me?
Why does she grow red?

"There," says Busie to me — "over there, on the
other side of the bridge." And I imagine she is re-
peating the words of the Shulamite in the "Song of
Songs."

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"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field;
let us lodge in the villages.

"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if
the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear,
and the pomegranates bud forth."

And we are at the little bridge.

. • • • •

The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of
the little bridge are shaking. Busie is afraid.

"Ah, Busie, you are a Why are you afraid,

little fool? Hold on to me. Or, let us take hold
of one another, you of me, and I of you. See?
That's right — that's right."

No more little bridge.

We still cling to one another, as we walk along.
We are alone in this Garden of Eden. Busie holds
me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I imag-
ine she is talking to me in the words from the "Song
of Songs" :

"My beloved is mine, and I am his."

The Levada is big. It stretches away without
a beginning and without an end. It is covered with
a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and
nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious
odour — the most fragrant spices in the world are
there. We walked along, embraced — we two alone
in the Garden of Eden.

"Shemak," says Busie to me, looking straight into
my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, "when shall
we start gathering the green boughs for the 'Shevu-
ous'?"

Jewish Children

"The day is long enough, little fool," I say to
her. I am on fire. I do not know where to look
first, whether at the blue sky, or the green fields, or
over there, at the end of the world, where the sky
has become one with the earth. Or shall I look at
Busie's shining face — into her large beautiful eyes
that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as
the night? Her eyes are always dreamy. A deep
sorrow lies hidden within them. They are veiled
by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. I
am acquainted with the cause of her melancholy.
She has a great grief in her heart. She is pained
because her mother married a stranger, and went
away from her for ever and ever, as if she had been
nothing to her. In my home her mother's name
must not be mentioned. It is as if Busie had never
had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my
father is her father. They love her as if she were
their own child. They fret over her, and give her
everything that her heart desires. There is nothing
too dear for Busie. She wanted to go with me to
gather green boughs for the Festival decorations
(I told her to ask it), and my father said to my
mother:

"What do you think?" He looked over his sil-
ver spectacles, and stroked the silver white hair of
his beard. And there went on an argument between
my father and mother about our going off outside
the town to gather green boughs for the "Shevu-

ous."

Father: "What do you say?"
Mother: "What do you say?"

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Father: "Shall we let them go?"

Mother: "Why should we not let them go?"

Father: "Do I say we should not?"

Mother: "What then are you saying?"

Father: "I am saying that we should let them

go."

Mother: "Why should they not go?"

And so forth. I know what is worrying them.

About twenty times my mother warned me, my

father repeating the words after her, that there is

a bridge to be crossed, and under the little bridge

there is a water — a stream, a stream, a stream.

• • • • •

We, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little
bridge and the river, the stream. We are going
across the broad free Levada, under the blue, open
sky. We run across the green field, fall and roll
about on the sweet-smelling grass. We get up, fall
again, and roll about again, and yet again. We
have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the
Festival decorations. I take Busie over the length
and breadth of the Levada. I show off before her
with my property.

"Do you see those trees? Do you see this sand?
Do you see that little hill?"

"Are they all yours?" asks Busie. Her eyes are
laughing. I am annoyed because she laughs at me.
She always laughs at me. I get sulky and turn
away from her for a moment. Seeing that I am
sulky, she goes in front of me, looks into my eyes,
takes my hand, and says to me: "Shemak!" My
sulks are gone and all is forgotten. I take her hand

Jewish Children

and lead her to my hill, there where I sit always,
every summer. If I like I sit down, and if I like
I rise up with the help of the Lord, by pronouncing
His Holy Name. And I fly off like an eagle, above
the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and des-
erts.

• • • • •

We sit on the hill, Busie and I. (We have not
yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival.)
We tell stories. That is to say, I tell stories, and
she listens. I tell her what will happen at some far,
far off time. When I am a man and she is a woman
we will get married. We will both rise up, by pro-
nouncing the Holy Name, and travel the whole
world. First we will go to all the countries that
Alexander the Great was in. Then we will run
over to the Land of Israel. We will go to the Hills
of Spices, fill our pockets with locust-beans, figs,
dates, and olives, and fly off further and still further.
And everywhere we will play a different sort of trick,
for no one will see us.

"Will no one see us?" asks Busie, catching hold
of my hand.

uNo one — no one. We shall see every one, but
no one will see us."

'In that case, I have something to ask you."
'A request?"

"A little request."

But I know her little request — to fly off to where
her mother is, and play a little trick on her step-
rather.

"Whv not?" I say to her. "With the greatest

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of pleasure. You may leave it to me, little fool.
I can do something which they will not forget in a
hurry."

"Not them, him alone," pleads Busie. But I
do not give in so readily. When I get into a tem-
per it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for
what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman?
The idea of marrying another man and going off
with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child
behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any
one ever hear of such a wrong?

• • • • •

I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as
if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late.
Busie had covered her face with her two hands.
Was she crying? I could have torn myself to
pieces. What good had it done me to open her
wound by speaking of her mother? In my own
heart I called myself every bad name I could think
of: "Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat, Good-for-nothing,
Long-tongue." I drew closer to Busie, and took
hold of her hand. I was about to say to her, the
words of the "Song of Songs" :

"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy
voice."

Suddenly — How do my father and mother come
here?

• • • • •

My father's silver spectacles shine from the dis-
tance. The silver strands of his hair and beard
are spread out on the breeze. My mother is wav-
ing her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain

Jewish Children

sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my par-
ents doing here?

They had come to see what we were doing.
They were afraid some accident had befallen us —
God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge,
a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious
father and mother.

"And where are your green boughs?"

"What green boughs?"

"The green boughs that you went to gather for
the 'Shevuous' decorations."

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood
her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in
the words of the "Song of Songs" :

" *0 that thou wert as my brother!' . . . Why
are you not my brother?"

. • » . •

"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for
'Shevuous' somehow," says my father with a smile.
And the silver strands of his silver-white beard
glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun.
"Thank God the children are well, and that no ill
has befallen them."

"Praised be the Lord!" replies my mother to
him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her
shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to
grow broader than long with delight.

Curious, curious father and mother !

A Pity for the Living

"If you were a good boy, you would help us to
scrape the horse-radish until we are ready with the
fish for the holy festival."

That was what my mother said to me on the eve
of "Shevuous" about mid-day. She was helping
the cook to prepare the fish for the supper. The
fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they
were put into a clay basin and covered with water
they were still struggling.

More than any of the others there struggled a
little carp with a broad back, and a round head
and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had
a strong desire to get back into the river. It strug-
gled hard. It leaped out of the basin, flapped its
tail, and splashed the water right into my face.
"Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!"

I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task
of scraping the horse-radish for the supper. I
thought within myself, "Poor little fish. I can do
nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand.
You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces,
put in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the fire,
and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and sim-
mered."

Jewish Children

"It's a pity," I said to my mother. "It's a pity
for the living."

"Of whom is it a pity?"

"It's a pity of the little fishes."

"Who told you that?"

"The teacher."

"The teacher?"

She exchanged glances with the cook who was
helping her, and they both laughed aloud.

"You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater
fool. Ha! ha! Scrape the horse-radish, scrape
away."

That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me
that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters
too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than
I — that was news to me.

. • » • •

I have a comrade, Pinalle, the "Shochet's" son.
I was at his house one day, and I saw how a little
girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with
a string. My comrade's father, the "Shochet" was
asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited.
The cock, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the
girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into her,
pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" protested as much as he
could. But the girl was no weakling either. She
thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and
dug her elbows into him, saying:

"Be still, you wretch!"

And he obeyed and remained silent.

When the "Shochet" woke up, he washed his

IOO

A Pity for the Living

hands and took out his knife. He motioned to have
the bird handed to him. I imagined that the cock
changed colour. He must have thought that he
was going to be freed to race back to his hens, to
the corn and the water. But it was not so. The
"Shochet" turned him round, caught him between
his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with
the other plucked out a few little feathers, pro-
nounced a blessing — heck! the knife was drawn
across his throat. He was cast away. I thought
he would fall to pieces.

"Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my
comrade.

"Why is he a heathen?"

"He has in him no pity for the living."

"I did not know you were so clever," said my com-
rade, and he pulled a long nose right into my face.

• • • • •

Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called
"Fruma with the little eye." She is a girl without
a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for
having run away with a little liver from the board.
Afterwards, when she counted the fowls and the
livers, it turned out that; she had made a mistake.
She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of
course, seven little livers, and there were only six.
And if there were only six fowls there could be only
six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the
cat wrongly.

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and
apologized to the cat. But it appeared she forgot
all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about it.

IOI

Jewish Children

A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking
herself as if nothing had happened. It's not for
nothing that people say: UA cat's brains!"

But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I
said to the cook: "You beat the cat for nothing.
You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the
living. The Lord will punish you."

"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across
the face with the towel."

That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to
me. And she added:

"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do
such children come from?"

• • • • •

It was all about a dog that had been scalded with
boiling water by the same "Fruma with the little
eye." Ah, how much pain it caused the dog. It
squealed, howled and barked with all its might, fill-
ing the world with noise. The whole town came
together at the sound of his howling, and laughed,
and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out
of sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each
after his own fashion. One might think that they
had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the
scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and
muttered and licked his sores, and growled softly.
My heart melted within me. I went over to him
and was going to fondle him.

"Here, Sirko!"

The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if
he had been scalded again, took his tail between his
legs and ran away — away.
1 02

A Pity for the Living

"Shah! Sirko!" I said trying to soothe him with
soft words. "Why do you run away like that, fool?
Am I doing you any harm?"

A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows
nothing of pity for the living.

My father saw me running after the dog and he
pounced down on me.

"Go into 'Cheder,' dog-beater."

Then I was the dog-beater.

• • • • •

It was all about two little birds — two tiny little
birds that two boys, one big and one small, had
killed. When the two little birds dropped from the
tree they were still alive. Their feathers were
ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and trembled
in every limb.

"Get up, you hedgehog," said the big boy to the
small boy. And they took the little birds in their
hands and beat their heads against the tree-trunk, un-
til they died.

I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two
boys.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"What's that to do with you?" they demanded
in Russian. "What harm is it?" they asked calmly.
"They are no more than birds, ordinary little
birds."

"And if they are only birds? Have you no pity
for the living — no mercy for the little birds?"

The boys looked curiously at one another, and
as if they had already made up their minds in ad-
vance to do it, they at once fell upon me.

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Jewish Children

When I came home, my torn jacket told the story,
and my father gave me the good beating I deserved.

"Ragged fool!" cried my mother.

I forgave her for the "ragged fool," but why did
she also beat me?

. • • • •

Why was I beaten? Does not our teacher him-
self tell us that all creatures are dear to the Lord?
Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, he says, out
of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil
spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphat-
ically.

"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Him-
self would slay him."

Then comes the question: Very well, if "that is
so, then why do the people slaughter cows and calves
and sheep and fowls every day of the week?

And not only cows and other animals and fowls,
but do not men slaughter one another? At the time
when we had the "Pogrom," did not men throw
down little children from the tops of houses? Did
they not kill our neighbours' little girl? Her name
was Peralle. And how did they kill her?

Ah, how I loved that little girl. And how that
little girl loved me! "Uncle Bebebe," she used to
call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she used
to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet
little fingers. Because of her, because of Peralle,
every one calls me "Uncle Bebebe."

"Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you
in hand."

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A Pity for the Living

Peralle was a sickly child. That is to say, in the
ordinary way she was all right, but she could not
walk, neither walk nor stand, only sit. They used
to carry her into the open and put her sitting in the
sand, right in the sun. She loved the sun, loved it
terribly. I used to carry her about. She used to
clasp me around the neck with her small, thin, sweet
little fingers, and nestle her whole body close to me
— closer and closer. She would put her head on my
shoulder. "I love Uncle Bebebe."

Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Un-
cle Bebebe to this day. When she sees me, she
says she is again reminded of her Peralle.

My mother is angry with her for weeping.

"We must not weep," says my mother. "We
must not sin. We must forget — forget."

That is what my mother says. She interrupts
Krenni in the middle and drives me off.

"If you don't get into our eyes, we won't remem-
ber that which we must not."

Ha! ha! How is it possible to forget? When
I think of that little girl the tears come into my
eyes of their own accord — of their own accord.

"See, he weeps again, the wise one," cries
"Fruma with the little eye" to my mother. My
mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud.

"The horse-radish has gone into your eyes.
The devil take you. It's a hard piece of horse-
radish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes.
Woe is me ! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes,
foolish boy. And your nose, too, wipe at the same
time your nose, your nose."

105

The Tabernacle

There are people who have never been taught
anything, and know everything, have never been
anywhere, and understand everything, have never
given a moment's thought to anything, and compre-
hend everything.

"Blessed hands" is the name bestowed on these
fortunate beings. The world envies, honours and
respects them.

There was such a man in our town, Kassrillevka.
They called him Moshe-for-once, because, what-
ever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed:

"It is such-and-such a thing for once."

A new cantor in the synagogue — he is a cantor
for once.

Some one is carrying a turkey for the Passover —
it is a turkey for once.

"There will be a fine frost tomorrow."

"A fine frost for once."

"There were blows exchanged at the meeting."

"Good blows for once."

"Oh, Jews, I am a poor man."

"A poor man for once."

And so of everything.

Moshe was a I cannot tell vou what Moshe

was. He was a Jew, but what he lived by it would
1 06

The Tabernacle

be hard to say. He lived as many thousands of
Jews live in Kassrillevka — tens of thousands. He
hovered around the overlord. That is, not the
overlord himself, but the gentlefolks that were with
the overlord. And not around the gentlefolks
themselves, but around the Jews that hovered
around the gentlefolks who were with the overlord.
And if he made a living — that was another story.
Moshe-for-once was a man who hated to boast of
his good fortune, or to bemoan his ill-fortune. He
was always jolly. His cheeks were always red.
One end of his moustache was longer than the
other. His hat was always on one side of his head;
and his eyes were always smiling and kindly. He
never had any time, but was always ready to walk
ten miles to do any one a favour.

That's the sort of a man Moshe-for-once was.

• • • • •

There wasn't a thing in the world Moshe-for
once could not make — a house, or a clock, or a ma-
chine, a lamp, a spinning-top, a tap, a mirror, a cage,
and what not.

True, no one could point to the houses, the clocks,
or the machines that came from his hands; but every
one was satisfied Moshe could make them. Every
one said that if need be, Moshe could turn the world
upside down. The misfortune was that he had no
tools. I mean the contrary. That was his good
fortune. Through this, the world was not turned
upside down. That is, the world remained a world.

That Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle.
When a lock went wrong they came to Moshe.

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Jewish Children

When the clock stopped, or the tap of the "Sam-
ovar" went out of order, or there appeared in a
house blackbeetles, or bugs, or other filthy creatures,
it was always Moshe who was consulted. Or when a
fox came and choked the fowls, whose advice was
asked? It was always and ever Moshe-for-once.

True, the broken lock was thrown away, the
clock had to be sent to a watchmaker, and the
"Samovar" to the copper-smith. The blackbeetles,
and bugs and other filthy things were not at all
frightened of Moshe. And the fox went on doing
what a fox ought to do. But Moshe-for-once still
remained the same Moshe-for-once he had been.
After all, he had blessed hands; and no doubt he
had something in him. A world cannot be mad.
In proof of this — why do the people not come to
you or me with their broken locks, or broken clocks,
or for advice how to get rid of foxes, or blackbeetles
and bugs and other filthy things? All the people
in the world are not the same. And it appears that
talent is rare.

• • • . •

We became very near neighbours with this Moshe-
for-once. We lived in the same house with him,
under the one roof. I say became, because, before
that, we lived in our own house. The wheels of for-
tune suddenly turned round for us. Times grew
bad. We did not wish to be a burden to any one.
We sold our house, paid our debts, and moved into
Hershke Mamtzes' house. It was an old ruin, with-
out a garden, without a yard, without a paling, with-
out a body, and without life.
1 08

The Tabernacle

"Well, it's a hut," said my mother, pretending
to he merry. But I saw tears in her eyes.

"Do not sin," said my father, who was black as
the earth. "Thank God for this."

Why for "this," I do not know. Perhaps because
we were not living on the street? I would rather
have lived on the street than in this house, with
strange boys and girls whom I did not know, nor
wish to know, with their yellow hair, and their
running noses, with their thin legs and fat bellies.
When they walked they waddled like ducks. They
did nothing but eat, and when any one else was eat-
ing, they stared right into his mouth.

I was very angry with the Lord for having taken
our house from us. I was not sorry for the
house as for the Tabernacle we had there. It
stood from year to year. It had a roof that could
be raised and lowered, and a beautiful carved ceiling
of green and yellow boards, made into squares with
a "Shield of David" in the middle. True, kind
friends told us to hope on, for we should one day
buy the house back, or the Lord would help us to
build another, and a better, and a bigger and a
handsomer house than the one we had had to sell.
But all this was cold comfort to us. I heard the
same sort of words when I broke my tin watch,
accidentally, of course, into fragments. My mother
smacked me, and my father wiped my eyes, and
promised to buy me a better, and bigger and hand-
somer watch than the one I broke. But the more
my father praised the watch he was going to buy
for me, the more I cried for the other, the old

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watch. When my father was not looking, my
mother wept silently for the old house. And my
father sighed and groaned. A. black cloud settled
on his face, and his big white forehead was covered
with wrinkles.

I thought it was very wrong of the Father of the
Universe to have taken our house from us.

• • • • •

"I ask you — may your health increase ! — what
are we going to do with the Tabernacle?" asked my
mother of my father some time before the Feast
of Tabernacles.

"You probably mean to ask what are we going
to do without a Tabernacle?" replied my father,
attempting to jest. I saw that he was distressed.
He turned away to one side, so that we might not
see his face, which was covered with a thick black
cloud. My mother blew her nose to swallow her
tears. And I, looking at them. . . . Suddenly my
father turned to us with a lively expression on his
face.

"Hush! We have here a neighbour called!
Moshe."

"Moshe-for-once?" asked my mother. And 1 do
not know whether she was making fun or was in ear-
nest. It seemed she was in earnest, for, half an hour
later, the three were going about the house, father,
Moshe, and Hershke Mamtzes, our landlord, look-
ing for a spot on which to erect a Tabernacle.

• • • • •

Hershke Mamtzes' house was all right. It had

The Tabernacle

only one fault. It stood on the street, and had not
a scrap of yard. It looked as if it had been lost
in the middle of the road. Somebody was walking
along and lost a house, without a yard, without a
roof, the door on the other side of the street, like
a coat with the waist in front and the buttons under-
neath. If you talk to Hershke, he will bore you
to death about his house. He will tell you how he
came by it, how they wanted to take it from him,
and how he fought for it, until it remained with
him.

"Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle,
{Reb' Moshe?" asked father of Moshe-for-once.
And Moshe-for-once, his hat on the back of his head,
was lost in thought, as if he were a great architect
formulating a big plan. He pointed with his hand
from here to there, and from there to here. He
tried to make us understand that if the house were
not standing in the middle of the street, and if it
had had a yard, we would have had two walls ready
made, and he could have built us a Tabernacle in
a day. Why do I say in a day? In an hour. But
since the house had no yard, and we needed four
walls, the Tabernacle would take a little longer to
build. But for that again, we would have a Taber-
nacle for once. The main thing was to get the ma-
terial.

"There will be materials. Have you the tools ?"
asked Hershke.

"The tools will be found. Have you the tim-
ber?" asked Moshe.

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Jewish Children

"There is timber. Have you the nails?" asked
Hershke.

"Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs?"
asked Moshe.

"Somehow, you are a little too so-so today,"
said Hershke.

"A little too what?" asked Moshe. They looked
each other straight in the eyes, and both burst out
laughing.

• • • • •

When Hershke Mamtzes brought the first few
boards and beams, Moshe said that, please God, it
would be a Tabernacle for once. I wondered how
he was going to make a Tabernacle out of the few
boards and beams. I begged of my mother to let
me stand by whilst Moshe was working. And
Moshe not only let me stand by him, but even let me
be his assistant. I was to hand him what he wanted,
and hold things for him.

Of course this put me into the seventh heaven
of delight. Was it a trifle to help build the Taber-
nacle? I was of great assistance to Moshe. I
moved my lips when he hammered; went for meals
when he went; shouted at the other children not
to hinder us; handed Moshe the hammer when he
wanted the chisel, and the pincers when he wanted
a nail. Any other man would have thrown the
hammer or pincers at my head for such help, but
Moshe-for-once had no temper. No one had ever
had the privilege of seeing him angry.

"Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good
as any sin."

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The Tabernacle

And because I was greatly absorbed in the work,
I did not notice how and by what miracle the
Tabernacle came into being.

"Come and see the Tabernacle we have built,1'
I said to father, and dragged him out of the house
by the tails of his coat. My father was delighted
with our work. He looked at Moshe with a smile,
and said, pointing to me:

"Had you at any rate a little help from him?"

"It was a help, for once," replied Moshe,
looking up at the roof of the Tabernacle with
anxious eyes.

"If only our Hershke brings us the fir-boughs,
it will be a Tabernacle for once."

Hershke Mamtzes worried us about the fir-
boughs. He put off going for them from day to
day. The day before the Festival he went off and
brought back a cart-load of thin sticks, a sort of
weeds, such as grow on the banks of the river. And
we began to cover the Tabernacle. That is to say,
Moshe did the work, and I helped him by driving
off the goats which had gathered around the fir-
boughs, as if they were something worth while.
I do not know what taste they found in the bitter
green stalks.

Because the house stood alone, in the middle of
the street, there was no getting rid of the goats. If
you drove one off another came up. The second
was only just got rid of, when the first sprang up
again. I drove them off with sticks.

"Get out of this. Are you here again, foolish
goats? Get off."

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The devil knows how they found out we had
green fir-boughs. It seems they told one another,
because there gathered around us all the goats of
the town. And I, all alone, had to do battle with
them.

The Lord helped us, and we had all the fir-
boughs on the roof. The goats remained standing
around us like fools. They looked up with foolish
eyes, and stupidly /chewed the jcudi. I had my
revenge of them, and I said to them:

"Why don't you take the fir-boughs now, foolish
goats?"

They must have understood me, for they began
to go off, one by one, in search of something to
eat. And we began to decorate the Tabernacle
from the inside. First of all, we strewed the floor
with sand; then we hung on the walls all the wadded
quilts belonging to the neighbours. Where there
was no wadded quilt, there hung a shawl, and
where there was no shawl, there was a sheet or a
table-cloth. Then we brought out all the chairs
and tables, the candle-sticks and candles, the
plates and knives and forks and spoons. And
each of the three women of the house made the
blessing over her own candles for the Feast of
Tabernacles.

• • • • •

My mother — peace be unto her! — was a woman
who loved to weep. The Days of Mourning were
her Days of Rejoicing. And since we had lost our
own house, her eyes were not dry for a single
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The Tabernacle

minute. My father, though he was also fretted,
did not like this. He told her to fear the Lord,
and not sin. There were worse circumstances than
ours, thank God. But now, in the Tabernacle, when
she was blessing the Festival candles, she could cover
her face with her hands and weep in silence with-
out any one knowing it. But I was not to be fooled.
I could see her shoulders heaving, and the tears
trickling through her thin white fingers. And
I even knew what she was weeping for. ... It
was well for her that father was getting ready to go
to synagogue, putting on his Sabbath coat that was
tattered, but was still made of silk, and his plaited
silk girdle. He thrust his hands into his girdle,
and said to me, sighing deeply:

"Come, let us go. It is time we went to syna-
gogue to pray."

I took the prayer-books, and we went off.
Mother remained at home to pray. I knew what
she would do — weep. She might weep as much as
she liked, for she would be alone. And it was so.
When we came back, and entered the Tabernacle,
and father started to make the blessing over the
wine, I looked into her eyes, and they were red, and
had swollen lids. Her nose was shining. Never-
theless, she was to me beautiful as Rachel or Abigail,
or the Queen of Sheba, or Queen Esther. Looking
at her, I was reminded of all our beautiful Jewish
women with whom I had just become acquainted at
"Cheder." And looking at my mother, with her
lovely face that looked lovelier above the lovely silk

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Jewish Children

shawl she wore, with her large, beautiful, careworn
eyes, my heart was filled with pain that such lovely
eyes should be tear-stained always — that such lovely
white hands should have to bake and cook. And I
was angry with the Lord because He did not give
us a lot of money. And I prayed to the Lord
to destine me to find a treasure of gold and dia-
monds and brilliants. Or let the Messiah come,
and we would go back to the Land of Israel, where
we should all be happy.

This was what I thought. And my imagination
carried me far, far away, to my golden dreams that
I would not exchange for all the money in the
world. And the beautiful Festival prayers, sung
by my father in his softest and most melodious voice,
rang in my ears.

"Thou hast chosen us above all peoples,

"Us hast Thou chosen

"Of all the nations."

Is it a trifle to be God's chosen people? To be
God's only child? My heart was glad for the
happy chosen people. And I imagined I was a
prince. Yes, a prince. And the Tabernacle was
a palace. The Divine Holiness rested on it. My
mother was the beautiful daughter of Jerusalem,
the Queen of Sheba. And on the morrow we would
make the blessing over the most beautiful fruit in
the world — the citron. Ah, who could compare
with me? Who could compare with me?

• • • • •

After father, Moshe-for-once pronounced the
blessing over the wine. It was not the same blessing

116

The Tabernacle

as my father's — but, really not. After him, the
landlord, Hershke Mamtzes pronounced the blessing
over the wine. He was a commonplace man, and
it was a commonplace blessing. We went to wash
our hands, and we pronounced the blessing over
the bread. And each of the three women brought
out the food for her family — fine, fresh, seasoned,
pleasant, fragrant fish. And each family sat around
its own table. There were many dishes; a lot
of people had soup; a lot of mouths were eating.
A little wind blew into the Tabernacle, through the
frail thin walls, and the thin roof of fir-boughs.
The candles spluttered. Every one was eating
heartily the delicious Festival supper. And I
imagined it was not a Tabernacle but a palace — a
great, big, brilliantly lit-up palace. And we Jews,
the chosen people, the princes, were sitting in the
palace and enjoying the pleasures of life. "It is
well for you, little Jews," thought I. "No one is
so well-off as you. No one else is privileged to sit
in such a beautiful palace, covered with green fir-
boughs, strewn with yellow sand, decorated with
the most beautiful tapestries in the world, on the
tables the finest suppers, and real Festival fish which
is the daintiest of all dainties. And who speaks

of " Suddenly, crash! The whole roof and

the fir-boughs are on our heads. One wall after the
other is falling in. A goat fell from on high, right
on top of us. It suddenly grew pitch dark. All
the candles were extinguished. All the tables were
over-turned. And we all, with the suppers and the
crockery and the goat, were stretched out on the

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Jewish Children

sand. The moon shone, and the stars peeped out,
and the goat jumped up, frightened, and stood on
its thin legs, stock-still, while it stared at us with
foolish eyes. It soon marched off, like an insolent
creature, over the tables and chairs, and over
our heads, bleating "Meh-eh-eh-eh!" The candles
were extinguished; the crockery smashed; the
supper in the sand; and we were all frightened to
death. The women were shrieking, the children
crying. It was a destruction of everything — a real
destruction.

• • • • •

uYou built a fine Tabernacle," said Hershke
Mamtzes to us in such a voice, as if we had had from
him for building the Tabernacle goodness knows
how much money. "It was a fine Tabernacle, when
one goat could overthrow it."

"It was a Tabernacle for once," replied Moshe-
for-once. He stood like one beaten, looking up-
wards, to see whence the destruction had come.
"It was a Tabernacle for once."

"Yes, a Tabernacle for once," repeated Hershke
Mamtzes, in a voice full of deadly venom. And
every one echoed his words, all in one voice:

"A Tabernacle for once."

118

The Dead Citron

My name is Leib. When I am called up to read
the portion of the Law it is by the name of Yehudah-
Leib. At home, I sign myself Lyef Moishevitch.
Amongst the Germans I am known as Herr Leon.
Here in England, I am Mr. Leon. When I was a
child I was called Leibel. At "Cheder" I was Lieb-
Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our
"Cheder" every bov has a nickname. For instance
— "Mottel-Kappotel," "Meyer-Dreyer," "Mendel-
Fendel," "Chayim-Clayim," "Itzig-Shpitzig,"
uBerel-Tzap." Did you ever hear such rhymes?
That Itzig rhymes with Shpitzig, and Mendel with
Fendel, and Chayim with Clayim is correct. But
what has Berel to do with Tzap, or how does
Leib rhyme with Obderick? I did not like my
nickname. And I fought about it. I got blows
and thumps and smacks and whacks and pinches
and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue.
Because I was the smallest in the "Cheder" — the
smallest and the weakest and the poorest, no one
defended me. On the contrary, the two rich boys
tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other
pulled me by the ear. Whilst the third — a poor
boy — sang a song to tease me —

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Jewish Children

" Just so! Just so!
Give it to him.
Punch him.
Bang him.
His little limbs,
His little limbs.
Just so ! Just so !

At such times I lay quiet as a kitten. And
when they let me go I went into a corner and
wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my
comrades, and was all right again.

Just a word — whenever you meet the name
Leibel in this story, you will know it refers to
me.

I am soft as down, short and fat. In reality,
I am not so fat as I look. On the contrary, I am
rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little
trousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick wadded
coat. You see my mother wants me to be warm.
She is afraid I might catch cold, God forbid!
And she wraps me in cotton-wool from head to
foot. She believes that cotton-wool is very good
to wrap a boy in, but must not be used for making
balls. I provided all the boys with cotton-wool.
I pulled it out of my trousers and coat until she
caught me. She beat me, and whacked me, and
thumped me and pinched me. But Leibel went
on doing what he liked — distributing cotton-wool.

My face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my
nose always running. "Such a nose!" cries, my
mother. "If he had no nose, he would be all right.
He would have nothing to freeze in the cold
weather." T often try to picture to myself what
f 20

The Dead Citron

would happen if I had no nose at all. If people
had no noses, what would they look like? Then
the question is — ? But I was going to tell you
the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered
oft to goodness knows where. I will break off in
the middle of what I was saying, and go back to
the story of the dead citron.

• • • • •

My father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at
an insurance company's office for many years.
He gets five and a half "roubles" a week. He is
waiting for a rise in wages. He says that if he
gets his rise this year, please God, he will buy a
citron. But my mother, Basse-Beila, has no
faith in this. She says the barracks will fall down
before father will get a rise.

One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel
overheard the following conversation between his
father and his mother.

He: "Though the world turn upside down,
I must have a citron this year!"

She: "The world will not turn upside down,
and you will have no citron."

He: "That's what you say. But supposing
I have already been promised something towards
a citron?"

She: "It will have to be written into the books
of Jests. In the month called after the town of
Kreminitz a miracle happened — a bear died in the
forest. But what then? If I do not believe it,
I shall not be a great heretic either."

He: "You may believe or not. I tell vou that

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Jewish Children

this Feast of Tabernacles, we shall have a citron
of our own."

She: "Amen! May it be so! From your
mouth into God's ears!"

"Amen, amen," repeated Leibel in his heart.
And he pictured to himself his father coming into
the synagogue, like a respectable householder, with
his own citron and his own palm-branch. And
though Moshe-Yankel is only a clerk, still when
the men walk around the Ark with their palms
and their citrons, he will follow them with his
palm and citron. And Leibel's heart was full of
joy. When he came to "Cheder" he at once told
every one that this year his father would have
his own palm and citron. But no one believed him.

"What do you say to his father?" asked the
young scamps of one another. "Such a man — such
a beggar amongst beggars desires to have a citron
of his own. He must imagine it is a lemon, or a
'groschen9 apple."

That was what the young scamps said. And
they gave Leibel a few good smacks and thumps,
and punches and digs and pushes. And Leibel
began to believe that his father was a beggar
amongst beggars. And a beggar must have no
desires. But how great was his surprise when he
came home and found "Reb" Henzel sitting at the
table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing his father.
Tn front of them stood a box full of citrons, the
beautiful perfume of which reached the furthest
corners of the house.

122

The Dead Citron

The cap which <{Reb)> Henzel wore was the sort
of cap worn in the time of Napoleon the First.
Over there in France, these caps were long out of
fashion. But in our village there was still one to
be found — only one, and it belonged to uReb"
Henzel. The cap was long and narrow. It had
a slit and a button in front, and at the back two
tassels. I always wanted these tassels. If the cap
had fallen into my hands for two minutes — only
two, the tassels would have been mine.

uReb" Henzel had spread out his whole stock-
in-trade. He took up a citron with his two fingers,
and gave it to father to examine.

"Take this citron, 'ReV Moshe-Yankel. You
will enjoy it."

"A good one?" asked my father, examining the
citron on all sides, as one might examine a diamond.
His hands trembled with joy.

"And what a good one," replied "Reb" Henzel,
and the tassels of his cap shook with his laughter.

Moshe-Yankel played with the citron, smelled
it, and could not take his eyes off it. He called
over his wife to him, and showed her, with a
happy smile, the citron,; as if he were showing her
a precious jewel, a priceless gem, a rare antique,
or an only child — a dear one.

Basse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand
slowly to take hold of the citron. But she did not
get it.

"Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you like."

Basse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the citron.
I was not even allowed to sniff it. I was not

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allowed to go too near it, or even to look at it.

"He is here, too," said my mother. "Only let
him go near it, and he will at once bite the top off
the citron."

"The Lord forbid!" cried my father.

"The Lord preserve us!" echoed <(Reb" Henzel.
And the tassels shook again. He gave father
some cotton-wool into which he might nest the
citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every
corner of the house. The citron was wrapped up
as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a precious
gem. And it was placed in a beautiful round,
carved, painted and decorated wooden sugar box.
The sugar was taken out, and the citron was put in
instead, like a beloved guest.

"Welcome art thou, 'Reb' citron! Into the box
— into the box !"

The box was carefully closed, and; placed in the
glass cupboard. The door was closed over on it,
and good-bye !

"I am afraid the heathen" — that was meant for
me — "will open the door, take out the citron, and
bite its top off," said my mother. She took me by
the hand, and drew me away from the cupboard.

Like a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps down
from a height for it, straightens her back, goes
round and round, rubbing herself against every-
thing, looks into everybody's eyes, and licks herself
— in like manner did Leibel, poor thing, go round
and round the cupboard. He gazed in through the
glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron,
until his mother saw him, and said to his father that
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The Dead Citron

the young scamp wanted to get hold of the citron
to bite off its top.

"To 'Cheder,' you blackguard! May you never
be thought of, you scamp!"

Leibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went
off to "Cheder."

• • • • •

The few words his mother had said to his father
about his biting off the top of the citron burned them-
selves into Leibel's heart, and ate into his bones like
a deadly poison.

The top of the citron buried itself in Leibel's
brain. It did not leave his thoughts for a moment.
It entered his dreams at night, worried him, and
almost dragged him by the hind. "You do not
recognize me, foolish boy? It is I — the top of
the citron." Leibel turned round on the other
side, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him
again. "Get up, fool. Go and open the cupboard,
take out the citron, and bite me off. You will enjoy
yourself."

Leibel got up in the morning, washed his hands,
and began to say his prayers. He took his break-
fast, and was going off to "Cheder." Passing by, he
glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard.
Through the glass door, he saw the box containing
the citron. And he imagined the box was winking
at him. "Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel
marched straight out of the house.

One morning, when Leibel got up, he found him-
self alone in the house. His father had gone off
to business, his mother had gone to the market'.

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The servant was busy in the kitchen. "Every one is
gone. There isn't a soul in the house," thought
Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside the
glass cupboard. He saw the sugar box that held
the citron. It seemed to be beckoning to him.
"Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel opened
the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the
box — the beautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden
box, and raised the lid. Before he had time to lift
out the citron, the fragrance of it filled his nostrils
— the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had
time to turn around, the citron was in his hand,
and the top of it in his eyes.

"Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want
to know the taste of Paradise? Take and bite me
off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one will
know of it. Not a son of Adam will see you. No
bird will tell on you."

• • • • •

You want to know what happened? You want
to know whether I bit the top off the citron, or held
myself back from doing it? I should like to know
what you would have done in my place — if you had
been told ten times not to dare to bite the top off
the citron? Would you not have wanted to know
what it tasted like? Would you not also have
thought of the plan — to bite it off, and stick it on
again with spittle? You may believe me or not —
that is your affair — but I do not know myself how
it happened. Before the citron was rightly in my
hands, the top of it was between my teeth.

• » • • •

126

The Dead Citron

The day before the Festival, father came home a
little earlier from his work, to untie the palm-branch.
He had put it away very carefully in a corner,
warning Leibel not to attempt to go near it. But
it was useless warning him. Leibel had his own
troubles. The top of the citron haunted him. Why
had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it
done him to taste it when it was bitter as gall?
It was for nothing he had spoiled the citron, and
rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could
not now be used, Leibel knew very well. Then
what had he done this for? Why had he spoiled
this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken
its life? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron
that night. It haunted him, and asked him: "Why
have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite
off my head? I am now useless — useless." Liebel
turned over on the other side, groaned, and fell
asleep again. But he was again questioned by the
citron. "Murderer, what have you against me?
What had my head done to you?"

• • • • •

The first day of the Feast of Tabernacles arrived.
After a frosty night, the sun rose and covered the
earth with a delayed warmth, like that of a step-
mother. That morning Moshe-Yankel got up
earlier than usual to learn off by heart the Festival
prayers, reciting them in the beautiful Festival
melody. That day also Basse-Beila was very busy
cooking the fish and the other Festival dishes. That
day also Zalmen the carpenter came to our Taber-
nacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm

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Jewish Children

before any one else, so that he might be able to
drink tea with milk and enjoy the Festival.

"Zalmen wants the palm and the citron," said
my mother to my father.

"Open the cupboard, and take out the box, but
carefully," said my father.

He himself stood on a chair and took down from
the top shelf the palm, and brought it to the Taber-
nacle to the carpenter.

"Here, make the blessing," he said. "But be
careful, in Heaver's name be careful!"

Our neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man —
may no evil eye harm him! He had two hands
each finger of which might knock down three such
Leibels as I. His hands were always sticky, and
his nails red from glue. And when he drew one of
these nails across a piece of wood, there was a mark
that might have been made with a sharp piece of
iron.

In honour of the Festival, Zalmen had put on a
clean shirt and a new coat. He had scrubbed his
hands in the bath, with soap and sand, but had not
succeeded in making them clean. They were still
sticky and the nails still red with glue.

Into these hands fell the dainty citron. It was
not for nothing Moshe-Yankel was excited when
Zalmen gave the citron a good squeeze and the
palm a good shake.

"Be careful, be careful," he cried. "Now turn
the citron head downwards, and make the blessing.
Carefully, carefully. For Heaven's sake, be care-
ful!"
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The Dead Citron

Suddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward,
and cried out, "Oh!" The cry brought his wife,
Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle.

"What is it, Moshe-Yankel? God be with you!"

"Coarse blackguard! Man of the earth!" he
shouted at the carpenter, and was ready to kill him.
"How could you 'be such a coarse blackguard?
Such a man of the earth? Is a citron an ax? Or
is it a saw? Or a bore? A citron is neither an
ax nor a saw nor a bore. You have cut my throat
without a knife. You have spoiled my citron.
Here is the top of it — here, see! Coarse black-
guard! Man of the earth!"

We were all paralysed on the instant. Zalmen
was like a dead man. He could not understand
how this misfortune had happened to him. How
had the top come off the citron? Surely he had
held it very lightly, only just with the tips of his
fingers? It was a misfortune — a terrible mis-
fortune.

Basse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung her
hands and moaned.

"When a man is unfortunate, he may as well
bury himself alive and fresh and well, right in the
earth."

And Leibel? Leibel did not know whether he
should dance with joy because the Lord had per-
formed a miracle for him, released him from all
the trouble he had got himself into, or whether he
should cry for his father's agony and his mother's
tears, or whether he should kiss Zalmen's thick
hands with the sticky fingers and the red nails, be-

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cause he was his redeemer, his good angel. . . .
Leibel looked at his father's face and his mother's
tears, the carpenter's hands, and at the citron that
lay on the table, yellow as wax, without a head,
without a spark of life, a dead thing, a corpse.

UA dead citron," said my father, in a broken
voice.

UA dead citron," repeated my mother, the tears
gushing from her eyes.

"A dead citron," echoed the carpenter, looking at
his hands. He seemed to be saying to himself:
"There'fc a pair of hands for you ! May they
wither!"

"A dead citron," said Leibel, in a joyful voice.
But he caught himself up, fearing his tones might
proclaim that he, Leibel, was the murderer, the
slaughterer of the citron.

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Isshur the Beadle

When I think of Isshur the beadle, I am reminded
of Alexander' the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and
other such giants of history.

Isshur was not a nobody. He led the whole con-
gregation, the whole town by the nose. He had
the whole town in his hand. He was a man who
served everybody and commanded everybody; a man
who was under everybody, but feared nobody. He
had a cross look, terrifying eyebrows, a beard of
brass, a powerful fist, and a long stick. Isshur
was a name to conjure with.

Who made Isshur what he was? Ask me an
easier question. There are types of whom it can
be said they are cast, fixed. They never move out
of their place. As you see them the first time, so are
they always. It seems they always were as they
are, and will ever remain the same. When I was
a child, I could not tear myself away from Isshur.
I was always puzzling out the one question — What
was Isshur like before he was Isshur? That is to
say, before he got those terrifying eyebrows, and
the big hooked nose that was always filled with
snuff, and the big brass beard that started by being
thick and heavy, and ended up in a few, long strag-
gling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he

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was a child, ran about barefoot, went to "Cheder"
and was beaten by his teacher? And what was
Isshur like when his mother was carrying him about
in her arms, when she suckled him, wiped his nose
for him, and said: uIsshur, my sweet boy. My
beautiful boy. May I suffer instead of your little
bones?"

These were the questions that puzzled me when
I was a child, and could not tear myself away from
Isshur.

"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your
father and mother." And Isshur would not even
allow any one to think of him.

Surely, I was only one boy, yet Isshur called me
wretches. You must know that Isshur hated to have
any one staring at him. Isshur hated little children.
He could not bear them. "Children," he said, "are
naturally bad. They are scamps and contradictory
creatures. Children are goats that leap into strange
gardens. Children are dogs that snap at one's coat-
tails. Children are pigs that crawl on the table.
Children should be taught manners. They ought to
be made to tremble, as with the ague." And we did
tremble as if we had the ague.

Why were we afraid, you ask. Well, would you
not be afraid if you were taken by the ear, dragged
to the door, and beaten over the neck and shoulders?

"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your
father and mother."

You will tell your mother on him? Well, try it.
You want to know what will happen? I will tell
you. You will go home and show your mother your
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Isshur the Beadle

torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father.
"You see how the tyrant has torn the ear of your
child — your only son." Your father will take you
by the hand to the synagogue, and straight over to
Isshur the beadle, as if to say to him: "Here, see
what you have done to my only son. You have al-
most torn off his ear." And Isshur will reply to my
father's unspoken words: "Go in health with your
wretches." You hear? Even an only son is also
wretches. And wThat can father do? Push his hat
on one side, and go home. Mother will ask him:
"Well?" And he will reply: "I gave it to him, the
wicked one, the Haman! What more could I do to
him?"

It is not at all nice that a father should tell such a
big lie. But what is one to do when one is under the
yoke of a beadle?

• • • • •

One might say that the whole town is under
Isshur's yoke. He does what he likes. If he does
not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of
winter, you may burst arguing with him. He will
heed you no more than last year's snow. If Isshur
wants prayers to start early in the morning, you will
be too late whenever you come. If Isshur does not
want you to read the portion of the Law for eight-
een weeks on end, you may stare at him from today
till tomorrow, or cough until you burst. He will
neither see nor hear you. It is the same with your
praying-shawl, or your prayer-book, or with your
citron, or the willow-twigs. Isshur will bring them
to you when he likes, not when you like. He says

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that householders are plentiful as dogs, but there is
only one beadle — may no evil eye harm him ! The
congregation is so big, one might go mad.

And Isshur was proud and haughty. He reduced
every one to the level of the earth. The most
respectable householder often got it hot from him.
"It is better for you not to start with me," he said.
"I have no time to talk to you. There are a lot
of you, and I am only one — may no evil eye harm
me!" And nobody began with him. They were
glad that he did not begin with them.

Naturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur
what became of the money donated to the synagogue,
or of the money he got for the candles, and the
money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did
they ask him any other questions relating to the
management of the synagogue. He was the master
of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an
account to? The people were glad if he left them
alone, and that he did not throw the keys into
their faces. "Here, keep this place going your-
selves. Provide it with wood and water, candles
and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A
slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the
walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The
stands have to be repaired, and the books bought.
And what about the ' 'Chanukali' lamp? And what
of the palm-branch and the citron? And where is
this, and where is that?" And though every one
knew that all the things he mentioned not only did
not mean an outlay of money, but were, on the con-
trary, a source of income, yet no one dared interfere.

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Isshur the Beadle

All these belonged to the beadle. They were his
means of livelihood. "The fine salary I get from
you! One's head might grow hard on it. It's
only enough for the water for the porridge," said
Isshur. And the people were silent.

The people were silent, though they knew very
well that "Reb" Isshur was saving money. They
knew very well he had plenty of money. It was
possible he even lent out money on interest, in
secret, on good securities, of course. He had a
little house of his own, and a garden, and a cow.
And he drank a good glassful of brandy every day.
In the winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife
always wore good boots without holes. She made
herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the public
money. "May she suffer through it for our blood,
Father in heaven!"

That's what the villagers muttered softly through
their teeth, so that the beadle might not hear them.
When he approached, they broke off and spoke
of something else. They blinked their eyes,
breathed hard, and took from the beadle a pinch
of snuff with their two fingers. "Excuse me."

This "excuse me" was a nasty "excuse me." It
was meant to be flattering, to convey the sense of —
"Excuse me, your snuff is surely good." And,
"Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in
peace."

Isshur understood the compliment, and also the
hint. He knew the people loved him like sore eyes.
Pie knew the people wished to take away his office
from him as surely as they wished to live.

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But he heeded them as little as Haman heeds the
"Purim" rattles. He had them in his fists, and he
knew what to do.

. • • • •

He who wants to find favour with everybody
will find favour with nobody. And if one has to
bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet.

Isshur understood these two wise sayings. He
sought the favour of the leaders of the community.
He did everything they told him to, lay under their
feet, and flew on any errand on which they sent
him. And he flattered them until it made one sick.
There is no need to say anything of what went on
at the elections. Then Isshur never rested. Who-
ever has not seen Isshur at such a time has seen
nothing. Covered with perspiration, his hat pushed
back on his head, Isshur kneaded the thick mud
with his high boots, and with his big stick. He
flew from one committee-man to another, worked,
plotted, planned, told lies, and carried on intrigues
and intrigues without an end.

Isshur was always first-class at carrying on in-
trigues. He could have brought together a wall
and a wall. He could make mischief in such a way
that every person in the town should be enraged
with everybody else, quarrel and abuse his neigh-
bour, and almost come to blows. And he was in-
nocent of everything. You must know that Isshur
had the town very cleverly. He thought within
himself: "Argue, quarrel, abuse one another, my
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Isshur the Beadle

friends, and you will forget all about the doings
of Isshur the beadle."

That they should forget his doings was an impor-
tant matter to Isshur, because, of late, the people
had begun to talk to him, and to demand from
him an account of the money he had taken for the
synagogue. And who had done this? The young
people — the young wretches he had always hated
and tortured.

They say that children become men, and men
become children. Many generations have grown
up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters
became greybeards. The little wretches became
self-supporting young men. The young men got
married and became householders. The house-
holders became old men, and still Isshur was Isshur.
But all at once there grew up a generation that
*was young, fresh, curious — a generation which was
called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches.
The Lord help and preserve one from them.

"How does Isshur come to be an overlord? He
is only a beadle. He ought to serve us, and not
we him. How long more will this old Isshur with
the long legs and big stick rule over us? The
account. Where is the account? We must have
the account."

This was the demand of the new generation that
was made up entirely of heathens, insolent ones,
fearless ones, devils and wretches. They shouted
in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their
voices. Isshur pretended to be deaf, and not to

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hear anything. Afterwards, he began to drive
them out of the yard. He extinguished the candles
in the synagogue, locked the door, and threw out
the boys. Then he tried to turn against them the
anger of the householders of the village. He told
them of all their misdeeds — that they mocked at
old people, and ridiculed the committee-men. In
proof of his assertions, he showed the men a piece
of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was
written a little poem.

Who would have thought it? A foolish poem,
and yet what excitement it caused in the village —
what a revolution. Oh ! oh ! It would have been
better if Isshur had not found it, or having found
it, had not shown it to the committee-men. It
would have been far better for him. It may be
said that this song was the beginning of Isshur's end.
The foolish committee-men, instead of swallowing
down the poem, and saying no more about it, injured
themselves by discussing it. They carried it about
from one to the other so long, until the people
learnt it off by heart. Some one sang it to an old
melody. And it spread everywhere. Workmen
sang it at their work; cooks in their kitchens;,
young girls sitting on the doorsteps; mothers sang
their babies to sleep with it. The most foolish
song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is
singing the head is thinking. And it thinks so long
until it arrives at a conclusion. Thoughts whirl
and whirl and fret one so long, until something
results. And when one's imagination is enkindled,
a story is sure to grow out of it.

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Isshur the Beadle

The story that grew out of this song was fine
and brief. You may listen to it. It may come in
useful to you some day.

• # • • «

The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils
and wretches burrowed so long, and worked so hard
to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded in arriv-
ing at a certain road. Early one morning they
climbed into the attic of the synagogue. There
they found the whole treasure — a pile of candles,
several "poods" of wax, a score of new "Tallissim"
a bundle of prayer-books of different sorts that had
never been used. It may be that to you these
things would not have been of great value, but to
a beadle they were worth a great deal. This
treasure was taken down from the attic very
ceremoniously. I will let you imagine the picture
for yourself. On the one hand, Isshur with the
big nose, terrifying eyebrows, and the beard of brass
that started thick and heavy, and finished up with
a few thin terrifying hairs. On the other hand,
the young heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones,
devils and wretches dragging out his treasure. But
you need not imagine Isshur lost himself. He was
not of the people that lose themselves for the least
thing. He stood looking on, pretending to be puz-
zling himself with the question of how these things
came to be in the attic of the synagogue.

Early next morning, the following announcement
was written in chalk on the door of the synagogue : —

"Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale
price."

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Next day there was a different inscription. On
tha third day still another one. Isshur had some-
thing to do. Every morning he rubbed out with a
wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of
the door of the synagogue. Every Sabbath morn-
ing, on their desks the congregants found bundles of
letters, in which the youngsters accused the beadle
and his bought-over committee-men of many things.

Isshur had a hard time of it. He got the com-
mittee-men to issue a proclamation in big letters, on
parchment.

"Hear all! As there have arisen in our midst
a band of hooligans, scamps, good-for-nothings who
are making false accusations against the most re-
spected householders of the village, therefore we,
the leaders of the community, warn these false
accusers openly that we most strongly condemn their
falsehoods, and if we catch any of them, we will
punish him with all the severities of the law."

Of course, the boys at once tore down this proc-
lamation. A second was hung in its place. The
boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation
of their own in its stead. And the men found on
their desks fresh letters of accusation against the
beadle and the committee-men. In a Word, it was
a period when the people did nothing else but write.
The committee-men wrote proclamations, and the
boys, the scamps, wrote letters. This went on until
the Days of Mourning arrived — the time of the
elections. And there began a struggle between the
two factions. On the one side there was Isshur
and his patrons, the committee-men; and on the
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Isshur the Beadle

other side, the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps,
and their candidates. Each faction tried to attract
the most followers by every means in its power.
One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed
speeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties,
and liberal promises. And just think who won?
You will never guess. It wcs we young scamps
who won. And we selected our own committee-men
from amongst ourselves — young men with short
coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame to tell it,
but we chose working men — ordinary working men.

• • • • •

I am afraid you are anxious for my story to
come to an end. You want to know how long it is
going to last? Or would you rather I told you
how our new committee-men made up their accounts
with the old beadle? Do you want to hear how the
poor old beadle was dragged through the whole
village by the youngsters, with shouting and
singing? The boys carried in front of the proces-
sion the whole treasure of candles, wax, "Tallissim"
and prayer-books which they had found in the attic
of the synagogue. No, I don't think you will
expect me to tell you of these happenings.

Take revenge of our enemy — bathe in his blood,
so to speak? No! We could not do that. I
shall tell you the end in a few words.

Last New Year I was at home, back again in
the village of my birth. A lot, a lot of water had
flown by since the time I have just told you of.
Still, I found the synagogue on the same spot. And
it had the same Ark of the Law, the same curtains,

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the same reader's-desk, and the same hanging candle-
sticks. But the people were different; they were
greatly changed. It was almost impossible to rec-
ognize them. The old people of my day were all
gone. No doubt there were a good many more
stones and inscriptions in the holy place. The young
folks had grown grey. The committee-men were
new. The cantor was new. There was a ne\v
beadle, and new melodies, and new customs. Every-
thing was new, and new, and new.

One day — it was "Hoshana Rabba" — the cantor
sang with his choir, and the people kept beating
their willow-twigs against the desks in front of
them. (It seems this custom has remained un-
changed.) And I noticed from the distance a very
old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a big nose,
and terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that started
thick and heavy, but finished up with a few strag-
gling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to this old
man. I went over to him, and put out my hand.

"Peace be unto you!" I said. "I think you are
'Reb' Isshur the beadle?"

"The beadle? What beadle? I am not the
beadle this long time. I am a bare willow-twig
this long time. Heh ! heh!"

That is what the old man said to me in a tremu-
lous voice. And he pointed to the bare willow-
twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around his
grizzled beard that started thick and heavy, but
finished off with a few straggling, terrifying hairs.

142

Boaz the Teacher

That which I felt on the first day my mother
took me by the hand to "Cheder" must be what a
little chicken feels, after one has made the sacrificial
blessing over her and is taking her to be slaughtered.
The little chicken struggles and flutters her wings.
She understands nothing, but feels she is not
going to have a good time, but something different.
... It was not for nothing my mother comforted
me, and told me a good angel would throw me
down a "groschen" from the ceiling. It was not
for nothing she gave me a whole apple and kissed
me on the brow. It was not for nothing she asked
Boaz to deal tenderly with me — just a little more
tenderly because "the child has only recovered from
the measles."

So said my mother, pointing to me, as if she
were placing in Boaz's hands a rare vessel of crystal
which, with one touch, would be a vessel no more —
God forbid!

My mother went home happy and satisfied, and
"the child that had only recovered from the measles,"
remained behind, alone. He cried a little, but soon
wiped his eyes, and was introduced to the holiness
of the "Torah" and a knowledge of the ways of
the world. He waited for the good angel to throw
him the "groschen" from the ceiling.

Jewish Children

Oh, that good angel — that good angel! It
would have been better if my mother had never
mentioned his name, because when Boaz came over,
took hold of me with his dry, bony hand and thrust
me into a chair at the table, I was almost faint,
and I raised my head to the ceiling. I got a good
portion from Boaz for this. He pulled me by the
ear and shouted:

"Devil, what are you looking at?"

Of course, "the child that had only recovered
from the measles" began to wail. It was then he
had his first good taste of the teacher's floggings.
UA little boy must not look where it is forbidden.
A little boy must not bleat like a calf."

• • • • •

Boaz's system of teaching was founded on one
thing — whippings. Why whippings ? He explained
the reason by bringing forward the case of the
horse. Why does a horse go? Because it is
afraid. What is it afraid of? Whippings. And
it is the same with a child. A child must be afraid.
He must fear God and his teacher, and his father
and his mother, a sin and a bad thought. And
in order that a child should be really afraid, he must
be laid down, in true style, and given a score or so
lashes. There is nothing better in the world than
the rod. May the whip live long!

So says Boaz. He takes the strap slowly in his
hands, without haste, examines it on all sides as one
examines a citron. Then he betakes himself to his
work in good earnest, cheerfully singing a song by
way of accompaniment.
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Boaz the Teacher

Wonder of wonders! Boaz never counts the
strokes, and never makes a mistake. Boaz flogs,
and is never angry. Boaz is not a bad tempered
man. He is only angry when a boy will not let
himself be whipped, tries to tear himself free, or
kicks out his legs. Then it is different. At such
times Boaz's eyes are bloodshot, and he flogs with-
out counting and without singing his little song. A
little boy must be still while his teacher flogs him.
A little boy must have manners, even when he is be-
ing flogged.

Boaz is also angry if a boy laughs when he is
being whipped. (There are children who laugh
when they are beaten. People say this is a disease.)
To Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has
never laughed as long as he is alive. And he hates
to see any one else laughing. One might easily
have promised the greatest reward to the person
who could swear he once saw Boaz laughing. Boaz
is not a man for laughter. His face is not made for
it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely look more
terrible than another man crying. (There are such
faces in the world.) And really, what sort of a
thing is laughter? It is only idlers who laugh,
empty-headed gools, good-for-nothings, devil-may-
care sort of people. Those who have to work for
a living, or carry on their shoulders the burden of a
knowledge of the Holy Law and of the ways of the
world, have no time to laugh. Boaz never has
time. He is either teaching or whipping. That is
to say, he teaches while he whips, and whips
while he teaches. It would be hard to divide these

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two — to say where teaching ended and whipping
began.

And you must know that Boaz never whipped
us for nothing. There was always a reason for it.
It was either for not learning our lessons, for not
wanting to pray well, for not obeying our fathers
and mothers, for not looking in, and for not looking
out, for just looking, for praying too quickly, for
praying too slowly, for speaking too loudly, for
speaking too softly, for a torn coat, a lost button,
a pull or a push, for dirty hands, a soiled book, for
being greedy, for running, for playing — and so on,
and so on, without an end.

One might say we were whipped for every sin
that a human being can commit. We were whipped
for the sake of the next world as well as this world.
We were whipped on the eve of every Sabbath,
every feast and every fast. We were told that if
we had not earned the whippings yet, we would
earn them soon, please God. And Boaz gave us
all the whippings we ought to have had from our
friends and relatives. They gave the pleasant task
in to his hands. Then we got whippings of which
the teacher said:

"You surely know yourself what they are for."
And whippings just for nothing. "Let me see how
a little boy lets himself be whipped." In a word,
it was whippings, rods, leathers, fears and tears.
These prevailed at that time, in our foolish little
world, without a single solution to the problems
they brought into being, without a single remedy for
the evils, without a single ray of hope that we
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Boaz the Teacher

would ever free ourselves from the fiendish system
under which we lived.

And the good angel of whom my mother spoke?
Where was he — that good angel?

. • • • •

I must confess there were times when I doubted
the existence of this good angel. Too early a
spark of doubt entered my heart. Too early I
began to think that perhaps my mother had fooled
me. Too early I became acquainted with the
emotion of hatred. Too early, too early, I began
to hate my teacher Boaz.

And how could one help hating him? How, I
ask you, could one help hating a teacher who does
not allow you to lift your head? That you may not
do — this you may not say. Don't stand here.
Don't go there. Don't talk to So-and-so. How
can one help hating a man who has not in him a
germ of pity, who rejoices in another's pains, bathes
in other's tears, and washes himself in other's blood?
Can there be a more shameful word than flogging?
And what can be more disgraceful than to strip
anybody stark naked and put him in a corner? But
even this was not enough for Boaz. He required
you to undress yourself, to pull your own little
shirt over your own head, and to stretch yourself
face downwards. The rest Boaz managed.

And not only did Boaz flog the boys himself,
but his assistants helped him — his lieutenants, as
he called them, naturally under his direction, lest
they might not deliver the full number of strokes.
"A little less learning and a little more flogging,"

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was his rule. He explained the wisdom of his
system in this way: "Too much learning dulls a
boy, and a whipping too many does not hurt.
Because, what a boy learns goes straight to his
head, and his senses are quickened and his brains
loaded. With the floggings it is the exact opposite.
Before the effects of the flogging reach the brain
the blood is purified, and by this means the brain
is cleared. Well, do you understand?"

And Boaz never ceased from purifying our
blood, and clearing our brain. And woe unto us!
We did not believe any more in the good angel
that looked down upon us from above. We
realized that it was only a fairy-tale, an invented
story by which we were fooled into going to Boaz's
"Cheder." And we began to sigh and groan because
of our sufferings under Boaz. And we also began
to make plans, to talk and argue how to free our-
selves from our galling slavery.

• • • • •

In the melancholy moments between daylight
and darkness, when the fiery red sun is about to
bid farewell to the cold earth for the night — in these
melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is
departing, and on its heels is treading silently
the still night, with its lonely secrets — in these
melancholy moments, when the shadows are
climbing on the walls growing broader and longer
— in these melancholy moments between the after-
noon and the evening prayers, when the teacher
is at the synagogue, and his wife is milking the
goat or washing the crockery, or making the
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Boaz the Teacher

"Borsht" — then we youngsters came together at
"Cheder," beside the stove. We sat on the floor,
our legs curled up under us, like innocent lambs.
And there in the evening darkness, we talked of our
terrible Ti'tus, our angel of death, Boaz. The
bigger boys, who had been at "Cheder" some time,
told us the most awful tales of Boaz. They swore
by all the oaths they could think of that Boaz had
flogged more than one boy to death, that he had
already driven three women into their graves, and
that he had buried his one and only son. We
heard such wild tales that our hair stood on end.
The older boys talked, and the younger listened —
listened with all their senses on the alert. Black eyes
gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated.
And we decided that Boaz had no soul. He was a
man without a soul. And such a man is compared
to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous act
to get rid of. Thousands of plans, foolish, childish
plans, were formed in our childish brains. We
hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of death, as we
called Boaz. Foolish children! These foolish
plans buried themselves deep in each little heart that
cried out to the Lord to perform a miracle. We
asked that either the books should be burnt, or the
strap he whipped us with taken to the devil, or — or
. . . No one wished to speak of the last alternative.
They were afraid to bring it to their lips. And
the evil spirit worked in their hearts. The young
fancies were enkindled, and the boys were carried
away by golden dreams. They dreamed of free-
dom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in

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the river, playing horses, jumping over the logs.
They were good, sweet, foolish dreams that were
not destined to be realized. There was heard a
familiar cough, a familiar footfall. And our hearts
were frozen. All our limbs were paralysed,
deadened. We sat down at the table and started
our lessons with as much enthusiasm as if we were
starting for the gallows. We were reading aloud,
but still our lips muttered: "Father in Heaven, will
there never come an end to this tyrant, this Pharaoh,
this Haman, this Gog-Magog? Or will there ever
come a time when we shall be rid of this hard, hope-
less, dark tyranny? No, never, never!"

That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor in-
nocent, foolish children !

• • • • •

"Children, do you want to hear of a good plan
that will rid us of our Gog-Magog?"

That was what one of the boys asked us on one
of those melancholy moments already described.
His name wais Velvel Leib Aryas. He was a,
young heathen. When he was speaking his eyes
gleamed in the darkness like those of a wolf. And
the whole school of boys crowded around Velvel
to hear the plan by which we might get rid of
our Gog-Magog. Velvel began his explanation by
giving us a lecture — how impossible it was to stand
Boaz any longer, how the Ashmodai was bathing
in our blood, how he regarded us as dogs — worse
than dogs, because when a dog is beaten with a
stick it may, at any rate, howl. And we may not
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Boaz the Teacher

do that either. And so on, and so on. After this
Velvel said to us :

"Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I
am going to ask you something."

"Ask it," we all cried in one voice.

"What is the law in a case where, for example,
one of us suddenly becomes ill?"

"It is not good," we replied.

"No, I don't mean that. I mean something
else. I mean, if one of us is ill does he go to
'Cheder* or does he stay at home?"

"Of course he stays at home," we all answered
together.

"Well, what is the law if two of us get ill?"

"Two remain at home."

"Well, and if three get ill?" Velvel went on
asking us, and we went on answering him.

"Three stay at home."

"What would happen if, for example, we all
took ill?"

'We should all stay at home."
'Then let a sickness come upon us all," he cried
joyfully. We replied angrily:

"The Lord forbid! Are you mad, or have you
lost your reason?"

"I am not mad, and I have not lost my reason.
Only you are fools, yes. Do I mean that we are
to be really ill? I mean that we are to pretend
to be ill, so that we shall not have to go to 'Cheder/
Do you understand me now?"

When Velvel had explained his plan to us, we
began to understand it, and to like it. And we

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began to ask ourselves what sort of an illness we
should suffer from. One suggested toothache,
another headache, a third stomach-ache, a fourth
worms. But we decided that it was not going to be
toothache, nor headachq, nor stomach-ache, nor
worms. What then? We mus,t all together com-
plain of pains in our feet, because the doctor could
decide whether we really suffered from any of the
other illnesses or not. But if we told him we had
pains in our feet, and were unable to move them,
he could do nothing.

"Remember, children, you are not to get out of
bed tomorrow morning. And so that we may all
be certain that not one of us will come to 'Cheder' to-
morrow, let us promise one another, take an oath."

So said our comrade Velvel. And we gave each
other our promise, and took an oath that we would
not be at "Cheder" next morning. We went
home from "Cheder" that evening lively, joyful,
and singing. We felt like giants who knew how
to overcome the enemy and win the battle.

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The Spinning-Top

More than any of the boys at "Cheder," more
than any boy of the town, and more than any per-
son in the world, I loved my friend, Benny
"Polkovoi." The feeling I had for him was a
peculiar combination of love, devotion, and fear. I
loved him because he was handsomer, cleverer and
smarter than any other boy. He was kind and
faithful to me. He took my part, fought for me,
and pulled the ears of those boys who annoyed me.

And I was afraid of him because he was big and
quarrelsome. He could beat whom he liked, and
when he liked. He was the biggest, oldest, and
wealthiest boy in the "Cheder." His father, Mayer
"Polkovoi" though he was only a regimental tailor,
was nevertheless a rich man, and played an im-
portant part in public affairs. He had a fine house,
a seat in the synagogue beside the ark. At the
Passover, his "Matzo" was baked first. At the
feast of Tabernacles his citron was the best.
On the Sabbath he always had a poor man to meals.
He gave away large sums of money in charity.
And he himself went to the house of another to
lend him money as a favour. He engaged the best
teachers for his chldren. In a word, Mayer
"Polkovoi" tried to refine himself — to be a man

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amongst men. He wanted to get his name inscribed
in the books of the best society, but did not
succeed. In our town, Mazapevka, it was not easy
to get into the best society. We did not forget
readily a man's antecedents. A tailor may try to
refine himself for twenty years in succession, but
he will still remain a tailor to us. I do not think
there is a soap in the world that will wash out this
stain. How much do you think Mayer "Polkovoi"
would have given to have us blot out the name be-
stowed upon him, "Polkovoi" ? His misfortune
was that his family was a thousand times worse than
his name. Just imagine ! In his passport he was
called Mayor Mofsovitch Heifer.

It is a remarkable thing. May Mayer's great-
great-grandfather have a bright Paradise! He also
must have been a tailor. When it came to giving
himself a family name, he could not find a better
one than Heifer. He might have called himself
Thimble, Lining, Buttonhole, Bigpatch, Longfigure.
These are not family names either, it is true, but
they are in some way connected with tailoring.
But Heifer? What did he like in the name of
Heifer? You may ask why not Goat? Are there
not people in the world called Goat? You may say
what you like, Heifer and Goat are equally nice.
Still, they are not the same. A Heifer is not a
Goat.

;But we will return to my friend Benny.

• • • • •

Benny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled hair,
white puffed-out cheeks, scattered teeth, and peculiar

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The Spinning Top

red, bulging, fishy eyes. These red, fishy eyes were
always smiling and roguish. He had a turned-up
nose. His whole face had an expression of im-
pudence. Nevertheless, I liked his face, and we
became friends the first hour we met.

We met for the first time at "Cheder" at the
teachers' table. When my another took me to
"Cheder" the teacher was sitting at his table with
the boys, teaching them the book of Genesis. He
was a man with thick eyebrows and a pointed cap.
He made no fuss of me. He asked me no questions,
neither did he take my measurements, but said to
me —

"Get over there, on that bench, between those
two boys."

I got on the bench, between the boys, and was
already a pupil. There was no talk between my
mother and the teacher. They had made all
arrangements beforehand.

"Remember to learn as you ought," said my
mother from the doorway. She turned to look at
me again, lovingly, joyfully. I understood her
look very well. She was pleased that I was sitting
with nice children, and learning the liTorah.)y And
she was pained because she had to part with me.

I must confess I felt much happier than my
mother. I was amongst a crowd of new friends
— may no evil eye harm them! They looked at
me, and I looked at them. But the teacher did
not let us idle for long. He shook himself, and
shouted aloud the lesson we had to repeat after
him at the top of our voices.

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"Now the serpent was more subtil than any
beast of the field."

Boys who sit so close together, though they shake
and shout aloud, cannot help getting to know one
another, or exchange a few words. And so it was.

Benny "Polkovoi," who sat crushing me, pinched
my leg, and looked into my eyes. He went on
shaking himself, and shouting out the lesson with
the teacher and the other boys. But he threw
his own words into the middle of the sentence we
were translating.

"And Adam knew (here are buttons for you)
Eve his wife. (Give me a locust-bean and I will
give you a pull of my cigarette.)"

I felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some
smooth buttons. I cofnfess I did not want ;the
buttons, and I had no locust-beans, neither did I
smoke cigarettes. But I liked the idea of the thing.
And I replied in the same tones in which the lesson
was being recited:

"And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told
you I have locust-beans?)"

That is how we conversed the whole time, until
the teacher suspected that though I shook myself
to and fro, my mind was far from the lesson.
He suddenly put me through an examination.

"Listen, you, whatever your name is, you surely
know whose son Cain was, and the name of his
brother?"

This question was as strange to me as if he had
asked me when there would be a fair in the sky, or
how to make cream-cheese from snow, so that they

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The Spinning Top

should not melt. In reality my mind was elsewhere,
I don't know where.

"Why do you look at me so?" asked the teacher.
"Don't you hear me? I want you to tell me the
name of the first man, and the story of Cain and his
brother Abel."

The boys were smiling, smothering their laughter.
I did not know why.

"Fool, say you do not know, because we have not
learnt it," whispered Benny in my ear, digging me
with his elbow. I repeated his words, like a parrot.
And the "Cheder" was filled with loud laughter.

"What are they laughing at?" I asked myself.
I looked at them, and at the teacher. All were roll-
ing with laughter. And, at that moment, I counted
the buttons from one hand into the1 other. There
were exactly half a dozen.

"Well, little boy, show me your hands. What
are you doing with them?" And the teacher bent
down and looked under the table.

You are clever boys, and you will understand
yourselves what I had from the teacher, for the
buttons, on my first day at "Cheder."

• . . • • .

Whippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny
and I became good friends. We were one soul.
This is how it came about: —

Next morning I arrived at "Cheder" with my
Bible in one hand and my dinner in the other. The
boys were excited, jolly. Why? The teacher was
not there. What had happened? He had gone off
to a Circumcision with his wife. That is to say,

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not with her, God forbid! A teacher never walks
with his wife. The teacher walks before, and his
wife after him.

"Let us make a bet," cried a boy with a blue nose.
His name was Hosea Hessel.

"How much shall we bet?" asked another boy,
Koppel Bunnas. He had a torn sleeve out of which
peeped the point of a dirty elbow.

"A quarter of the locust-beans."

"Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans. What
for? Let us hear."

"I say he will not stand more than twenty-five."

"And I say thirty-six."

"Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take
hold of him."

This was the order of Hosea Hessel, of the
blue nose. And several boys took hold of me,
all together, turned me over on the bench, face
upwards. Two sat on my legs, two on my arms,
and one held my head, so that I should not be able
to wriggle. And another placed his left fore-
finger and thumb at my nose. (It seemed he was
left-handed.) He curled up his finger and thumb,
closed his eye, and began to fillip me on the nose.
And how, do you think? Each time I saw my
father in the other world. Murderers, slaugh-
terers! What had they against my nose? What
had it done to them? Whom had it bothered?
What had they seen on it — a nose like all noses.

"Boys, count," commanded Hosea Hessel.
"One, two, three — "

But suddenly . . .

r58

The Spinning Top

Nearly always, since ever the world began, when
a misfortune happens to a man — when robbers sur-
round him in a wood, bind his hands, sharpen
their knives, tell him to say his prayers, and are
about to finish him off, there comes a woodman with
a bell. The robbers run away, and the man lifts
his hands on high and praises the Lord for his de-
liverance.

It wras just like that with me and my nose. I
don't remember whether it was at the fifth or
sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny
"Polkovoi" came in. The boys freed me at once,
and remained standing like blocks of wood. Benny
took them in hand, one by one. He caught each
boy by the ear, twisted it round, and said:

"Well, now you will know what it means to
meddle with a widow's boy."

From that day the boys did not touch either me
or my nose. They were afraid to begin with the
widow's boy whom Benny had taken under his
wing, into his guardianship, under his protection.

• • • • •

"The widow's boy" — I had no other name at
"Cheder." This was because my mother was a
widow. She supported herself by her own work.
She had a little shop in which were, for the most
part, so far as I can remember, chalk and locust-
beans — the two things that sell best in Mazapevka.
Chalk is wanted for white-washing the houses, and
locust-beans are a luxury. They are sweet, and
they are light in weight, and they are cheap. School-
boys spend on them all the money they get for

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Jewish Children

breakfast and dinner. And the shopkeepers' make
a good profit out of them. I could never under-
stand why my mother was always complaining that
she could hardly make enough to pay the rent and
my school-fees. Why school-fees? What about
the other things a human being needs, food and
clothes and boots, for example? She thought
of nothing but the school-fees. "When the Lord
punished me," she wailed, "and took my husband
from me — and such a husband! — and left me all
alone, I want my son to be a scholar, at any rate."
What do you say to that? Do you think she did
not come frequently to the "Cheder" to find out how
I was getting on? I say nothing of the prayers
she took good care I should recite every morning.
She was always lecturing me to be even half as
good as my father — peace be unto him ! And
whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly
like him — may I have longer years than he ! And
her eyes grew moist. Her face grew curiously
careworn, and had a mournful expression.

I hope he will forgive me, I mean my father,
from the other world, but I could not understand
what sort of a man he had been. From what my
mother told of him, he was always either praying
or studying. Had he never been drawn, like me,
out into the open, on summer mornings, when the
sun' was not burning yet, but was just beginning to
show in the sky, marching rapidly onwards, a fiery
angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery horses, into
whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold faces it was
impossible to look? I ask you what taste have
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The Spinning Top

the week-day prayers on such a morning? What
sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a stuffy
room, when the golden sun is burning, and the air
is hot as an iron frying-pan? At such a time, you
are tempted to run down the hill, to the river — the
beautiful river that is covered with a green slime.
A peculiar odour, as of a warm bath, comes from
the distance. You want to undress and jump into
the warm water. Under the trees it is cool and the
mud is soft and slippery. And the curious insects
that live at the bottom of the river whirl around
and about before your eyes. And curious, long-
legged flies slip and slide on the surface of the water.
At such a time one desires to swim over to the other
side — over to where the green flags grow, their
yellow and white stalks shimmering in the sun. A
green, fresh fern looks up at you, and you go after
it, plash-plash into the water, hands down, and
feet up, so that people might think you were swim-
ming. I ask you again, what pleasure is it to sit in
a little room on a summer's evening, when the great
dome of the sky is dropping over the other side of the
town, lighting up the spire of the church, the shingle
roofs of the baths, and the big windows of the
synagogue. And on the other side of the town,
on the common, the goats are bleating, and the
lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the heavens,
the frogs croaking. There is a tearing and a shriek-
ing and a tumult as at a regular fair. Who thinks
of praying at such a time? But if you talk to my
mother, she will tell you that her husband — peace
be unto him! — did not succumb to temptations.

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He was a different sort of a man. What sort of
a man he was I do not know — asking his pardon.
I only know that my mother annoys me very much.
She reminds me every minute that I had a father;
and throws it into my teeth that she has to pay my
school-fees for me. For this she asks only two
things of me — that I should learn diligently, and
say my prayers willingly.

• • • • •

It could not be said that the widow's boy did
not learn well. He was not in any way behind
his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he
said his prayers willingly. All children are alike.
And he was as mischievous as any other boy. He,
like the rest, was fond of running away and play-
ing, though there is not much to be said of the
play of Jewish children. They tie a paper bag
to a cat's tail so that she may run through the
house like mad, smashing everything in her way.
They lock the women's portion of the synagogue
from the outside on Friday nights, so that the
women may have to be rescued. They nail the
teacher's shoes to the floor, or seal his beard to the
table with wax when he is asleep. But oh, how
many thrashings do they get when their tricks are
found out! It may be gathered that everything
must have an originator, a commander, a head, a
leader who shows the way.

Our leader, our commander was Benny "Pol-
kovoi." From him all things originated; and on
our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the
fat face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to
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The Spinning Top

escape scot free from the scrapes. He was always
innocent as a dove. Whatever tricks or mischief
we did, we always got the idea from Benny. Who
taught us to smoke cigarettes in secret, letting the
smoke out through our nostrils? Benny. Who
told us to slide on the ice, in winter, with the
peasant-boys? Benny. Who taught us to gamble
with buttons — to play "odd or even," and lose
our breakfasts and dinners? Benny. He was up
to every trick, and taught us them all. He won
our last "groschens" from us. And when it came
to anything, Benny had disappeared. Playing was
to us the finest thing in the world. And for play-
ing we got the severest thrashings from our teacher.
He said he would tear out of us the desire to play.

"Play in my house? You will play with the
Angel of Death," said the teacher. And he used
to empty our pockets of everything, and thrash
us most liberally.

But there was one week of the year when we
were allowed to play. Why do I say allowed?
It was a righteous thing to play then.

And that week was the week of "Chanukah."
And we played with spinning-tops.

• • • • •

It is true that the games of cards — bridge and
whist, for example — which are played at "Chan-
ukah" nowadays have more sense in them than the
old game of spinning-tops. But when the play is
for money, it makes no difference what it is. I
once saw two peasant-boys beating one another's
heads against the wall. When I asked them why

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Jewish Children

they were doing this, if they were out of their
minds, they told me to go my road. They were
playing a game, for money, which of them would
|get tired the soonest of having his head banged
on the wall.

The game of spinning-tops that have four cor-
ners, each marked with a letter of the alphabet, and
are like dice, is very exciting. One can lose one's
soul playing it. It is not so much the loss of the
money as the annoyance of losing. Why should
the other win? Why should the top fall on the
letter G for him, and on the N for you? I suppose
you know what the four letters stand for? N
means no use. H means half. B means bad.
And G means good. The top is a sort of lottery.
Whoever is fortunate wins. Take, for example,
Benny "Polkovoi." No matter how often he spins
the top, it always falls on the letter G.

The boys said it was curious how Benny won.
They kept putting down their money. He took on
their bets. What did he care? He was a rich
boy.

"G again. It's curious," they cried, and again
opened their purses and staked their money. Benny
whirled the top. It spun round and round, and
wobbled from side to side, like a drunkard, and
fell down.

"G,"said Benny.

UG, G. Again G. It's extraordinary," said
the boys, scratching their heads and again opening
their purses.

The game grew more exciting. The players
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The Spinning Top

grew hot, staked their money, crushed one another,
and dug one another in the ribs to get nearer the
table, and called each other peculiar names —
"Black Tom-cat! Creased Cap! Split Coat!"
and the like. They did not see the teacher stand-
ing behind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and
carrying his "Tallis" and "Tephilin" under his arm.
He was going to the synagogue to say his prayers,
and seeing the crowd of excited boys, he drew near
to watch the play. This day he does not interfere.
It is "Chanukah" We are free for eight days on
end, and may play as much as we like. But we must
not fight, nor pull one another by the nose. The
teacher's wife took her sickly child in her arms,
and stood at her husband's shoulder, watching the
boys risk their money, and how Benny took on all
the bets. Benny was excited, burning, aflame,
ablaze. He twirled the top. It spun round and
round, wobbled and fell down.

"G all over again. It's a regular pantomime."

Benny showed us his smartness and his quick-

wittedness so long, until our pockets were empty.

He thrust his hands in his pockets, as if challenging

us — "Well, who wants more?"

We all went home. We carried away with us
the heartache and the shame of our losses. When
we got home, we had to tell lies to account for the
loss of the money we ha^d been given in honour
of "Chanukah." One boy confessed he had spent
his on locust-beans. Another said the money had
been stolen out of his pocket the previous night.
A third came home crying. He said he had bought

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himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he crying?
He had lost the knife on his way home.

I told my mother a fine story — a regular "Arabian
Nights" tale, and got out of her a second "Chanic-
kah" present of ten "groschens." I ran off with
them to Benny, played for five minutes, lost to him,
and flew back home, and told my mother another
tale. In a word, brains were at work and heads
were busy inventing lies. Lies flew about like chaff
in the wind. And all our "Chanukah" money went
into Benny's pockets, and was lost to us for ever.

One of the boys became so absorbed in the play
that he was not satisfied to lose only his "Chanukah"
money, but went on gambling through the whole
eight days of the festival.

And that boy was no other than myself, "the
widow's son."

• • • • *

You must not ask where the widow's boy got the
money to play with. The great gamblers of the
world who haive lost and won fortunes, estates and
inheritances — they will know and understand. Woe
is me! May the hour never be known on which
the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one !
There is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into
houses, gets through iron walls, and does the most
terrible thing imaginable. It's a name to conjure
with — the spirit of gambling.

First of all, I began to make money by selling
everything I possessed, one thing after the other,
my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my buttons. I
had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels

1 66

The Spinning Top

of an old clock — good brass wheels that shone like
the sun when they were polished. I sold them all at
any price, flew off, and lost all my money to Benny.
I always left him with a heart full of wounds and
the bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was
not angry with Benny. God forbid! What had
I against him? How was he to blame if he always
won at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he
said, I should win. If it falls on the G for him,
then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am
only sorry for myself, for having run through so
much money — my mother's hard-earned "groschens"
and for having made away with all my things. I
was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-
book. O that prayer-book, that prayer-book!
When I think of it, my heart aches, and my face
burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book.
My mother bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on
the anniversary of my father's death. And it was a
book of books — a good one, a real good one, thick,
and full of everything. It had every prayer one
could mention, the "Song of Songs," the Ethics of
the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the "Haggadah,"
and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then
the print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It
was full of everything, I tell you. Each time
Pethachiah the pedlar came round with his cut mous-
tache that made his careworn face appear as if it was
smiling — each time he came round and opened his
pack outside the synagogue door, I could not take
my eyes off that prayer-book.

"What would you say, little boy?" asked

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Pethachiah, as if he did not know that I had my eyes
on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands
seventeen times, each time asking the price of it.

"Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left
him, so as not to be tempted.

"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing
Pethachiah the pedlar has."

"What sort of a thing?" asked my mother.

"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-
book, I would — I don't know myself what I would
do."

"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where
is your father's prayer-book?"

"You can't compare them. This is an ornament,
and my book is only a book."

"An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are
there then more prayers in an ornamental book,
or do the prayers sound better?"

Well, how can you explain an ornament to your
mother — a really fine book with red covers, and
blue edges, and a green back?

"Come," said my mother to me, one evening,
taking me by the hand. "Come with me to the
synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your
father's death. We will bring candles to be lit
for him, and at the same time we will see what sort
of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has."

I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of
the death of my father, I could get from my mother
anything I asked for, even to the little plate
from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat
with joy.

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The Spinning Top

When we got to the synagogue, we found
Pethachiah with his pack still unopened. You
must know Pethachiah was a man who never
hurried. He knew very well he was the only man
at the fair. His customers would never leave
him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his
goods, it took a year. I trembled, I shook. I
could hardly stand on my feet. And he did not
care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all.

"Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is
you have," said my mother.

Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was
not on fire. Slowly, without haste, he opened his
pack, and spread out his wares — big Bibles, little
prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm
books and little, and books for all possible occasions,
without an end. Then there were books of tales
from the "Talmud," tales of the "Bal-shem-tov,"
books of sermons, and books of devotion. I
imagined he would never run short. He was a well,
a fountain. At last he came to the little books,
and handed out the one I wanted.

"Is this all?" asked my mother. "Such a little

le."

"This little one is dearer than a big one,"
answered Pethachiah.

"And how much do you want for the little squir-
rel?— God forgive me for calling it by that

name."

'You call a prayer-book a squirrel?" asked
Pethachiah. He took the book slowly out of her
hand; and my heart was torn.

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Jewish Children

"Well, say. How much is it?" asked my
mother. But Pethachiah had plenty of time. He
answered her in a sing-song:

"How much is the little prayer-book? It will
cost you — it will cost you — I am afraid it is not for
your purse."

My mother cursed her enemies, that they might
have black, hideous dreams, and asked him to say
how much.

Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did
not answer him. She turned towards the door,
took my hand, and said to me :

"Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here.
Don't you know that fReb} Pethachiah is a man
who charges famine prices?"

I followed my mother to the door. And though
my heart was heavy, I still hoped the Lord would
pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But
Pethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew
we should turn back of our own accord. And so
it was. My mother turned round, and asked him
to talk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He
looked at the ceiling. And his pale face shone. We
went off, and returned once again.

"A curious Jew, Pethachiah," said my mother
to me afterwards. "May my enemies have the
plague if I would have bought the prayer-book
from him. It is at a famine price. As I live, it
is a sin. The money could have gone for your
school-fees. But it's useless. For the sake of to-
morrow, the anniversary of your father's death —
peace be unto him ! — I have bought you the prayer-
170

The Spinning Top

book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must
do me a favour in return. Promise me that you
will say your prayers faithfully every day."

Whether I really prayed as faithfully as I had
promised, or not, I will not tell you. But I loved
the little book as my life. You may understand
that I slept with it, though, as you know, it is
forbidden. The whole "Cheder" envied me the
little book. I minded it as if it were the apple of
my eye. And now, this "Chanukah" — woe unto
me ! — I carried it off with my own hands to Moshe
the carpenter's boy, who had long had his eye on
it. And I had to beg of him, for an hour on end,
before he bought it. I almost gave it away for
nothing — the little prayer-book. My heart faints
and my face burns with shame. Sold! And to
what end? For whose sake? For Benny's sake,
that he might win off me another few "kopeks"
But how is Benny to blame if he wins at play?

"That's what a spinning-top is for," explained
Benny, putting into his purse my last few "gros-
chens." "If things went with you as they are going
with me, then you would be winning. But I am
lucky, and I win."

And Benny's cheeks glowed. It is bright and
warm in the house. A silver "Chanukah" lamp is
burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From
the kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melt-
ed goose-fat.

"We are having fritters tonight," Benny told
me in the doorway. My heart was weak with
hunger. I flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My

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mother had come in from her shop. Her hands
were red and swollen with the cold. She was
frozen through and through, and was walrming
herself at the stove. Seeing me, her face lit up
with pleasure.

"From the synagogue?" she asked.

"From the synagogue," was my lying answer.

"Have you said the evening prayer?"

"I have said the evening prayer," was my
second lie to her.

"Warm yourself, my son. You will say the
blessing over the 'Chanukah' lights. It is the last
night of 'Chanukah' tonight, thank God!"

• • • • •

If a man had only troubles to bear, without a
scrap of pleasure, he would never get over them,
but would surely take his own life. I am referring
to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked
day and night, froze, never had enough to eat,
and never slept enough for my sake. Why should
she not have a little pleasure too? Every person
puts his own meaning into the word "pleasure."
To my mother there was no greater pleasure in
the world than hearing me recite the blessings on
Sabbaths and Festivals. At the Passover I carried
out the "Seder" for her, and at "Chanukah" I
made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing
over wine or beer? Had we for the Passover frit-
ters or fresh "matzo"? What were the "Charm*
kah" lights- — a silver, eight-branched lamp with
olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Be-
lieve me, the pleasure has nothing to do with wine
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The Spinning Top

or fritters, or a silver lamp. The main thing is the
blessing itself. To see my mother's face when I
was praying, how it shone and glowed with pleasure
was enough. No words are necessary, no detailed
description, to prove that this was unalloyed hap-
piness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the pota-
toes, and recited the blessing in a sing-song voice.
She repeated the blessing after me, word for word,
in the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes,
and moved her lips. I knew she was thinking at
the time: "It is he — he in every detail. May the
child have longer years!" And I felt I deserved
to be cut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had
deceived my mother, and for such a base cause.
I had betrayed her from head to foot.

The candles in the potatoes — my "Chanukah"
lights — flickered and flickered until they went out.
And my mother said to me :

"Wash your hands. We are having potatoes
and goose-fat for supper. In honour of lChanu-
kah,' I bought a little measure of goose-fat — fresh,
beautiful fat."

I washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down
to supper.

"It is a custom amongst some people to have
fritters for supper on the last night of "Chanukah/ '
said my mother, sighing. And there arose to my
mind Benny's fritters, and Benny's spinning-top
that had cost me all I possessed in the world. I
had a sharp pain at my heart. More than all, I
regretted the little prayer-book. But, of what use
were regrets? It was all over and done with.

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Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I
heard my mother's groans. I heard her bed creak-
ing, and I imagined that it was my mother groan-
ing. Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rat-
tling the windows, tearing at the roof, whistling
down the chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had
come to our house a long time before. It was
now chirping from the wall, "Tchireree! Tchir-
eree I" And my mother did not cease from sigh-
ing and groaning. And each sigh and each groan
echoed itself in my heart. I only just managed to
control myself. I was on the point of jumping
out of bed, falling at my mother's feet, kissing her
hands, and confessing to her all my sins. I did
not do this. I covered myself with all the bed-
clothes, so that I might not hear my mother sighing
and groaning and her bed creaking. My eyes
closed. The wind howled, and the cricket chirped,
"Tchireree ! Tchireree ! Tchireree ! Tchire-
ree I" And there spun around before my eyes a
man like a top — a man I seemed to know. I could
have sworn it was the teacher in his pointed cap.
He was spinning on one foot, round, and round, and
round. His cap sparkled, his eyes glistened, and
his earlocks flew about. No, it was not the teacher.
It was a spinning-top — a curious, living top with a
pointed cap and earlocks. By degrees the teacher-
top, or the top-teacher ceased from spinning round.
And in its place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt
whose story we had learnt a week ago. Pharaoh,
king of Egypt, stood naked before me. He had

174

The Spinning Top

only just come out of the river. He had my little
prayer-book in his hand. I could not make out
how that wicked king, who had bathed in Jewish
blood, came to have my prayer-book. And I saw
seven cows, lean and starved, mere skin and bones,
with big horns and long ears. They came to me
one after the other. They opened their mouths
and tried to swallow me. Suddenly, there appeared
my friend Benny. He took hold of their long
ears, and twisted them round. Some one was cry-
ing softly, sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping.
A man stood near me. He was not a human being.
He said to me softly:

uTell me, son, on which day do you recite the
mourner's prayer for me?"

I understood that this was my father of whom
my mother had told me so many good things. I
wanted to tell him the day on which I must say
the mourner's prayer for him, but I had forgotten
it. I fretted myself. I rubbed my forehead, and
tried to remind myself of the day, but I could not.
Did you ever hear the like? I forgot the day of
the anniversary of my father's death. Listen,
Jewish children, can you not tell me when the
day is? Why are you silent? Help! Help!
Help!

• • • • •

"God be with you! Why are shouting? Why
do you shriek? What is the matter with you?
May the Lord preserve you !"

You will understand it was my mother who was
speaking to me. She held my head. I could feel

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Jewish Children

her trembling and shaking. The lowered lamp gave
out no light, but an oppressive stench. I saw my
mother's shadow dancing on the wall. The points
of the kerchief she wore on her head were like two
horns. Her eyes gleamed horribly in the darkness.

"When do I say the mourner's prayer, mother?
Tell me, when do I say the mourner's prayer?"

"God be with you! The anniversary of your
father's death was not long ago. You have had a
bad dream. Spit out three times. Tfu ! Tfu !
Tfu ! May it be for a good sign ! Amen ! Amen !
Amen!"

• • • • •

Children, I grew up, and Benny grew up. He be-
came a young man with a yellowish beard and a
round belly. He wears a gold chain across it. It
seems he is a rich man.

We met in the train. I recognized him by his
fishy, bulging eyes and his scattered teeth. We
had not met for a long time. We kissed one
another and talked of the good old times, the dear
good days of our childhood, and the foolish things
we did then.

"Do you remember, Benny, that 'Chanukah' when
you won everything with the spinning top? The G
always fell for you."

I looked at Benny. He was convulsed with
laughter. He held his sides. He was rolling over.
He was actually choking with laughter.

uGod be with you, Benny! Why this sudden
burst of laughter, Benny?"

"Oh!" he cried, "oh! go away with your spinning-

176

The Spinning Top

top ! That was a good top. It was a real top. It
was a pudding made only of suet. It was a stew of
nothing but raisins."

"What sort of a top was it, Benny? Tell me
quicker."

"It was a top that had all around it, on all the
corners only the one letter, G."

177

Esther

I am not going to tell you a story of "Cheder,"
or of the teacher, or of the teacher's wife. I have
told you enough about them. Perhaps you will
allow me, this time, in honour of the feast of
"Purim," to tell you a story of the teacher's
daughter, Esther.

• • • • •

If the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a
creature as the Esther of my story, then it is no
wonder she found favour in the eyes of King
Ahasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to
tell you was loved by everybody, everybody, even
by me and by my older brother Mottel, although
he was "Bar-mitzvah" long ago, and they were
making up a match for him, and he was wearing a
watch and chain this good while. (If I am not mis-
taken, he had already started to grow a beard at the
time I speak of.) And that my brother Mottel
loves Esther, I am positive. He thinks I do not
know that his going to "Cheder" every Sabbath to
read with the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday's
day! The teacher snores loudly. The teacher's
wife stands on the doorstep talking with the women.
We boys play around the room, and Mottel and
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Esther

Esther are staring — she at him, and he at her. It
sometimes happens that we boys play at ''blind-
man's-buff." Do you know what "blind-man's-
buff" is? Well, then I will tell you. You take
a boy, bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place
him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys
fly round him crying: "Blindman, blindman, catch
me!"

Mottel and Esther also play at "blind-man's-
buff" with us. They like the game because, when
they are playing it, they can chase one another —
she him, and he her.

And I have many more proofs I could give
you that — But I am not that sort.

I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and
she his. And it was not on the Sabbath either,
but on a weekday. It was towards evening, be-
tween the afternoon and the evening prayers. He
was pretending to go to the synagogue. He strayed
into "Cheder." "Where is the teacher?" "The
teacher is not here." And he went and gave her
his hand, Esther, that is. I saw them. He with-
drew his hand and gave me a <l groschen" to tell
no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I
asked three, and he gave me three. What do you
think — if I had asked four, or five, or six, would
he not have given them? But I am not that sort.

Another time, too, something happened. But
enough of this. I will rather tell you the real story
— the one I promised you.

• • • ■ •

As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up.

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Jewish Children

He does not go to "Cheder" any more, nor does
he wish to learn, anything at home. For this, my
father calls him "Man of clay." He has no other
name for him. My mother does not like it. What
sort of a habit is it to call a young man, almost a
bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he
is nothing else but a man of clay. They quarrel
about it. I do not know what other parents do,
but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and
night they are quarrelling.

If I were to tell you how my father and mother
quarrel, you would split your sides laughing. But
I am not thafi sort.

In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to
"Cheder" any more. Nevertheless, he does not
forget to send the teacher a "Purim" present.
Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice
poem in Hebrew, illuminated with a "Shield of
David," and two paper "roubles." With whom
does he send this "Purim" present? With me, of
course. My brother says to me, "Here, hand the
teacher this "Purim" present. When you come
back, I will give you ten ''groschens.'1 Ten "gros-
chens" is money. But what then? I want the
money now. My brother said I was a heathen.
Said I : "It may be I am a heathen. I will not argue
about it. But I want to see the money," said I.
Who do you think won?

He gave me the ten "groschens" and handed me
the teacher's "Purim" present in a sealed envelope.
When I was going off, he thrust into my hand a
second envelope and said to me, in a quick whisper:
"And this you will give to Esther." "To Esther?"
1 80

Esther

"To Esther." Any one else in my place would
have asked twice as much for this. But I am not
that sort.

• • • • •

"Father of the Universe," thought I, when I
was going off with the "Purim" present, "what can
my brother have written to the teacher's daughter?
I must have a peep — only just a peep. I will not
take a bite out of it. I will only look at it."

And I opened Esther's letter and read a whole
"Book of Esther." I will repeat what was there,
word for word.

"From Mordecai to Esther,

"And there was a man, a young man in
Shushan — our village. His name was Mordecai
and he loved a maiden called Esther. And the
maiden was beautiful, charming. And the maiden
found favour in his eyes. The maiden told this to
no one because Mottel had asked her not to. Every
day Mottel passes her house to catch a glimpse of
Esther. And when the time comes for Esther to
get married, Mottel will go with her under the wed-
ding canopy."

What do you say to my brother — how he trans-
lated the "Book of Esther"? I should like to hear
what the teacher will say to such a translation.
But how comes the cat over the water? Hush!
There's a way, as I am a Jew! I will change the
letters, give the teacher's poem to Esther, and
Esther's letter to the teacher. Let him rejoice.

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Jewish Children

Afterwards, if there's a fine to do, will I be to
blame? Don't all people make mistakes some-
times? Does it not happen that even the post-
master of our village himself forgets to give up
letters? No such thing will ever happen to me.
I am not that sort.

■ • • • •

"Good 'Yom-tov,' teacher," I cried the moment I
rushed into "Cheder" in such an excited voice that
he jumped. "My brother Mottel has sent you a
'Purim' present, and he wishes you to live to next
year."

And I gave the teacher Esther's letter. He
opened it, read it, thought a while, looked at it
again, turned it about on all sides, as if in search
of something. "Search, search," I said to myself,
"and you will find something."

The teacher put on his silver spectacles, read
the letter, and did not even make a grimace. He
only sighed — no more. Later he said to me:
'Wait. I will write a few lines." And he took
the pen and ink and started to write a few lines.
Meanwhile, I turned around in the "Cheder." The
teacher's wife gave me a little cake. And when no
one was looking, I put into Esther's hand the poem
and the money intended for her father. She
reddened, went into a corner, and opened the
envelope slowly. Her face burnt like fire, and her
eyes blazed dangerously. "She doesn't seem to
be satisfied with the 'Purim' present," I thought. I
took from the teacher the few lines he had written.

"Good 'Yom-tov* to you, teacher," I cried in
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Esther

the same excited voice as when I had come
in. "May you live to next year." And I was
gone.

When I was on the other side of the door,
Esther ran after me. Her eyes were red with
weeping. "Here," she said angrily, "give this to
your brother!"

On the way home I first opened the teacher's
letter. He was more important. This is what was
written in it.

"My dear and faithful pupil, Mordecai N.
"I thank you many times for your 'Purim
present that you have sent me. Last year and the
year before, you sent me a real 'Purim' present.
But this year you sent me a new translation of
the 'Book of Esther.' I thank you for it. But I
must tell you, Mottel, that your rendering does not
please me at all. Firstly, the city of Shushan
cannot be called 'our village.' Then I should like
to know where it says that Mordecai was a young
man? And why do you call him Mottel? Which
Mottel ? And where does it say he loved a maiden ?
The word referring to Mordecai and Esther means
'brought up.' And your saying 'he will go with
her under the wedding canopy' is just idiotic non-
sense. The phrase you quote refers to Ahasuerus,
not to Mordecai. Then again, it is nowhere
mentioned in the 'Book of Esther' that Ahasuerus
went with Esther under the wedding canopy. Does
it need brains to turn a passage upside' down?
Every passage must have sense in it. Last year,

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Jewish Children

and the year before, you sent me something
different. This year you sent your teacher a trans-
lation of the 'Book of Esther,' and a distorted
translation into the bargain. Well, perhaps it
should be so. Anyhow, I am sending you back
your translation, and may the Lord send you a
good year, according to the wishes of your
teacher."

Well, that's what you call a slap in the face.
It serves my brother right. I should think he will
never write such a "Book of Esther" again.

Having got through the teacher's letter, I
must see what the teacher's daughter writes. On
opening the envelope, the two paper "roubles" fell
out. What the devil does this mean? I read the
letter — only a few lines.

"Mottel, I thank you for the two 'roubles.' You
may take them back. I never expected such a
'Purim' present from you. I want no presents from
you, and certainly no charity."

Ha! ha! What do you say to that? She does
not want charity. A nice story, as I am a Jewish
child! Well, what's to be done next? Any one
else in my place would surely have torn up the two
letters and put the money in his pocket. But I am
not that sort. I did a better thing than that. You
will hear what. I argued with myself after this
fashion: When all is said and done, I got paid
by my brother Mottel for the journey. Then what
do I want him for now? I went and gave the two
letters to my father. I wanted to hear what he
would say to them. He would understand the
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Esther

translation better than the teacher, though he is a
father, and the teacher is a teacher.

• • • • •

What happened? After my father had read
the two letters and the translation, he took hold
of my brother Mottel and demanded an explanation
of him. Do not ask me any more.

You want to know the end — what happened to
Esther, the teacher's daughter, and to my brother
Mottel? What could have happened? Esther
got married to a widower. Oh, how she cried. I
was at the wedding. Why she cried so much I do
not know. It seemed that her heart told her she
would not live long with her husband. And so it
was. She lived with him only one-half year, and
died. I do not know what she died of. I do not
know. No one knows. Her father and mother
do not know either. It was said she took poison —
just went and poisoned herself. "But it's a lie.
Enemies have invented that lie," said her mother,
the teacher's wife. I heard her myself.

And my brother Mottel? Oh, he married
before Esther was even betrothed. He went to
live with his father-in-law. But he soon returned,
and alone. What had happened? He wanted to
divorce his wife. Said my father to him: "You
are a man of clay." My mother would not have
this. They quarrelled. It was lively. But it
was useless. He divorced his wife and married
another woman. He now has two children — a boy
and a girl. The boy is called Herzl, after Dr.
Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father

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Jewish Children

wanted her to be named Gittel, and my mother
was dying for her to be called Leah, after her
mother. There arose a quarrel between my father
and mother. They quarrelled a whole day and a
whole night. They decided the child should be
named Leah-Gittel, after their two mothers. After-
wards my father decided he would not have Leah-
Gittel. "What is the sense of it? Why should
her mother's name go first?" My brother Mottel
came in from the synagogue and said he had named
the child Esther. Said my father to him: "Man
of clay, where did you get the name Esther from?"
Mottel replied: "Have you forgotten it will soon
be 'Purim'?" Well, what have you to say now?
It's all over. My father never calls Mottel "man
of clay" since then. But both of them — my mother
and my father — exchanged glances and were silent.
What the silence and the exchange of glances
meant I do not know. Perhaps you can tell me?

1 86

The Pocket-Knife

Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about
a little knife — not an invented story, but a true
one, that happened to myself.

I never wished for anything in the world so
much as for a pocket-knife. It should be my own,
and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able to
take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I
liked. Let my friends know. I had just begun
to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki, and I al-
ready had a knife, that is, what was almost a knife.
I made it myself. I tore a goose-quill out of a
feather brush, cut off one end, and flattened out the
other. I pretended it was a knife and would cut.

"What sort of a feather is that? What the
devil does it mean? Why do you carry a feather
about with you?" asked my father — a sickly Jew,
with a yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of cough-
ing. "Here are feathers for you — playtoys! Tkeh-
heh-heh-heh!"

"What do you care if the child plays?" asked
my mother of him. She was a short-built woman
and wore a silk scarf on her head. "Let my
enemies eat out their hearts!"

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the com-
mentaries, I very nearly had a real knife, also of

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Jewish Children

my own making. I found a bit of steel belonging
to my mother's crinoline, and I set it very cleverly
into a piece of wood. I sharpened the steel beauti-
fully on a stone, and naturally cut all my fingers
to pieces.

"See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son
of yours," said my father. He took hold of my
hands in such a way that the very bones cracked.
"He's a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh !"

uOh, may the thunder strike me I" cried my
mother. She took the little knife from me, and
threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my
crying. "Now it 'will come to an end. Woe is
me!"

I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little
knife. It had a thick, round, wooden handle, like
a barrel, and a curved blade which opened as well
as closed. You want to know how I came by it?
I saved up the money from what I got for my
breakfasts, and I bought the knife for seven "gros-
chens" from Solomon, and I owed him three more
"groschens"

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home
from school black and blue, hungry and sleepy, and
with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had just
started learning the "Gemarra" with Mottel, the
"Angel of Death." "If an ox gore a cow" I learnt.
And ifyan ox gores a cow, then I must get beaten.)
And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket-
knife from under the black cupboard. (It lay there
the whole day, because I dared not take it to school
with me; and at home no one must know that I

188

The Pocket-Knife

have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper
with it, split a straw in halves, and then cut up my
bread into little cubes which I stuck on the tip of
the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth.

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife,
and scrubbed it, and polished it. I took the
sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft, spit
on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the
little knife, sharpening, sharpening.

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat
over a book. He coughed and read, read and
coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making
bread. I did not cease from sharpening my knife,
and sharpening it.

Suddenly my fathers woke up, as from a deep
sleep.

"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is
working? What are you doing, you young
scamp?"

He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpen-
ing-stone. ■ He caught hold of my ear. A fit of
coughing choked him.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Little knives! Heh-heh-
heh !" said my father, and he took the knife and
the sharpening-stone from me. "Such a scamp 1
Why the devil can't he take a book into his hand?
Tkeh-heh-heh!"

I began to cry. My father improved the situa-
tion by a few slaps. My mother ran in from the
kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to
shout:

"Shah! Shah! What's the matter here?

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Why do you beat him? God be with you! What
have you against the child? Woe is me!"

"Little knives," said my father, ending up with
a cough. "A tiny child. Such a devil. Tkeh-heh-
heh ! Why the devil can't he take a book into his
hand? He's already a youth of eight years. . . .
I will give you pocket-knives — you good-for-
nothing, you. In the middle of everything, pocket-
knives. Thek-heh-heh !"

But what had he against my little knife? How
had it sinned in his eyes? Why was he so angry?

I remember that my father was nearly always
ailing — always pale and hollow-cheeked, and
always angry with the whole world. For the least
thing he flared up and would tear me to pieces. It
was fortunate my mother defended me. She took
me out of his hands.

And that pocket-knife of mine was thrown away
somewhere. For eight days on end I looked and
looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned
deeply for that curved knife — the good knife.
How dark and embittered was my soul at school
when I remembered that I would come home with
a swollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands
of Mottel, the "Angel of Death," because an ox
gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to
for comfort. I was lonely without the curved
knife — lonely as an orphan. No one saw the tears
I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had
come back from "Cheder" In silence, I cried my
eyes out. In the morning I was again at "Cheder"
and again I repeated: "If an ox gore a cow," and
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The Pocket-Knife

again I felt the blows of Mottel, the "Angel of
Death"; again my father was angry, coughed, and
swore at me. I had not a free moment. I did not
see a smiling face. There was not a single little
smile for me anywhere, not a single one. I had no-
body. I was alone — all alone in the whole world.
. . . . •

A year went by, and perhaps a year and a half.
I was beginning to forget the curved knife. It
seems I was destined to waste all the years of my
childhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife
was created — to my misfortune — a brand new
knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it was a
fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones,
sharp as razors, and a white bone handle, and brass
ends, and copper rivets. I tell you, it was a beauty,
a real good pocket-knife.

How came to me such a fine knife, that was never
meant for such as I ? That is a whole story — a sad,
but interesting story. Listen to me attentively.

What value in my eyes had the German Jew who
lodged with us — the contractor, Herr Hertz
Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about
without a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had
his coat-tails cut off? I ask you how I could have
helped laughing into his face, when that Jewish-
Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish,
but in a curious Yiddish with a lot of A's in it.

"Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will
be read this week?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" I burst out laughing and hid
my face in my hands.

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"Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the
Law will be read this week?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Balak," I burst out with a
laugh, and ran away.

But that was only in the beginning, before I knew
him. Afterwards, when I knew Herr Hettz
Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for
over a year) I loved him so well that I did not
care if he said no prayers, and ate his food without
saying the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not under-
stand how he existed, and why the Lord allowed
him to remain in the world. Why was he not
choked at table? And why did the hair not fall
out of his uncovered head? I had heard from my
teacher, Mottel, the "Angel of Death," from his
own mouth, that this German Jew was only a spirit.
That is to say, a Jew was turned into a German;
and later on he might turn into a wolf, a cow, a
horse, or maybe a duck. A duck?

"Ha! ha! ha! A fine story," thought I.
But I was genuinely sorry for the German. Never-
theless, I did not understand why my father, who
was a very orthodox Jew, should pay the German
Jew so much respect, as also did the other Jews who
used to come into our house.

"Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz ! Blessed
art thou who comest, Reb Hertz Hertzenhertz!"

I once ventured to ask my father why this was so,
but he thrust me to one side and said:

"Go away. It is not your business. Why do you
get under our feet? Who the devil wants you?
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The Pocket-Knife

Why the devil can't you take a book into your hands?
Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

Again a book? Lord of the world, I also want
to see; I also want to hear what people are saying.

I went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner,
and heard everything the men talked about. Herr
Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked
thick black cigars that had a very strong smell.
Suddenly my father came over to me, and gave me
a smack.

"Are you here again, you idler and good-for-
nothing? What will become of you, you dunce?
What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

It was no use. My father drove me out. I took
a book into my hands, but I did not want to read it.
What was I to do? I went about the house, from
one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room
of all — the room in which slept Herr Hertz Hert-
zenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and bright it was !
The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the
table was a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and
beautiful pens, also little ornaments — men, and ani-
mals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a little
knife ! Ah, what a beautiful knife ! What if I had
such a knife? What fine things I would make with
it. How happy I should be. Well, I must try it.
Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair.
Oh, oh, oh, what a knife!

One moment I held the knife in my hand. I
looked about me on all sides, and slipped it into my
pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was

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beating so loudly that I could hear it saying, "Tick,
tick, tick!" I heard some one coming. It was
he — Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to
do? The knife might remain in my pocket. I
could put it back later on. Meanwhile, I must get
out of the room, run away, away, far.

I could eat no supper that night. My mother felt
my head. My father threw angry glances at me,
and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I close
my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do
with the little knife? How was I going to put it
back again?

• • • • •

"Come over here, my little ornament," said my
father to me next day. "Did you see the little
pocket-knife anywhere?"

Of course I was very much frightened. It
seemed to me that he knew — that everybody knew.
I was almost, almost crying out: "The pocket-
knife? Here it is." But something came into my
throat, and would not let me utter a sound for a
minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied :

"Where? What pocket-knife?"

"Where? What knife?" my father mocked at
me. "What knife? The golden knife. Our
guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you ! You
dunce, you ! Tkeh-heh-heh !"

"What do you want of the child?" put in my
mother. "The child knows nothing of anything,
and he worries him about the knife, the knife."

"The knife — the knife! How can he not know
about it?" cried my father angrily. "All the
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The Pocket-Knife

morning he hears me shouting — The knife! The
knife ! The knife ! The house is turned upside
down for the knife, and he asks 'Where? What
knife?' Go away. Go and wash yourself, you
good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce ! Tkeh-
heh-heh!"

I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they
did not search me. But what was I to do next?
The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe
place. Where was I to hide it? Ah ! In the attic.
I took the knife quickly from my pocket, and stuck
it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did not know what
I was eating. I was choking.

"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil
. . . ?" asked my father.

"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and
grew red as fire.

"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say
to such a saint?" he muttered, and glared at me.
I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and say
grace.

"Well, why are you not off to 'Cheder,' my saint?"
asked my father.

"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother.
"Let the child sit a minute."

I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the
beautiful knife. It lay there in silence.

"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my
father. "You good-for-nothing! You street-boy!
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh !"

"I am looking for something," I answered. I
nearly fell down with fright.

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"Something? What is the something? What

sort of a thing is that something?"

"A — a bo — ok. An — an old (Ge — gemar —
ra! "

"What? A 'Gernarra'f In the attic? Ah,
you scamp you ! Come down at once. Come
down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy!
You dog-beater! You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-
heh!"

I was not so much afraid of my father's anger
as that the pocket-knife might be found. WTho
could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the
attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the
rafters? The knife must be taken down from
there, and hidden in a better place. I went about
in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father
told me that he knew, and that now, now he was
going to talk to me of the guest's knife. I had a
place for it — a grand place. I would bury it in the
ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some
straw on the spot to mark it. The moment I came
from "Cheder" I ran out into the yard. I took the
knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to
look at it, when my father called out:

"Where are you at all? Why don't you go
and say your prayers? You swine-herd you! You
are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh !"

(But whatever my father said to me, and as much
as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish to me
when I came home, and had the pleasure of seeing
my one and only dear friend — my little knife.
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The Pocket- Knife

The pleasure was, alas! mixed with pain, and em-
bittered by fear — by great fear.

. . . • •

It is the summer time. The sun is setting. The
air grows somewhat cooler. The grass emits a
sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick clouds
fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish
to swallow her up. The silvery white moon hides
herself every minute, and shows herself again. It
seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but
was still on the same spot. My father sat down on
the grass, in a long mantle. He had one hand in
the bosom of his coat, and with the other he
smoothed down the grass. He looked up at the
star-spangled sky, and coughed and coughed. His
face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting
on the exact spot where the little knife was hidden.
He knew nothing of what was in the earth under
him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance,
would he say, and what would happen to me?

"Aha!" thought I within myself, "you threw
away my knife with the curved blade, and now I
have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on
it, and you know nothing. Oh, father, father!"

"Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?" asked
my father. "Why do you sit with folded arms
like a self-satisfied old man? Can you not find
something to do? Have you said the night prayer?
May the devil not take you, scamp ! May an evil
end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh !"

When he says may the devil not take you, and

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may an evil end not come upon you, then he is not
angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that he is in a
good humour. And, surely, how could one help
being in a good humour on such a wonderfully
beautiful night, when every one is drawn out of
doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant
sky? Every one is now out of doors — my father,
my mother, and the younger children who are look-
ing for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr
Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard,
without a hat, smoking a cigar, and singing a Ger-
man song. He looked at me, and laughed. Prob-
ably he was laughing because my father was driv-
ing me away. But I laughed at them all. Soon
they would be going to bed, and I would go out into
the yard (I slept in the open, before the door, be-
cause of the great heat), and I would rejoice in,
and play with my knife.

The house is asleep. It is silent around and
about. Cautiously I get up; I am on all fours,
like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The
night is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly
I creep over to the spot where the little knife lies
buried. I take it out carefully, and look at it by the
light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea-
gold, like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see
that the moon is looking straight down on my knife.
Why is she looking at it so? I turn round. She
looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it
is, and where I got it? Got it? Stole it!

For the first time since the knife came into my
hands has this terrible word entered my thoughts.

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The Pocket-Knife

Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a common
thief? Jn the Holy Law, in the Ten Command-
ments, are written, in big letters: "Thou shalt

NOT STEAL. "

Thou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. What
will they do to me in hell for that? Woe is me!
They will cut off my hand — the hand that stole.
They will whip me with iron rods. They will
roast and burn me in a hot oven. I will glow for
ever and ever. The knife must be given back. The
knife must be put back in its place. One must not
hold a stolen knife. Tomorrow I will put it back.

That was what I decided. And I put the knife
into my bosom. I imagined it was burning, scorch-
ing me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the
earth till tomorrow. The moon still looked down
on me. What was she looking at? The moon
saw. She was a witness.

I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place.
I lay down again, but could not sleep. I tossed
about from side to side, but could not fall asleep.
It was already day when I dozed off. I dreamt
of a moon, I dreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of
little knives. I got up very early, said my prayers
with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while
standing on one foot, and marched off to "Cheder"

"Why are you in such a hurry for 'Cheder'?"
cried my father to me. "What is driving you?
You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little
later. You will have time enough for mischief.
You scamp ! You epicurean ! You heathen !
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

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• • • * «

"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher
stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my com-
rade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in the
corner with his head down.

"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from
this day his name is) not Berrel the red one, as he
was called. He is now called a fine name. His
name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out,
children. Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!'1

The teacher drew out the words, and put a little
tune into them. The pupils repeated them after
him, like a chorus.

"Berrel the thief — Berrel the thief!"

I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my
body. I did not know what it all meant.

"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?" cried
the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack in
the face. "Why are you silent, you heathen?
Don't you hear the others singing? Join in with
them, and help them. Berrel the thief — Berrel the
thief!"

My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I
helped the others to shout aloud "Berrel the thief!
Berrel the thief!"

"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In
a stronger voice — stronger."

And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out
in a variety of voices, "Berrel the thief — Berrel
the thief!"

"Sh — sh — sh — a — a — ah!" cried the teacher,
banging the table with his open hand. "Hush!
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The Pocket-Knife

Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing
judgment." He spoke in a sing-song voice.

"Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child.
Quicker, a little quicker. Tell me, my boy, what
your name is." This also was said in a sing-song.

"Berrel."

"What else?"

"Berrel — Berrel the thief."

"That's right, my dear child. Now you are a
good boy. May your strength increase, and may
you grow stronger in every limb!" (Still in the
same sing-song.) "Take off your clothes. That's
right. But can't you do it quicker? I beg of you,
be quick about it. That's right, little Berrel, my
child."

Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was
born. Not a drop of blood showed in his body.
He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered.
He was as dead as a corpse.

The teacher called out one of the older scholars,
still speaking in the same sing-song voice :

"Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind
the table, over here to me. Quicker. Just so.
And now tell us the story from beginning to end —
how our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay
attention."

And Hirschalle began to tell the story. Berrel
had got the little collecting box of "Reb" Mayer
the "Wonder-worker," into which his mother threw
a "kopek," sometimes two, every Friday, before
lighting the Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his
eyes on that box, on which there hung a little lock.

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Jewish Children

By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had
managed to extract the "kopeks" from the box,
one by one. His mother, Slatte, the hoarse one,
suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and
found in it one of the straws tipped with gum.
She beat her son Berrel. And after the whipping
she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he
confessed that for a whole year — a round year, he
had been extracting the "kopeks," one by one, and
that, every Sunday, he had bought himself two little
cakes, some locust beans, and — and so forth, and
so forth.

"Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. You
know how to do it. This is not the first time. Let
each give his verdict, and say what must be done to
a boy who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box, by
means of a straw."

The teacher put his head to one side. He closed
his eyes, and turned his right ear to Hirschalle.
Hirschalle answered at the top of his voice :

"A thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box
should be flogged until the blood spurts from him."

uMoshalle, what is to be done to a thief who
steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box?"

"A thief," replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice,
"a thief who steals 'kopeko' from a charity-box
should be stretched out. Two boys should be put
on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog
him with pickled rods."

"Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief
who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box?"

Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pro-
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The Pocket-Knife

nounce the letters K and G, wiped his face, and
gave his verdict in a squeaking voice.

"A boy who steals 'topets' from the charity-bots
should be punished lite this. Every boy should do
over to him, and shout into his face, three times,
thief, thief, thief."

The whole school laughed. The master put his
thumb on his wind-pipe, like a cantor, and called
out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being called
up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the
Law for the week:

"Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would
you say should be done to a thief who steals 'kopeks'
from a charity-box."

I tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey
me. I shivered as with ague. Something was in
my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out
all over my body. There was a whistling in my
ears. I saw before me, not the teacher, nor the
naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades. I saw
before me only knives — pocket-knives without an
end, white, open knives that had many blades.
And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She
looked at me, and smiled, like a human being.
My head was going round. The whole room — the
table and the books, the boys and the moon that
hung beside the door, and the little knives — all were
whirling round. I felt as if my two feet were
chopped off. Another moment, and I might have
fallen down, but I controlled myself with all my
strength, and I did not fall.

In the evening, I came home, and felt that my

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face was burning. My cheeks were on fire, and in
my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some one
speaking to me, but what they said I do not know.
My father was saying something, and seemed to be
angry. He wanted to beat me. My mother in-
tervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking
hen spreads out her wing to defend her chickens
from injury. I heard nothing, and did not want
to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner,
so that I might make an end of the little knife.
What was I to do with it? Confess everything,
and give it up? Then I would suffer the same pun-
ishment as Berrel. Throw it carelessly somewhere?
But I may be caught? Throw it away, and no
more, so long as I am rid of it? Where was I to
throw it in order that it might not be found by
anybody? On the roof? The noise would be
heard. In the garden? It might be found.
Ah, I know! I have a plan, I'll throw it into the
water. A good plan, as I live. I'll throw it into
the well that is in our own yard. This plan pleased
me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer.
I took up the knife, and ran off straight to the well.
It seemed to me that I was carrying in my hand not
a knife but something repulsive — a filthy little
creature of which I must rid myself at once. But,
still I was sorry. It was such a fine little knife.
For a moment, I stood thinking, and it seemed to
me that I was holding in my hand a living thing.
My heart ached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost
me so much heartache. It is a pity for the living.
I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly

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The Pocket-Knife

from my fingers. Plash ! The water bubbled up
for a moment. Nothing more was heard, and my
knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well
and listened. I heard nothing. Thank God, I
was rid of it. My heart was faint, and full of
longing. Surely, it was a fine knife — such a
knife !

• • • • •

I went back to bed, and saw that the moon was
still looking down at me. And it seemed to me
she had seen everything I had done. From the
distance a voice seemed to be saying to me: "But,
you are a thief all the same. Catch him, beat him.
He is a thief, a thief."

I stole back into the house, and into my own bed.

I dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. I
flew with my little knife in my hand. And the
moon looked at me and said:

"Catch him, beat him. He is a thief — a thief."

• • • • •

A long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy
dream. A fire burnt within me. My head was
buzzing. Everything I saw was red as blood.
Burning rods of fire cut into my flesh. I was swim-
ming in blood. Around me wriggled snakes and
serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to
swallow me. Right into my ears some one was
blowing a trumpet. And, some one was standing
over me, and shouting, keeping time with the trum-
pet: "Whip him, whip him, whip him. He is a
thie — ef." And I myself shouted : "Oh, oh, take
the moon away from me. Give her up the little

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knife. What have you against poor Berrel?
He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief — a
thief."

Beyond that, I remember nothing.

. . • • •

I opened one eye, then the other. Where was
I? On a bed, I think. Ah, is that you, mother,
mother? She does not hear me. Mother, mother,
mo — o — other! What is this? I imagine I am
shouting aloud. Shah! I listen. She is weeping
silently. I also see my father, with his yellow,
sickly face. He is sitting near me, an open book
in his hand. He reads, and sighs, and coughs
and groans. It seems that I am dead already.
Dead? . . . All at once, I feel that it is growing
brighter before my eyes. Everything is growing
lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter.
There is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear.
Tschinna ! I sneezed. Akhstchu !

"Good health! May your days be lengthened!
May your years be prolonged! It is a good sign.
Blessed art Thou, O Lord!"

"Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most
High!"

"Let us call at once Mintze the butcher's wife.
She knows how to avert the evil eye."

"The doctor ought to be called — the doctor."

"The doctor? What for? That is nonsense.
The Most High is the best doctor. Blessed be the
Lord, and praised be His Name!"

"Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is ter-
ribly hot. In the name of God, go away."
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The Pocket-Knife

"Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover
him with wax. Well, who is right?"

"Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy
Name! Ah, God! God! Blessed be the Lord!
and praised be His Holy Name!"

They fluttered about me. They looked at me.
Each one came and felt my head. They prayed
over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my
forehead, and spat out, by way of a charm. They
poured hot soup down my throat, and filled my
mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one
flew around me. They cared for me as if I were the
apple of their eye. They fed me with broths and
tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did not
leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, and
told me over and over again the whole story of how
they had lifted me up from the ground, almost dead,
and how I had been lying for two weeks on end,
burning like a fire, croaking like a frog, and mutter-
ing something about whippings and little knives.
They already imagined I was dead, when suddenly
I sneezed seven times. I had practically come to
life again.

"Now we see what a great God we have, blessed
be He, and praised be His Name !" That was how
my mother ended up, the tears springing to her eyes.
"Now we can see that when we call to Him He
listens to our sinful requests and our guilty tears.
We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your father and I,
until the Lord had pity on us. . . . We nearly,
nearly lost our child through our sinfulness. May
we suffer in your stead! And through what?

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Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel
whom the teacher flogged at 'Cheder,' almost until
he bled. When you came home from iCheder} you
were more dead than alive. May your mother
suffer instead of you ! The teacher is a tyrant, a
murderer. The Lord will punish him for it — the
Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord
lets us live, when you get well, we will send you to
another teacher, not to such a tyrant as is the 'Angel
of Death,' — may his name be blotted out for ever!"

These words made a terrible impression on me.
I threw my arms around my mother, and kissed her.

"Dear, dear mother."

And my father came over to me softly. He put
his cold, white hand on my forehead, and said to
me kindly, without a trace of anger :

"Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you !
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

Also the Jewish German, or the German Jew,
Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his cigar between his
teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his
clean-shaven chin. He said to me in German:

"Good! Good! Be well— be well!"

A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father
said to me:

"Well, my son, now go to 'Chede?-,' and never
think of little knives again, or other such nonsense.
It is time you began to be a bit of a man. If it
please God, you will be 'Bar-Mitzvah' in three years
— may you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh-
heh-heh!"

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The Pocket-Knife

With such sweet words did my father send me
off to "Cheder" to my new teacher, "Reb" Chayim
Kotter. It was the first time that I had heard such
good kind words from my father. And I forgot,
in a moment, all his harshness, and all his abuse,
and all his blows. It was as if they had never
existed in the world. If I were not ashamed, I
would have thrown my arms about his neck, and
kissed him. But how can one kiss a father? Ha!
ha ! ha !

My mother gave me a whole apple and three
"groschens" to take to "Cheder," and the German
gave me a few "kopeks." He pinched my cheek,
and said in his language :

"Best boy, good, good!"

I took my "Gemarra" under my arm, kissed the
"Mezuzah" and went off to "Cheder" like one newly
born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious thoughts.
The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm
rays. The little breeze stole in under one of my
earlocks. The birds twittered — Tif — tif — tif — tif !
I was lifted up. I was borne on the breeze. I
wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it is
— how sweet to be alive and to be honest, when one
is not a thief and not a liar.

I pressed my "Gemarra" tightly to my breast, and
still tighter. I ran to "Cheder" with pleasure, with
joy. And I swore by my "Gemarra" that I would
never, never touch what belonged to another —
never, never steal, and never, never deny anything
again. I would always be honest, for ever and ever
honest.

209

On the Fiddle

Children, I will now play for you a little tune on
the fiddle. I imagine there is nothing better and
finer in the world than to be able to play on the
fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so? I don't
know how it is with you. But I know that since 1
first reached the age of understanding, my heart
longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician
whatever — no matter what instrument he played.
If there was a wedding anywhere in the town, I
was the first to run forward and welcome the musi-
cians. I loved to steal over to the bass, and draw
my fingers across one of the strings — Boom ! And
I flew away. Boom ! And I flew away. For this
same "boom" I once got it hot from Berel Bass.
Berel Bass — a cross Jew with a flattened out nose,
and a sharp glance — pretended not to see me steal-
ing over to the bass. And when I stretched out
my hand to the thick string, he caught hold of me
by the ear and dragged me, respectfully, to the door :
"Here, scamp, kiss the 'Mezuzah! "
But this was not of much consequence to me. It
did not make me go a single step from the musicians.
I loved them all, from Sheika the little fiddler with
his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands,
to Getza the drummer with his beautiful hump, and,
2IO

On the Fiddle

if you will forgive me for mentioning it, the big
bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but many
times did I lie hidden under a bench, listening to
the musicians playing, though I was frequently found
and sent home. And from there, from under the
bench, I could see how Sheika's thin little fingers
danced about over the strings; and I listened to
the sweet sounds which he drew so cleverly out of
the little fiddle.

Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great
inward excitement for many days on end. And
Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes
always. At night I saw him in my dreams; and in
the daytime I saw him in reality; and he never left
my imagination. When no one was looking I used
to imagine that I was Sheika, the little fiddler. I
used to curve my left arm and move my fingers, and
draw out my right hand, as if I were drawing the
bow across the strings. At the same time I threw
my head to one side, closing my eyes a little — just
as Sheika did, not a hair different.

My "Rebbe" Nota-Leib, once caught me doing
this. It happened in the middle of a lesson. I was
moving my arms about, throwing my head to one
side, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound
box on the ears.

"What a scamp can do! We are teaching him
his lessons, and he makes faces and catches flies!"

• • • • •

I promised myself that, even if the world turned
upside down, I must have a little fiddle, let it cost

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me what it would. But what was I to make a
fiddle out of? Of cedar wood, of course. But it's
easy to talk of cedar wood. How was I to come by
it when, as everybody knows, the cedar tree grows
only in Palestine? But what does the Lord do for
me? He goes and puts a certain thought in my
head. In our house there was an old sofa. This
sofa was left us, as a legacy, by our grandfather
uReb" Anshel. And my two uncles fought over
this sofa with my father — peace be unto him ! My
uncle Benny argued that since he was my grand-
father's oldest son, the sofa belonged to him; and
my uncle Sender argued that he was the youngest
son, and that the sofa belonged to him. And my
father — peace be unto him! — argued that although
he was no more than a son-in-law to my grand-
father, and had no personal claim on the sofa, still,
since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only
daughter of uReb" Anshel, the sofa belonged, by
right, to her. (But all this happened long ago.
And as the sofa has remained in our house, this was
a proof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts
interfered, my aunt Etka, and my aunt Zlatka.
They began to invent scandals and to carry tales
from one house to another. It was sofa and sofa,
and nothing else but sofa! The town rocked, all
because of the sofa. However, to make a long
story short, the sofa remained our sofa.

This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa
covered with a thin veneer. This veneer had come
unloosened in many places and was split up. It
had now a number of small mounds. And the upper

212

On the Fiddle

layer of the veneer which had come unloosened
was of the real cedar wood — the wood of which
fiddles are made. At least, that is what I was
told at school. The sofa had one fault, and this
fault was, in reality, a good quality. For instance,
when one sat on it one could not get up off it again
because it stood a little on the slant. One side was
higher than the other, and in the middle there was
a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was
that no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put
away in a corner, to one side, in compulsory retire-
ment.

It was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes, to
make a fiddle out of the cedar wood veneer. A
bow I had already provided myself with, long ago.
I had a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner's
son. He promised me a few hairs from the tail
of his father's horse. And resin to smear the bow
with I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles,
I got the resin from another friend of mine, Mayer-
Lippa, Sarah's son, for a bit of steel from my
mother's old crinoline which had been knocking
about in the attic. Out of this piece of steel,
Mayer Lippa afterwards made himself a little
knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted
him to change back again with me. But he would
not have it. He began to shout:

"A clever fellow that! What do you say to him !
I worked hard for three whole nights. I sharpened
and sharpened and cut all my fingers sharpening,
and now he comes and wants me to change back
again with him!"

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Jewish Children

"Just look at him !" I cried. "Well then, it won't
be! A great bargain for you — a little bit of steel!
Isn't there enough steel knocking about in our attic?
There will be enough for our children, and our
children's children even."

Anyway, I had everything that was necessary.
And there only remained one thing for me to do —
to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For
this work I selected a very good time, when my
mother was in the shop, and my father had gone to
lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself
in a corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to
my work in good earnest. My father heard, in his
sleep, how some one was scraping something. At
first he thought there were mice in the house, and he
began to make a noise from his bedroom to drive
them off — "Kush! Kush!" I was like dead. . . .
My father turned over on the other side and when
I heard him snoring again, I went back to my work.
Suddenly I looked about me. My father was
standing and staring at me with curious eyes. It
appeared that he could not, on any account, under-
stand what was going on — what I was doing.
Then, when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he
realized what I had done. He pulled me out of the
corner by the ear and beat me so much that I fainted
away and had to be revived. I actually had to have
cold water thrown over me to bring me to life
again.

"The Lord be with you! What have you done
to the child?" my mother wailed, the tears start-
ing to her eyes.
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On the Fiddle

"Your beautiful son! He will drive me into my
grave, while I am still living," said my father, who
was white as chalk. He put his hand to his heart
and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted
several minutes.

"Why should you eat your heart out like this?1'
my mother asked him. uAs it is you are a sickly
man. Just look at the face you've got. May my
enemies have as healthy a year!"

• • • • •

My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The
older I grew, the stronger became my desire.
And, as if out of spite, I was destined to hear music
every day of the week. Right in the middle of
the road, halfway between my home and the school,
stood a little house covered with earth. And from
that house came forth various sweet sounds. But
most often than all the playing of a fiddle could be
heard. In that house there lived a musician whose
name was Naphtali "Bezboi'odka," — a Jew who
wore a short jacket, curled-up earlocks, and a
starched collar. He had a fine-sized nose. It
looked as if it had been stuck on his face. Fie had
thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock-
pitted, and had not on it even signs of a beard.
That is why he was called "Bezborodka," the
Beardless One. He had a wife who was like a
machine. The people called her "Mother Eve."
Of children he had about a dozen and a half. They
were ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And
each child, from the biggest to the smallest, played
on a musical instrument. One played the fiddle,

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Jewish Children

another the 'cello, another the double-bass, another
the trumpet, another the "Ballalaika" another the
drum, and another the cymbals. And amongst
them there were some who could whistle the long-
est melody with their lips, or between their teeth.
Others could play tunes on little glasses, or little
pots, or bits of wood. And some made music with
their faces. They were demons, evil spirits —
nothing else.

I made the acquaintance of this family quite by
accident. One day, as I was standing outside the
window of their house, listening to them playing,
one of the children, Pinna the flautist, a youth of
about fifteen, in bare feet, caught sight of me through
the window. He came out to me and asked me if
I liked his playing.

"I only wish," said I, "that I may play as well
as you in ten years' time."

"Can't you manage it?" he asked of me. And he
told me that for two and a half 'roubles' a month,
his father would teach me how to play. But if I
liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me.

"Which instrument would you like to learn to
play?" he asked. "On the fiddle?"

"On the fiddle."

"On the fiddle?" he repeated. "Can you pay
two and a half 'roubles' a month? Or are you
as unfortunate as I am?"

"So far as that goes, I can manage it," I said.
"But what then? Neither my father nor my
mother, nor my teacher must know that I am learn-
ing to play the fiddle."

216

On the Fiddle

"The Lord keep us from telling it!" he cried.
"Whose business is it to drum the news through
the town? Maybe you have on you a cigar end,
or a cigarette? No? You don't smoke? Then
lend me a 'kopek' and I will buy cigarettes for
myself. But you must tell no one, because my
father must not know that I smoke. And if my
mother finds that I have money, she will take it
from me and buy rolls for supper. Come into the
house. What are we standing here for?"

• • • • •

With great fear, with a palpitating heart and
trembling limbs, I crossed the threshold of the house
that was to me a little Garden of Eden.

My friend Pinna introduced me to his father.

"Shalom — Nahum Veviks — a rich man's boy.
He wants to learn to play the fiddle."

Naphtali "Bezborodka" twirled his earlocks,
straightened his collar, buttoned up his coat, and
started a long conversation with me, all about music
and musical instruments in general and the fiddle in
particular. He gave me to understand that the
fiddle was the best and most beautiful of all in-
struments. There was none older and none more
wonderful in the world than the fiddle. To prove
this to me, he went on to tell me that the fiddle was
always the leading instrument of any orchestra,
and not the trumpet or the flute. And this was
simply because the fiddle was the mother of all
musical instruments.

And so it came about that Naphtali "Bezborodka"
gave me a whole lecture on music. Whilst he was

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speaking he gesticulated with his hands and moved
his nose, and I stood staring right into his mouth.
I looked at his black teeth and swallowed, yes,
positively swallowed, every word that he said.

"The fiddle, you must understand," went on
Naphtali "Bezborodka" to me, and evidently satis-
fied with the lecture he was giving me, "the fiddle,
you must understand, is an instrument that is older
than all other instruments. The first man in the
world to play on the fiddle was Jubal-Cain, or
Methuselah, I don't exactly remember which.
You will know that better than I, for, to be sure,
you are learning Bible history at school. The
second fiddler in the world was King David. An-
other great fiddler — the third greatest in the world
— was Paganini. He also was a Jew. All the
best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance
there was 'Stempenyu,' and there was 'Pedotchur/
Of myself I say nothing. People tell me that I
do not play the fiddle badly. But how can I come
up to Paganini? They say that Paganini sold his
soul to the Ashmodai for a fiddle. Paganini hated
to play before great people like kings and popes,
although they covered him with gold. He would
much rather play at wayside inns for poor folks,
or in villages. Or else he would play in the forest
for wild beasts and fowls of the air. What a
fiddler Paganini was ! . . .

"Eh, boys, to your places! To your instru-
ments!"

That was the order which Naphtali "Bezborod-
ka" gave to his regiment of children, all of whom

218

On the Fiddle

came together in one minute. Each one took up an
instrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his
baton on the table, threw a sharp glance on every
separate child and on all at once; and they began to
play a concert on every sort of instrument with so
much force that I was almost knocked off my feet.
Each child tried to make more noise than the other.
But above all, I was nearly deafened by the noise
that one boy made, a little fellow who was called
Hemalle. He was a dry little boy with a wet
little nose, and dirty bare little feet. Hemalle
played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort
of sack which, when you blew it up, let out a mad
screech — a peculiar sound like a yell of a cat after
you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle beat time
with his little bare foot. And all the while he kept
looking at me out of his roguish little eyes, and wink-
ing to me as if he would say: "Well, isn't it so? I
blow well — don't I?" But it was Naphtali himself
who worked the hardest of all. Along with playing
the fiddle, he led the orchestra, waved his hands
about, shifted his feet, and moved his nose, and his
eyes and his whole body. And if some one made a
mistake — God forbid ! he ground his teeth and
shouted in anger:

"Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time,
wretch, time ! One, two, three ! One, two, three !"

• • • • «

Having arranged with Naphtali "Bezborodka"
that he should give me three lessons a week, of an
hour and a half each day, for two "roubles" a
month, I again and yet again begged of him that he

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would keep my visits a secret of secrets; for if he did
not, I would be lost forever. He promised me
faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my
coming and going.

"We are the sort of people," he said to me,
proudly, fixing his collar in place, "we are the sort
of people who never have any money. But you
will find more honour and justice in our house than
in the house of the richest man. Maybe you have a
few igroschensy about you?"

I took out a "rouble" and gave it to him.
Naphtali took it in the manner of a professor, with
his two fingers. He called over "Mother Eve,"
turned away his eyes, and said to her :

"Here ! iBuy something to eat."

"Mother Eve" took the "rouble" from him, but
with both hands and all her fingers, examined it
on all sides, and asked her husband:

"What shall I buy?"

"What you like," he answered, pretending not
to care. "Buy a few rolls, two or three salt her-
ring, and some dried sausage. And don't forget
an onion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a glass of
brandy, say — "

When all these things were brought home and
placed upon the table, the family fell upon them
with as much appetite as if they had just ended a
long fast. I was actually tempted by an evil
spirit; and when they asked me to take my place
at the table I could not refuse. I do not remember
when I enjoyed a meal as much as I enjoyed the
one at the musician's house that day.
2 20

On the Fiddle

After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked
to the children that they should take their instru-
ments in their hands. And he treated me, aH
over again to a piece — "his own composition."
This "composition" was played with so much ex-
citement and force that my ears were deafened
and my brain was stupefied. I left the house in-
toxicated by Naphtali "Rezborodka' V "composi-
tion." The whole day at school, the teacher and
the boys and the books were whirling round and
round in front of my eyes. And my ears were ring-
ing with the echoes of Naphtali's "composition."
At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the
Ashmodai, and that he banged me over the head
with his fiddle. I awoke with a scream, and a head-
ache, and I began to pour out words as from a sack.
What I said I do not know. But my older sister,
Pessel, told me afterwards that I talked in heat,
and that there was no connection between any two
words I uttered. I repeated some fantastic names
— "Composition." "Paganini," etc. . . . And there
was another thing my sister told me. During the
time I was lying delirious, several messages were
sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I
was. There came some barefoot boy who made
many inquiries about me. He was driven off, and
was told never to dare to come near the house
again. . . .

"What was the musician's boy doling here?"
asked my sister. And she tormented me with ques-
tions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept
repeating the same words:

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Jewish Children

"I do not know. As I live, I do not know. How
am I to know?"

"What does it look like?" asked my mother.
"You are already a young man, a grown-up man
— may no evil eye harm you ! They will be soon
looking for a bride for you, and you go about with
[fine friends, barefoot young musicians. What
business have you with musicians? What was
Naphtali the Musician's boy doing here?"

"What Naphtali?" I asked, pretending not to
understand. "What musician?"

"Just look at him — the saint!" put in my father.
"He knows nothing about anything. Poor thing!
His soul is innocent before the Lord! When I
was your age I was already long betrothed. And
he is still playing with strange boys. Dress your-
self, and go off to school. And if you meet Hershel
the Tax-collector, and he asks you what was the
matter with you, you are to tell him that you had
the ague. Do you hear what I am saying to you?
The ague !"

(I could not for the life of me understand what
business Hershel the Tax-collector had with me.
And for what reason was I to tell him I had been
suffering from the ague? ... It was only a few
weeks later that this riddle was solved for me.

• • • • •

Hershel the Tax-collector was so called because
he, and his grandfather before him, had collected
the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of their
family. He was a young man with a round little
belly, and a red little beard, and moist little eyes,
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On the Fiddle

and he had a broad white forehead, a sure sign
that he was a man of brains. And he had the
reputation in our town of being a fine, young man,
a modern, and a scholar. He had a sound knowl-
edge of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction.
That is to say, he had a beautiful hand. They say
that his manuscripts were carried around and shown
in the whole world. And along with these qualities,
he had money, and he had one little daughter — an
only child, a girl with red hair and moist eyes.
She and her father, Hershel the Tax-collector, were
as like as two drops of water. Her name was
Esther, but she was called by the nickname of
"Plesteril." She was nervous and genteel. She
was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the
Angel of Death, because we used to torment her.
We used to tease her and sing little songs about her :

"Estheril.

"Plesteril!

"Why have you no little sister?"

Well, after all, what is there in these words?
Nothing, of course. Nevertheless, whenever
"Plesteril" heard them, she used to cover up her
ears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the
farthest of far corners. And, for several days,
she was afraid; to go out in the street.

But that was once on a time, when she was still
a child. Now she is a young woman, and is counted
amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was tied up in a
red plait, and she was dressed like a bride, in the
latest fashions. My mother had a high opinion of
her. She could never praise her enough, and called

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Jewish Children

her "a quiet dove." Sometimes, on the Sabbath
Esther came into our house, to see my sister Pessel.
And when she saw me, she grew redder than ever,
and dropped her eyes. At the same time, my sister
Pessel would call me over to ask me something, and
also to look into my eyes as she looked into Esther's.

And it came to pass that, on a certain day, there
came into my school my father and Hershel the Tax-
collector. And after them came Shalom-Shachno
the Matchmaker — a Jew who had six fingers, and
a curly black beard, and who was terribly poor.
Seeing such visitors, our teacher, ilReb" Zorach,
pulled on his long coat, and put his hat on his head.
And because of his great excitement, one of his
earlocks got twisted up behind his ear. His hat
got creased; and more than half of his little round
cap was left sticking out at the back of his head,
from under his hat; and one of his cheeks began
to blaze. One could see that something extraor-
dinary was going to happen.

Of late, uReb,) Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker
had started coming into the school a little too often.
He always called the teacher outside, where they
stood talking together for some minutes, whispering
and getting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated
with his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. He
always finished up with a sigh, and said:

"Well, it's the same story again. If it is destined
it will probably take place. How can we know
anything — how ?"

When the visitors came in, our teacher, "Reb"
Zorach, did not know what to do, or where he was
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On the Fiddle

to seat them. He took hold of the kitchen stool
on which his wife salted the meat, and first of all
spun round and round with it several times, and
went up and down the whole length of the room.
After this, he barely managed to place the stool
on the floor when he sat down on it himself. But
he at once jumped up again, greatly confused; and
he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat,
just as if he had lost a purse of money.

"Here is a stool. Sit down," he said to his
visitors.

"It's all right! Sit down, sit down," said my
father to him. "We have come in to you, 'Reb'
Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants
to examine my son — to see what he knows of the
Bible."

And my father pointed to Hershdl the Tax-
collector.

"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the
teacher, uReb,} Zorach. He took up a little Bible,
and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The
expression on his face was as if he were saying:
"Here it is for you, and do what you like."

Hershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his
hand like a man who knows thoroughly what he is
doing. He twisted his little head to one side,
closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and
gave me to; read the first chapter of the "Song of
Songs."

"Is it the 'Song of Songs'?" asked my teacher,
with a faint smile, as if he would say: "Could you
find nothing more difficult?"

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Jewish Children

"The 'Song of Songs,' " replied Hershel the Tax-
collector. uThe 'Song of Songs' is not as easy
as you imagine. One must undehstand the 'Song of
Songs.' " (Hershel could not pronounce the letter
R but said H.)

"Certainly," put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little
laugh.

The teacher gave me a wink. I went over to
the table, shook myself to and fro for a minute,
and began to chant the "Song of Songs" to a beauti-
ful melody, first introducing this commentary on
it: —

"The 'Song of Songs' — a song above all songs !
All other songs have been sung by prophets, but this
'Song' has been sung by a prophet who was the son
of a prophet. All other songs have been sung by
men of wisdom, but this 'Song' has been sung by a
man of wisdom who was the son of a man of wis-
dom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but
this 'Song' has been sung by a king who was the son
of a king."

Whilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my
audience. And on each face I could see a different
expression. On my father's face I could see pride
and pleasure. On my teacher's face were fear and
anxiety, lest, God forbid! I should make a mistake,
or commit errors in reading. His lips, in silence,
repeated every word after me. Hershel the Tax-
collector sat with hisl head a little to one side, the
ends of his yellow beard in his mouth, one little
eye closed, the other staring up at the ceiling. He
was listening with the air of a great, great judge.
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On the Fiddle

ltReb" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took
his eyes off Hershel for a single minute. He sat
with half his body leaning forward, shaking himself
to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain
himself from interrupting me many times by
an exclamation, a little laugh and a cough, all in
one breath, as he waved his double-jointed finger
in the air.

"When people say that he knows — then he
knows!"

A few days after this, plates were broken, and
in a fortunate hour, I was betrothed to Hershel the
Tax-collector's only daughter, Plesteril.

• • • • •

It sometimes happens that a man grows in one
day more than anybody else grows in ten years.
When I was betrothed, I, all at once, began to feel
that I was a "grown-up." Surely I was the same
as before, and yet I was not the same. From my
smallest comrade to my teacher "Reb" Zorach,
everybody now began to look upon me with more
respect. After all, I was a bridegroom-elect, and
had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting
at me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything.
How could any one take hold of a bridegroom-elect
who had a gold watch, and smack his face for him?
It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and
a shame for one's own self. It is true that it once
happened that a bridegroom-elect named Eli was
flogged at our school, because he had been caught
sliding on the ice with the Gentile boys of the town.
But for that again, the whole town made a fine

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business of the flogging afterwards. When the
scandal reached the ears of Eli's betrothed, she
cried so much until the marriage contract was sent
back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that is. And
through grief and shame, he would have thrown
himself into the river, but that the water was fro-
zen. . . .

Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me.
But it was not because I got a flogging, and not be-
cause I went sliding on the ice. It was because of
a fiddle.

And here is the story for you: —

At our wineshop we had a frequent visitor,
Tchitchick, the bandmaster, whom we used to call
"Mr. Sergeant." He was a tall, powerful man with
a big round beard and terrifying eyebrows. And
he talked a curiously mixed-up jargon composed of
several languages. When he talked, he moved his
eyebrows up and down. When he lowered his eye-
brows, his face was black as night. When he
raised them up, his face was bright as day. And
this was because, under these same thick eyebrows
he had a pair of kindly, smiling light blue eyes. He
wore a uniform with gilt buttons, and that is why he
was called at our place "Mr. Sergeant." He was
a very frequent visitor at our wine-shop. Not be-
cause he was a drunkard. God forbid ! But for
the simple reason that my father was very clever at
making from raisins "the best and finest Hungarian
wine." Tchitchick used to love this wine. He
never ceased from praising it. He used to put his
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On the Fiddle

big, terrifying hand on my father's shoulder, and
say to him :

"Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine.
There isn't such wine in Buda Pesth, by God!'1

With me Tchitchick was always on the most inti-
mate terms. He praised me for learning such a lot
at school. !He often examined me to see if I knew
who Adam was. And who was Isaac? And who
was Joseph?

"Yousef?" I asked him, in Yiddish. uDo you
mean Yousef the Saint?"

"Joseph," he repeated.

"Yousef," I corrected him, once again.

"With us it's Joseph. With you it's Youdsef,"
he said to me, and pinched my cheek. "Joseph,
Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf — what does it matter?
It is all the same."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

I buried my face in my hands, and laughed
heartily.

But from the day I became a bridegroom-elect,
Tchitchick gave up playing with me as if I were a
clown; and he began to talk to me as if I were his
equal. He told me stories of the regiment and of
musicians. "Mr. Sergeant" had a tremendous lot
of talk in him. But no one else excepting myself
had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he
began to talk to me of playing. And I asked him:

"On which instrument does 'Mr. Sergeant' play?"

"On all instruments," he answered, and raised
his eyebrows at me.

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"On the fiddle also?" I asked him. And all at
once he took on, in my imagination, the face of an
angel.

"Come over to me some day," he said, "and I
will play for you."

"When can I come to you, 'Mr. Sergeant,' if not
on the Sabbath day?" I asked. "But I can only
come on condition that no one knows anything
about it. Can you promise me that?"

"As I serve God!" he exclaimed, and lifted his
eyebrows at me.

. . • • •

Tchitchick lived far out of the town, in a little
white house that had tiny windows and painted
shutters. Leading up to it there was a big green
garden from out of which peeped, proudly, a number
of tall yellow sunflowers, as if they were something
important. They bent their heads a little to one
side, and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed
to me, they were calling out to me: "Come over
here to us, boy! There is grass here! There is
freedom here! There is light here. It is fresh
here! It is warm here! It is pleasant here!"
. . . And after the stench and heat and dust of the
town, and after the overcrowding, and the noise and
the tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get
here. Because there is grass here; it is fresh here;
it is bright here; it is warm here; it is pleasant here.
One longs to run, leap, shout and sing. Or else one
suddenly wants to throw oneself on the bare earth,
to bury one's face in the green, sweet-smelling grass.
But, alas! this is not for you, Jewish children!

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On the Fiddle

Yellow sunflowers, green leaves, fresh air, pure
earth, or a clear sky. Do not be offended, Jewish
children, but all these have not grown up out of your
rubbish! . . .

I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red,
fiery eyes. He fell upon me with so much fierceness
that the soul almost dropped out of my body. It
was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope. On
hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out, without
his jacket, and began ordering the dog to be silent.
And he was silent. Aftenvards, Tchitchick took
hold of my hand, led me straight to the black dog,
and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm
me. "Just try and pat him on the back," said
Tchitchick to me. And without waiting, he took
hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog's skin,
at the same time calling him many curious names,
and speaking kind words to him. The black
villain lowered his head, wagged his tail, and licked
himself with his tongue. He threw at me a glance
of contempt, as if he would say: "It is lucky for
you that my master is standing beside you, other-
wise you would have gone from here without a
hand."

I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the
house with "Mr. Sergeant," and I was struck dumb
with astonishment. All the walls were covered with
guns from top to bottom. And on the floor lay a
skin with the head of a lion or a leopard. It had
terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was only half
an evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns —
the guns! ... I did not even care about the fresh

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plums and the apples which the master of the house
offered me out of his own garden. My eyes did
not cease leaping from one wall to the other. . . .
But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle
out of a red drawer — a beautiful, round little fiddle,
with a curious little belly, let his big spreading
beard droop over it, and held it with his big strong
hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few
times, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the
blinking of an eye, the black dog and the terrible
lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before me
Tchitchick's spreading beard and his black, lowered
eyebrows. I only saw a round little fiddle with a
curious little belly, and fingers which danced over
the strings so rapidly that no human brain could
answer the questions which arose to my mind:
"Where does one get so many fingers?"

Presently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard,
vanished, along with his thick eyebrows and his
wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all before
me. I only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping,
a sobbing, a talking, and a growling. They were
extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I heard, the
like of which I had never heard before, in all my
life. Sounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil
were pouring themselves right into my heart, with-
out ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere far
from the little house, into another world, into a
Garden of Eden which was nothing else but beauti-
ful sounds — which was one mass of singing, from
beginning to end. . . .
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On the Fiddle

"Do you want some tea?" asked Tchitchick of
me, putting down the little fiddle, and slapping me
on the shoulder.

I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh
heaven on to the earth.

From that day I visited Tchitchick regularly
every Sabbath afternoon, to hear him playing the
fiddle. I went straight to the house. 1 was afraid
of no one; and I even became such good friends
with the black dog that, when he saw me, he wagged
his tail, and wanted to fall upon me to lick my
hands. I would not let him do this. "Let us
rather be good friends from the distance."

At home, not even a bird knew where I spent the
Sabbath afternoons. I was a bridegroom-elect,
after all. And no one would have known of my
visits to Tchitchick to this day, if a new misfortune
had not befallen me — a great misfortune, of which
I will now tell you.

• • • • •

Surely it is no one's affair if a Jewish young
man goes for a walk on the Sabbath afternoon a
little beyond the town? Have people really got
nothing better to do than to think of others and
look after them to see where they are going? But
of what use are such questions as these? It lies in
our nature, in the Jewish nature, I mean, to look
well after every one else, to criticize others and
advise them. For example, a Jew will go over to
his neighbour, at prayers, and straighten out the
"Frontispiece" of his phylacteries. Or he will

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stop his neighbour, who is running with the greatest
haste and excitement, to tell him that the leg of his
trouser is turned up. Or he will point his finger
at his neighbour, so that the other shall not know
what is amiss with him, whether it is his nose, or
his beard, or what the deuce is wrong with him.
Or a Jew will take a thing out of his neighbour's
hand, when the other is struggling to open it, and
will say to him: "You don't know how. Let me."
Or should he see his neighbour building a house,
he will come over to look for a fault in it. He says
he believes the ceiling is too high, the rooms are too
small, or the windows are awkwardly large. And
there seems nothing else left the builder to do but
scatter the house to pieces, and start it all over
again. . . . We Jews have been distinguished by
this habit of interfering from time immemorial —
from the very first day on which the world was
created. And you and I between us will never
alter the world full of Jews. It is not our duty
to even attempt it. . . .

After this long introduction, it will be easy for
you to understand how Ephraim Log-of-wood — a
Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did
not care a button for any of us — should poke his
nose into my affairs. He sniffed and smelled my
tracks, and found out where I went on Sabbath
afternoons, and got me into trouble. He swore
that he himself saw me eating forbidden food at
the house of "Mr. Sergeant," and that I was smok-
ing a cigarette on the Sabbath. "May I see my-
self enjoying all that is good!" he cried. "If it is

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On the Fiddle

not as I say, may I never get to the place where I
am going," he said. "And if I am uttering the least
word of falsehood, may my mouth be twisted to one
side, and may my two eyes drop out of my head,"
he added.

"Amen! May it be so," I cried.

And I caught from my father another smack
in the face. I must not be insolent, he told me. . . .

But I imagine I am rushing along too quickly with
my story. I am giving you the soup before the
fish. I was forgetting entirely to tell you who
Ephraim Log-of-wood was, and what he was, and
how the incident happened.

At the end of the town, on the other side of the
bridge, there lived a Jew named Ephraim Log-of-
wood. Why was he called Log-of-wood? Because
he had once dealt in timber. And today he is
not dealing in timber because something happened
to him. He said it was libel, a false accusation.
People found at his place a strange log of wood
with a strange name branded on it. And he had a
fine lot of trouble after that. He had a case, and
he had appeals, and he had to send petitions. He
just managed to escape from being put into prison.
From that time, he threw away all trading, and
betook himself to looking after public matters. He
pushed himself into all institutions, the tax-col-
lecting, and the work done at the House of Learn-
ing. Generally speaking, he was not so well off.
He was often put to shame publicly. But as time
went on, he insinuated himself into everybody's
bones. He gave people to understand that "He

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knew where a door was opening." And in the
course of time, Ephraim became a useful person, a
person it was hard to do without. That is how a
worm manages to crawl into an apple. He makes
himself comfortable, makes a soft bed for himself,
makes himself a home, and in time becomes the
real master of the house.

In person, Ephraim was a tiny little man. He
had short little legs, and small little hands, and red
little cheeks, and a quick walk which was a sort of
a little dance. And he tossed his little head about.
His speech was rapid, and his voice squeaky. And
he laughed with a curious little laugh which sounded
like the rattling of dried peas. I could not bear to
look at him, I don't know why. Every Sabbath
afternoon, when I was going to Tchitchick's, I used
to meet Ephraim on the bridge, walking along, in a
black, patched cloak, the sleeves of which hung
loosely over his shoulders. His hands were folded
in front of him, and he was singing in his thin little
voice. And the ends of his long cloak kept dan-
gling at his heels.

"A good Sabbath," I said to him.

"A good Sabbath," he replied. "And where is
a boy going?"

"Just for a walk," I said.

"For a Walk? All alone?" he asked. And he
looked straight into my eyes with such a little smile
that it was hard to guess what he meant by it —
whether he thought that it was very brave of me
to be walking all alone or not. Was it, in his opin-
ion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?
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On the Fiddle

On one occasion, when I was going to Tchitchick's
house, I noticed that Ephraim Log-of-wood was
looking at me very curiously. I stopped on the
bridge and gazed into the water. Ephraim also
stopped on the bridge, and he also gazed into the
water. I started to go back. He followed me. I
turned round again, to go forward, and he. also
turned round in the same direction. A few minutes
later, he was lost to me. When I was sitting at
Tchitchick's table, drinking tea, we heard the black
dog barking loudly at some one, and tearing at
his rope. We looked out of the window, and I
imagined I saw a low-sized, black figure with short
little legs, running, running. Then it disappeared
from view. From his manner of running, I could
have sworn the little creature was Ephraim Log-of-
wood.

And thus it came to pass —

I came home late that Sabbath evening. It was
already after the "Havdalah." My face was
burning. And I found Ephraim Log-of-wood sit-
ting at the table. He was talking very rapidly,
and was laughing with his curious little laugh.
When he saw me, he was silent. He started drum-
ming on the table with his short little fingers. Op-
posite him sat my father. His face was death-like.
He was pulling at his beard, tearing out the hairs
one by one. This was a sure sign that he was in
a temper.

''Where have you come from?" my father asked
of me and looked at Ephraim.

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"Where am I to come from?" said I.

"How do I know where you are to come from?"
said he. "You tell me where you have come from.
You know better than I."

"From the House of Learning," said I.

"And where were you the whole day?" said he.

"Where could I be?" said I.

"How do I know?" said he. "You tell me.
You know better than I."

"At the House of Learning," said I.

"What were you doing at the House of Learn-
ing?" said he.

"What should I be doing at the House of Learn-
ing?" said I.

"Do I know what you could be doing there?"
said he.

;I was learning," said I.

'What were you learning?" said he.

"What should I learn?" said I.

"Do I know what you should learn?" said he.

"I was learning 'Gemarra,' " said I.

"What 'Gemarra' were you learning?" said he.

"What 'Gemarra' should I learn?" said I.

"Do I know what 'Gemarra' you should learn?"
said he.

"I learnt the 'Gemarra' 'Shabos' " said I.

At this Ephraim Log-of-wood burst out laughing
in his rattling little laugh. And it seemed that
my father could bear no more. He jumped up
from his seat and delivered me two resounding
fiery boxes on the ears. Stars flew before my eyes.

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it-

On the Fiddle

My mother heard my shouts from the other room.
She flew into us with a scream.

"Nahum! The Lord be with you! What are
you doing? A young man — a bridegroom-elect!
Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If
her father gets to know of this — God forbid!"

• • • • •

My mother was right. The girl's father got to
know the whole story. Ephraim Log-of-wood
went oft himself and told it to him. And in this way
Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-col-
lector; for the two had always been at the point
of sticking knives into one another.

p • • • a

Next day I got back the marriage-contract and
the presents which had been given to the bride-elect.
And I was no longer a bridegroom-elect.

This grieved my father so deeply that he fell
into a very serious illness. He was bedridden for
a long time. He would not let me come near him.
He refused to look into my face. All my mother's
tears and arguments and explanations and her de-
fence of me were of no use at all.

"The disgrace," said my father, "the disgrace
of it is worse than anything else."

"May it turn out to be a real, true sacrifice for us
all," said my mother to him. "The Lord will
have to send us another bride-elect. What can we
do? Shall we take our own lives? Perhaps it is
not his destiny to marry this girl."

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Jewish Children

Amongst those who came to visit my father in
his illness was Tchitchick the bandmaster.

When my father saw him, he took off his little
round cap, sat up in his bed, stretched out his hand
to him, looked straight into his eyes and said:

"Oh, 'Mr. Sergeant!' 'Mr. Sergeant!' "

He could not utter another sound, because \ he
was smothered by his tears and his cough. . . .

This was the first time in my life that I saw my
father crying. 'His tears gripped hold of my
heart, and chilled me to the very soul.

I stood and looked out of the window, swallowing
my tears in silence. At that moment, I was heartily
sorry for all the mischief I had done. I cried
within myself, from the very depths of my heart,
beating my breast: "I have sinned." And within
myself, I vowed solemnly to myself that I would
never, never anger my father again, and never,
never cause him any pain.

No more fiddle !

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This Night

"To my dear Son,

"I send you — 'roubles/ and beg of you, my dear son, to
do me the favour, and come home for the Passover Festival.
It is a disgrace to me in my old age. We have one son, an
only child, and we are not worthy to see him. Your mother
also asks me to beg of you to be sure to come home for the
Passover. And you must know that Busie is to be con-
gratulated. She is now betrothed. And if the Lord wills
it, she is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast
of Weeks.

"From me,

"Your Father."

This is the letter my father wrote to me. For
the first time a sharp letter — for the first time in
all those years since we had parted. And we had
parted from one another, father and I, in silence,
without quarrelling. I had acted in opposition to
his wishes. I would not go his road, but my own
road. I went abroad to study. At first my father
was angry. He said he would never forgive me.
Later, he began to send me money.

"I send you — 'roubles/ " he used to write, "and
your mother sends you her heartiest greetings."

Short, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies
to him were also short and dry:

"I have received your letter with the — 'roubles/

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I thank you, and I send my mother my heartiest
greetings."

Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one an-
other. Who had time to realize where I found
myself in the world of dreams in which I lived?
But now my father's letter woke me up. Not so
much his complaint that it was a shame I should
have left him alone in his old age — that it was a
disgrace for him, that his only son should be away
from him. I will confess it that this did not move
me so much. Neither did my mother's pleadings
with me that I should have pity on her and come
home for the Passover Festival. Nothing took
such a strong hold of me as the last few lines of
my father's letter. "And you must know that
Busie is to be congratulated."

Busie ! The same Busie who has no equal any-
where on earth, excepting in the "Song of Songs" —
the same Busie who is bound up with my life,
whose childhood is interwoven closely with my child-
hood— the same Busie who always was to me the
bewitched Queen's Daughter of all my wonderful
fairy tales — the most wonderful princess of my
golden dreams — this same Busie is now betrothed,
is going to be married on the Sabbath after the
Feast of Weeks? Is it true that she is going to be
married, and not to me, but to some one else?

• • • • •

Who is Busie — what is she? Oh, do you not
know who Busie is? Have you forgotten? Then
I will tell you her biography all over again, briefly,
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This Night

and in the very same words I used when telling it
you once on a time, years ago.

I had an older brother, Benny. He was
drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young
widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was
neglected; the horses were sold; the young widow
married again and went away somewhere, far; and
the child was brought home to our house.

That child was Busie.

And Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite
of the "Song of Songs." Whenever I saw Busie
I thought of the Shulamite of the "Song of Songs."
And whenever I read the "Song of Songs" Busie's
image came up and stood before me.

Her name is the short for Esther-Liba : Libusa :
Busie. She grew up together with me. She called
my father "father," and my mother "mother."
Everybody thought that we were sister and brother.
And we grew up together as if we were sister and
brother. And we loved one another as if we were
sister and brother.

Like a, sister and a brother we played together,
and we hid in a corner — we two; and I used to tell
her the fairy tales I learnt at school — the tales
which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who
knew everything, even "Kaballa." I told her that
by means of "Kaballa," I could do wonderful tricks
— draw wine from a stone, and gold, from a wall.
By means of "Kaballa" I told her, I could manage
that we two should rise up into the clouds, and even
higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to

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hear me tell my stories ! There was only one story
which Busie did not like me to tell — the story of
the Queen's Daughter, the princess who had been
bewitched, carried off from under the wedding
canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven
years. And I said that I was flying off to set her
free. . . . Busie loved to hear every tale except-
ing that one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter
whom I was flying off to set free.

"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you
need not."

This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face
her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.

That is who and what Busie is.

And now my father writes me that I must con-
gratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be mar-
ried on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She
is some one's bride — some one else's, not mine !

I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in
answer to his.

"To MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER,

"I have received your letter with the — 'roubles.' In
a few days, as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time
for the first days of the Passover Festival — or perhaps for the
latter days. But I will surely come home. I send my
heartiest greetings to my mother. And to Busie I send my
congratulations. I wish her joy and happiness.

"From me,

"Your Son."

It was a lie. I had nothing to get ready; nor
was there any need for me to wait a few days.
The same day on which I received my father's letter
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This Night

and answered it, I got on the train and flew home.
I arrived home exactly on the day before the Fes-
tival, on a warm, bright Passover eve.

I found the village exactly as I had left it, once
on a time, years ago. It was not changed by a
single hair. Not a detail of it was different. It
was the same village. The people were the same.
The Passover eve was the same, with all its noise
and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of doors
it was also the same Passover eve as when I had
been at home, years ago.

There was only one thing missing — the "Song
of Songs." No; nothing of the uSong of Songs"
existed any longer. It was not now as it had
been, once on a time, years ago. Our yard was not
any more King Solomon's vineyard, of the "Song
of Songs." The wood and the logs and the boards
that lay scattered around the house were no longer
the cedars and the fir trees. The cat that was
stretched out before the door, warming herself in
the sun, was no more a young hart, or a roe, such
as one comes upon in the "Song of Songs." The
hill on the other side of the synagogue was no more
the Mountain of Lebanon. It was no more one
of the Mountains of Spices. . . . The young women
and girls who were standing out of doors, wash-
ing and scrubbing and making everything clean for
the Passover — they were not any more the
Daughters of Jerusalem of whom mention is made
in the "Song of Songs." . . . What has become of
my "Song of Songs" world that was, at one time,

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so fresh and clear and bright — the world that was
as fragrant as though filled with spices?

• • • • •

I found my home exactly as I had left it, years
before. It was not altered by a hair. It was not
different in the least detail. My father, too, was
the same. Only his silvery-white beard had be-
come a little more silvery. His broad white
wrinkled forehead was now a little more wrinkled.
This was probably because of his cares. . . .
And my mother was the same as when I saw her
last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now slightly sal-
low. And I imagined she had grown smaller,
shorter and thinner. Perhaps I only imagined this
because she was now slightly bent. And her eyes
were slightly enflamed, and had little puffy bags un-
der them, as if they were swollen. Was it from
weeping, perhaps? . . .

For what reason had my mother been weeping?
For whom? Was it for me, her only son who had
acted in opposition to his father's wishes? Was
it because I would not go the same road as my
father, but took my own road, and went off to study,
and did not come home for such a long time? . . .
Or did my mother weep for Busie, because she was
getting married on the Sabbath after the Feast of
Weeks ?

Ah, Busie ! She was not changed by so much as
a hair. She was not different in the least detail.
She had only grown up — grown up and also grown
more beautiful than she had been, more lovely.
She had grown up exactly as she had promised to
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grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and full of gra ~e.
Her eyes were the same blue "Song of Songs" eyes,
but more thoughtful than in the olden times. They
were more thoughtful and more dreamy, more care-
worn and more beautiful uSong of Songs" eyes than
ever. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving
homely and affectionate. She was quiet as a dove
— quiet as a virgin.

When I looked at the Busie of today, I was re-
minded of the Busie of the past. I recalled to
mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my
mother had made for her, at that time, for the
Passover. I remembered the new little shoes
which my father had bought for her, at that time,
for the Passover. And when I remembered the
Busie of the past, there came back to me, without
an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by
phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten
"Song of Songs."

"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair
is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount
Gilead.

"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even
shorn, which come up from the washing: whereof
every one bear twins, and none is barren among
them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy
speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of
pomegranate within thy locks."

I look at Busie, and once again everything is as
in the "Song of Songs," just as it was in the past,
once on a time, years before.

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• • • • •

"Busie, am I to congratulate you?"

She does not hear me. But why does she lower
her eyes? And why have her cheeks turned
scarlet? No, I must bid her joy — I must!

"I congratulate you, Busie."

"May you live in happiness," she replies.

And that is all. I could ask her nothing. And
to talk with her? There was nowhere where I
might do that. My father would not let me talk
with her. My mother hindered me. Our relatives
prevented it. The rest of the family, the friends,
neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into the
house to welcome me, one coming and one going —
they would not let me talk with Busie either. They
all stood around me. They all examined me, as
if I were a bear, or a curious creature from another
world. Everybody wanted to see and hear me — to
know how I was getting on, and what I was doing.
They had not seen me for such a long time.

"Tell us something new. What have you seen?
What have you heard?"

And I told them the news — all that I had seen
and all that I had heard. At the same time I was
looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes.
And I met her eyes — her big, deep careworn,
thoughtful, beautiful blue " Song of Songs" eyes.
But her eyes were dumb, and she herself was dumb.
Her eyes told me nothing — nothing at all. And
there arose to my memory the words I had
learnt in the past, the "Song of Songs" sentence bv
sentence —
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"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a
spring shut up, a fountain sealed."

• • • • •

And a storm arose within my brain, and a fire
began to burn within my heart. This terrible fire
did not rage against anybody, only against my-
self— against myself and against my dreams of the
past — the foolish, boyish, golden dreams for the
sake of which I had left my father and my mother.
Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie.
Because of them I had sacrificed a great, great part
of my life; and because of them, and through them
I had lost my happiness — lost it, lost it for ever !

Lost it for ever? No, it cannot be — it cannot
be ! Have I not come back — have I not returned
in good time? ... If only I could manage to talk
with Busie, all alone with her ! If only I could
get to say a few words to her. But how could I
speak with her, all alone, the few words I longed
to speak, when everybody was present — when the
people were all crowding around me? They were
all examining me as if I were a bear, or a curious
creature from another world. Everybody wanted
to see and hear me — to. know how I was getting on,
and what I was doing. They had not seen me for
such a long time !

More intently than any one else was my father
listening to me. He had a Holy Book open in
front of him, as always. His broad forehead was
wrinkled up, as always. He was looking at me from
over his silver spectacles, and was stroking the silver
strands of his silvery-white beard, as always. And

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I imagined that he was looking at me with other eyes
than he used to look. No, it was not the same look
as always. He was reproaching me. I felt that my
father was offended with me. I had acted contrary
to his wishes. I had refused to go his road, and
had taken a road of my own choosing. . . .

My mother, too, was standing close behind me.
She came out of the kitchen. She left all her work,
the preparations for the Passover, and she was listen-
ing to me with tears in her eyes. Though her face
was still smiling, she wiped her eyes in secret with
the corners of her apron. She was listening to me
attentively. She was staring right into my mouth;
and she was swallowing, yes, swallowing every word
that I said.

And Busie also stood over against me. Her
hands were folded on her bosom. And she was
listening to me just as the others were. Along
with them, she was staring right into my mouth. I
looked at Busie. I tried to read what was in her
eyes; but I could read nothing there, nothing at all,
nothing at all.

"Tell more. Why have you grown silent?" my
father asked me.

"Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like?"
put in my mother hastily. "The child is tired. The
child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him :
'Tell! Tell! Tell! And tell !"'

• • • • •

The people began to go away by degrees. And
we found ourselves alone, my father and my mother,
Busie and I. My mother went off to the kitchen.
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In a few minutes she came back, carrying in her
hand a beautiful Passover plate — a plate I knew
well. It was surrounded by a design of big green
fig leaves.

"Perhaps you would like something to eat,
Shemak? It is a long time to wait until the
'Seder.' "

That is what my mother said to me, and with so
much affection, so much loyalty and so much passion-
ate devotion. And Busie got up, and with silent
footfalls, brought me a knife and fork — the well-
known Passover knife and fork. Everything was
familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor different
by a hair. It was the same plate with the big green
fig leaves; the same knife and fork with the white
bone handles. The same delicious odour of melted
goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen; and the
fresh Passover cake had the same; Garden-of-Eden
taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. Nothing
was different in the least detail.

Only, in the olden times, we ate together on the
Passover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I
remember that we ate off the same beautiful Pass-
over plate that was surrounded by a design of big
green fig leaves. And, at that time, my mother gave
us nuts. I remember how she filled our pockets with
nuts. And, at that time, we took hold of one an-
other's hands, Busie and I. And I remember that
we let ourselves go, in the open. We flew like
eagles. I ran; she ran after me. I leaped over the
logs of wood; she leaped after me. I was up; she
was up. I was down; she was down.

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"Shemak! How long are we going to run,
Shemak?"

So said Busie to me. And I answered her in the
words of the "Song of Songs" : "Until the day
break, and the shadows flee away."

• • • • •

This was once on a time, years ago. Now Busie
is grown up. She is big. And I also am grown up.
I also am big. Busie is betrothed. She is betrothed
to some one — to some one else, and not to me. . . .
And I want to be alone with Busie. I want to speak
a few words with her. I want to hear her voice.
I want to say to her, in the words of the "Song of
Songs" : "Let me see thy countenance, let me hear
thy voice."

And I imagine that her eyes are answering my
unspoken words, also in the words of the "Song of
Songs." "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into
the fields; let us lodge in the villages.

"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see
if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear,
and the pomegranates bud forth:) there will I give
thee my loves."

I snatched a glimpse through the window to see
what was going on out of doors. Ah, how lovely
it was! How beautiful! How fragrant of the
Passover ! How like the "Song of Songs" ! It was
a sin to be indoors. Soon the day would be at an
end. Lower and lower sank the sun, painting the
sky the colour of guinea-gold. The gold was re-
flected in Busie's eyes. They were bathed in gold.
Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I would
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This Night

have no time to say a single word to Busie. The
whole day was spent in talking idly with my father
and my mother, my relatives and friends, telling them
of all that I had heard, and all that I had seen. I
jumped up, and went over to the window. I looked
out of it. As I was passing her, I said quickly
to Busie:

"Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is
so long since I was at home. I want to see every-
thing. I want to have a look at the village."

• • • • •

Can you tell me what was the matter with Busie?
Her cheeks were at once enflamed. They burned
with a great lire. She was as red as the sun that
was going down in the west. She threw a glance at
my father. I imagined she wanted to hear what my
father would say. And my father looked at my
mother, over his silver spectacles. He stroked the
silver strands of his silvery-white beard, and said
casually, to no one in particular:

"The sun is setting. It's time to put on our Fes-
tival garments, and to go into the synagogue to pray.
It is time to light the Festival candles. What do
you say?"

No! It seemed that I was not going to get the
chance of saying anything to Busie that day. We
went off to change our garments. My mother had
finished her work. She had put on her new silk
Passover gown. Her white hands gleamed. No
one has such beautiful white hands as my mother.
Soon she will make the blessing over the Festival
candles. She will cover her eyes with her snow-

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white hands and weep silently, as she used to do
once on a time, years ago. The last lingering rays
of the setting sun will play on her beautiful, trans-
parent white hands. No one has such beautiful,
white transparent hands as my mother.

But what is the matter with Busie? The light
has gone out1 of her face just as it is going out of
the sun that is slowly setting in the west, and as it
is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But
she is beautiful, and graceful as never before. And
there is a deep sadness in her beautiful blue "Song
of Songs" eyes. They are very thoughtful, are
Busie's eyes.

What is Busie thinking of now? Of the loving
guest for whom she had waited, and who had come
flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long ab-
sence from home? ... Or is she thinking of her
mother, who married again, and went off somewhere
far, and who forgot that she had a daughter whose
name was Busie? ... Or is Busie now thinking
of her betrothed, her affianced husband whom,
probably, my father and mother were compelling
her to marry against her own inclinations? ... Or
is she thinking of her marriage that is going to take
place on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, to
a man she does not know, and does not understand?
Who is he, and what is he? . . . Or, perhaps, on
the contrary, I am mistaken? Perhaps she is count-
ing the days from the Passover to the Feast of
Weeks, until the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks,
because the man she is going to marry on that day

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is her chosen, her dearest, her beloved? He will
lead her under the wedding canopy. To him she
will give all her heart, and all her love. And to me ?
Alas ! Woe is me ! To me she is no more than a
sister. She always was to me a sister, and always
will be. . . . And I imagine that she is looking at
me with pity and with regret, and that she is saying
to me, as she said to me, once on a time, years ago,
in the words of the "Song of Songs:"

"O that thou wert as my brother."

"Why are you not my brother?"

What answer can I make her to these unspoken
words? I know what I should like to say to her.
Only let me get the chance to say a few words to
her, no more than a few.

No! I shall not be able to speak a single word
with Busie this day — nor even half a word. Now
she is rising from her chair. She is going with light,
soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the
candles ready for my mother, fixing them into the
silver candlesticks. How well I know these silver
candlesticks ! They played a big part in my golden,
boyish dreams of the bewitched Queen's Daughter
whom I was going to rescue from the palace of
crystal. The golden dreams, and the silver candle-
sticks, and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's
beautiful, white transparent hands, and Busie's beau-
tiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes, and the last rays of
the sun that is going down in the west — are they
not all one and the same, bound together and inter-
woven for ever? . . .

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uTa !" exclaimed my father, looking out of the
window, and winking to me that it was high time
to change and go into the synagogue to pray.

And we changed our garments, my father and I,
and we went into the synagogue to say our prayers.

• • • • •

Our synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not
changed either, not by so much as a hair. Not a
single detail was different. Only the walls had be-
come a little blacker; the reader's desk was older;
the curtain before the Holy Ark had drooped lower;
and the Holy Ark itself had lost its polish, its new-
ness.

Once on a time, our synagogue had appeared in
my eyes like a small copy of King Solomon's Temple.
Now the small temple was leaning slightly to one
side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, and
the holy splendour of our little old synagogue?
Where now are the angels which used to flutter
about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark
on Friday evenings, when we were reciting the
prayers in welcome of the Sabbath, and on Festival
evenings when we were reciting the beautiful Festi-
val prayers?

And the members of the congregation were also
very little changed. They were only grown a little
older. Black beards were now grey. Straight
shoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday
coats that I knew so well were more threadbare,
shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them
and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as
beautifully as in the olden times, years ago. Only
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today his voice is a little husky, and a new tone is to
be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He
weeps rather than sings the words. He mourns
rather than prays. And our rabbi ? The old rabbi ?
He has not changed at all. He was like the
fallen snow when I saw him last, and today is like
the fallen snow. He is different only in one trifling
respect. His hands are trembling. And the rest
of his body is also trembling, from old age, I should
imagine. Asreal the Beadle — a Jew who had never
had the least sign of a beard — would have been
exactly the same man as once on a time, years before,
if it were not for his teeth. He has lost every single
tooth he possessed; and with his f alien-in cheeks, he
now looks much more like a woman than a man.
But for all that, he can still bang on the desk with
his open hand. True, it is not the same bang as
once on a time. Years ago, one was almost deaf-
ened by the noise of Asreal's hand coming down on
the desk. Today, it is not like that at all. It seems
that he has not any longer the strength he used to
have. He was once a giant of a man.

Once on a time, years ago, I was happy in the
little old synagogue; I remember that I felt happy
without an end — without a limit ! Here, in the little
synagogue, years ago, my childish soul swept about
with the angels I imagined were flying around the
carved wings of the Holy Ark. Here, in the little
synagogue, once on a time, with my father and all
the other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And it gave
me great pleasure, great satisfaction.

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And now, here I am again in the same old syna-
gogue, praying with the same old congregation, just
as once on a time, years ago. I hear the same Can-
tor singing the same melodies as before. And I
am praying along with the congregation. But my
thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep turning
over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one page
after the other. And — I am not to blame for it — I
come upon the pages on which are printed the "Song
of Songs." And I read:

"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are
fair; thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks."

I should like to pray with the congregation, as
they are praying, and as I used to pray, once on a
time. But the words will not rise to my lips. I
turn over the pages of my prayer-book, one after
the other, and — I am not to blame for it — again I
turn up the "Song of Songs," at the fifth chapter.

"I am come into my garden, my sister, my
spouse."

And again:

"I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have
eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk
my wine with my milk."

But what am I talking about? What am I say-
ing? The garden is not mine. I shall not gather
any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall eat no
honey, and drink no wine. The garden is not my
garden. Busie is not my betrothed. Busie is be-
trothed to some one else — to some one else, and
not to me. . . . And there rages within me a hellish
fire. Not against Busie. Not against anybody at
all. No; only against myself alone. Surely!

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How could I have stayed away from Busie for such
a long time? How could I have allowed it — that
Busie should be taken away from me, and given to
some one else? Had she not written many letters
to me, often, and given me to understand that she
hoped to see me shortly? . . . Had I not myself
promised to come home, and then put off going, from
one Festival to another, so many times until, at last,
Busie gave up writing to me?

. • • • •

"Good 'Yom-Tov'f This is my son!"

That was how my father introduced me to the men
of the congregation at the synagogue, after prayers.
They examined me on all sides. They greeted me
with, "Peace be unto you I" and accepted my greet-
ing, in return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it were
no more than their due.

"This is my son. . . ."

"That is ydur son? Here is a 'Peace be unto
you!'"

In my father's words, "This is my son," there
were many shades of feeling, many meanings — joy,
and happiness, and reproach. One might interpret
the words as one liked. One might argue that he
meant to say:

"What do you think? This is really my son."

Or one might argue that he meant to say:

"Just imagine it — this is my son!"

I could feel for my father. He was deeply hurt.
I had opposed his wishes. I had not gone his road,
but had taken a road of my own. And I had caused
him to grow old before his time. No; he had not

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forgiven me yet. He did not tell me this. But his
manner saved him the trouble of explaining himself.
I felt that he had not forgiven me yet. His eyes
told me everything. They looked at me reproach-
fully from over his silver-rimmed spectacles, right
into my heart. His soft sigh told me that he had
not forgiven me yet — the sigh which tore itself, from
time to time, out of his weak old breast. . . .

We walked home from the synagogue together,
in silence. We got home later than any one else.
The night had already spread her wings over the
heavens. Her shadow was slowly lowering itself
over the earth. A silent, warm, holy Passover night
it was — a night full of secrets and mysteries, full of
wonder and beauty. The holiness of this night could
be felt in the air. It descended slowly from the
dark blue sky. . . . The stars whispered together
in the mysterious voices of the night. And on all
sides of us, from the little Jewish houses came the
words of the "Haggadah" : "We went forth from
Egypt on this night."

With hasty, hasty steps I went towards home, on
this night. And my father barely managed to keep
up with me. He followed after me like a shadow.

"Why are you flying?" he asked of me, scarcely
managing to catch his breath.

Ah, father, father! Do you not know that I have
been compared with "a roe or a young hart upon
the mountains of spices"? . . . The time is long for
me, father, too long. The way is long for me,
father, too long. When Busie is betrothed to some
one — to some one else and not to me, the hours and
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the roads are too long for me. ... I am compared
with "a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of
spices."

That is what I wanted to say to my father, in the
words of the "Song of Songs." I did not feel the
ground under my feet. I went towards home with
hasty, hasty steps, on this night. My father barely
managed to keep up with me. He followed after
me like a shadow.

• • • • •

With the same "Good 'Yom-Tov' " which we had
said on coming in from the synagogue on such a
night as this, years ago, we entered the house on
this night, my father and I.

With the same "Good 'Yom-Tov,' good year,"
with which my mother and Busie used to welcome
us, on such a night as this, once on a time, years ago,
they again welcomed us on this night, my father
and me.

My mother, the Queen of the evening, was dressed
in her royal robes of silk; and the Queen's Daughter,
Busie, was dressed in her snow-white frock. They
made the same picture which they had made, once
on a time, years ago. They were not altered by as
much as a hair. They were not different in a single
detail.

As it had been years ago, so it was now. On this
night, the house was full of grace. A peculiar
beauty — a holy, festive, majestic loveliness descended
upon our house. A holy, festive glamour hung
about our house on this night. The white table-
cloth was like driven snow. And everything which

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was on the table gleamed and glistened. My
mother's Festival candles shone out of the silver
candlesticks. The Passover wine greeted us from
out the sparkling bottles. Ah, how pure, how sim-
ple the Passover cakes looked, peeping innocently
from under their beautiful cover ! How sweetly the
horse-radish smiled to me ! And how pleasant was
the "mortar" — the mixture of crushed nuts and
apples and wine which symbolized the mortar out of
which the Israelites made bricks in Egypt, when they
were slaves! And even the dish of salt-water was
good to look upon.

Proudly and haughtily stood the throne on which
my father, the King of the night, was going to re-
cline. A glory shone forth from my mother's coun-
tenance, such as I always saw shining forth from it
on such a night. And the Queen's Daughter, Busie,
was entirely, from her head to her heels, as if she
really belonged to the "Song of Songs." No!
What am I saying? She was the "Song of Songs"
itself.

The only pity was that the King's son was put sit-
ting so far away from the Queen's Daughter. I re-
member that they once sat at the Passover ceremony
in a different position. They were together, once
on a time, years ago. One beside the other they
sat*. ...

I remember that the King's Son asked his father
"The Four Questions." And I remember that the
Queen's Daughter stole from his Majesty the
"Afikomen" — the pieces of Passover cake he had
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hidden away to make the special blessing over.
And I? What had I done then? How much did
we laugh at that time ! I remember that, once on
a time, years ago, when the "Seder" was ended,
the Queen had taken off her royal garment of silk,
and the King had taken off his white robes, and
we two, Busie and I, sat together in a corner play-
ing with the nuts which my mother had given us.
And there, in the corner, I told Busie a story —
one of the fairy tales I had learnt at school from
my comrade Sheika, who knew everything in the
world. It was the story of the beautiful Queen's
Daughter who had been taken from under the wed-
ding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of
crystal for seven years on end, and who was wait-
ing for some one to raise himself up into the air by
pronouncing the Holy Name, flying above the clouds,
across hills, and over valleys, over rivers, and across
deserts, to release her, to set her free.

• • • • •

But all this happened once on a time, years ago.
Now the Queen's Daughter is grown up. She is
big. And the King's Son is grown up. He is big.
And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly,
that we cannot even see one another. Imagine
it to yourself! On the right of his majesty sat
the King's Son. On the left of her majesty sat
the Queen's Daughter! . . . And we recited the
"Haggadah," my father and I, at the top of our
voices, as once on a time, years ago, page after
page, and in the same sing-song as of old. And my

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mother and Busie repeated the words after us,
softly, page after page, until we came to the "Song
of Songs." I recited the "Song of Songs" together
with my father, as once on a time, years ago, in the
same melody as of old, passage after passage. And
my mother and Busie repeated the words after us,
softly, passage after passage, until the King of the
night, tired out, after the long Passover ceremony,
and somewhat dulled by the four cups of raisin
wine, began to doze off by degrees. He nodded for
a few minutes, woke up, and went on singing the
"Song of Songs." He began in a loud voice:

"Many waters cannot quench love." . . .

And I caught him up, in the same strain:

"Neither can floods drown it."

The recital grew softer and softer with us both,
as the night wore on, until at last his majesty fell
asleep in real earnest. The Queen touched him
on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with
a sweet, affectionate gentleness, and told him he
should go to bed. In the meantime, Busie and I
got the chance of saying a few words to one another.
I got up from my place and went over close beside
her. And we stood opposite one another for the
first time, closely, on this night. I pointed out
to her how rarely beautiful the night was.

"Ort such a night," I said to her, "it is good to
go walking."

She understood me, and answered me, with a
half-smile by asking:
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"On such a night?" . . .

And I imagined that she was laughing at me.
That was how she used to laugh at me, once on a
time, years ago. ... I was annoyed. I said to
her :

"Busie, we have something to say to one an-
other— we have much to talk about."

"Much to talk about?" she replied, echoing my

words.

And again I imagined that she was laughing at
me. ... I put in quickly:

"Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have noth-
ing at all to say to you now?"

These words were uttered with so much bitter-
ness that Busie ceased from smiling, and her face
grew serious.

"Tomorrow," she said to me, "tomorrow we
will talk." . . .

And my eyes grew bright. Everything about me
was bright and good and joyful. Tomorrow!
Tomorrow we will talk! Tomorrow! Tomor-
row! . . .

I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fra-
grance of her hair, the fragrance of her clothes —
the same familiar fragrance of her. And there
came up to my mind the words of the "Song of
Songs" :

"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honey-
comb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and
the smell of thy garments is like the smell of
Lebanon." . . .

265

Jewish Children

And all our speech this night v/as the same —
without words. We spoke together with our eyes —
with our eyes.

. . . . •

"Busie, good-night," I said to her softly.

It was hard for me to go away from her. The
one God in Heaven knew the truth — how hard it
was.

"Good-night," Busie made answer.

She did not stir from the spot. She looked at
me, deeply perplexed, out of her beautiful blue
"Song of Songs" eyes.

I said "good-night" to her again. And she again
said "good-night" to me. My mother came in and
led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my
mother smoothed out for me, with her beautiful,
snow-white hands, the white cover of my bed. And
her lips murmured:

"Sleep well, my child, sleep well."

Into these few words she poured a whole ocean
of tender love — the love which had been pent up
in her breast the long time I had been away from
her. I was ready to fall down before her, and kiss
her beautiful white hands.

"Good-night," I murmured softly to her.

And I was left alone — all alone, on this night.

• • • * •

I was all alone on this night — all alone on this
silent, soft, warm, early spring night.

I opened my window and looked out into the open,
at the dark blue night sky, and at the shimmering
266

This Night

stars that were like brilliants. And I asked myself:

"Is it then true? Is it then true? . . .

"Is it then true that I have lost my happiness —
lost my happiness for ever?

"Is it then true that with my own hands I took
and burnt my wonderful dream-palace, and let go
from me the divine Queen's Daughter whom I had
myself bewitched, once on a time, years ago? Is
it then so? Is it so? Maybe it is not so? Per-
haps I have come in time? 'I am come into my
garden, my sister, my spouse.' "...

I sat at the open window for a long time on this
night. And I exchanged whispered secrets with the
silent, soft, warm early spring night that was full —
strangely full — of secrets and mysteries. . . .

On this night, I made a discovery —

That I loved Busie with that holy, burning love
which is so wonderfully described in our "Song of
Songs." Big fiery letters seemed to carve them-
selves out before my eyes. They formed themselves
into the words which I had only just recited, my
father and I — the words of the "Song of Songs."
I read the carved words, letter by letter.

"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the
grave : the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath
a most vehement flame."

On this night, I sat down at my open window, and
I asked of the night which! was full of secrets and
mysteries, that she should tell me this secret:

"Is it true that I have lost Busie for ever? Is
it then true?" . . .

But she is silent — this night of secrets and

267

Jewish Children

mysteries. And the secret must remain a secret for
me — until the morrow.

"Tomorrow," Busie had said to me, "we will
talk."

Ah! Tomorrow we will talk! . . .

Only let the night go by — only let it vanish,
this night!

This night! This night!

THE END

268

3 T0T7 0055^57 7

| DATE DUE

DEC r - 2

001 DEC

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GAYLORD

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