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+Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Jewish Children
+
+Author: Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+Translator: Hannah Berman
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2008 [EBook #27001]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWISH CHILDREN ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+JEWISH CHILDREN
+
+TRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH OF
+
+"SHALOM ALEICHEM"
+
+BY HANNAH BERMAN
+
+NEW YORK ALFRED · A · KNOPF MCMXXII
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
+
+ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
+
+_Published January, 1922_
+
+_Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, 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"
+
+PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE. AN IDYLL
+
+ELIJAH THE PROPHET
+
+GETZEL
+
+A LOST "L'AG BEOMER"
+
+MURDERERS
+
+THREE LITTLE HEADS
+
+GREENS FOR "_SHEVUOUS_"
+
+ANOTHER PAGE FROM THE "SONG OF SONGS"
+
+A PITY FOR THE LIVING
+
+THE TABERNACLE
+
+THE DEAD CITRON
+
+ISSHUR THE BEADLE
+
+BOAZ THE TEACHER
+
+THE SPINNING-TOP
+
+ESTHER
+
+THE POCKET-KNIFE
+
+ON THE FIDDLE
+
+THIS NIGHT
+
+
+
+
+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, somewhere, 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 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 Passover. 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. Everything 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 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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.
+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 without 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, 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?"
+
+"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 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 cannot 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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?"
+
+"You 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 bidding 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 myself 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 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 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.
+
+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 minister, 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 circulars. 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 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
+grandson. 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 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. Everything 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 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 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 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 understand, 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+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
+confronted 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."
+
+* * *
+
+The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got punished without knowing
+why.
+
+Feitel's father flogged him with his cap. "A 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. 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_." 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,'
+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, 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
+mother--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 Passover. I was dressed as
+befitted the son of a man 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 Passover, 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."
+
+"Good '_Yom-tov_'!"
+
+"Good '_Yom-tov_'!"
+
+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 off to sleep." Ha! 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_'? 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
+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 began 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
+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 schoolboys he was looked upon as a young man. He was
+a clumsily built fellow, 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,"
+"Bullock's skin," and other such nicknames were bestowed on him by the
+teacher. And he never seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a
+corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a calf. You must know
+that Getzel was fond of eating. 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 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 downwards. 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.
+
+"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 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 reduce them to a
+dust-heap. He enjoyed listening to his own words, and did not stop
+talking to himself, as if he really had some one beside him.
+
+"Listen to me. How far are we going to go?" 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."
+
+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, 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 '_Cheder_'
+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 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?"
+
+"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?"
+
+"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 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 victorious. 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, "_Reb_" 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 himself. 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.
+
+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 "_L'ag 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
+    Learn the '_Torah_,'
+    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 "_Cheder_" 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 commanded 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."
+
+"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 A B C 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 assistants 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 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!"
+
+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 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
+Mazapevka. 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+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'ag Beomer_."
+
+
+
+
+Murderers
+
+
+"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 '_L'ag Beomer_.'"
+
+"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,
+joyful, 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
+covered 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 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 himself?"
+
+"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 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
+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 outside the town, in the open
+air, on the bare earth, under God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of
+bread to the birds. Let them also know that it is "_L'ag 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, 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."
+
+* * *
+
+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 together 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
+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.
+
+"May the Lord love you as we do," said Elya.
+
+We were frightened, and whispered to Elya:
+
+"The Lord be with you!"
+
+"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 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: "'_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, '_Rebbe_'! Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"
+
+* * *
+
+We flew off together, like arrows from bows. We were afraid to stop a
+moment. We were even 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!"
+
+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 shouted:
+
+"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 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. Suddenly, he stopped
+us in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him again the story
+of that "_L'ag 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:
+
+"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 children. 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 asking 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 responsible 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 Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise people say--when
+everything, everything will be different. 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 pasting 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 Gentiles. 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
+always 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 father. He was gold. The mother was also gold, but she was cross.
+One got a smack from her sometimes, 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 mothers." 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 upwards, 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, 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 sigh. 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
+everything. 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
+thousands 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. Sometimes 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 children 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 creature, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other animal,
+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 behind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a
+story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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, 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 Moshetzig'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 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, beyond 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
+desire--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?"
+
+"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 delighted; 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," replied 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 moment their parents turned away, they threw themselves
+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, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to 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 "_Shevuous_." 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 possession of
+me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!
+
+I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting 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
+outside 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
+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 everything 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 before,
+immediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the
+more excited I became. 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 showing above ground. These excited me by their
+silence 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 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, "vengeance. 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 today. 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 melons
+and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes and other vegetables.
+He made a good living 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 entered 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
+garden-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 may trust me," Okhrim replied. And
+he kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic.
+We had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard
+our neighbours say, 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 "'_Purim_' 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 "'_Purim_' 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 sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We
+rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his
+language, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand
+mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had
+to ask my mother to be our interpreter.
+
+"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 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 overcome that the tears filled
+his eyes. He stood facing 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
+everything, 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 ground, and torn the tops off the little onions
+and the garlic that were just showing above the earth.
+
+"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abraham--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 "_Shevuous_," 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 "_Shevuous_."
+
+
+
+
+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 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 daughter.'"
+
+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 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 shining 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 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 excepting 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:
+
+"Shemak, 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 repeating the words of the Shulamite in
+the "Song of Songs."
+
+"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 imagine 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 '_Shevuous_'?"
+
+"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 silver 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 "_Shevuous_."
+
+Father: "What do you say?"
+
+Mother: "What do you say?"
+
+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 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 deserts.
+
+* * *
+
+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 pronouncing 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.
+
+"No 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-father.
+
+"Why not?" I say to her. "With the greatest 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 temper 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 distance. The silver
+strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is
+waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are
+like paralysed. What are my parents 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":
+
+"'O 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 struggled 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
+simmered."
+
+"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 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, pronounced 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 comrade, 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. 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: "A 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, filling 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.
+
+"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, until 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 advance to do it, they at once fell upon me.
+
+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 himself 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 emphatically.
+
+"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself 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."
+
+* * *
+
+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 Uncle 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 remember 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."
+
+
+
+
+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 comprehend 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, whatever 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 you what Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what
+he lived by it would 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 machine, 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. When the clock stopped, or the tap of the
+"_Samovar_" 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 fortune 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, without a garden, without a yard, without a
+paling, without a body, and without life.
+
+"Well, it's a hut," said my mother, pretending to be 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 eating, 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
+handsomer 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 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 I do not know whether she was
+making fun or was in earnest. 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, looking for a spot on which to erect a
+Tabernacle.
+
+* * *
+
+Hershke Mamtzes' house was all right. It had 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 underneath.
+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 Tabernacle for once. The main
+thing was to get the material.
+
+"There will be materials. Have you the tools?" asked Hershke.
+
+"The tools will be found. Have you the timber?" asked Moshe.
+
+"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 Tabernacle? 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."
+
+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," 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."
+
+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 cud. 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 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 without 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 synagogue 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. Nevertheless, 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 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 diamonds 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 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 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.
+
+* * *
+
+"You 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 upwards, 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."
+
+
+
+
+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 boy has
+a nickname. For instance--"Mottel-Kappotel," "Meyer-Dreyer,"
+"Mendel-Fendel," "Chayim-Clayim," "Itzig-Shpitzig," "Berel-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--
+
+    "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." I often try to
+picture to myself what 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
+off 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 you that 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 '_groschen_' 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. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful
+perfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house.
+
+* * *
+
+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 "_Reb_" 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.
+
+"_Reb_" 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, '_Reb_' 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 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
+everything, 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 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 themselves 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 hand. "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 breakfast, 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 himself alone in the house.
+His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market.
+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.
+
+* * *
+
+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." Leibel 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 Tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm
+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 Tabernacle to the carpenter.
+
+"Here, make the blessing," he said. "But be careful, in Heaven'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
+careful!"
+
+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 blackguard!
+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
+misfortune.
+
+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 performed 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, because
+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.
+
+"A dead citron," said my father, in a broken voice.
+
+"A 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's 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.
+
+
+
+
+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 congregation, 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
+straggling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he 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: "Isshur, 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 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 almost 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 what 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 eighteen 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 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 yourselves. 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 contrary, a source of income,
+yet no one dared interfere. 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. He knew the people wished to take away his
+office from him as surely as they wished to live. 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. Whoever 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 intrigues. 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 neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was
+innocent of everything. You must know that Isshur had the town very
+cleverly. He thought within himself: "Argue, quarrel, abuse one another,
+my friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Isshur the
+beadle."
+
+That they should forget his doings was an important 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 householders
+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 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.
+
+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
+arriving 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 puzzling 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."
+
+Next day there was a different inscription. On the third day still
+another one. Isshur had something 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 morning, 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 committee-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 respected 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 proclamation. 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 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 was 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 procession 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, the same reader's-desk, and the same
+hanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly
+changed. It was almost impossible to recognize 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 new beadle, and
+new melodies, and new customs. Everything 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 unchanged.) 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 straggling, 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 tremulous 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.
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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. "A 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.
+
+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 without 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 being
+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 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 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," 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 ourselves 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 afternoon 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 "_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 Titus, 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 freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in
+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, hopeless, dark tyranny? No, never, never!"
+
+That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor innocent, 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 was 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 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 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 headache, nor stomach-ache, nor worms. What then? We must
+all together complain 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_'
+tomorrow, 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.
+
+
+
+
+The Spinning-Top
+
+
+More than any of the boys at "_Cheder_," more than any boy of the town,
+and more than any person 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 important 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 children. In
+a word, Mayer "_Polkovoi_" tried to refine himself--to be a man 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 bestowed 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 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 impudence. 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
+mother 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 "_Torah_." 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.
+
+"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 confess 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 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 rolling with laughter. And, at that moment, I
+counted the buttons from one hand into the 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, 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
+forefinger 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, slaughterers! 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....
+
+Nearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to
+a man--when robbers surround 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 deliverance.
+
+It was 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. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast
+and dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could
+never understand 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 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 swimming. 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 shrieking 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. 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 playing,
+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 "_Polkovoi_." From him all things
+originated; and on our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the fat
+face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to 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 playing 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 "_Chanukah_" 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 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 corners, 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.
+
+"G, G. Again G. It's extraordinary," said the boys, scratching their
+heads and again opening their purses.
+
+The game grew more exciting. The players 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 standing
+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 had 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 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 "_Chanukah_" 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 have 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 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 moustache 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 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.
+
+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 one."
+
+"This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah.
+
+"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--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.
+
+"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
+'_Reb_' 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 tomorrow,
+the anniversary of your father's death--peace be unto him!--I have
+bought you the prayer-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 "_groschens_." "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 melted 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 mother had
+come in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She
+was frozen through and through, and was warming 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 fritters or fresh "_matzo_"?
+What were the "_Chanukah_" lights--a silver, eight-branched lamp with
+olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the
+pleasure has nothing to do with wine 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
+happiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, 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 '_Chanukah_,' 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.
+
+Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I heard my mother's groans. I
+heard her bed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning.
+Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling 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! Tchireree!" And my mother did not cease from sighing 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! Tchireree!" 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 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 crying softly,
+sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not
+a human being. He said to me softly:
+
+"Tell 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 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 became 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.
+
+"God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden burst of laughter, Benny?"
+
+"Oh!" he cried, "oh! go away with your spinning-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."
+
+
+
+
+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 mistaken, 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 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 week-day. It was towards evening,
+between 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 withdrew his hand and gave me a "_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. 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 that 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_.'" Ten "_groschens_" 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?" "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
+wedding canopy."
+
+* * *
+
+What do you say to my brother--how he translated 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. Afterwards, if there's a fine
+to do, will I be to blame? Don't all people make mistakes sometimes?
+Does it not happen that even the postmaster 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 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 nonsense. 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, and the year before, you sent me
+something different. This year you sent your teacher a translation 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 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
+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.
+Afterwards 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?
+
+
+
+
+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 already 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 coughing. "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 commentaries, I very nearly
+had a real knife, also of 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 beautifully 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!"
+
+"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" 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 "_groschens_" 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 if an 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 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 father 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 sharpening-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! Why the devil
+can't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!"
+
+I began to cry. My father improved the situation 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? 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 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 nobody. 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.
+
+"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 Hertz 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
+understand 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. Nevertheless, 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? 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 Hertzenhertz. 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 animals, 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 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 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.
+
+"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 '_Gemarra_'? 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. Who 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. The pleasure was,
+alas! mixed with pain, and embittered 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 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 looking 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 German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably
+he was laughing because my father was driving 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, because 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. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a
+common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, 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, scorching 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed
+with his finger at my comrade, 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!"
+
+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! 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. 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."
+
+"Moshalle, 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
+'_kopeks_' 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 pronounce 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 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 intervened. 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
+punishment 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
+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 swimming 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 trumpet: "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 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 terribly hot. In the name of
+God, go away."
+
+"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 muttering 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? 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 '_Cheder_' 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 '_Cheder_,' 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!"
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+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 I 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 musicians. 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 stealing
+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, 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 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 "_Reb_"
+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 grandfather'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 grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa,
+still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of
+"_Reb_" 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 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 retirement.
+
+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!"
+
+"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, understand 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 starting to her eyes.
+
+"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?" my mother asked him. "As
+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 "_Bezborodka_,"--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.
+He 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, 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 longest
+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 learning to
+play 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 instruments. 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 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 satisfied 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. Another 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 instruments!"
+
+That was the order which Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" gave to his regiment of
+children, all of whom 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 winking 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 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 '_groschens_' 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! Buy 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 herring, 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.
+
+After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that
+they should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me,
+all over again to a piece--"his own composition." This "composition" was
+played with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and
+my brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali
+"_Bezborodka's_" "composition." 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 ringing 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 headache, 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 doing here?" asked my sister. And she
+tormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept
+repeating the same words:
+
+"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 yourself, 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, 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 knowledge 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 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, "_Reb_"
+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
+extraordinary was going to happen.
+
+Of late, "_Reb_" 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 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 Hershel the Tax-collector.
+
+"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the teacher, "_Reb_" 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?"
+
+"The 'Song of Songs,'" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. "The '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
+beautiful 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
+wisdom. 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 his 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.
+"_Reb_" 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 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 frozen....
+
+Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got
+a flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of
+a fiddle.
+
+And here is the story for you:--
+
+At our wine-shop 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 eyebrows, 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 because 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 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!"
+
+With me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate 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. "Do 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.
+
+"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. Sargeant, 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 that?"
+
+"As I serve God," he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.
+
+Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy
+windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green
+garden from out of which peeked 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 that
+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
+wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in
+the green sweet smelling grass.
+
+But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green
+leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. 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.
+
+Afterwards, 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, 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's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.
+Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."
+
+I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant
+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 half an
+evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even
+care about the fresh 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, without 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 beautiful sounds--which was one mass of singing, from
+beginning to end....
+
+"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. I 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 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
+smoking a cigarette on the Sabbath. "May I see myself enjoying all that
+is good!" he cried. "If it is 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-collecting, and the work done at
+the House of Learning. 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
+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 dangling 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 opinion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?
+
+* * *
+
+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
+sitting 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
+drumming on the table with his short little fingers. Opposite 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.
+
+"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 Learning?" said he.
+
+"What should I be doing at the House of Learning?" 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_' 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. 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 off himself and told it to him. And in this way
+Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-collector; for the two had
+always been at the point of sticking knives into one another.
+
+* * *
+
+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 defence 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."
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+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 congratulated. 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_.' I thank you, and I
+send my mother my heartiest greetings."
+
+Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one another. 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 anywhere 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 childhood--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,
+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 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 excepting
+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 congratulate Busie. She is
+betrothed, and will be married 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
+and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home
+exactly on the day before the Festival, 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 "Song 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, washing 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, 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 become 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
+sallow. 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 under 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 grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and
+full of grace. 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 careworn and more beautiful "Song 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 reminded 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.
+
+* * *
+
+"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 by
+sentence--
+
+"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
+myself--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 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 listening 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.
+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 passionate 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
+Passover 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 another'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.
+
+"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 reflected in Busie's eyes.
+They were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I
+would 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 everything. 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 fire. 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 Festival 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-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, transparent white hands. No one has such
+beautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.
+
+But what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out 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
+absence 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 counting 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 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 candlesticks,
+and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent
+hands, and Busie's beautiful 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 interwoven for ever?...
+
+"Ta!" 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
+become 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 newness.
+
+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 Festival
+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 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 fallen-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 deafened 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.
+
+* * *
+
+And now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the
+same old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the
+same Cantor 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 saying? 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 betrothed 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! 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_'! 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!" and accepted my greeting, in
+return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it were no more than their due.
+
+"This is my son...."
+
+"That is your 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 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 reproachfully 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 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 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 simple 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 recline. A glory shone forth from my mother's
+countenance, 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 sitting so far away from
+the Queen's Daughter. I remember 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 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 playing 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 wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of
+crystal for seven years on end, and who was waiting 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 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.
+
+"On 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:
+
+"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 another--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 nothing at all to say to you now?"
+
+These words were uttered with so much bitterness 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! Tomorrow!...
+
+I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance 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 honeycomb: honey and milk are under
+thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of
+Lebanon." ...
+
+And all our speech this night was 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 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? Perhaps 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
+themselves 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 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
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+_NEW BORZOI NOVELS_
+
+_SPRING, 1922_
+
+WANDERERS
+  _Knut Hamsun_
+
+MEN OF AFFAIRS
+  _Roland Pertwee_
+
+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 Björkman_
+
+CYTHEREA
+  _Joseph Hergesheimer_
+
+EXPLORERS OF THE DAWN
+  _Mazo de la Roche_
+
+THE WHITE KAMI
+  _Edward Alden Jewell_
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWISH CHILDREN ***
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+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" />
+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jewish Children, by Shalom Aleichem.
+    </title>
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Jewish Children
+
+Author: Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+Translator: Hannah Berman
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2008 [EBook #27001]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWISH CHILDREN ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<h1 class="top15">JEWISH CHILDREN</h1>
+
+<p class="c"><span class="smcap">translated from the yiddish of</span><br />
+"SHALOM ALEICHEM"<br />
+<span class="smcap">By</span> HANNAH BERMAN</p>
+
+<p class="c"><span class="smcap">NEW YORK</span> ALFRED &middot; A &middot; KNOPF <span class="smcap">MCMXXII</span></p>
+
+
+
+<p class="c"><span class="smcap">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br />
+ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc</span>.<br />
+<br />
+<i>Published January, 1922</i></p>
+
+<p class="c top15"><i>Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.<br />
+Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington &amp; Co., New York, N. Y.<br />
+Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y.</i><br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</span><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr />
+<p class="c top15"><b>CONTENTS</b></p>
+
+<ul>
+<li><a href="#A_Page_from_the_Song_of_Songs"><b>A Page from the "Song of Songs"</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Passover_in_a_Village"><b>Passover in a Village. An Idyll</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Elijah_the_Prophet"><b>Elijah the Prophet</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Getzel"><b>Getzel</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#A_Lost_LAg_Beomer"><b>A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Murderers"><b>Murderers</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Three_Little_Heads"><b>Three Little Heads</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Greens_for_Shevuous"><b>Greens for "<i>Shevuous</i>"</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Another_Page_from_The_Song_of_Songs"><b>Another Page from "The Song of Songs"</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#A_Pity_for_the_Living"><b>A Pity for the Living</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#The_Tabernacle"><b>The Tabernacle</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#The_Dead_Citron"><b>The Dead Citron</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Isshur_the_Beadle"><b>Isshur the Beadle</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Boaz_the_Teacher"><b>Boaz the Teacher</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#The_Spinning-Top"><b>The Spinning-Top</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#Esther"><b>Esther</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#The_Pocket-Knife"><b>The Pocket-Knife</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#On_the_Fiddle"><b>On the Fiddle</b></a></li>
+<li><a href="#This_Night"><b>This Night</b></a></li>
+</ul>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="A_Page_from_the_Song_of_Songs" id="A_Page_from_the_Song_of_Songs"></a>A Page from the "Song of Songs"</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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, somewhere, far; and the child was brought to us.</p>
+
+<p>The child was Busie.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 sorrow.
+And I? Why is it that when I come from "<i>cheder</i>," 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....</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I waited long for the dear good Feast of Passover. 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&mdash;the dear good Passover&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The dear good Passover has come.</p>
+
+<p>They dress us both in kingly clothes. Everything 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:</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy
+temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm.</p>
+
+<p>"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 "<i>Seder</i>." 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:</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, and can rise up and fly
+away.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Everything, everything is from the "Song of Songs."</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.
+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 without 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, and say to her:</p>
+
+<p>"Guess what I can do if I like."</p>
+
+<p>"What can you do?"</p>
+
+<p>"If I like, all your nuts will belong to me."</p>
+
+<p>"Will you win them off me?"</p>
+
+<p>"We shall not even begin to play."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you will take them from me?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, they will come to me of themselves."</p>
+
+<p>She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me&mdash;her beautiful, blue, "Song of
+Songs" eyes. I say to her:</p>
+
+<p>"You think I am jesting. Little fool, I know certain magic words."</p>
+
+<p>She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I explain myself to her,
+like a great man, a hero:</p>
+
+<p>"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, even '<i>Kaballa</i>.' Do you know what '<i>Kaballa</i>' is?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. How am I to know?"</p>
+
+<p>I am in the seventh heaven because I can give her a lecture on
+"<i>Kaballa</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Kaballa</i>,' little fool, is a thing that is useful. By means of
+'<i>Kaballa</i>' I can make myself invisible to you, whilst I can see you. By
+means of '<i>Kaballa</i>' I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall.
+By means of '<i>Kaballa</i>' I can manage that we two shall rise up into the
+clouds, and even higher than the clouds."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>To rise up in the air with Busie, by means of "<i>Kaballa</i>," into the
+clouds, and higher than the clouds, and fly with her far, far over the
+ocean&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Like mud in the streets? Well!" said Busie to me when I had told her
+all about the dwarfs.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you not believe it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you believe it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where did you hear it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where? At school."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah! At school."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika's tricks which I can
+imitate by means of "<i>Kaballa</i>." 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Maybe you do not believe me?"</p>
+
+<p>Busie laughs.</p>
+
+<p>"Maybe you think I am boasting? Or that I am inventing lies out of my
+own head?"</p>
+
+<p>Busie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must show her. I know how. I
+say to her:</p>
+
+<p>"The thing is that you do not know what '<i>Kaballa</i>' means. If you knew
+what '<i>Kaballa</i>' was you would not laugh. By means of '<i>Kaballa</i>,' 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."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;to speak
+of her mother. I am sorry for the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I
+must ask 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak! Shemak!"</p>
+
+<p>I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to the synagogue with father.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>To go to the synagogue with one's father on the Passover eve&mdash;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&mdash;the first Festival evening prayer
+and blessing. Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared for his
+Jewish children.</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak! Shemak!"</p>
+
+<p>My mother has no time.</p>
+
+<p>"I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I only want to say a word to
+Busie&mdash;no more than a word."</p>
+
+<p>I confess to Busie that I told her lies. One cannot make people fly by
+means of "<i>Kaballa</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Busie listens attentively. The sun is sending down its last rays, and
+kissing the earth.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the frozen sea?" asks Busie.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>Busie looks at me with big eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Why should you go there?"</p>
+
+<p>"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.'"</p>
+
+<p>"What queen's daughter?" asks Busie. And I imagine she is frightened.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"What has that to do with you?"</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean by asking what it has to do with me? I must go and set
+her free."</p>
+
+<p>"You must set her free?"</p>
+
+<p>"Who else?"</p>
+
+<p>"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 bidding farewell to the day&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak! Shemak!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>My mother calls me for the third time to go with my father to the
+synagogue. Do I not know myself that I must go to prayers? I will sit
+here another minute&mdash;one minute, no more. Busie hears my mother calling
+me. She tears her hand from mine, gets up, and drives me off.</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak, you are called&mdash;you. Go, go! It is time. Go, go!"</p>
+
+<p>I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is extinguished. Its gold beams
+have turned to blood. A little wind blows&mdash;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 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":</p>
+
+<p>"Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart
+upon the mountains of spices."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Passover_in_a_Village" id="Passover_in_a_Village"></a>Passover in a Village</h2>
+
+<p class="c smcap">an idyll</p>
+
+
+<p>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&mdash;what does he care for winds? What are
+storms to him?</p>
+
+<p>The old tree is not a symbol&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without 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!</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 minister, 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."</p>
+
+<p>Let governors change. Let ministers write circulars. What concern is it
+of Nachman Veribivker of Veribivka?</p>
+
+<p>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 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He grows coarser each year.
+Oh, if his grandfather Reb Arya&mdash;peace be unto him!&mdash;could see his
+grandson. 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 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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. Everything 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&mdash;"Come 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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>matzos</i>" for the whole festival and wine. "Do you remember,
+Fedoka, I gave you a '<i>matzo</i>' last year?" "'<i>Matzo</i>,'" repeats Fedoka.
+A smile overspreads his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste
+of the "<i>matzo</i>." "Would you like to have some '<i>matzo</i>' now, fresh
+'<i>matzo</i>'?" 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 "<i>matzo</i>," covered with
+holes on both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke
+the "<i>matzo</i>" in halves, and gave one half to his friend. "What do you
+say to the '<i>matzo</i>,' Fedoka?" What could Fedoka say when his mouth was
+stuffed with "<i>matzo</i>" that crackled between his teeth, and melted under
+his tongue like snow? One minute, and there was no more "<i>matzo</i>." "All
+gone?" Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Feitel's blouse as a cat looks 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;a cunning
+Gentile with one ear-ring, who owns a "<i>samovar</i>." Opanas is a rich
+Epicurean. Along with the mill he has a store&mdash;the same store which once
+belonged to Nachman Veribivker. He took both the mill and the store from
+the Jew by cunning.</p>
+
+<p>The mill went round in its season, but this day it was still. There was
+no wind. A curious Passover 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 "<i>Yahrzeit</i>" after his father. "That means after my
+grandfather," explained Feitel. "Do you understand, or do you not?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"You killed them?" asked Feitel, fearfully, and made a wry face.</p>
+
+<p>"Little ones," replied Fedoka.</p>
+
+<p>"But, they were dead?"</p>
+
+<p>"Without feathers, yellow beaks, little fat bellies."</p>
+
+<p>"But killed, but killed!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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
+confronted them:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>The village elder and the clerk and the magistrate and their wives
+pounced on the children.</p>
+
+<p>"Where were you, you so-and-so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where were we? We were down by the mill."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got punished without knowing
+why.</p>
+
+<p>Feitel's father flogged him with his cap. "A 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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. They rescued
+him. He had marks on his body&mdash;four marks, placed like a cross.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"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?</p>
+
+<p>Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could not contain himself, but
+told him everything&mdash;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 "<i>matzo</i>." Suddenly there
+was a scream, and a cry in a high-pitched soprano:</p>
+
+<p>"Fedoka, Fedoka!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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,'
+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, maybe. Such a festival!" "Who drank? What drank? Bad
+times."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Nachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring, tramped home, thinking only
+of one problem&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;what does he care for winds? What are
+storms to him?</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Elijah_the_Prophet" id="Elijah_the_Prophet"></a>Elijah the Prophet</h2>
+
+
+<p>It is not good to be an only son, to be fretted over by father and
+mother&mdash;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&mdash;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!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;this same Passover?</p>
+
+<p>Passover has come at last&mdash;the dear sweet Passover. I was dressed as
+befitted the son of a man of wealth&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>It is not good to be an only child, and fretted over&mdash;the only one left
+out of seven, and a wealthy man's son into the bargain.</p>
+
+<p>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 '<i>Seder</i>' and ask the 'four questions'!"
+Was I mad? Would I go asleep before the "<i>Seder</i>"?</p>
+
+<p>"Remember, you must not sleep at the '<i>Seder</i>.' If you do, Elijah the
+Prophet will come with a bag on his shoulders. On the two first nights
+of Passover, Elijah the Prophet goes about looking for those who have
+fallen asleep at the '<i>Seder</i>,' and takes them away in his bag." ... Ha!
+Ha! Will I fall asleep at the "<i>Seder</i>"? 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&mdash;'Slaves were
+we.' Tonight, you must eat with us fish and soup and '<i>Matzo</i>'-balls.
+Hush, here is father, back from the synagogue."</p>
+
+<p>"Good '<i>Yom-tov</i>'!"</p>
+
+<p>"Good '<i>Yom-tov</i>'!"</p>
+
+<p>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 off to sleep." Ha! 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 '<i>Haggadah</i>'? How will you sing with me&mdash;'Slaves were we'?" My
+mother never took her eyes off me. She smiled and said: "You will fall
+asleep&mdash;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'!"</p>
+
+<p>Of course I fell asleep.</p>
+
+<p>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
+slowly and so softly that one scarcely heard him. He was a handsome man,
+Elijah the Prophet&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>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 began 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?"</p>
+
+<p>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
+come with me, or you remain here, but fast asleep for ever and ever."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;that would mean that I
+myself must die....</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;but, no more
+than one minute."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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?"</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Getzel" id="Getzel"></a>Getzel</h2>
+
+
+<p>"Sit down, and I will tell you a story about nuts."</p>
+
+<p>"About nuts? About nuts?"</p>
+
+<p>"About nuts."</p>
+
+<p>"Now? War-time?"</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 schoolboys he was looked upon as a young man. He was
+a clumsily built fellow, 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, "<i>Reb</i>" Yankel used to say, was
+stuffed with hay or feathers. The "<i>Rebbe</i>" frequently reminded Getzel
+of his great size and awkwardness. "Goyetzel," "Coarse being,"
+"Bullock's skin," and other such nicknames were bestowed on him by the
+teacher. And he never seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a
+corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a calf. You must know
+that Getzel was fond of eating. 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
+"<i>Cheder</i>," the best of everything. This great clumsy fool was, along
+with everything else, his wealthy mother's darling&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"He ought to have the evil eye averted from him," our teacher used to
+say, behind Getzel's back, of course.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"May I live longer than his head," the teacher put in, after her, and
+pulled Getzel's cap down over his ears.</p>
+
+<p>The whole "<i>Cheder</i>" 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&mdash;one 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&mdash;ten against one. And that was how it came about that
+there were two parties at "<i>Reb</i>" Yankel's "<i>Cheder</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>The ten boys got together in the "<i>Cheder</i>" to play nuts. They turned
+over a bench, placed a row of nuts on the floor, and began rolling other
+nuts downwards. 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Welcome art thou&mdash;a Jew!" cried one of the boys.</p>
+
+<p>"If you speak of the Messiah," put in a second.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Vive</i> Haman!" cried a third.</p>
+
+<p>"And Rashi says, 'The devil brought him here.'" cried a fourth.</p>
+
+<p>"What are you playing? Bank? Then I'll play too," said Getzel, to which
+he got an immediate reply:</p>
+
+<p>"No, with a little cap."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Just for that."</p>
+
+<p>"Then I won't let you play."</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p>"Boys, why don't you do something?" asked one.</p>
+
+<p>"What shall we do?" asked a second.</p>
+
+<p>"Lets break his bones for him," suggested a third.</p>
+
+<p>"All right. Try it on," cried Getzel. He turned up his sleeves, ready
+for work.</p>
+
+<p>And there took place a battle, a fight between the two parties. On the
+one side was the whole "<i>Cheder</i>," on the other Getzel.</p>
+
+<p>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 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>After he left the "<i>Cheder</i>," 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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 reduce them to a
+dust-heap. He enjoyed listening to his own words, and did not stop
+talking to himself, as if he really had some one beside him.</p>
+
+<p>"Listen to me. How far are we going to go?" he asked himself. And he
+answered himself almost in a strange voice:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it all depends on you."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play nuts. Well? What do you say,
+Getzel?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's all the same to me."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"They imagine I can't get on without them. Listen, Getzel, what game are
+we playing?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. Whatever game you like."</p>
+
+<p>"Then let us play 'odd or even.'"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm quite willing."</p>
+
+<p>He shook his cap.</p>
+
+<p>"Now, guess. Odd or even? Well, speak out," he said to himself. He dug
+his elbow into his own ribs, and said to himself:</p>
+
+<p>"Even."</p>
+
+<p>"Even did you say? Who'll thrash you? You have lost. Hand over three
+nuts."</p>
+
+<p>He took three nuts from his left-hand pocket, and put them into the
+right. Again he shook the cap, and again he asked:</p>
+
+<p>"Odd or even this time?"</p>
+
+<p>"Odd."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you say odd? May you suffer for ever! Hand them over here. You have
+lost four nuts."</p>
+
+<p>He changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket to the right, shook the
+cap and said again:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, maybe you'll guess right now. Odd or even?"</p>
+
+<p>"Even."</p>
+
+<p>"Even did you say? May your bones rot! You rascal, hand out here five
+nuts."</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't it enough that I lose. Why do you curse me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Whose fault is it that you are a fool and that you guess as a blind man
+guesses a hole? Well, say again&mdash;odd or even? This time you must be
+right."</p>
+
+<p>"Even."</p>
+
+<p>"Even? May you live long! Hand out seven nuts, you fool, and guess
+again. Odd or even?"</p>
+
+<p>"Even."</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have no more nuts."</p>
+
+<p>"It's a lie, you have!"</p>
+
+<p>"As I am a Jew, I haven't."</p>
+
+<p>"Just look in your pocket, like this."</p>
+
+<p>"There isn't even a sign of one."</p>
+
+<p>"None? Lost all the nuts? Well, what good has it done you? Aren't you a
+fool?"</p>
+
+<p>"Enough! You have won all my nuts, and now you torment me."</p>
+
+<p>"It's good, it's all right. You wanted to win all my nuts, and I have
+won yours."</p>
+
+<p>Goyetzel was well satisfied that Getzel had lost, 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 '<i>Cheder</i>'
+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."</p>
+
+<p>Getzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists, clenched his teeth, and
+spoke to himself, just as if there was some one beside him.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"Nuts? Where have I nuts? Didn't I tell you I haven't a single one?"</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, I forgot that you have no more nuts. Do you know what I would
+advise you, Getzel?"</p>
+
+<p>"For instance?"</p>
+
+<p>"Have you any money?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have. Well, what of that?"</p>
+
+<p>"Buy nuts from me."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean by saying I should buy nuts off you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Fool! Don't you know what buying means? Give me money, and I'll give
+you nuts. Eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I agree to that."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>An experienced card-player, the story goes, half an hour before his
+death called his son&mdash;also a gambler&mdash;to his bedside, and said to him:</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, why don't you play?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have nothing to play with."</p>
+
+<p>"Again you have no nuts, good-for-nothing!"</p>
+
+<p>"You say I am a good-for-nothing. And I say you are a cheat."</p>
+
+<p>"If you call me a cheat again, I will give you a clout in the jaw."</p>
+
+<p>"Let the Lord put it into your head."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Dirty thing, let us play nuts."</p>
+
+<p>"Where have I nuts?"</p>
+
+<p>"Haven't you money? I will sell you another ten."</p>
+
+<p>"Money? Where have I money?"</p>
+
+<p>"No money and no nuts? Oh, I can't stand it. Ha! ha! ha!"</p>
+
+<p>The laugh echoed over the whole field, and re-echoed in the distant
+wood. Getzel was convulsed with laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"What are you laughing at, you Goyetzel you?" he asked himself. And he
+answered himself in a different voice:</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"You yourself brought me to it. You wicked one of wicked ones! You
+scamp! You rascal!"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"Be quiet, at any rate, you Goyetzel, you. And let me not see your
+forbidding countenance."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;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?"</p>
+
+<p>"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:</p>
+
+<p>"Would you also like the kernel of a nut, Getzel? Speak out. Do not be
+ashamed."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>That was how he answered himself. He stretched out his left hand, but
+only smacked it with his right.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you have a plague?"</p>
+
+<p>"Let it be a plague."</p>
+
+<p>"Then have two."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How, for example, do you feel
+while I am eating and you are only looking on?"</p>
+
+<p>"How do I feel? May you have such a year!"</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, I see you've got a temper. Here is a kernel for you."</p>
+
+<p>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 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my advice, and let go of my
+earlock!"</p>
+
+<p>"A plague!"</p>
+
+<p>"Then you'll have no earlock, Getzel."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you, Goyetzel, will have no ear."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! Oh!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+
+<p class="c smcap top10">Epilogue</p>
+
+<p>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 victorious. 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:</p>
+
+<p>"That's right. It's a good deed."</p>
+
+<p>"Neither you&mdash;nor me."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="A_Lost_LAg_Beomer" id="A_Lost_LAg_Beomer"></a>A Lost "L'Ag Beomer"</h2>
+
+
+<p>Our teacher, "<i>Reb</i>" Nissel the small one&mdash;so called on account of his
+size&mdash;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 himself. 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.</p>
+
+<p>This period of our schooldays might be called the Tyranny of the
+Assistants.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>And it came to pass that we were under the yoke of the assistants. One
+year, we had a cold "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to become war-like on the
+"<i>L'ag Beomer</i>." 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 "<i>Chedorim</i>," oppressed by fears of the master, and trembling
+under the whips of the assistants, when "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"One, two, three, four!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Jewish children</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Learn the '<i>Torah</i>,'</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Believe in miracles,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Are not afraid.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hear, O Israel! Nothing matters.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">We are not afraid of any one,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Excepting God."</span><br />
+</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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 "<i>Cheder</i>" armed from
+head to foot, and our pockets bulging out with good things&mdash;rolls,
+cakes, boiled eggs, goose-fat, cherry-wine, fruit, fowls, livers, tea
+and sugar, and preserves and jam, and also many "<i>groschens</i>" 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 commanded us.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"Hurrah for the sea-cats!" we shouted in one voice. We took hands and
+went forward, like giants, strong and courageous.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>We called the Free School boys sea-cats because they were short little
+children in the A B C class. They appeared to us "<i>Chumash</i>" boys like
+flies, ants. We imagined that with one blow&mdash;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 "<i>Chumash</i>" boys, warriors with long legs!</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 assistants urged us forward.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Excellent cherry-wine," they said, passing round the bottles, and
+letting the liquid gurgle down their throats. "Splendid liquor. The best
+I ever tasted."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Where are the assistants? Where is the food&mdash;where is it?"</p>
+
+<p>The boys began to murmur against the assistants.</p>
+
+<p>"It is a dirty trick to take all our food from us, and our cherry-wine
+and our few '<i>groschens</i>,' and to leave us here in the desert, cold and
+hungry. May the devil take them!"</p>
+
+<p>"May a bad end come to the assistants!"</p>
+
+<p>"May the cholera strike down all the assistants in the world!"</p>
+
+<p>"May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest nails!"</p>
+
+<p>"Hush. Let there be silence. Here come our foes, our enemies."</p>
+
+<p>"Little squirrels with big sticks."</p>
+
+<p>"The sea-cats&mdash;the sea-cats!"</p>
+
+<p>"Hurrah for the sea-cats!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>If it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength nor smartness are of
+any avail. Listen to what can happen.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Pay out the '<i>Chumash</i>' boys. Beat them, the boys with the long legs."</p>
+
+<p>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 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?</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Pay back the '<i>Chumash</i>' boys. Beat them, beat them, the boys with the
+long legs."</p>
+
+<p>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
+Mazapevka. And they, the little squirrels&mdash;may they burn!&mdash;ran after us,
+shouting and yelling and laughing at us, right on top of us.</p>
+
+<p>"Hurrah! '<i>Chumash</i>' boys! Hurrah! Big boys!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;we were each whipped in the true style. This was
+a mere addition, as if we had not had enough.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;may
+they suffer for it, Father of the Universe!&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>And that was how our holiday ended up. It was a dark, dreary, lost
+"<i>L'ag Beomer</i>."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Murderers" id="Murderers"></a>Murderers</h2>
+
+
+<p>"Is he still snoring?"</p>
+
+<p>"And how snoring!"</p>
+
+<p>"May he perish!"</p>
+
+<p>"Wake him up. Wake him up."</p>
+
+<p>"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!"</p>
+
+<p>"Get up, my little bird."</p>
+
+<p>"Open your little eyes."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Just see how he looks."</p>
+
+<p>"Like a sinner."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you not recognize us?"</p>
+
+<p>"Have you forgotten that it is '<i>L'ag Beomer</i>' today?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, today is '<i>L'ag Beomer</i>.'"</p>
+
+<p>"A good '<i>Yom-tov</i>' to you. What do you want?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want something for the party."</p>
+
+<p>"What am I to give you? My troubles? Or my aches?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you ever come out, or not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Leib-Dreib-Obderick!"</p>
+
+<p>"The day is flying!"</p>
+
+<p>"Quicker! Quicker!"</p>
+
+<p>"Like the wind."</p>
+
+<p>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,
+joyful, to my waiting comrades. All together we flew down the hill to
+the "<i>Cheder</i>."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The "<i>Cheder</i>" 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
+covered with delicacies. We had never had such a party as we were going
+to have that "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>." We had wine and brandy, for which we had
+to 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.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean by saying he took it himself?"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you understand, peasant's head? He took it from the shelf when no
+one was looking."</p>
+
+<p>"Gracious me! That means he stole?"</p>
+
+<p>"Fool of the night! Well, what then?"</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean? Then he is a thief?"</p>
+
+<p>"For the sake of the party, fool."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it a good deed to steal for that?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly. What do you say to the wise one of the 'Four questions'?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where is it written?"</p>
+
+<p>"He wants us to tell him where it is written?"</p>
+
+<p>"Tell him it is written in the Book of Jests."</p>
+
+<p>"In the chapter called 'And he took.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Beginning with the words 'Bim-bom.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! ha! ha!"</p>
+
+<p>"Hush, children, Mazeppa comes."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 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.</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Rebbe</i>,' Yossel-Yakov-Yossels thumped me."</p>
+
+<p>"Lie down."</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Rebbe</i>,' it's a lie. He first kicked me in the side."</p>
+
+<p>"Lie down."</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Rebbe</i>,' Chayim-Berrel Lippes put out his tongue at me."</p>
+
+<p>"Lie down."</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Rebbe</i>,' it's a lie of lies. He made a noise at me."</p>
+
+<p>"Lie down."</p>
+
+<p>And you had to lie down. Nothing would avail you. Even Elya the red one,
+who is already "<i>Bar-mitzvah</i>," and is engaged to be married, and wears
+a silver watch&mdash;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 "<i>Rebbe</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Amen! May it be so! From your mouth into God's ears!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Now, children, wash your hands and sit down to the party. After grace I
+will let you go for a walk."</p>
+
+<p>We used to hold our "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>" party outside the town, in the open
+air, on the bare earth, under God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of
+bread to the birds. Let them also know that it is "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Eat in peace," he said to us, after we had pronounced the blessing.</p>
+
+<p>"Come and eat with us," we replied out of politeness.</p>
+
+<p>"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, 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Long life to you, children. May God grant that we be alive next year,
+and&mdash;and.... Haven't you anything to bite? Well, in honour of '<i>L'ag
+Beomer</i>' I will wash my hands and eat with you."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;may you open the second bottle. Take glasses and
+drink to long life. May God grant that&mdash;that&mdash;&mdash;" (He licked his lips.
+His eyes were closing.) "All good to the children of Israel."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Having eaten and said grace, Mazeppa turned to us, his tongue failing
+him as he spoke:</p>
+
+<p>"Then we have carried out the duty of eating together on '<i>L'ag
+Beomer</i>.' Well, and what next, eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Now we will go for the walk."</p>
+
+<p>"For the walk, eh? Excellent. Where do we go?"</p>
+
+<p>"To the black forest."</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>As he spoke, he sniffed the air that was not yet either pleasant or
+pungent.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>That Mazeppa had once been a mischievous boy and had had a teacher we
+could not believe. It was curious. Mazeppa playful? We exchanged
+glances, and giggled softly. We tried to imagine Mazeppa playful and
+having a teacher. And did his teacher also&mdash;&mdash;? We were afraid to think
+of such a thing. But Elya stopped to ask a question:</p>
+
+<p>"'<i>Rebbe</i>,' did your teacher also flog you as you flog us?"</p>
+
+<p>"What? And what sort of floggings? Ha! ha!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The fields were beautiful&mdash;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 "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>." We
+sought shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a thick tree. We
+sat down on the ground in a row, the "<i>Rebbe</i>" in the middle.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"You are dear, golden children.... Jewish children.... Saints.... I love
+you, and you love me.... Oh yes, you l-love me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Like a pain in the eyes," replied Elya.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I know you l-love me," went on the teacher.</p>
+
+<p>"May the Lord love you as we do," said Elya.</p>
+
+<p>We were frightened, and whispered to Elya:</p>
+
+<p>"The Lord be with you!"</p>
+
+<p>"Fools!" he said with a laugh. "What are you afraid of? Don't you see he
+is drunk?"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazeppa?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Children," said Elya to us, "why are we sitting like lumps of stone?
+Let us think of a punishment for Mazeppa."</p>
+
+<p>A great fear fell upon us.</p>
+
+<p>"Fools, what are you afraid of?" he went on. "He is now like a dead
+body, a corpse."</p>
+
+<p>We trembled still more. Elya went on:</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"What would you do to him?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing. I will only frighten him."</p>
+
+<p>"How will you frighten him?"</p>
+
+<p>"You shall soon see." And he got up from the ground. He went over to
+the teacher, took off his leather strap and said to us:</p>
+
+<p>"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: "'<i>Rebbe</i>,' murderers!"</p>
+
+<p>"What will happen?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout, 'Hear, O Israel!'"</p>
+
+<p>"How long will he shout?"</p>
+
+<p>"Until he gets used to it."</p>
+
+<p>Without another word, Elya tied the "<i>Rebbe</i>" to the tree by the hands.
+We stood looking on, and a shudder passed over our bodies.</p>
+
+<p>Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazeppa?</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>We took hands and danced around the sleeping Mazeppa like savages. We
+danced and leaped and sang like lunatics.</p>
+
+<p>We stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher and shouted into his ear
+in a voice to waken the dead:</p>
+
+<p>"Help, '<i>Rebbe</i>'! Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>We flew off together, like arrows from bows. We were afraid to stop a
+moment. We were even afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon
+us, even upon Elya, although he never ceased from shouting at us:</p>
+
+<p>"Donkeys, fools, animals! Why do you run?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why do you run?"</p>
+
+<p>"When you run I run too."</p>
+
+<p>We got into the town full of excitement, and still shouting:</p>
+
+<p>"Murderers! Murderers!"</p>
+
+<p>When the people saw us running, they ran after us. Seeing them running
+another crowd ran after them.</p>
+
+<p>"Why are you running?"</p>
+
+<p>"How are we to know? Others run, and we run too."</p>
+
+<p>After some time, one of our boys stopped. And seeing him, we also
+stopped, but still shouted:</p>
+
+<p>"Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"</p>
+
+<p>"Where? Where? Where?"</p>
+
+<p>"There, in the black forest, murderers beset us. They bound our teacher
+to a tree, and God knows if he is still alive."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>If you envy us because we are free, because we do not go to "<i>Cheder</i>"
+(the "<i>Rebbe</i>" is lying ill), it is for nothing&mdash;for nothing. No one
+knows whom the shoe pinches&mdash;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 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&mdash;that same Elya!</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p class="c smcap top10">Epilogue</p>
+
+<p>When the "<i>Rebbe</i>" recovered (he was ill six weeks, in the height of
+fever, and babbled constantly of murderers) and we went back to
+"<i>Cheder</i>," 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. Suddenly, he stopped
+us in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him again the story
+of that "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>" 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>The "<i>Rebbe</i>" listened to us with closed eyes. Then he sighed, and asked
+us suddenly:</p>
+
+<p>"Are you quite sure they were murderers?"</p>
+
+<p>"What else were they?"</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps bandits?"</p>
+
+<p>And the teacher's eyes sought the distance. And we imagined that a
+curiously cunning smile was hovering around his thick lips.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Three_Little_Heads" id="Three_Little_Heads"></a>Three Little Heads</h2>
+
+
+<p>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 "<i>Shevuous</i>," of a rare group of three pretty little heads, of
+three poor naked, barefoot Jewish children. 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 asking 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 responsible for
+them&mdash;for the existence of three little superfluous mortals in the
+world.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;may
+it remain far from us!&mdash;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 Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise people say&mdash;when
+everything, everything will be different. 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 pasting 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you ever give up singing those Gentile songs? Such a man! And how
+he loves the Gentiles. Since we have come to this big town, he has
+almost become a Gentile."</p>
+
+<p>All three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke, were born and
+brought up in the same place&mdash;between the wall and the stove. They
+always 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&mdash;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&mdash;thousands of them&mdash;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&mdash;such a
+good father. He was gold. The mother was also gold, but she was cross.
+One got a smack from her sometimes, 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 mothers." 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&mdash;to the window.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 upwards, very high, and see a
+narrow blue stripe, like a long blue ribbon.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you see, children?" says Abramtzig. He knows. He goes to "<i>Cheder</i>."
+He is learning "<i>Kometz Aleph</i>." The "<i>Cheder</i>" is not far away, in the
+next house, that is to say, in the next room. Ah, what stories Abramtzig
+tells about the "<i>Cheder</i>"! He tells how he saw with his own eyes&mdash;may
+he see all that is good!&mdash;a big building, with windows from top to
+bottom. Abramtzig swears that he saw&mdash;may he see all that is good!&mdash;a
+chimney&mdash;a high chimney from which there came out smoke. Abramtzig tells
+that he saw with his own eyes&mdash;may he see all that is good!&mdash;a machine
+that sewed without hands. Abramtzig tells that he saw with his own
+eyes&mdash;may he see all that is good!&mdash;a car that went along without
+horses. And many more wonderful things Abramtzig tells from the
+"<i>Cheder</i>." And he swears, just as his mother swears&mdash;that he may see
+all that is good. And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and sigh. They
+envy Abramtzig because he knows everything&mdash;everything.</p>
+
+<p>For instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree grows. It is true he never saw
+a tree growing. There are no trees in the street&mdash;none. But he knows&mdash;he
+heard it at "<i>Cheder</i>"&mdash;that fruit grows on a tree, for which reason one
+makes the blessing&mdash;"Who hast created the fruit of the tree." Abramtzig
+knows&mdash;what does he not know?&mdash;that potatoes and cucumbers and onions
+and garlic grow on the ground. And that's why one says the blessing over
+them&mdash;"Who hast created the fruit of the ground." Abramtzig knows
+everything. 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&mdash;nothing&mdash;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
+thousands of windows, and machines that go without hands. And in the
+streets there are cars that go without horses. And beyond these,
+nothing&mdash;nothing.</p>
+
+<p>Even a little bird is seldom seen here. Sometimes an odd sparrow strays
+in&mdash;grey as the grey walls. He picks, picks at the stones. He spreads
+out his wings and flies away. Fowls? The children 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 creature, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other animal,
+excepting the cat. They have a cat of their own&mdash;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&mdash;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 behind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a
+story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;may no evil eye rest on
+them! Next year, if God wills it, they will go off to America&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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, 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.</p>
+
+<p>That is what Abramtzig tells. And Moshetzig'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 "<i>Hashono Rabo</i>" and "<i>Shevuous</i>," the
+sky opens. It is true he himself never saw the sky opening, because
+there is no sky near them. But his comrades saw it. They swore&mdash;may they
+see all that is good!&mdash;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, beyond 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, is it true that in the very middle of '<i>Shevuous</i>' night the
+sky opens?"</p>
+
+<p>"I will open your head for you."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;everything that an eye could see, and a heart
+desire&mdash;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&mdash;curious, long, sweet-smelling grass.</p>
+
+<p>And all three children gathered around their father.</p>
+
+<p>"Father, what is it&mdash;that?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is grass."</p>
+
+<p>"What is grass?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is a bunch of greens for '<i>Shevuous</i>.' Jews need grass for
+'<i>Shevuous</i>.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Where do they get it, father?"</p>
+
+<p>"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 delighted; it was green and smelt
+sweet. He said to the mother gaily, as is his way:</p>
+
+<p>"Pessa, good '<i>Yom-tov</i>' to you!"</p>
+
+<p>"Good luck! A new thing! The young devils will now have something to
+make a mess with," replied 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.</p>
+
+<p>The three pretty heads looked at the mother, and at the father, and at
+one another. The moment their parents turned away, they threw themselves
+on the floor, and put their faces to the sweet-smelling grass. They
+kissed it&mdash;the green grass that Jews need for "<i>Shevuous</i>" and which is
+sold at the market.</p>
+
+<p>Everything is to be found at the market, even greens. The father buys
+everything. Jews want everything, even greens&mdash;even greens.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Greens_for_Shevuous" id="Greens_for_Shevuous"></a>Greens for "Shevuous"</h2>
+
+
+<p>On the eve of "<i>Shevuous</i>," I induced my mother&mdash;peace be unto her!&mdash;to
+let me go off outside the town, by myself, to gather greens for the
+Festival.</p>
+
+<p>And my mother let me go off alone to gather the greens for the Festival.
+May she have a bright Paradise for that!</p>
+
+<p>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, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give
+me orders? And whom would I pay heed to? I was free&mdash;I was free.</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Shevuous</i>." 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&mdash;all were mine. I owned
+everything, and could do what I liked with it&mdash;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&mdash;all that I could and would do.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>First of all I was displeased with the tall giants with the yellow
+hats&mdash;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&mdash;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 possession of
+me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!</p>
+
+<p>I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting the green boughs
+for the Festival&mdash;pocket-knife with two blades, and a sword&mdash;a wooden
+sword, but a sharp one.</p>
+
+<p>This sword had remained with me after "<i>L'ag Beomer</i>." And although I
+had carried it with me when I had gone with my comrades to do battle
+outside 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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
+down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them.</p>
+
+<p>During a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is carried away by
+excitement, one cuts down everything 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 before,
+immediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the
+more excited I became. 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&mdash;the young peas in the fat little pods, the tiny
+cucumbers that were just showing above ground. These excited me by their
+silence 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 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....</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;I should be such a tyrant, such a murderer....</p>
+
+<p>"Vengeance," I shouted without ceasing, "vengeance. 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 today. And for the Scrolls of the Law that were torn, and for
+the ... Oh! oh! oh! Help! Help! Who has me by the ear?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 melons
+and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes and other vegetables.
+He made a good living 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 "<i>Succoth</i>" time, he used to begin to pay
+it back by degrees. These payments used to be entered 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 '<i>rouble</i>' from Okhrim.
+Another 'rouble' from Okhrim. Two 'roubles' from Okhrim. Half a
+'<i>rouble</i>' from Okhrim. A sack of potatoes from Okhrim," and so on....
+And though my mother was not rich&mdash;a widow with children, who lived by
+money-lending&mdash;she took no interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in
+garden-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We never quarrelled with
+him.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest is bad."</p>
+
+<p>My mother forgave him, and told him not to be greedy next year.</p>
+
+<p>"You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may trust me," Okhrim replied. And
+he kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic.
+We had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard
+our neighbours say, 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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 "'<i>Purim</i>' presents" from one to the other. The
+smacks pained, and the words "'<i>Purim</i>' presents" gnawed at my brain. I
+could not understand why she said "'<i>Purim</i>' presents."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okhrim and
+myself&mdash;a sort of sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We
+rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his
+language, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand
+mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had
+to ask my mother to be our interpreter.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some grapes."</p>
+
+<p>"Where is he going to get them? There are no grapes growing in a
+vegetable garden."</p>
+
+<p>"Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?"</p>
+
+<p>"Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables."</p>
+
+<p>"Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why&mdash;why&mdash;why? You are a fool," cried my mother, and gave me a smack in
+the face.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child," said Okhrim, defending me.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! Oh! Oh! Who is pulling me by the ear?"</p>
+
+<p>It was only after Okhrim had given me a few good thumps and several
+resounding smacks that we encountered each other's eyes and recognized
+one another. We were both so astonished that we were speechless.</p>
+
+<p>"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 overcome that the tears filled
+his eyes. He stood facing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one
+solitary question:</p>
+
+<p>"Why have you done this to me?"</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Why? Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"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
+everything, and left me entirely in her hands.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 ground, and torn the tops off the little onions
+and the garlic that were just showing above the earth.</p>
+
+<p>"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abraham&mdash;why?"</p>
+
+<p>Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in his throat and choked him.</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Shevuous</i>," and what the teacher gave me after "<i>Shevuous</i>."
+... And the shame of it all. I was reminded of it all the year round by
+the boys at "<i>Cheder</i>." They gave me a nickname&mdash;"The Gardener." I was
+Yossel "the gardener."</p>
+
+<p>This nickname stuck to me almost until the day I was married.</p>
+
+<p>That is how I went to gather greens for "<i>Shevuous</i>."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Another_Page_from_The_Song_of_Songs" id="Another_Page_from_The_Song_of_Songs"></a>Another Page from "The Song of Songs"</h2>
+
+
+<p>"Quicker, Busie, quicker!" I said to her the day before the
+"<i>Shevuous</i>." 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&mdash;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&mdash;over there begins my real property."</p>
+
+<p>"Your property?"</p>
+
+<p>"I mean the Levada&mdash;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 to the other side of the mountain of darkness."</p>
+
+<p>"And from there," puts in Busie, "you walk seven miles until you come to
+a little stream."</p>
+
+<p>"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that
+I come to the little stream."</p>
+
+<p>"You swim across the water, and count seven times seven."</p>
+
+<p>"And there appears before me a little old man with a long beard."</p>
+
+<p>"He asks you: 'What is your desire?'"</p>
+
+<p>"I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daughter.'"</p>
+
+<p>Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her.</p>
+
+<p>"Busie, why are you running off?"</p>
+
+<p>Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her
+excepting the part about the Queen's daughter.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told you once. But if you have
+forgotten, I will tell you again.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 live
+together like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and
+brother.</p>
+
+<p>Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me?</p>
+
+<p>It happened once that we two were left alone in the house&mdash;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&mdash;fine stories of "<i>Cheder</i>," or from the "Arabian Nights."
+She crept close to me, and put her hand into mine.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me something, Shemak, tell me."</p>
+
+<p>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 shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand
+from mine.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it, Busie?"</p>
+
+<p>"We must not."</p>
+
+<p>"What must we not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Hold each other's hands."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not? Who told you that?"</p>
+
+<p>"I know it myself."</p>
+
+<p>"Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, if we were sister and brother," cried Busie. And I imagined I heard
+in her voice the words from the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as
+my brother."</p>
+
+<p>It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the "Song of
+Songs."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the "<i>Shevuous</i>." 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 excepting 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going
+on all around us."</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie."</p>
+
+<p>No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed
+before me? Why does she grow red?</p>
+
+<p>"There," says Busie to me&mdash;"over there, on the other side of the
+bridge." And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in
+the "Song of Songs."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the
+villages.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>And we are at the little bridge.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of the little bridge are
+shaking. Busie is afraid.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, Busie, you are a&mdash;&mdash; 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&mdash;that's right."</p>
+
+<p>No more little bridge.</p>
+
+<p>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 imagine she is talking to me in the words from the "Song of Songs":</p>
+
+<p>"My beloved is mine, and I am his."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;the most
+fragrant spices in the world are there. We walked along, embraced&mdash;we
+two alone in the Garden of Eden.</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>Shevuous</i>'?"</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;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:</p>
+
+<p>"What do you think?" He looked over his silver 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 "<i>Shevuous</i>."</p>
+
+<p>Father: "What do you say?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother: "What do you say?"</p>
+
+<p>Father: "Shall we let them go?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother: "Why should we not let them go?"</p>
+
+<p>Father: "Do I say we should not?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother: "What then are you saying?"</p>
+
+<p>Father: "I am saying that we should let them go."</p>
+
+<p>Mother: "Why should they not go?"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a
+stream, a stream, a stream.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you see those trees? Do you see this sand? Do you see that little
+hill?"</p>
+
+<p>"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 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 deserts.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 pronouncing 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Will no one see us?" asks Busie, catching hold of my hand.</p>
+
+<p>"No one&mdash;no one. We shall see every one, but no one will see us."</p>
+
+<p>"In that case, I have something to ask you."</p>
+
+<p>"A request?"</p>
+
+<p>"A little request."</p>
+
+<p>But I know her little request&mdash;to fly off to where her mother is, and
+play a little trick on her step-father.</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?" I say to her. "With the greatest of pleasure. You may leave
+it to me, little fool. I can do something which they will not forget in
+a hurry."</p>
+
+<p>"Not them, him alone," pleads Busie. But I do not give in so readily.
+When I get into a temper 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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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":</p>
+
+<p>"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly&mdash;How do my father and mother come here?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>My father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver
+strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is
+waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are
+like paralysed. What are my parents doing here?</p>
+
+<p>They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident
+had befallen us&mdash;God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a
+stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.</p>
+
+<p>"And where are your green boughs?"</p>
+
+<p>"What green boughs?"</p>
+
+<p>"The green boughs that you went to gather for the '<i>Shevuous</i>'
+decorations."</p>
+
+<p>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":</p>
+
+<p>"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '<i>Shevuous</i>' 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."</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>Curious, curious father and mother!</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="A_Pity_for_the_Living" id="A_Pity_for_the_Living"></a>A Pity for the Living</h2>
+
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>That was what my mother said to me on the eve of "<i>Shevuous</i>," 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 struggled 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!"</p>
+
+<p>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
+simmered."</p>
+
+<p>"It's a pity," I said to my mother. "It's a pity for the living."</p>
+
+<p>"Of whom is it a pity?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's a pity of the little fishes."</p>
+
+<p>"Who told you that?"</p>
+
+<p>"The teacher."</p>
+
+<p>"The teacher?"</p>
+
+<p>She exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both
+laughed aloud.</p>
+
+<p>"You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater fool. Ha! ha! Scrape
+the horse-radish, scrape away."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;that was news to me.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I have a comrade, Pinalle, the "<i>Shochet's</i>" 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 "<i>Shochet</i>," 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Be still, you wretch!"</p>
+
+<p>And he obeyed and remained silent.</p>
+
+<p>When the "<i>Shochet</i>" woke up, he washed his 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 "<i>Shochet</i>" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust
+back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little
+feathers, pronounced a blessing&mdash;heck! the knife was drawn across his
+throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.</p>
+
+<p>"Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my comrade.</p>
+
+<p>"Why is he a heathen?"</p>
+
+<p>"He has in him no pity for the living."</p>
+
+<p>"I did not know you were so clever," said my comrade, and he pulled a
+long nose right into my face.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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. 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: "A cat's
+brains!"</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the
+towel."</p>
+
+<p>That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to me. And she added:</p>
+
+<p>"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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, filling 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Here, Sirko!"</p>
+
+<p>The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if he had been scalded
+again, took his tail between his legs and ran away&mdash;away.</p>
+
+<p>"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?"</p>
+
+<p>A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows nothing of pity for the
+living.</p>
+
+<p>My father saw me running after the dog and he pounced down on me.</p>
+
+<p>"Go into '<i>Cheder</i>,' dog-beater."</p>
+
+<p>Then I was the dog-beater.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>It was all about two little birds&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"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, until they died.</p>
+
+<p>I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two boys.</p>
+
+<p>"What are you doing here?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"And if they are only birds? Have you no pity for the living&mdash;no mercy
+for the little birds?"</p>
+
+<p>The boys looked curiously at one another, and as if they had already
+made up their minds in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me.</p>
+
+<p>When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, and my father gave me
+the good beating I deserved.</p>
+
+<p>"Ragged fool!" cried my mother.</p>
+
+<p>I forgave her for the "ragged fool," but why did she also beat me?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Why was I beaten? Does not our teacher himself 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 emphatically.</p>
+
+<p>"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself would slay him."</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>And not only cows and other animals and fowls, but do not men slaughter
+one another? At the time when we had the "<i>Pogrom</i>," 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?</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you in hand."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 &mdash;closer and
+closer. She would put her head on my shoulder. "I love Uncle Bebebe."</p>
+
+<p>Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Uncle Bebebe to this day.
+When she sees me, she says she is again reminded of her Peralle.</p>
+
+<p>My mother is angry with her for weeping.</p>
+
+<p>"We must not weep," says my mother. "We must not sin. We must
+forget&mdash;forget."</p>
+
+<p>That is what my mother says. She interrupts Krenni in the middle and
+drives me off.</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't get into our eyes, we won't remember that which we must
+not."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;of their own accord.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="The_Tabernacle" id="The_Tabernacle"></a>The Tabernacle</h2>
+
+
+<p>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 comprehend everything.</p>
+
+<p>"Blessed hands" is the name bestowed on these fortunate beings. The
+world envies, honours and respects them.</p>
+
+<p>There was such a man in our town, Kassrillevka. They called him
+Moshe-for-once, because, whatever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed:</p>
+
+<p>"It is such-and-such a thing for once."</p>
+
+<p>A new cantor in the synagogue&mdash;he is a cantor for once.</p>
+
+<p>Some one is carrying a turkey for the Passover&mdash;it is a turkey for once.</p>
+
+<p>"There will be a fine frost tomorrow."</p>
+
+<p>"A fine frost for once."</p>
+
+<p>"There were blows exchanged at the meeting."</p>
+
+<p>"Good blows for once."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, Jews, I am a poor man."</p>
+
+<p>"A poor man for once."</p>
+
+<p>And so of everything.</p>
+
+<p>Moshe was a&mdash;&mdash; I cannot tell you what Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what
+he lived by it would be hard to say. He lived as many thousands of Jews
+live in Kassrillevka&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>That's the sort of a man Moshe-for-once was.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>There wasn't a thing in the world Moshe-for-once could not make&mdash;a
+house, or a clock, or a machine, a lamp, a spinning-top, a tap, a
+mirror, a cage, and what not.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>That Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle. When a lock went wrong
+they came to Moshe. When the clock stopped, or the tap of the
+"<i>Samovar</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>True, the broken lock was thrown away, the clock had to be sent to a
+watchmaker, and the "<i>Samovar</i>" 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 fortune 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, without a garden, without a yard, without a
+paling, without a body, and without life.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it's a hut," said my mother, pretending to be merry. But I saw
+tears in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Do not sin," said my father, who was black as the earth. "Thank God for
+this."</p>
+
+<p>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 eating, they stared right into his mouth.</p>
+
+<p>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
+handsomer 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 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.</p>
+
+<p>I thought it was very wrong of the Father of the Universe to have taken
+our house from us.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"I ask you&mdash;may your health increase!&mdash;what are we going to do with the
+Tabernacle?" asked my mother of my father some time before the Feast of
+Tabernacles.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Hush! We have here a neighbour called Moshe."</p>
+
+<p>"Moshe-for-once?" asked my mother. And I do not know whether she was
+making fun or was in earnest. 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, looking for a spot on which to erect a
+Tabernacle.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Hershke Mamtzes' house was all right. It had 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 underneath.
+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.</p>
+
+<p>"Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle, '<i>Reb</i>' 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 Tabernacle for once. The main
+thing was to get the material.</p>
+
+<p>"There will be materials. Have you the tools?" asked Hershke.</p>
+
+<p>"The tools will be found. Have you the timber?" asked Moshe.</p>
+
+<p>"There is timber. Have you the nails?" asked Hershke.</p>
+
+<p>"Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs?" asked Moshe.</p>
+
+<p>"Somehow, you are a little too so-so today," said Hershke.</p>
+
+<p>"A little too what?" asked Moshe. They looked each other straight in the
+eyes, and both burst out laughing.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Of course this put me into the seventh heaven of delight. Was it a
+trifle to help build the Tabernacle? 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good as any sin."</p>
+
+<p>And because I was greatly absorbed in the work, I did not notice how and
+by what miracle the Tabernacle came into being.</p>
+
+<p>"Come and see the Tabernacle we have built," 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Had you at any rate a little help from him?"</p>
+
+<p>"It was a help, for once," replied Moshe, looking up at the roof of the
+Tabernacle with anxious eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"If only our Hershke brings us the fir-boughs, it will be a Tabernacle
+for once."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Get out of this. Are you here again, foolish goats? Get off."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 cud. I had my revenge of them, and I said
+to them:</p>
+
+<p>"Why don't you take the fir-boughs now, foolish goats?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>My mother&mdash;peace be unto her!&mdash;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 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 without 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Come, let us go. It is time we went to synagogue to pray."</p>
+
+<p>I took the prayer-books, and we went off. Mother remained at home to
+pray. I knew what she would do&mdash;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. Nevertheless, 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 "<i>Cheder</i>." And looking at my mother, with her lovely face
+that looked lovelier above the lovely silk shawl she wore, with her
+large, beautiful, careworn eyes, my heart was filled with pain that such
+lovely eyes should be tear-stained always&mdash;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 diamonds and brilliants. Or let the
+Messiah come, and we would go back to the Land of Israel, where we
+should all be happy.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Thou hast chosen us above all peoples, Us hast Thou chosen Of all the
+nations."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;the citron. Ah, who
+could compare with me? Who could compare with me?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>After father, Moshe-for-once pronounced the blessing over the wine. It
+was not the same blessing as my father's&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;" 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 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&mdash;a real destruction.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"You 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."</p>
+
+<p>"It was a Tabernacle for once," replied Moshe-for-once. He stood like
+one beaten, looking upwards, to see whence the destruction had come. "It
+was a Tabernacle for once."</p>
+
+<p>"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:</p>
+
+<p>"A Tabernacle for once."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="The_Dead_Citron" id="The_Dead_Citron"></a>The Dead Citron</h2>
+
+
+<p>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 "<i>Cheder</i>" I was
+Lieb-Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our "<i>Cheder</i>" every boy has
+a nickname. For instance&mdash;"Mottel-Kappotel," "Meyer-Dreyer,"
+"Mendel-Fendel," "Chayim-Clayim," "Itzig-Shpitzig," "Berel-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 "<i>Cheder</i>"&mdash;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&mdash;a poor boy&mdash;sang a song to tease me&mdash;</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"Just so! Just so!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give it to him.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Punch him.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bang him.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His little limbs,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His little limbs.</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Just so! Just so!</span><br />
+</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Just a word&mdash;whenever you meet the name Leibel in this story, you will
+know it refers to me.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;distributing cotton-wool.</p>
+
+<p>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." I often try to
+picture to myself what would happen if I had no nose at all. If people
+had no noses, what would they look like? Then the question is&mdash;? But I
+was going to tell you the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered
+off 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>My father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at an insurance company's
+office for many years. He gets five and a half "<i>roubles</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel overheard the following
+conversation between his father and his mother.</p>
+
+<p>He: "Though the world turn upside down, I must have a citron this year!"</p>
+
+<p>She: "The world will not turn upside down, and you will have no citron."</p>
+
+<p>He: "That's what you say. But supposing I have already been promised
+something towards a citron?"</p>
+
+<p>She: "It will have to be written into the books of Jests. In the month
+called after the town of Kreminitz a miracle happened&mdash;a bear died in
+the forest. But what then? If I do not believe it, I shall not be a
+great heretic either."</p>
+
+<p>He: "You may believe or not. I tell you that this Feast of Tabernacles,
+we shall have a citron of our own."</p>
+
+<p>She: "Amen! May it be so! From your mouth into God's ears!"</p>
+
+<p>"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 "<i>Cheder</i>," he at once
+told every one that this year his father would have his own palm and
+citron. But no one believed him.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you say to his father?" asked the young scamps of one another.
+"Such a man&mdash;such a beggar amongst beggars desires to have a citron of
+his own. He must imagine it is a lemon, or a '<i>groschen</i>' apple."</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Reb</i>" Henzel sitting at the table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing
+his father. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful
+perfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The cap which "<i>Reb</i>" 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&mdash;only one,
+and it belonged to "<i>Reb</i>" 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&mdash;only
+two, the tassels would have been mine.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Reb</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Take this citron, '<i>Reb</i>' Moshe-Yankel. You will enjoy it."</p>
+
+<p>"A good one?" asked my father, examining the citron on all sides, as one
+might examine a diamond. His hands trembled with joy.</p>
+
+<p>"And what a good one," replied "<i>Reb</i>" Henzel, and the tassels of his
+cap shook with his laughter.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a dear one.</p>
+
+<p>Basse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand slowly to take hold of the
+citron. But she did not get it.</p>
+
+<p>"Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you like."</p>
+
+<p>Basse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the citron. I was not even
+allowed to sniff it. I was not allowed to go too near it, or even to
+look at it.</p>
+
+<p>"He is here, too," said my mother. "Only let him go near it, and he will
+at once bite the top off the citron."</p>
+
+<p>"The Lord forbid!" cried my father.</p>
+
+<p>"The Lord preserve us!" echoed "<i>Reb</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Welcome art thou, '<i>Reb</i>' citron! Into the box&mdash;into the box!"</p>
+
+<p>The box was carefully closed, and placed in the glass cupboard. The door
+was closed over on it, and good-bye!</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid the heathen"&mdash;that was meant for me&mdash;"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.</p>
+
+<p>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
+everything, looks into everybody's eyes, and licks herself&mdash;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 the young scamp
+wanted to get hold of the citron to bite off its top.</p>
+
+<p>"To '<i>Cheder</i>,' you blackguard! May you never be thought of, you scamp!"</p>
+
+<p>Leibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went off to "<i>Cheder</i>."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The few words his mother had said to his father about his biting off the
+top of the citron burned themselves into Leibel's heart, and ate into
+his bones like a deadly poison.</p>
+
+<p>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 hand. "You do not recognize me, foolish
+boy? It is I&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>Leibel got up in the morning, washed his hands, and began to say his
+prayers. He took his breakfast, and was going off to "<i>Cheder</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p>One morning, when Leibel got up, he found himself alone in the house.
+His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market.
+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&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;to bite it off, and stick it on again with spittle? You may
+believe me or not&mdash;that is your affair&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;useless." Leibel 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?"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 Tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm
+before any one else, so that he might be able to drink tea with milk and
+enjoy the Festival.</p>
+
+<p>"Zalmen wants the palm and the citron," said my mother to my father.</p>
+
+<p>"Open the cupboard, and take out the box, but carefully," said my
+father.</p>
+
+<p>He himself stood on a chair and took down from the top shelf the palm,
+and brought it to the Tabernacle to the carpenter.</p>
+
+<p>"Here, make the blessing," he said. "But be careful, in Heaven's name be
+careful!"</p>
+
+<p>Our neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Be careful, be careful," he cried. "Now turn the citron head downwards,
+and make the blessing. Carefully, carefully. For Heaven's sake, be
+careful!"</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward, and cried out, "Oh!" The
+cry brought his wife, Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it, Moshe-Yankel? God be with you!"</p>
+
+<p>"Coarse blackguard! Man of the earth!" he shouted at the carpenter, and
+was ready to kill him.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;here, see! Coarse blackguard!
+Man of the earth!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a terrible
+misfortune.</p>
+
+<p>Basse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung her hands and moaned.</p>
+
+<p>"When a man is unfortunate, he may as well bury himself alive and fresh
+and well, right in the earth."</p>
+
+<p>And Leibel? Leibel did not know whether he should dance with joy because
+the Lord had performed 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, because
+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.</p>
+
+<p>"A dead citron," said my father, in a broken voice.</p>
+
+<p>"A dead citron," repeated my mother, the tears gushing from her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"A dead citron," echoed the carpenter, looking at his hands. He seemed
+to be saying to himself: "There's a pair of hands for you! May they
+wither!"</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Isshur_the_Beadle" id="Isshur_the_Beadle"></a>Isshur the Beadle</h2>
+
+
+<p>When I think of Isshur the beadle, I am reminded of Alexander the Great,
+Napoleon Bonaparte, and other such giants of history.</p>
+
+<p>Isshur was not a nobody. He led the whole congregation, 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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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
+straggling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he was a child, ran
+about barefoot, went to "<i>Cheder</i>," 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: "Isshur, my
+sweet boy. My beautiful boy. May I suffer instead of your little bones?"</p>
+
+<p>These were the questions that puzzled me when I was a child, and could
+not tear myself away from Isshur.</p>
+
+<p>"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother." And
+Isshur would not even allow any one to think of him.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>"Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother."</p>
+
+<p>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 torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father. "You see how the
+tyrant has torn the ear of your child&mdash;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 almost 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 what 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?"</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 eighteen 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 that householders
+are plentiful as dogs, but there is only one beadle&mdash;may no evil eye
+harm him! The congregation is so big, one might go mad.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;may no evil eye
+harm me!" And nobody began with him. They were glad that he did not
+begin with them.</p>
+
+<p>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 yourselves. 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 '<i>Chanukali</i>' 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 contrary, a source of income,
+yet no one dared interfere. 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.</p>
+
+<p>The people were silent, though they knew very well that "<i>Reb</i>" 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!"</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>This "excuse me" was a nasty "excuse me." It was meant to be flattering,
+to convey the sense of&mdash;"Excuse me, your snuff is surely good." And,
+"Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in peace."</p>
+
+<p>Isshur understood the compliment, and also the hint. He knew the people
+loved him like sore eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his
+office from him as surely as they wished to live. But he heeded them
+as little as Haman heeds the "<i>Purim</i>" rattles. He had them in his
+fists, and he knew what to do.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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. Whoever 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.</p>
+
+<p>Isshur was always first-class at carrying on intrigues. 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 neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was
+innocent of everything. You must know that Isshur had the town very
+cleverly. He thought within himself: "Argue, quarrel, abuse one another,
+my friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Isshur the
+beadle."</p>
+
+<p>That they should forget his doings was an important 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&mdash;the young wretches he had always hated
+and tortured.</p>
+
+<p>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 householders
+became old men, and still Isshur was Isshur. But all at once there grew
+up a generation that was young, fresh, curious&mdash;a generation which was
+called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches. The Lord help and
+preserve one from them.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>Who would have thought it? A foolish poem, and yet what excitement it
+caused in the village&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches burrowed
+so long, and worked so hard to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded in
+arriving at a certain road. Early one morning they climbed into the
+attic of the synagogue. There they found the whole treasure&mdash;a pile of
+candles, several "<i>poods</i>" of wax, a score of new "<i>Tallissim</i>," 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 puzzling himself with the question of
+how these things came to be in the attic of the synagogue.</p>
+
+<p>Early next morning, the following announcement was written in chalk on
+the door of the synagogue:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale price."</p>
+
+<p>Next day there was a different inscription. On the third day still
+another one. Isshur had something 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 morning, 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.</p>
+
+<p>Isshur had a hard time of it. He got the committee-men to issue a
+proclamation in big letters, on parchment.</p>
+
+<p>"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 respected 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."</p>
+
+<p>Of course, the boys at once tore down this proclamation. 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&mdash;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 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 was we young
+scamps who won. And we selected our own committee-men from amongst
+ourselves&mdash;young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame
+to tell it, but we chose working men&mdash;ordinary working men.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 procession the whole treasure of candles, wax,
+"<i>Tallissim</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>Take revenge of our enemy&mdash;bathe in his blood, so to speak? No! We could
+not do that. I shall tell you the end in a few words.</p>
+
+<p>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, the same reader's-desk, and the same
+hanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly
+changed. It was almost impossible to recognize 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 new beadle, and
+new melodies, and new customs. Everything was new, and new, and new.</p>
+
+<p>One day&mdash;it was "<i>Hoshana Rabba</i>"&mdash;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 unchanged.) 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 straggling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to
+this old man. I went over to him, and put out my hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Peace be unto you!" I said. "I think you are '<i>Reb</i>' Isshur the
+beadle?"</p>
+
+<p>"The beadle? What beadle? I am not the beadle this long time. I am a
+bare willow-twig this long time. Heh! heh!"</p>
+
+<p>That is what the old man said to me in a tremulous 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.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Boaz_the_Teacher" id="Boaz_the_Teacher"></a>Boaz the Teacher</h2>
+
+
+<p>That which I felt on the first day my mother took me by the hand to
+"<i>Cheder</i>" 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 "<i>groschen</i>" 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&mdash;just a
+little more tenderly because "the child has only recovered from the
+measles."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;God forbid!</p>
+
+<p>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
+"<i>Torah</i>" and a knowledge of the ways of the world. He waited for the
+good angel to throw him the "<i>groschen</i>" from the ceiling.</p>
+
+<p>Oh, that good angel&mdash;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:</p>
+
+<p>"Devil, what are you looking at?"</p>
+
+<p>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. "A little boy must not look where it is forbidden. A little
+boy must not bleat like a calf."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Boaz's system of teaching was founded on one thing&mdash;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!</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 without 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 being
+flogged.</p>
+
+<p>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 two&mdash;to say where teaching
+ended and whipping began.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;and so on, and so on, without an end.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"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 would ever free ourselves
+from the fiendish system under which we lived.</p>
+
+<p>And the good angel of whom my mother spoke? Where was he&mdash;that good
+angel?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>And not only did Boaz flog the boys himself, but his assistants helped
+him&mdash;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," 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?"</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Cheder</i>." 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 ourselves from our galling slavery.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;in
+these melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is departing, and on
+its heels is treading silently the still night, with its lonely
+secrets&mdash;in these melancholy moments, when the shadows are climbing on
+the walls growing broader and longer&mdash;in these melancholy moments
+between the afternoon 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 "<i>Borsht</i>"&mdash;then we youngsters came together at
+"<i>Cheder</i>," 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 Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. The bigger boys,
+who had been at "<i>Cheder</i>" 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&mdash;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&mdash;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 freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in
+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, hopeless, dark tyranny? No, never, never!"</p>
+
+<p>That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor innocent, foolish children!</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Children, do you want to hear of a good plan that will rid us of our
+Gog-Magog?"</p>
+
+<p>That was what one of the boys asked us on one of those melancholy
+moments already described. His name was 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&mdash;how impossible it was to
+stand Boaz any longer, how the Ashmodai was bathing in our blood, how he
+regarded us as dogs&mdash;worse than dogs, because when a dog is beaten with
+a stick it may, at any rate, howl. And we may not do that either. And
+so on, and so on. After this Velvel said to us:</p>
+
+<p>"Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I am going to ask you
+something."</p>
+
+<p>"Ask it," we all cried in one voice.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the law in a case where, for example, one of us suddenly
+becomes ill?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is not good," we replied.</p>
+
+<p>"No, I don't mean that. I mean something else. I mean, if one of us is
+ill does he go to '<i>Cheder</i>,' or does he stay at home?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course he stays at home," we all answered together.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what is the law if two of us get ill?"</p>
+
+<p>"Two remain at home."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, and if three get ill?" Velvel went on asking us, and we went on
+answering him.</p>
+
+<p>"Three stay at home."</p>
+
+<p>"What would happen if, for example, we all took ill?"</p>
+
+<p>"We should all stay at home."</p>
+
+<p>"Then let a sickness come upon us all," he cried joyfully. We replied
+angrily:</p>
+
+<p>"The Lord forbid! Are you mad, or have you lost your reason?"</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>Cheder</i>.' Do you understand
+me now?"</p>
+
+<p>When Velvel had explained his plan to us, we began to understand it, and
+to like it. And we 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 headache, nor stomach-ache, nor worms. What then? We must
+all together complain 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>Cheder</i>'
+tomorrow, let us promise one another, take an oath."</p>
+
+<p>So said our comrade Velvel. And we gave each other our promise, and took
+an oath that we would not be at "<i>Cheder</i>" next morning. We went home
+from "<i>Cheder</i>" that evening lively, joyful, and singing. We felt like
+giants who knew how to overcome the enemy and win the battle.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="The_Spinning-Top" id="The_Spinning-Top"></a>The Spinning-Top</h2>
+
+
+<p>More than any of the boys at "<i>Cheder</i>," more than any boy of the town,
+and more than any person in the world, I loved my friend, Benny
+"<i>Polkovoi</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Cheder</i>." His father, Mayer "<i>Polkovoi</i>," though
+he was only a regimental tailor, was nevertheless a rich man, and played
+an important part in public affairs. He had a fine house, a seat in the
+synagogue beside the ark. At the Passover, his "<i>Matzo</i>" 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 children. In
+a word, Mayer "<i>Polkovoi</i>" tried to refine himself&mdash;to be a man 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 "<i>Polkovoi</i>" would have given to have us blot out the
+name bestowed upon him, "<i>Polkovoi</i>"? 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>But we will return to my friend Benny.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Benny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled hair, white puffed-out cheeks,
+scattered teeth, and peculiar 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 impudence. Nevertheless, I liked his
+face, and we became friends the first hour we met.</p>
+
+<p>We met for the first time at "<i>Cheder</i>," at the teachers' table. When my
+mother took me to "<i>Cheder</i>," 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&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Get over there, on that bench, between those two boys."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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 "<i>Torah</i>." And she was pained because she had to part with
+me.</p>
+
+<p>I must confess I felt much happier than my mother. I was amongst a crowd
+of new friends&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Benny "<i>Polkovoi</i>," 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.)"</p>
+
+<p>I felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some smooth buttons. I confess 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:</p>
+
+<p>"And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told you I have locust-beans?)"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Listen, you, whatever your name is, you surely know whose son Cain was,
+and the name of his brother?"</p>
+
+<p>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 should not melt. In reality my mind was elsewhere, I don't
+know where.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>The boys were smiling, smothering their laughter. I did not know why.</p>
+
+<p>"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 "<i>Cheder</i>" was filled with loud laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"What are they laughing at?" I asked myself. I looked at them, and at
+the teacher. All were rolling with laughter. And, at that moment, I
+counted the buttons from one hand into the other. There were exactly
+half a dozen.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, little boy, show me your hands. What are you doing with them?"
+And the teacher bent down and looked under the table.</p>
+
+<p>You are clever boys, and you will understand yourselves what I had from
+the teacher, for the buttons, on my first day at "<i>Cheder</i>."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Whippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny and I became good friends.
+We were one soul. This is how it came about:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Next morning I arrived at "<i>Cheder</i>" 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, not with her, God forbid! A teacher never walks
+with his wife. The teacher walks before, and his wife after him.</p>
+
+<p>"Let us make a bet," cried a boy with a blue nose. His name was Hosea
+Hessel.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"A quarter of the locust-beans."</p>
+
+<p>"Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans. What for? Let us hear."</p>
+
+<p>"I say he will not stand more than twenty-five."</p>
+
+<p>"And I say thirty-six."</p>
+
+<p>"Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take hold of him."</p>
+
+<p>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
+forefinger 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, slaughterers! What had they against my nose?
+What had it done to them? Whom had it bothered? What had they seen on
+it&mdash;a nose like all noses.</p>
+
+<p>"Boys, count," commanded Hosea Hessel. "One, two, three&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>But suddenly....</p>
+
+<p>Nearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to
+a man&mdash;when robbers surround 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 deliverance.</p>
+
+<p>It was 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
+"<i>Polkovoi</i>" 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, now you will know what it means to meddle with a widow's boy."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"The widow's boy"&mdash;- I had no other name at "<i>Cheder</i>." 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&mdash;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. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast
+and dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could
+never understand 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&mdash;and
+such a husband!&mdash;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 "<i>Cheder</i>" 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&mdash;peace
+be unto him! And whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly like
+him&mdash;may I have longer years than he! And her eyes grew moist. Her face
+grew curiously careworn, and had a mournful expression.</p>
+
+<p>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 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&mdash;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&mdash;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 swimming. 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 shrieking 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&mdash;peace be
+unto him!&mdash;did not succumb to temptations. He was a different sort of a
+man. What sort of a man he was I do not know&mdash;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&mdash;that I
+should learn diligently, and say my prayers willingly.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 playing,
+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.</p>
+
+<p>Our leader, our commander was Benny "<i>Polkovoi</i>." From him all things
+originated; and on our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the fat
+face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to 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&mdash;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 "<i>groschens</i>" from us. And when it
+came to anything, Benny had disappeared. Playing was to us the finest
+thing in the world. And for playing we got the severest thrashings from
+our teacher. He said he would tear out of us the desire to play.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>And that week was the week of "Chanukah." And we played with
+spinning-tops.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>It is true that the games of cards&mdash;bridge and whist, for example&mdash;which
+are played at "<i>Chanukah</i>" 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 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.</p>
+
+<p>The game of spinning-tops that have four corners, 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 "<i>Polkovoi</i>." No matter how
+often he spins the top, it always falls on the letter G.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"G," said Benny.</p>
+
+<p>"G, G. Again G. It's extraordinary," said the boys, scratching their
+heads and again opening their purses.</p>
+
+<p>The game grew more exciting. The players 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&mdash;"Black Tom-cat! Creased
+Cap! Split Coat!" and the like. They did not see the teacher standing
+behind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and carrying his "<i>Tallis</i>"
+and "<i>Tephilin</i>" 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 "<i>Chanukah</i>." 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.</p>
+
+<p>"G all over again. It's a regular pantomime."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;"Well, who wants more?"</p>
+
+<p>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 had been given in honour of "<i>Chanukah</i>." 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 himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he
+crying? He had lost the knife on his way home.</p>
+
+<p>I told my mother a fine story&mdash;a regular "Arabian Nights" tale, and got
+out of her a second "<i>Chanukah</i>" present of ten "<i>groschens</i>." 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 "<i>Chanukah</i>" money went into Benny's pockets, and was
+lost to us for ever.</p>
+
+<p>One of the boys became so absorbed in the play that he was not satisfied
+to lose only his "<i>Chanukah</i>" money, but went on gambling through the
+whole eight days of the festival.</p>
+
+<p>And that boy was no other than myself, "the widow's son."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>You must not ask where the widow's boy got the money to play with. The
+great gamblers of the world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and
+inheritances&mdash;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&mdash;the spirit of gambling.</p>
+
+<p>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 of an old
+clock&mdash;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&mdash;my mother's
+hard-earned "<i>groschens</i>," 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&mdash;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
+"<i>Haggadah</i>," 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 moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was
+smiling&mdash;each time he came round and opened his pack outside the
+synagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.</p>
+
+<p>"What would you say, little boy?" asked 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left him, so as not to be
+tempted.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has."</p>
+
+<p>"What sort of a thing?" asked my mother.</p>
+
+<p>"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would&mdash;I don't
+know myself what I would do."</p>
+
+<p>"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?"</p>
+
+<p>"You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a
+book."</p>
+
+<p>"An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are there then more prayers in an
+ornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?"</p>
+
+<p>Well, how can you explain an ornament to your mother&mdash;a really fine book
+with red covers, and blue edges, and a green back?</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is you have," said my mother.</p>
+
+<p>Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was not on fire. Slowly,
+without haste, he opened his pack, and spread out his wares&mdash;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 "<i>Talmud</i>," tales of the "<i>Bal-shem-tov</i>," 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this all?" asked my mother. "Such a little one."</p>
+
+<p>"This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah.</p>
+
+<p>"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?&mdash;God forgive me for
+calling it by that name."</p>
+
+<p>"You call a prayer-book a squirrel?" asked Pethachiah. He took the book
+slowly out of her hand; and my heart was torn.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, say. How much is it?" asked my mother. But Pethachiah had plenty
+of time. He answered her in a sing-song:</p>
+
+<p>"How much is the little prayer-book? It will cost you&mdash;it will cost
+you&mdash;I am afraid it is not for your purse."</p>
+
+<p>My mother cursed her enemies, that they might have black, hideous
+dreams, and asked him to say how much.</p>
+
+<p>Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did not answer him. She turned
+towards the door, took my hand, and said to me:</p>
+
+<p>"Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. Don't you know that
+'<i>Reb</i>' Pethachiah is a man who charges famine prices?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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 tomorrow,
+the anniversary of your father's death&mdash;peace be unto him!&mdash;I have
+bought you the prayer-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."</p>
+
+<p>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
+"<i>Cheder</i>" envied me the little book. I minded it as if it were the
+apple of my eye. And now, this "<i>Chanukah</i>"&mdash;woe unto me!&mdash;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&mdash;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 "<i>kopeks</i>."
+But how is Benny to blame if he wins at play?</p>
+
+<p>"That's what a spinning-top is for," explained Benny, putting into his
+purse my last few "<i>groschens</i>." "If things went with you as they are
+going with me, then you would be winning. But I am lucky, and I win."</p>
+
+<p>And Benny's cheeks glowed. It is bright and warm in the house. A silver
+"<i>Chanukah</i>" lamp is burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From the
+kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melted goose-fat.</p>
+
+<p>"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 mother had
+come in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She
+was frozen through and through, and was warming herself at the stove.
+Seeing me, her face lit up with pleasure.</p>
+
+<p>"From the synagogue?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>"From the synagogue," was my lying answer.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you said the evening prayer?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have said the evening prayer," was my second lie to her.</p>
+
+<p>"Warm yourself, my son. You will say the blessing over the '<i>Chanukah</i>'
+lights. It is the last night of '<i>Chanukah</i>' tonight, thank God!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Seder</i>" for her, and
+at "<i>Chanukah</i>" I made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing
+over wine or beer? Had we for the Passover fritters or fresh "<i>matzo</i>"?
+What were the "<i>Chanukah</i>" lights&mdash;a silver, eight-branched lamp with
+olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the
+pleasure has nothing to do with wine 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
+happiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>The candles in the potatoes&mdash;my "<i>Chanukah</i>" lights&mdash;flickered and
+flickered until they went out. And my mother said to me:</p>
+
+<p>"Wash your hands. We are having potatoes and goose-fat for supper. In
+honour of '<i>Chanukah</i>,' I bought a little measure of goose-fat&mdash;fresh,
+beautiful fat."</p>
+
+<p>I washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down to supper.</p>
+
+<p>"It is a custom amongst some people to have fritters for supper on the
+last night of '<i>Chanukah</i>,'" 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.</p>
+
+<p>Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I heard my mother's groans. I
+heard her bed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning.
+Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling 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! Tchireree!" And my mother did not cease from sighing 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! Tchireree!" And there spun
+around before my eyes a man like a top&mdash;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&mdash;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 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 crying softly,
+sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not
+a human being. He said to me softly:</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me, son, on which day do you recite the mourner's prayer for me?"</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"God be with you! Why are shouting? Why do you shriek? What is the
+matter with you? May the Lord preserve you!"</p>
+
+<p>You will understand it was my mother who was speaking to me. She held my
+head. I could feel 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.</p>
+
+<p>"When do I say the mourner's prayer, mother? Tell me, when do I say the
+mourner's prayer?"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Children, I grew up, and Benny grew up. He became 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you remember, Benny, that '<i>Chanukah</i>' when you won everything with
+the spinning top? The G always fell for you."</p>
+
+<p>I looked at Benny. He was convulsed with laughter. He held his sides. He
+was rolling over. He was actually choking with laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden burst of laughter, Benny?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!" he cried, "oh! go away with your spinning-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."</p>
+
+<p>"What sort of a top was it, Benny? Tell me quicker."</p>
+
+<p>"It was a top that had all around it, on all the corners only the one
+letter, G."</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="Esther" id="Esther"></a>Esther</h2>
+
+
+<p>I am not going to tell you a story of "<i>Cheder</i>" 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 "<i>Purim</i>," to tell
+you a story of the teacher's daughter, Esther.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Bar-mitzvah</i>" 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 mistaken, 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 "<i>Cheder</i>" 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 Esther are
+staring&mdash;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!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;she
+him, and he her.</p>
+
+<p>And I have many more proofs I could give you that&mdash;But I am not that
+sort.</p>
+
+<p>I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and she his. And it was not
+on the Sabbath either, but on a week-day. It was towards evening,
+between the afternoon and the evening prayers. He was pretending to go
+to the synagogue. He strayed into "<i>Cheder</i>." "Where is the teacher?"
+"The teacher is not here." And he went and gave her his hand, Esther,
+that is. I saw them. He withdrew his hand and gave me a "<i>groschen</i>" to
+tell no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I asked three, and he gave
+me three. What do you think&mdash;if I had asked four, or five, or six, would
+he not have given them? But I am not that sort.</p>
+
+<p>Another time, too, something happened. But enough of this. I will rather
+tell you the real story&mdash;the one I promised you.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. He does not go to
+"<i>Cheder</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>If I were to tell you how my father and mother quarrel, you would split
+your sides laughing. But I am not that sort.</p>
+
+<p>In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to "<i>Cheder</i>" any more.
+Nevertheless, he does not forget to send the teacher a "<i>Purim</i>"
+present. Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice poem in Hebrew,
+illuminated with a "Shield of David," and two paper "<i>roubles</i>." With
+whom does he send this "<i>Purim</i>" present? With me, of course. My brother
+says to me, "Here, hand the teacher this "<i>Purim</i>" present. When you
+come back, I will give you ten '<i>groschens</i>.'" Ten "<i>groschens</i>" 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?</p>
+
+<p>He gave me the ten "<i>groschens</i>," and handed me the teacher's "<i>Purim</i>"
+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?" "To Esther." Any one else in my
+place would have asked twice as much for this. But I am not that sort.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Father of the Universe," thought I, when I was going off with the
+"<i>Purim</i>" present, "what can my brother have written to the teacher's
+daughter? I must have a peep&mdash;only just a peep. I will not take a bite
+out of it. I will only look at it."</p>
+
+<p>And I opened Esther's letter and read a whole "Book of Esther." I will
+repeat what was there, word for word.</p>
+
+<p class="top5">
+"<span class="smcap">From Mordecai to Esther</span>,<br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="ind">"And there was a man, a young man in Shushan&mdash;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
+wedding canopy."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>What do you say to my brother&mdash;how he translated 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. Afterwards, if there's a fine
+to do, will I be to blame? Don't all people make mistakes sometimes?
+Does it not happen that even the postmaster of our village himself
+forgets to give up letters? No such thing will ever happen to me. I am
+not that sort.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Good '<i>Yom-tov</i>,' teacher," I cried the moment I rushed into
+"<i>Cheder</i>," in such an excited voice that he jumped. "My brother Mottel
+has sent you a '<i>Purim</i>' present, and he wishes you to live to next
+year."</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>The teacher put on his silver spectacles, read the letter, and did not
+even make a grimace. He only sighed&mdash;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
+"<i>Cheder</i>." 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 '<i>Purim</i>'
+present," I thought. I took from the teacher the few lines he had
+written.</p>
+
+<p>"Good '<i>Yom-tov</i>' to you, teacher," I cried in the same excited voice
+as when I had come in. "May you live to next year." And I was gone.</p>
+
+<p>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!"</p>
+
+<p>On the way home I first opened the teacher's letter. He was more
+important. This is what was written in it.</p>
+
+<p class="top5">
+"<span class="smcap">My dear and faithful pupil, Mordecai N.</span><br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="ind">"I thank you many times for your '<i>Purim</i>' present that you have sent
+me. Last year and the year before, you sent me a real '<i>Purim</i>' 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 nonsense. 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, and the year before, you sent me
+something different. This year you sent your teacher a translation 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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Having got through the teacher's letter, I must see what the teacher's
+daughter writes. On opening the envelope, the two paper "<i>roubles</i>" fell
+out. What the devil does this mean? I read the letter&mdash;only a few lines.</p>
+
+<p>"Mottel, I thank you for the two '<i>roubles</i>.' You may take them back. I
+never expected such a '<i>Purim</i>' present from you. I want no presents
+from you, and certainly no charity."</p>
+
+<p>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 translation better than the teacher, though he is a father, and the
+teacher is a teacher.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>You want to know the end&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a boy and a girl. The boy is
+called Herzl, after Dr. Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father
+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.
+Afterwards 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 '<i>Purim</i>'?" 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&mdash;my mother and my
+father&mdash;exchanged glances and were silent.</p>
+
+<p>What the silence and the exchange of glances meant I do not know.
+Perhaps you can tell me?</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="The_Pocket-Knife" id="The_Pocket-Knife"></a>The Pocket-Knife</h2>
+
+
+<p>Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about a little knife&mdash;not
+an invented story, but a true one, that happened to myself.</p>
+
+<p>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 already 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;a sickly Jew, with a
+yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of coughing. "Here are feathers for
+you&mdash;playtoys! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>Later, when I was learning the Bible and the commentaries, I very nearly
+had a real knife, also of 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 beautifully on a stone, and
+naturally cut all my fingers to pieces.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" 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!"</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>groschens</i>" from Solomon, and I owed him three more
+"<i>groschens</i>."</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Gemarra</i>" with Mottel, the "Angel of Death."
+"If an ox gore a cow" I learnt. And if an 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 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly my father woke up, as from a deep sleep.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is working? What are you doing,
+you young scamp?"</p>
+
+<p>He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpening-stone. He caught hold of
+my ear. A fit of coughing choked him.</p>
+
+<p>"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! Why the devil
+can't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>I began to cry. My father improved the situation by a few slaps. My
+mother ran in from the kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to
+shout:</p>
+
+<p>"Shah! Shah! What's the matter here? Why do you beat him? God be with
+you! What have you against the child? Woe is me!"</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;you good-for-nothing, you. In the middle of everything,
+pocket-knives. Thek-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>But what had he against my little knife? How had it sinned in his eyes?
+Why was he so angry?</p>
+
+<p>I remember that my father was nearly always ailing&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;lonely as an orphan.
+No one saw the tears I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had
+come back from "<i>Cheder</i>." In silence, I cried my eyes out. In the
+morning I was again at "<i>Cheder</i>," and again I repeated: "If an ox gore
+a cow," and 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 nobody. I was alone&mdash;all
+alone in the whole world.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;to my
+misfortune&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>How came to me such a fine knife, that was never meant for such as I?
+That is a whole story&mdash;a sad, but interesting story. Listen to me
+attentively.</p>
+
+<p>What value in my eyes had the German Jew who lodged with us&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will be read this week?"</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! ha! ha!" I burst out laughing and hid my face in my hands.</p>
+
+<p>"Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the Law will be read this
+week?"</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! ha! ha! Balak," I burst out with a laugh, and ran away.</p>
+
+<p>But that was only in the beginning, before I knew him. Afterwards, when
+I knew Herr Hertz 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
+understand 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?</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! ha! ha! A fine story," thought I. But I was genuinely sorry for the
+German. Nevertheless, 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz! Blessed art thou who comest, Reb
+Hertz Hertzenhertz!"</p>
+
+<p>I once ventured to ask my father why this was so, but he thrust me to
+one side and said:</p>
+
+<p>"Go away. It is not your business. Why do you get under our feet? Who
+the devil wants you? Why the devil can't you take a book into your
+hands? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>Again a book? Lord of the world, I also want to see; I also want to hear
+what people are saying.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;the
+room in which slept Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. 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&mdash;men, and animals, 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!</p>
+
+<p>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 beating
+so loudly that I could hear it saying, "Tick, tick, tick!" I heard some
+one coming. It was he&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Come over here, my little ornament," said my father to me next day.
+"Did you see the little pocket-knife anywhere?"</p>
+
+<p>Of course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew&mdash;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:</p>
+
+<p>"Where? What pocket-knife?"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"The knife&mdash;the knife! How can he not know about it?" cried my father
+angrily. "All the morning he hears me shouting&mdash;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!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?" asked my father.</p>
+
+<p>"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and grew red as fire.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, why are you not off to '<i>Cheder</i>,' my saint?" asked my father.</p>
+
+<p>"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother. "Let the child sit a minute."</p>
+
+<p>I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay
+there in silence.</p>
+
+<p>"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my father. "You
+good-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>"I am looking for something," I answered. I nearly fell down with
+fright.</p>
+
+<p>"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that
+something?"</p>
+
+<p>"A&mdash;a bo&mdash;ok. An&mdash;an old '<i>Ge&mdash;gemar&mdash;ra</i>.'"</p>
+
+<p>"What? A '<i>Gemarra</i>'? 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!"</p>
+
+<p>I was not so much afraid of my father's anger as that the pocket-knife
+might be found. Who 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&mdash;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 "<i>Cheder</i>" 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:</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;my little knife. The pleasure was,
+alas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear&mdash;by great fear.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>When he says may the devil <i>not</i> take you, and may an evil end <i>not</i>
+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&mdash;my father, my mother, and the younger
+children who are looking 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 German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably
+he was laughing because my father was driving 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, because of the great heat),
+and I would rejoice in, and play with my knife.</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p>For the first time since the knife came into my hands has this terrible
+word entered my thoughts. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a
+common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, are written, in
+big letters: "<span class="smcap">Thou shalt not steal</span>."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>That was what I decided. And I put the knife into my bosom. I imagined
+it was burning, scorching 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Cheder</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"Why are you in such a hurry for '<i>Cheder</i>'?" 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!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed
+with his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in
+the corner with his head down.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>The teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The
+pupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.</p>
+
+<p>"Berrel the thief&mdash;Berrel the thief!"</p>
+
+<p>I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my body. I did not know what it
+all meant.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;Berrel the thief!"</p>
+
+<p>My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout
+aloud "Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"</p>
+
+<p>"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In a stronger
+voice&mdash;stronger."</p>
+
+<p>And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out in a variety of
+voices, "Berrel the thief&mdash;Berrel the thief!"</p>
+
+<p>"Sh&mdash;sh&mdash;sh&mdash;a&mdash;a&mdash;ah!" cried the teacher, banging the table with his
+open hand. "Hush! Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing
+judgment." He spoke in a sing-song voice.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Berrel."</p>
+
+<p>"What else?"</p>
+
+<p>"Berrel&mdash;Berrel the thief."</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>The teacher called out one of the older scholars, still speaking in the
+same sing-song voice:</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;how
+our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay attention."</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>kopek</i>," sometimes two, every Friday, before lighting the
+Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his eyes on that box, on which there
+hung a little lock. By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had
+managed to extract the "<i>kopeks</i>" 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&mdash;a round year, he had been extracting
+the "<i>kopeks</i>," one by one, and that, every Sunday, he had bought
+himself two little cakes, some locust beans, and&mdash;and so forth, and so
+forth.</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>kopeks</i>' from a charity-box, by means of a straw."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"A thief who steals '<i>kopeks</i>' from a charity-box should be flogged
+until the blood spurts from him."</p>
+
+<p>"Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who steals '<i>kopeks</i>' from a
+charity-box?"</p>
+
+<p>"A thief," replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, "a thief who steals
+'<i>kopeks</i>' 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."</p>
+
+<p>"Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief who steals '<i>kopeks</i>'
+from a charity-box?"</p>
+
+<p>Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pronounce the letters K and G,
+wiped his face, and gave his verdict in a squeaking voice.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would you say should be done to
+a thief who steals '<i>kopeks</i>' from a charity-box."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;the table and the books, the boys and the moon that hung
+beside the door, and the little knives&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>In the evening, I came home, and felt that my 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 intervened. 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
+punishment 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&mdash;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
+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&mdash;such a knife!</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>I stole back into the house, and into my own bed.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Catch him, beat him. He is a thief&mdash;a thief."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 swimming 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 trumpet: "Whip
+him, whip him, whip him. He is a thie&mdash;ef." And I myself shouted: "Oh,
+oh, take the moon away from me. Give her up the little knife. What have
+you against poor Berrel? He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief&mdash;a
+thief."</p>
+
+<p>Beyond that, I remember nothing.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;o&mdash;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!</p>
+
+<p>"Good health! May your days be lengthened! May your years be prolonged!
+It is a good sign. Blessed art Thou, O Lord!"</p>
+
+<p>"Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most High!"</p>
+
+<p>"Let us call at once Mintze the butcher's wife. She knows how to avert
+the evil eye."</p>
+
+<p>"The doctor ought to be called&mdash;the doctor."</p>
+
+<p>"The doctor? What for? That is nonsense. The Most High is the best
+doctor. Blessed be the Lord, and praised be His Name!"</p>
+
+<p>"Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is terribly hot. In the name of
+God, go away."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover him with wax. Well, who is
+right?"</p>
+
+<p>"Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy Name! Ah, God! God! Blessed
+be the Lord! and praised be His Holy Name!"</p>
+
+<p>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 muttering 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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? Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel whom the
+teacher flogged at '<i>Cheder</i>,' almost until he bled. When you came home
+from '<i>Cheder</i>' 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&mdash;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,'&mdash;may his name be
+blotted out for ever!"</p>
+
+<p>These words made a terrible impression on me. I threw my arms around my
+mother, and kissed her.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear, dear mother."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Good! Good! Be well&mdash;be well!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father said to me:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, my son, now go to '<i>Cheder</i>,' 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 '<i>Bar-Mitzvah</i>' in three years&mdash;may
+you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh-heh-heh!"</p>
+
+<p>With such sweet words did my father send me off to "<i>Cheder</i>," to my new
+teacher, "<i>Reb</i>" 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!</p>
+
+<p>My mother gave me a whole apple and three "<i>groschens</i>" to take to
+"<i>Cheder</i>," and the German gave me a few "<i>kopeks</i>." He pinched my
+cheek, and said in his language:</p>
+
+<p>"Best boy, good, good!"</p>
+
+<p>I took my "<i>Gemarra</i>" under my arm, kissed the "<i>Mezuzah</i>," and went off
+to "<i>Cheder</i>" 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&mdash;Tif&mdash;tif&mdash;tif&mdash;tif! I was lifted up. I was borne on the
+breeze. I wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it is&mdash;how sweet to
+be alive and to be honest, when one is not a thief and not a liar.</p>
+
+<p>I pressed my "<i>Gemarra</i>" tightly to my breast, and still tighter. I ran
+to "<i>Cheder</i>" with pleasure, with joy. And I swore by my "<i>Gemarra</i>"
+that I would never, never touch what belonged to another&mdash;never, never
+steal, and never, never deny anything again. I would always be honest,
+for ever and ever honest.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="On_the_Fiddle" id="On_the_Fiddle"></a>On the Fiddle</h2>
+
+
+<p>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 I first reached the age of understanding, my
+heart longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician whatever&mdash;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 musicians. I loved
+to steal over to the bass, and draw my fingers across one of the
+strings&mdash;Boom! And I flew away. Boom! And I flew away. For this same
+"boom" I once got it hot from Berel Bass. Berel Bass&mdash;a cross Jew with a
+flattened out nose, and a sharp glance&mdash;pretended not to see me stealing
+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:</p>
+
+<p>"Here, scamp, kiss the '<i>Mezuzah</i>.'"</p>
+
+<p>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, 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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;just as Sheika did, not a
+hair different.</p>
+
+<p>My "<i>Rebbe</i>," 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.</p>
+
+<p>"What a scamp can do! We are teaching him his lessons, and he makes
+faces and catches flies!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I promised myself that, even if the world turned upside down, I must
+have a little fiddle, let it cost 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 "<i>Reb</i>"
+Anshel. And my two uncles fought over this sofa with my father&mdash;peace be
+unto him! My uncle Benny argued that since he was my grandfather'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&mdash;peace be unto him!&mdash;argued that although he was no more than a
+son-in-law to my grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa,
+still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of
+"<i>Reb</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 layer of the veneer which
+had come unloosened was of the real cedar wood&mdash;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 retirement.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>"Just look at him!" I cried. "Well then, it won't be! A great bargain
+for you&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>Anyway, I had everything that was necessary. And there only remained one
+thing for me to do&mdash;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&mdash;"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, understand what was going
+on&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"The Lord be with you! What have you done to the child?" my mother
+wailed, the tears starting to her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Why should you eat your heart out like this?" my mother asked him. "As
+it is you are a sickly man. Just look at the face you've got. May my
+enemies have as healthy a year!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Bezborodka</i>,"&mdash;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.
+He 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 "<i>Bezborodka</i>,"
+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, another the 'cello, another the double-bass, another the
+trumpet, another the "<i>Ballalaika</i>," another the drum, and another the
+cymbals. And amongst them there were some who could whistle the longest
+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&mdash;nothing else.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"I only wish," said I, "that I may play as well as you in ten years'
+time."</p>
+
+<p>"Can't you manage it?" he asked of me. And he told me that for two and a
+half '<i>roubles</i>' a month, his father would teach me how to play. But if
+I liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me.</p>
+
+<p>"Which instrument would you like to learn to play?" he asked. "On the
+fiddle?"</p>
+
+<p>"On the fiddle."</p>
+
+<p>"On the fiddle?" he repeated. "Can you pay two and a half '<i>roubles</i>' a
+month? Or are you as unfortunate as I am?"</p>
+
+<p>"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 learning to
+play the fiddle."</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>kopek</i>' 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?"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>My friend Pinna introduced me to his father.</p>
+
+<p>"Shalom&mdash;Nahum Veviks&mdash;a rich man's boy. He wants to learn to play the
+fiddle."</p>
+
+<p>Naphtali "<i>Bezborodka</i>" 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 instruments. 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.</p>
+
+<p>And so it came about that Naphtali "<i>Bezborodka</i>" gave me a whole
+lecture on music. Whilst he was 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.</p>
+
+<p>"The fiddle, you must understand," went on Naphtali "<i>Bezborodka</i>" to
+me, and evidently satisfied 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. Another great
+fiddler&mdash;the third greatest in the world&mdash;was Paganini. He also was a
+Jew. All the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance there
+was '<i>Stempenyu</i>,' and there was '<i>Pedotchur</i>.' 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!...</p>
+
+<p>"Eh, boys, to your places! To your instruments!"</p>
+
+<p>That was the order which Naphtali "<i>Bezborodka</i>" gave to his regiment of
+children, all of whom 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&mdash;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 winking to me as if he would say: "Well, isn't
+it so? I blow well&mdash;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&mdash;God forbid! he
+ground his teeth and shouted in anger:</p>
+
+<p>"Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time, wretch, time! One, two, three!
+One, two, three!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Having arranged with Naphtali "<i>Bezborodka</i>" that he should give me
+three lessons a week, of an hour and a half each day, for two
+"<i>roubles</i>" a month, I again and yet again begged of him that he 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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 '<i>groschens</i>' about you?"</p>
+
+<p>I took out a "<i>rouble</i>" 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Here! Buy something to eat."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother Eve" took the "<i>rouble</i>" from him, but with both hands and all
+her fingers, examined it on all sides, and asked her husband:</p>
+
+<p>"What shall I buy?"</p>
+
+<p>"What you like," he answered, pretending not to care. "Buy a few rolls,
+two or three salt herring, and some dried sausage. And don't forget an
+onion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a glass of brandy, say&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that
+they should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me,
+all over again to a piece&mdash;"his own composition." This "composition" was
+played with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and
+my brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali
+"<i>Bezborodka's</i>" "composition." 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 ringing 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 headache, 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&mdash;"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....</p>
+
+<p>"What was the musician's boy doing here?" asked my sister. And she
+tormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept
+repeating the same words:</p>
+
+<p>"I do not know. As I live, I do not know. How am I to know?"</p>
+
+<p>"What does it look like?" asked my mother. "You are already a young man,
+a grown-up man&mdash;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?"</p>
+
+<p>"What Naphtali?" I asked, pretending not to understand. "What musician?"</p>
+
+<p>"Just look at him&mdash;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 yourself, 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!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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, 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 knowledge 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&mdash;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:</p>
+
+<p>"Estheril."</p>
+
+<p>"Plesteril!"</p>
+
+<p>"Why have you no little sister?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a Jew who had six fingers, and a curly black beard, and
+who was terribly poor. Seeing such visitors, our teacher, "<i>Reb</i>"
+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
+extraordinary was going to happen.</p>
+
+<p>Of late, "<i>Reb</i>" 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it's the same story again. If it is destined it will probably
+take place. How can we know anything&mdash;how?"</p>
+
+<p>When the visitors came in, our teacher, "<i>Reb</i>" Zorach, did not know
+what to do, or where he was 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Here is a stool. Sit down," he said to his visitors.</p>
+
+<p>"It's all right! Sit down, sit down," said my father to him. "We have
+come in to you, '<i>Reb</i>' Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants
+to examine my son&mdash;to see what he knows of the Bible."</p>
+
+<p>And my father pointed to Hershel the Tax-collector.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the teacher, "<i>Reb</i>" 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."</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it the 'Song of Songs'?" asked my teacher, with a faint smile, as if
+he would say: "Could you find nothing more difficult?"</p>
+
+<p>"The 'Song of Songs,'" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. "The '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.)</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly," put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little laugh.</p>
+
+<p>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
+beautiful melody, first introducing this commentary on it:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"The 'Song of Songs'&mdash;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
+wisdom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but this 'Song' has
+been sung by a king who was the son of a king."</p>
+
+<p>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 his 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.
+"<i>Reb</i>" 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.</p>
+
+<p>"When people say that he knows&mdash;then he knows!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Reb</i>" 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 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 frozen....</p>
+
+<p>Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got
+a flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of
+a fiddle.</p>
+
+<p>And here is the story for you:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>At our wine-shop 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 eyebrows, 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 because 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 big, terrifying hand on my father's shoulder, and say to him:</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine. There isn't such wine
+in Buda Pesth, by God!"</p>
+
+<p>With me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate 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?</p>
+
+<p>"Yousef?" I asked him, in Yiddish. "Do you mean Yousef the Saint?"</p>
+
+<p>"Joseph," he repeated.</p>
+
+<p>"Yousef," I corrected him, once again.</p>
+
+<p>"With us it's Joseph. With you it's Youdsef," he said to me, and pinched
+my cheek. "Joseph, Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf&mdash;what does it matter? It
+is all the same."</p>
+
+<p>"Ha! ha! ha!"</p>
+
+<p>I buried my face in my hands, and laughed heartily.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"On which instrument does 'Mr. Sergeant' play?"</p>
+
+<p>"On all instruments," he answered, and raised his eyebrows at me.</p>
+
+<p>"On the fiddle, also?" I asked him. And all at once he took on, in my
+imagination, the face of an angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Come over to me some day," he said, "and I will play for you."</p>
+
+<p>"When can I come to you Mr. Sargeant, 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 that?"</p>
+
+<p>"As I serve God," he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.</p>
+
+<p>Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy
+windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green
+garden from out of which peeked 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 that
+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
+wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in
+the green sweet smelling grass.</p>
+
+<p>But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green
+leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. Do not be offended Jewish
+children. But all these have not grown up out of your rubbish.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>On hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out without his jacket and began
+ordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent.</p>
+
+<p>Afterwards, 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Just try and pat him on the back," said Tchitchick to me. And without
+waiting, 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.</p>
+
+<p>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's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.
+Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."</p>
+
+<p>I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant
+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 half an
+evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even
+care about the fresh 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&mdash;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?"</p>
+
+<p>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, without 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 beautiful sounds&mdash;which was one mass of singing, from
+beginning to end....</p>
+
+<p>"Do you want some tea?" asked Tchitchick of me, putting down the little
+fiddle, and slapping me on the shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh heaven on to the earth.</p>
+
+<p>From that day I visited Tchitchick regularly every Sabbath afternoon, to
+hear him playing the fiddle. I went straight to the house. I 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."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a
+great misfortune, of which I will now tell you.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 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&mdash;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....</p>
+
+<p>After this long introduction, it will be easy for you to understand how
+Ephraim Log-of-wood&mdash;a Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did
+not care a button for any of us&mdash;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
+smoking a cigarette on the Sabbath. "May I see myself enjoying all that
+is good!" he cried. "If it is 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Amen! May it be so," I cried.</p>
+
+<p>And I caught from my father another smack in the face. I must not be
+insolent, he told me....</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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-collecting, and the work done at
+the House of Learning. 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
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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 dangling at
+his heels.</p>
+
+<p>"A good Sabbath," I said to him.</p>
+
+<p>"A good Sabbath," he replied. "And where is a boy going?"</p>
+
+<p>"Just for a walk," I said.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;whether he thought that it was very brave of me to be walking all
+alone or not. Was it, in his opinion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>And thus it came to pass&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>I came home late that Sabbath evening. It was already after the
+"<i>Havdalah</i>." My face was burning. And I found Ephraim Log-of-wood
+sitting 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
+drumming on the table with his short little fingers. Opposite 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.</p>
+
+<p>"Where have you come from?" my father asked of me and looked at
+Ephraim.</p>
+
+<p>"Where am I to come from?" said I.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"From the House of Learning," said I.</p>
+
+<p>"And where were you the whole day?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"Where could I be?" said I.</p>
+
+<p>"How do I know?" said he. "You tell me. You know better than I."</p>
+
+<p>"At the House of Learning," said I.</p>
+
+<p>"What were you doing at the House of Learning?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"What should I be doing at the House of Learning?" said I.</p>
+
+<p>"Do I know what you could be doing there?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"I was learning," said I.</p>
+
+<p>"What were you learning?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"What should I learn?" said I.</p>
+
+<p>"Do I know what you should learn?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"I was learning '<i>Gemarra</i>' were you learning?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"What '<i>Gemarra</i>' should I learn?" said I.</p>
+
+<p>"Do I know what '<i>Gemarra</i>' you should learn?" said he.</p>
+
+<p>"I learnt the '<i>Gemarra</i>', '<i>Shabos</i>'," said I.</p>
+
+<p>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. My mother heard my shouts from the other
+room. She flew into us with a scream.</p>
+
+<p>"Nahum! The Lord be with you! What are you doing? A young man&mdash;a
+bridegroom-elect! Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If her
+father gets to know of this&mdash;God forbid!"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>My mother was right. The girl's father got to know the whole story.
+Ephraim Log-of-wood went off himself and told it to him. And in this way
+Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-collector; for the two had
+always been at the point of sticking knives into one another.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 defence of me were of no use at all.</p>
+
+<p>"The disgrace," said my father, "the disgrace of it is worse than
+anything else."</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>Amongst those who came to visit my father in his illness was Tchitchick
+the bandmaster.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, 'Mr. Sergeant!' 'Mr. Sergeant!'"</p>
+
+<p>He could not utter another sound, because he was smothered by his tears
+and his cough....</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>No more fiddle!</p>
+
+
+
+
+<h2><a name="This_Night" id="This_Night"></a>This Night</h2>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p class="non">"<span class="smcap">To my dear Son</span>,</p>
+
+<p>"I send you&mdash;'<i>roubles</i>,' 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 congratulated. She is now betrothed. And if the Lord wills
+it, she is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of
+Weeks.</p>
+
+<p class="ind2">
+"From me,<br />
+"<span class="smcap">Your Father</span>."<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>This is the letter my father wrote to me. For the first time a sharp
+letter&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"I send you&mdash;'<i>roubles</i>,'" he used to write, "and your mother sends you
+her heartiest greetings."</p>
+
+<p>Short, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies to him were also short
+and dry:</p>
+
+<p>"I have received your letter with the&mdash;'<i>roubles</i>.' I thank you, and I
+send my mother my heartiest greetings."</p>
+
+<p>Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one another. 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&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>Busie! The same Busie who has no equal anywhere on earth, excepting in
+the "Song of Songs"&mdash;the same Busie who is bound up with my life, whose
+childhood is interwoven closely with my childhood&mdash;the same Busie who
+always was to me the bewitched Queen's Daughter of all my wonderful
+fairy tales&mdash;the most wonderful princess of my golden dreams&mdash;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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Who is Busie&mdash;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,
+and in the very same words I used when telling it you once on a time,
+years ago.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>That child was Busie.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Like a sister and a brother we played together, and we hid in a
+corner&mdash;we two; and I used to tell her the fairy tales I learnt at
+school&mdash;the tales which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who knew
+everything, even "<i>Kaballa</i>." I told her that by means of "<i>Kaballa</i>," I
+could do wonderful tricks&mdash;draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall.
+By means of "<i>Kaballa</i>," 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 hear me tell my stories! There was only one story which Busie
+did not like me to tell&mdash;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 excepting
+that one about the bewitched Queen's Daughter whom I was flying off to
+set free.</p>
+
+<p>"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not."</p>
+
+<p>This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face her beautiful blue
+"Song of Songs" eyes.</p>
+
+<p>That is who and what Busie is.</p>
+
+<p>And now my father writes me that I must congratulate Busie. She is
+betrothed, and will be married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks.
+She is some one's bride&mdash;some one else's, not mine!</p>
+
+<p>I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in answer to his.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p class="non smcap">To my honoured and dear Father,</p>
+
+<p>"I have received your letter with the&mdash;'<i>roubles</i>.' In a few days,
+as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time for the first days
+of the Passover Festival&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="ind2">
+"From me,<br />
+"<span class="smcap">Your Son</span>."<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>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
+and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home
+exactly on the day before the Festival, on a warm, bright Passover eve.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>There was only one thing missing&mdash;the "Song of Songs." No; nothing of
+the "Song 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, washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the
+Passover&mdash;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, so fresh and clear and
+bright&mdash;the world that was as fragrant as though filled with spices?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 become 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
+sallow. 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 under them, as if
+they were swollen. Was it from weeping, perhaps?...</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;grown up and also
+grown more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. She had grown up
+exactly as she had promised to grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and
+full of grace. 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 careworn and more beautiful "Song of Songs" eyes than
+ever. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving, homely and
+affectionate. She was quiet as a dove&mdash;quiet as a virgin.</p>
+
+<p>When I looked at the Busie of today, I was reminded 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."</p>
+
+<p>"Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of
+goats, that appear from mount Gilead.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy
+temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Busie, am I to congratulate you?"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;I must!</p>
+
+<p>"I congratulate you, Busie."</p>
+
+<p>"May you live in happiness," she replies.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;to know how I was getting on, and what I was
+doing. They had not seen me for such a long time.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell us something new. What have you seen? What have you heard?"</p>
+
+<p>And I told them the news&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;nothing at all. And there arose to my memory
+the words I had learnt in the past, the "Song of Songs" sentence by
+sentence&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain
+sealed."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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
+myself&mdash;against myself and against my dreams of the past&mdash;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&mdash;lost it, lost it for ever!</p>
+
+<p>Lost it for ever? No, it cannot be&mdash;it cannot be! Have I not come
+back&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;to know how I was getting on, and what I was doing. They had not
+seen me for such a long time!</p>
+
+<p>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 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....</p>
+
+<p>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 listening 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell more. Why have you grown silent?" my father asked me.</p>
+
+<p>"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!'"</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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.
+In a few minutes she came back, carrying in her hand a beautiful
+Passover plate&mdash;a plate I knew well. It was surrounded by a design of
+big green fig leaves.</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps you would like something to eat, Shemak? It is a long time to
+wait until the '<i>Seder</i>.'"</p>
+
+<p>That is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much
+loyalty and so much passionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with
+silent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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
+Passover 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 another'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.</p>
+
+<p>"Shemak! How long are we going to run, Shemak?"</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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 reflected in Busie's eyes.
+They were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I
+would 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is so long since I was at
+home. I want to see everything. I want to have a look at the village."</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>Can you tell me what was the matter with Busie? Her cheeks were at once
+enflamed. They burned with a great fire. 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:</p>
+
+<p>"The sun is setting. It's time to put on our Festival garments, and to
+go into the synagogue to pray. It is time to light the Festival candles.
+What do you say?"</p>
+
+<p>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-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, transparent white hands. No one has such
+beautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.</p>
+
+<p>But what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out 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.</p>
+
+<p>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
+absence 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 counting 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 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:"</p>
+
+<p>"O that thou wert as my brother."</p>
+
+<p>"Why are you not my brother?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>No! I shall not be able to speak a single word with Busie this day&mdash;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 candlesticks,
+and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent
+hands, and Busie's beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes, and the last
+rays of the sun that is going down in the west&mdash;are they not all one and
+the same, bound together and interwoven for ever?...</p>
+
+<p>"Ta!" 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.</p>
+
+<p>And we changed our garments, my father and I, and we went into the
+synagogue to say our prayers.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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
+become 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 newness.</p>
+
+<p>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 Festival
+prayers?</p>
+
+<p>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 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&mdash;a Jew who had never had the least sign of a beard&mdash;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 fallen-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 deafened 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.</p>
+
+<p>Once on a time, years ago, I was happy in the little old synagogue; I
+remember that I felt happy without an end&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>And now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the
+same old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the
+same Cantor 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&mdash;I am not to blame for it&mdash;I come upon the pages on which are
+printed the "Song of Songs." And I read:</p>
+
+<p>"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are fair; thou hast dove's
+eyes within thy locks."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;I am
+not to blame for it&mdash;again I turn up the "Song of Songs," at the fifth
+chapter.</p>
+
+<p>"I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse."</p>
+
+<p>And again:</p>
+
+<p>"I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with
+my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk."</p>
+
+<p>But what am I talking about? What am I saying? 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 betrothed to some one else&mdash;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! How could I have stayed away from Busie for such a long time?
+How could I have allowed it&mdash;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?</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Good '<i>Yom-Tov</i>'! This is my son!"</p>
+
+<p>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!" and accepted my greeting, in
+return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it were no more than their due.</p>
+
+<p>"This is my son...."</p>
+
+<p>"That is your son? Here is a 'Peace be unto you!'"</p>
+
+<p>In my father's words, "This is my son," there were many shades of
+feeling, many meanings&mdash;joy, and happiness, and reproach. One might
+interpret the words as one liked. One might argue that he meant to say:</p>
+
+<p>"What do you think? This is really my <i>son</i>."</p>
+
+<p>Or one might argue that he meant to say:</p>
+
+<p>"Just imagine it&mdash;<i>this</i> is my son!"</p>
+
+<p>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 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 reproachfully from over his
+silver-rimmed spectacles, right into my heart. His soft sigh told me
+that he had not forgiven me yet&mdash;the sigh which tore itself, from time
+to time, out of his weak old breast....</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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
+"<i>Haggadah</i>": "We went forth from Egypt on this night."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Why are you flying?" he asked of me, scarcely managing to catch his
+breath.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;to some one else and not to me, the
+hours and the roads are too long for me.... I am compared with "a roe
+or a young hart upon the mountains of spices."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>With the same "Good '<i>Yom-Tov</i>'" 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.</p>
+
+<p>With the same "Good '<i>Yom-Tov</i>,' 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>As it had been years ago, so it was now. On this night, the house was
+full of grace. A peculiar beauty&mdash;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 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 simple 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"&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>Proudly and haughtily stood the throne on which my father, the King of
+the night, was going to recline. A glory shone forth from my mother's
+countenance, 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.</p>
+
+<p>The only pity was that the King's son was put sitting so far away from
+the Queen's Daughter. I remember 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....</p>
+
+<p>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
+"<i>Afikomen</i>"&mdash;the pieces of Passover cake he had 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
+"<i>Seder</i>" 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 playing with the nuts which my mother had given us.
+And there, in the corner, I told Busie a story&mdash;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 wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of
+crystal for seven years on end, and who was waiting 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.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 "<i>Haggadah</i>," 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 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:</p>
+
+<p>"Many waters cannot quench love."....</p>
+
+<p>And I caught him up, in the same strain:</p>
+
+<p>"Neither can floods drown it."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"On such a night," I said to her, "it is good to go walking."</p>
+
+<p>She understood me, and answered me, with a half-smile by asking:</p>
+
+<p>"On such a night?" ...</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Busie, we have something to say to one another&mdash;we have much to talk
+about."</p>
+
+<p>"Much to talk about?" she replied, echoing my words.</p>
+
+<p>And again I imagined that she was laughing at me.... I put in quickly:</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have nothing at all to say to you now?"</p>
+
+<p>These words were uttered with so much bitterness that Busie ceased from
+smiling, and her face grew serious.</p>
+
+<p>"Tomorrow," she said to me, "tomorrow we will talk." ...</p>
+
+<p>And my eyes grew bright. Everything about me was bright and good and
+joyful. Tomorrow! Tomorrow we will talk! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!...</p>
+
+<p>I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance of her hair, the
+fragrance of her clothes&mdash;the same familiar fragrance of her. And there
+came up to my mind the words of the "Song of Songs":</p>
+
+<p>"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under
+thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of
+Lebanon." ...</p>
+
+<p>And all our speech this night was the same&mdash;without words. We spoke
+together with our eyes&mdash;with our eyes.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>"Busie, good-night," I said to her softly.</p>
+
+<p>It was hard for me to go away from her. The one God in Heaven knew the
+truth&mdash;how hard it was.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-night," Busie made answer.</p>
+
+<p>She did not stir from the spot. She looked at me, deeply perplexed, out
+of her beautiful blue "Song of Songs" eyes.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Sleep well, my child, sleep well."</p>
+
+<p>Into these few words she poured a whole ocean of tender love&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-night," I murmured softly to her.</p>
+
+<p>And I was left alone&mdash;all alone, on this night.</p>
+
+<p class="dots">. . . . .</p>
+
+<p>I was all alone on this night&mdash;all alone on this silent, soft, warm,
+early spring night.</p>
+
+<p>I opened my window and looked out into the open, at the dark blue night
+sky, and at the shimmering stars that were like brilliants. And I asked
+myself:</p>
+
+<p>"Is it then true? Is it then true?...</p>
+
+<p>"Is it then true that I have lost my happiness&mdash;lost my happiness for
+ever?</p>
+
+<p>"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? Perhaps I have come in time? 'I am come into my
+garden, my sister, my spouse.'" ...</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;strangely full&mdash;of secrets and mysteries....</p>
+
+<p>On this night, I made a discovery&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>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
+themselves out before my eyes. They formed themselves into the words
+which I had only just recited, my father and I&mdash;the words of the "Song
+of Songs." I read the carved words, letter by letter.</p>
+
+<p>"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals
+thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame."</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Is it true that I have lost Busie for ever? Is it then true?" ...</p>
+
+<p>But she is silent&mdash;this night of secrets and mysteries. And the secret
+must remain a secret for me&mdash;until the morrow.</p>
+
+<p>"Tomorrow," Busie had said to me, "we will talk."</p>
+
+<p>Ah! Tomorrow we will talk!...</p>
+
+<p>Only let the night go by&mdash;only let it vanish, this night!</p>
+
+<p>This night! This night!</p>
+
+<p class="c smcap top15">the end</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+
+<div class="box">
+<div class="boxx">
+<p class="c"><i>NEW BORZOI NOVELS</i></p>
+
+<p class="c"><i>SPRING, 1922</i></p>
+
+<ul>
+<li><span class="smcap">Wanderers</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Knut Hamsun</i></span></li>
+
+
+<li><span class="smcap">Men of Affairs</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Roland Pertwee</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">The Fair Rewards</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Thomas Beer</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">I Walked in Arden</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Jack Crawford</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">Guest the One-Eyed</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Gunnar Gunnarsson</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">The Garden Party</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Katherine Mansfield</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">The Longest Journey</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>E. M. Forster</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">The Soul of a Child</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Edwin Bj&ouml;rkman</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">Cytherea</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Joseph Hergesheimer</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">Explorers of the Dawn</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Mazo de la Roche</i></span></li>
+
+<li><span class="smcap">The White Kami</span></li>
+<li><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Edward Alden Jewell</i></span></li>
+</ul>
+</div></div>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
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+</body>
+</html>
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+Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Jewish Children
+
+Author: Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+Translator: Hannah Berman
+
+Release Date: October 24, 2008 [EBook #27001]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWISH CHILDREN ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+JEWISH CHILDREN
+
+TRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH OF
+
+"SHALOM ALEICHEM"
+
+BY HANNAH BERMAN
+
+NEW YORK ALFRED . A . KNOPF MCMXXII
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
+
+ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
+
+_Published January, 1922_
+
+_Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, 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"
+
+PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE. AN IDYLL
+
+ELIJAH THE PROPHET
+
+GETZEL
+
+A LOST "L'AG BEOMER"
+
+MURDERERS
+
+THREE LITTLE HEADS
+
+GREENS FOR "_SHEVUOUS_"
+
+ANOTHER PAGE FROM THE "SONG OF SONGS"
+
+A PITY FOR THE LIVING
+
+THE TABERNACLE
+
+THE DEAD CITRON
+
+ISSHUR THE BEADLE
+
+BOAZ THE TEACHER
+
+THE SPINNING-TOP
+
+ESTHER
+
+THE POCKET-KNIFE
+
+ON THE FIDDLE
+
+THIS NIGHT
+
+
+
+
+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, somewhere, 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 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 Passover. 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. Everything 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 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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.
+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 without 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, 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?"
+
+"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 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 cannot 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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?"
+
+"You 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 bidding 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 myself 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 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 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.
+
+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 minister, 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 circulars. 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 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
+grandson. 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 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. Everything 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 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 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 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 understand, 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+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
+confronted 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."
+
+* * *
+
+The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got punished without knowing
+why.
+
+Feitel's father flogged him with his cap. "A 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. 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_." 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,'
+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, 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
+mother--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 Passover. I was dressed as
+befitted the son of a man 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 Passover, 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."
+
+"Good '_Yom-tov_'!"
+
+"Good '_Yom-tov_'!"
+
+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 off to sleep." Ha! 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_'? 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
+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 began 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
+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 schoolboys he was looked upon as a young man. He was
+a clumsily built fellow, 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,"
+"Bullock's skin," and other such nicknames were bestowed on him by the
+teacher. And he never seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a
+corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a calf. You must know
+that Getzel was fond of eating. 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 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 downwards. 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.
+
+"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 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 reduce them to a
+dust-heap. He enjoyed listening to his own words, and did not stop
+talking to himself, as if he really had some one beside him.
+
+"Listen to me. How far are we going to go?" 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."
+
+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, 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 '_Cheder_'
+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 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?"
+
+"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?"
+
+"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 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 victorious. 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, "_Reb_" 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 himself. 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.
+
+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 "_L'ag 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
+    Learn the '_Torah_,'
+    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 "_Cheder_" 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 commanded 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."
+
+"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 A B C 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 assistants 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 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!"
+
+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 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
+Mazapevka. 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+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'ag Beomer_."
+
+
+
+
+Murderers
+
+
+"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 '_L'ag Beomer_.'"
+
+"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,
+joyful, 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
+covered 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 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 himself?"
+
+"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 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
+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 outside the town, in the open
+air, on the bare earth, under God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of
+bread to the birds. Let them also know that it is "_L'ag 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, 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."
+
+* * *
+
+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 together 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
+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.
+
+"May the Lord love you as we do," said Elya.
+
+We were frightened, and whispered to Elya:
+
+"The Lord be with you!"
+
+"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 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: "'_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, '_Rebbe_'! Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"
+
+* * *
+
+We flew off together, like arrows from bows. We were afraid to stop a
+moment. We were even 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!"
+
+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 shouted:
+
+"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 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. Suddenly, he stopped
+us in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him again the story
+of that "_L'ag 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:
+
+"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 children. 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 asking 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 responsible 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 Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise people say--when
+everything, everything will be different. 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 pasting 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 Gentiles. 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
+always 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 father. He was gold. The mother was also gold, but she was cross.
+One got a smack from her sometimes, 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 mothers." 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 upwards, 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, 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 sigh. 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
+everything. 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
+thousands 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. Sometimes 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 children 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 creature, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other animal,
+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 behind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a
+story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, 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.
+
+* * *
+
+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, 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 Moshetzig'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 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, beyond 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
+desire--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?"
+
+"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 delighted; 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," replied 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 moment their parents turned away, they threw themselves
+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, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to 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 "_Shevuous_." 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 possession of
+me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!
+
+I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting 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
+outside 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
+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 everything 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 before,
+immediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the
+more excited I became. 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 showing above ground. These excited me by their
+silence 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 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, "vengeance. 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 today. 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 melons
+and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes and other vegetables.
+He made a good living 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 entered 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
+garden-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 may trust me," Okhrim replied. And
+he kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic.
+We had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard
+our neighbours say, 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 "'_Purim_' 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 "'_Purim_' 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 sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We
+rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his
+language, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand
+mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had
+to ask my mother to be our interpreter.
+
+"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 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 overcome that the tears filled
+his eyes. He stood facing 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
+everything, 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 ground, and torn the tops off the little onions
+and the garlic that were just showing above the earth.
+
+"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abraham--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 "_Shevuous_," 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 "_Shevuous_."
+
+
+
+
+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 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 daughter.'"
+
+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 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 shining 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 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 excepting 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:
+
+"Shemak, 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 repeating the words of the Shulamite in
+the "Song of Songs."
+
+"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 imagine 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 '_Shevuous_'?"
+
+"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 silver 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 "_Shevuous_."
+
+Father: "What do you say?"
+
+Mother: "What do you say?"
+
+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 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 deserts.
+
+* * *
+
+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 pronouncing 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.
+
+"No 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-father.
+
+"Why not?" I say to her. "With the greatest 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 temper 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 distance. The silver
+strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is
+waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are
+like paralysed. What are my parents 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":
+
+"'O 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 struggled 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
+simmered."
+
+"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 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, pronounced 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 comrade, 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. 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: "A 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, filling 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.
+
+"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, until 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 advance to do it, they at once fell upon me.
+
+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 himself 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 emphatically.
+
+"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself 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."
+
+* * *
+
+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 Uncle 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 remember 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."
+
+
+
+
+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 comprehend 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, whatever 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 you what Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what
+he lived by it would 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 machine, 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. When the clock stopped, or the tap of the
+"_Samovar_" 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 fortune 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, without a garden, without a yard, without a
+paling, without a body, and without life.
+
+"Well, it's a hut," said my mother, pretending to be 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 eating, 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
+handsomer 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 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 I do not know whether she was
+making fun or was in earnest. 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, looking for a spot on which to erect a
+Tabernacle.
+
+* * *
+
+Hershke Mamtzes' house was all right. It had 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 underneath.
+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 Tabernacle for once. The main
+thing was to get the material.
+
+"There will be materials. Have you the tools?" asked Hershke.
+
+"The tools will be found. Have you the timber?" asked Moshe.
+
+"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 Tabernacle? 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."
+
+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," 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."
+
+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 cud. 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 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 without 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 synagogue 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. Nevertheless, 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 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 diamonds 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 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 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.
+
+* * *
+
+"You 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 upwards, 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."
+
+
+
+
+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 boy has
+a nickname. For instance--"Mottel-Kappotel," "Meyer-Dreyer,"
+"Mendel-Fendel," "Chayim-Clayim," "Itzig-Shpitzig," "Berel-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--
+
+    "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." I often try to
+picture to myself what 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
+off 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 you that 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 '_groschen_' 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. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful
+perfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house.
+
+* * *
+
+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 "_Reb_" 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.
+
+"_Reb_" 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, '_Reb_' 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 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
+everything, 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 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 themselves 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 hand. "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 breakfast, 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 himself alone in the house.
+His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market.
+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.
+
+* * *
+
+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." Leibel 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 Tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm
+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 Tabernacle to the carpenter.
+
+"Here, make the blessing," he said. "But be careful, in Heaven'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
+careful!"
+
+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 blackguard!
+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
+misfortune.
+
+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 performed 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, because
+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.
+
+"A dead citron," said my father, in a broken voice.
+
+"A 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's 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.
+
+
+
+
+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 congregation, 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
+straggling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he 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: "Isshur, 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 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 almost 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 what 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 eighteen 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 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 yourselves. 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 contrary, a source of income,
+yet no one dared interfere. 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. He knew the people wished to take away his
+office from him as surely as they wished to live. 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. Whoever 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 intrigues. 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 neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was
+innocent of everything. You must know that Isshur had the town very
+cleverly. He thought within himself: "Argue, quarrel, abuse one another,
+my friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Isshur the
+beadle."
+
+That they should forget his doings was an important 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 householders
+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 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.
+
+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
+arriving 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 puzzling 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."
+
+Next day there was a different inscription. On the third day still
+another one. Isshur had something 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 morning, 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 committee-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 respected 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 proclamation. 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 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 was 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 procession 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, the same reader's-desk, and the same
+hanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly
+changed. It was almost impossible to recognize 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 new beadle, and
+new melodies, and new customs. Everything 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 unchanged.) 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 straggling, 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 tremulous 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.
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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. "A 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.
+
+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 without 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 being
+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 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 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," 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 ourselves 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 afternoon 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 "_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 Titus, 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 freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in
+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, hopeless, dark tyranny? No, never, never!"
+
+That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor innocent, 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 was 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 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 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 headache, nor stomach-ache, nor worms. What then? We must
+all together complain 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_'
+tomorrow, 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.
+
+
+
+
+The Spinning-Top
+
+
+More than any of the boys at "_Cheder_," more than any boy of the town,
+and more than any person 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 important 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 children. In
+a word, Mayer "_Polkovoi_" tried to refine himself--to be a man 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 bestowed 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 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 impudence. 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
+mother 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 "_Torah_." 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.
+
+"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 confess 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 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 rolling with laughter. And, at that moment, I
+counted the buttons from one hand into the 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, 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
+forefinger 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, slaughterers! 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....
+
+Nearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to
+a man--when robbers surround 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 deliverance.
+
+It was 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. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast
+and dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could
+never understand 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 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 swimming. 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 shrieking 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. 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 playing,
+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 "_Polkovoi_." From him all things
+originated; and on our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the fat
+face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to 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 playing 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 "_Chanukah_" 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 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 corners, 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.
+
+"G, G. Again G. It's extraordinary," said the boys, scratching their
+heads and again opening their purses.
+
+The game grew more exciting. The players 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 standing
+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 had 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 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 "_Chanukah_" 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 have 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 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 moustache 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 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.
+
+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 one."
+
+"This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah.
+
+"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--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.
+
+"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
+'_Reb_' 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 tomorrow,
+the anniversary of your father's death--peace be unto him!--I have
+bought you the prayer-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 "_groschens_." "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 melted 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 mother had
+come in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She
+was frozen through and through, and was warming 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 fritters or fresh "_matzo_"?
+What were the "_Chanukah_" lights--a silver, eight-branched lamp with
+olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the
+pleasure has nothing to do with wine 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
+happiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, 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 '_Chanukah_,' 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.
+
+Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I heard my mother's groans. I
+heard her bed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning.
+Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling 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! Tchireree!" And my mother did not cease from sighing 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! Tchireree!" 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 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 crying softly,
+sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not
+a human being. He said to me softly:
+
+"Tell 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 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 became 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.
+
+"God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden burst of laughter, Benny?"
+
+"Oh!" he cried, "oh! go away with your spinning-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."
+
+
+
+
+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 mistaken, 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 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 week-day. It was towards evening,
+between 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 withdrew his hand and gave me a "_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. 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 that 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_.'" Ten "_groschens_" 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?" "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
+wedding canopy."
+
+* * *
+
+What do you say to my brother--how he translated 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. Afterwards, if there's a fine
+to do, will I be to blame? Don't all people make mistakes sometimes?
+Does it not happen that even the postmaster 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 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 nonsense. 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, and the year before, you sent me
+something different. This year you sent your teacher a translation 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 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
+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.
+Afterwards 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?
+
+
+
+
+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 already 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 coughing. "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 commentaries, I very nearly
+had a real knife, also of 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 beautifully 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!"
+
+"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" 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 "_groschens_" 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 if an 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 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 father 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 sharpening-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! Why the devil
+can't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!"
+
+I began to cry. My father improved the situation 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? 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 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 nobody. 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.
+
+"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 Hertz 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
+understand 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. Nevertheless, 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? 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 Hertzenhertz. 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 animals, 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 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 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.
+
+"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 '_Gemarra_'? 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. Who 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. The pleasure was,
+alas! mixed with pain, and embittered 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 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 looking 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 German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably
+he was laughing because my father was driving 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, because 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. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a
+common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, 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, scorching 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!"
+
+* * *
+
+"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed
+with his finger at my comrade, 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!"
+
+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! 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. 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."
+
+"Moshalle, 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
+'_kopeks_' 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 pronounce 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 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 intervened. 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
+punishment 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
+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 swimming 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 trumpet: "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 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 terribly hot. In the name of
+God, go away."
+
+"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 muttering 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? 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 '_Cheder_' 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 '_Cheder_,' 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!"
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+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 I 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 musicians. 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 stealing
+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, 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 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 "_Reb_"
+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 grandfather'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 grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa,
+still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of
+"_Reb_" 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 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 retirement.
+
+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!"
+
+"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, understand 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 starting to her eyes.
+
+"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?" my mother asked him. "As
+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 "_Bezborodka_,"--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.
+He 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, 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 longest
+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 learning to
+play 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 instruments. 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 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 satisfied 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. Another 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 instruments!"
+
+That was the order which Naphtali "_Bezborodka_" gave to his regiment of
+children, all of whom 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 winking 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 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 '_groschens_' 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! Buy 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 herring, 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.
+
+After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked to the children that
+they should take their instruments in their hands. And he treated me,
+all over again to a piece--"his own composition." This "composition" was
+played with so much excitement and force that my ears were deafened and
+my brain was stupefied. I left the house intoxicated by Naphtali
+"_Bezborodka's_" "composition." 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 ringing 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 headache, 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 doing here?" asked my sister. And she
+tormented me with questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept
+repeating the same words:
+
+"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 yourself, 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, 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 knowledge 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 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, "_Reb_"
+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
+extraordinary was going to happen.
+
+Of late, "_Reb_" 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 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 Hershel the Tax-collector.
+
+"Oh, by all means! Why not?" answered the teacher, "_Reb_" 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?"
+
+"The 'Song of Songs,'" replied Hershel the Tax-collector. "The '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
+beautiful 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
+wisdom. 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 his 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.
+"_Reb_" 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 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 frozen....
+
+Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. But it was not because I got
+a flogging, and not because I went sliding on the ice. It was because of
+a fiddle.
+
+And here is the story for you:--
+
+At our wine-shop 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 eyebrows, 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 because 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 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!"
+
+With me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate 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. "Do 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.
+
+"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. Sargeant, 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 that?"
+
+"As I serve God," he exclaimed, and lifted his eyebrows at me.
+
+Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy
+windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green
+garden from out of which peeked 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 that
+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
+wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in
+the green sweet smelling grass.
+
+But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green
+leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. 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.
+
+Afterwards, 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, 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's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.
+Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."
+
+I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the house with Mr. Sargeant
+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 half an
+evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns. The guns! I did not even
+care about the fresh 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, without 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 beautiful sounds--which was one mass of singing, from
+beginning to end....
+
+"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. I 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 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
+smoking a cigarette on the Sabbath. "May I see myself enjoying all that
+is good!" he cried. "If it is 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-collecting, and the work done at
+the House of Learning. 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
+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 dangling 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 opinion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish?
+
+* * *
+
+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
+sitting 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
+drumming on the table with his short little fingers. Opposite 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.
+
+"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 Learning?" said he.
+
+"What should I be doing at the House of Learning?" 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_' 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. 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 off himself and told it to him. And in this way
+Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-collector; for the two had
+always been at the point of sticking knives into one another.
+
+* * *
+
+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 defence 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."
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+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 congratulated. 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_.' I thank you, and I
+send my mother my heartiest greetings."
+
+Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one another. 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 anywhere 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 childhood--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,
+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 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 excepting
+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 congratulate Busie. She is
+betrothed, and will be married 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
+and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. I arrived home
+exactly on the day before the Festival, 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 "Song 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, washing 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, 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 become 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
+sallow. 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 under 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 grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and
+full of grace. 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 careworn and more beautiful "Song 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 reminded 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.
+
+* * *
+
+"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 by
+sentence--
+
+"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
+myself--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 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 listening 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.
+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 passionate 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
+Passover 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 another'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.
+
+"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 reflected in Busie's eyes.
+They were bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I
+would 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 everything. 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 fire. 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 Festival 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-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, transparent white hands. No one has such
+beautiful, white transparent hands as my mother.
+
+But what is the matter with Busie? The light has gone out 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
+absence 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 counting 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 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 candlesticks,
+and the Sabbath candles, and my mother's beautiful, white transparent
+hands, and Busie's beautiful 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 interwoven for ever?...
+
+"Ta!" 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
+become 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 newness.
+
+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 Festival
+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 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 fallen-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 deafened 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.
+
+* * *
+
+And now, here I am again in the same old synagogue, praying with the
+same old congregation, just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the
+same Cantor 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 saying? 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 betrothed 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! 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_'! 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!" and accepted my greeting, in
+return, "Unto you be peace!" as if it were no more than their due.
+
+"This is my son...."
+
+"That is your 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 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 reproachfully 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 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 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 simple 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 recline. A glory shone forth from my mother's
+countenance, 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 sitting so far away from
+the Queen's Daughter. I remember 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 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 playing 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 wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of
+crystal for seven years on end, and who was waiting 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 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.
+
+"On 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:
+
+"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 another--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 nothing at all to say to you now?"
+
+These words were uttered with so much bitterness 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! Tomorrow!...
+
+I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fragrance 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 honeycomb: honey and milk are under
+thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of
+Lebanon." ...
+
+And all our speech this night was 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 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? Perhaps 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
+themselves 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 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
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+_NEW BORZOI NOVELS_
+
+_SPRING, 1922_
+
+WANDERERS
+  _Knut Hamsun_
+
+MEN OF AFFAIRS
+  _Roland Pertwee_
+
+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 Bjoerkman_
+
+CYTHEREA
+  _Joseph Hergesheimer_
+
+EXPLORERS OF THE DAWN
+  _Mazo de la Roche_
+
+THE WHITE KAMI
+  _Edward Alden Jewell_
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Jewish Children, by Sholem Naumovich Rabinovich
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEWISH CHILDREN ***
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