 48 The last of them, by Isaac Dov Berkovitz. They had been rebonim for generations in the misnuggled community of Murovanka. Poverty stricken Murovanka, crowned with hoary honour hidden away in the thick woods. Generation on generation of them had been renowned far and near whenever a Jewish word was spoken, whenever the voice of the Torah rang out in the warm old houses of study. People talked of them everywhere, as they talk of miracles when miracles are no more, and of consolation when all hope is long since dead. Talked of them as great-grandchildren talk of the riches of their great-grandfather, the like of which are now unknown, and the great seven-branched old-fashioned lamp, which he left them as an inheritance of times gone by. For as the lustre of an old seven-branched lamp shining in the darkness such was the lustre of the rebonim of Murovanka. That was long ago, ever so long ago, when Murovanka lay buried in the dark Lithuanian forests. The old, low, moss-grown houses were still set in wide green gardens wherein grew beetroot and onion, while the hops wind itself and clustered thickly along the wooden fencing. Well-to-do Jews still went about in linen polices and smoked pipes filled with dry herbs. People got a living out of the woods where they burned pitch the whole week through, and Jewish families ate rye bread and groats potage. A new baby brought no anxiety along with it. People praised God, carried the pitcher to the well, filled it, and poured a quart of water into the potage. The newcomer was one of God's creatures, and was assured of his portion along with the others. And if a Jew had a marriageable daughter and could not afford a dowry, he took a stick in his hand, donned a white shirt with a broad mangled collar, repeated the Tefillis Hadarech, the prayer of the highway, and set off on foot to Volhynia, that thrice-blessed wonderland where people talk with a kyrk and ate khala with saffron even in the middle of the week, with saffron if not with honey. There, in Volhynia, on Friday evenings, the rich Jewish householder of the district walks to and fro leisurely in his brightly lit room. In all likelihood, he is a short, plump, hairy man, with a broad, fair beard, a gathered silk sash around his substantial figure, a cheery, sing-song, shalom alechem on his mincing, kyrky tongue, and a merry crack of the thumb. The Lithuanian guest, teacher or preacher, the shrunk and shriveled stranger with the piercing black eyes, sits in a corner, merely moving his lips and gazing at the floor, perhaps because he feels ill at ease in the brightly, nicely furnished room, perhaps because he is thinking of his distant home, of his wife and children, and his marriageable daughter, and perhaps it has suddenly all become oddly dear to him, his poor, forsaken native place with its moiling, poverty-struck Jews, whose week is spent pitch-burning in the forest, with its old, warm houses of study, and its celebrated giants of the Torah, bending with a candle in their hand over the great Hori Gomorrah. And here, at table between the tasty stuffed fish and the soup, with the rich, Volhynian stuffed monkeys, the brusk, tongue-tied guest is suddenly unable to contain himself, and overflows with talk about his corner in Lithuania. Whether we have our rabbis at home, no, no. And thereupon he holds forth grand delinquently, with an ardour and incisiveness born of the love and the longing at his heart. The piercing black eyes shoot sparks, as the guest tells of the great men of Muravanka, with their fiery intellects, the great iron perseverance, who sit over their books by day and by night. But time to time they take an hour and a half's dose, falling with their heads onto their fists, their beards sweeping the Gomorrah, a big candle keeping watch overhead, and waking them once more to the study of the Torah. At dawn, when people begin to come in for the morning prayer, they walk round them on tiptoe, giving them their four L's distance, and avoiding meeting their look, which is apt to be sharp and burning. That is the way we study in Lithuania! The stout, hairy householder, good-natured and credulous, listens attentively to the wonderful tales, loosens the sash over his police in leisurely fashion, unbuttons his waist-coast across his generous waist, blows out his cheeks, and swears his head from side to side, because one may believe anything of the Lithuanians. Then, if once in a long, long while the rich, Volhynian householder stumbled by some miracle or another into Lithuania, sheer curiosity would drive him to take a look at the Lithuanian celebrity. But he would stand before him in trembling and astonishment, as one stands before a high granite rock, the summit of which can barely be discerned. Is he terrified by the dark and bushy brows, the keen penetrating looks, the deep stern wrinkles on the forehead that might have been carved in stone they are so stiffly fixed? Who can say? Or is he put out of countenance by the cold, hard assertiveness of their speeches, which bore into the conscience like a gimlet and nose of no mercy? For, from between those wrinkles, from beneath those dark brows shines out the everlasting glory of the Shekinah. Such were the celebrated Rabbonym of Moravanka. They were an old family, a long chain of great men, generation on generation of tall, well-built, large-boned Jews, all far on in years, with thick curly beards. It was very seldom that one of those beards showed a silver of hair. They were stern, silent men, who heard and saw everything, but who expressed themselves mostly by means of their wrinkles and their eyebrows rather than in words, and that when Moravanka Rav went so far as to say, no, that was enough. The dignity of Rav was hereditary among them, descending from father to son, and, together with the rabbinical position and the eighteen gilden a week salary, the son inherited from his father a tall old reading desk, smoked and scorched by the candles in the old House of Study, in the corner by the Ark, and a thick, heavily knotted stick, and an old holiday police of Lustereen, the which, if worn on a bright Sabbath day in summertime, shines in the sun and fairly shouts to be looked at. They arrived in Moravanka generations ago, when the town was still in the power of wild highwaymen, called their Hyde Makyas, of huge, terrifying whiskers and large, savage dogs. One day, on Hashanah Rabbah, early in the morning, there entered the Beshamedrash, a tall youth, evidently village-born, and from a long way off, barefoot with turned-up trousers, his boots slung on a big knotted stick across his shoulders, and a great bundle of big Hashanah's willow branches. The youth stood in the centre of the House of Study with his mouth open, bewildered, and the boys quickly snatched his willow branches from him. He was surrounded, stared at, questioned as to who he was whence he came and what he wanted, had he parents, was he married? For some time the youth stood silent with downcast eyes, then he bethought himself, and answered in three words, I want to study, and from that moment he remained in the old building, and people began to tell wonderful tales of his power of perseverance, of how a tall, barefoot youth, who came walking from a far distance, had, by dint of determination, come to be reckoned among the great men in Israel, of how, on a winter midnight, he would open the stove-doors and study by the light of the glowing coals, of how he once forgot food and drink for three days and three nights running, while he stood over a difficult legal problem with wrinkled brows, his eyes piercing the page, his fingers stiffening round the handle of his stick, and he motionless. And when suddenly he found the solution he gave a shout, knew, and came down so hard on the desk with his stick that the whole Beshamed Resh shook. It happened just when the people were standing quite quiet, repeating the Shimonah Esrae. Then it was told how this same lad became Rav in Muravanka, how his genius descended to his children and children's children till late in the generations, gathering in might with each generation in turn, they rose, these giants, one after the other, persistent investigators of the law, with high wrinkled foreheads, dark bushy brows, a hard cutting glance, sharp as steel. In those days Muravanka was illuminated as with seven sons. The houses of study were filled with students, voices young and old rang out over the Gomorrahs, sang wept and implored. Wired and tired-looking fathers and uncles would come into the shores with blackened faces after the days pitch-burning between afternoon and evening prayer, range themselves in leisurely mood by the doors and the stove, cock their ears and listen. Jewish drivers who convey people from one town to another, snatched a minute the first thing in the morning and dropped in with their whips under their arms to hear a passage in the Gomorrah expounded, and the women who washed the linen at the pump in summertime beat the wet clothes to the melody of the Torah that came floating unto the street through the open windows, sweet as a long expected piece of good news. Thus Muravanka came to be a great renown because the wondrous power of the Muravanka Rebonim, the power of concentration of thought, grew from generation to generation, and in those days the old people went about with a secret whispering, that if there should arise a tenth generation of the mighty ones, a new thing, please God, would come to pass among Jews. But there was no tenth generation. The ninth of the Muravanka Rebonim was the last of them. He had two sons, but there was no luck in the house in his day. The sons philosophised too much, asked too many questions, took strange paths that led them far away. Once a rumour spread in Muravanka that the Rav's eldest son had become celebrated in the great world because of a book he had written, and had acquired the title of Professor. When the old Rav was told of it, he at first remained silent with downcast eyes. Then he lifted them and ejaculated, no, not a word more. It was only remarked that he grew paler, that his look was even more piercing, more searching than before. This is all that was ever said in the town about the Rav's children, for no one cared to discuss a thing on which the old Rav himself was silent. Once, however, on Shabbos Haggadol something happened in the spacious old Besamidrash. The Rav was standing by the Arunhakodash, wrapped in his talus, and expounding to a crowded congregation. He had a clear, resonant, deep voice, and when it sent thundering over the heads of the people, the air seemed to catch fire, and they listened dumbfounded and spellbound. Suddenly the old man stocked in the midst of his exposition, and was silent. The congregation thrilled with speechless expectation. For a minute or two the Rav steward with his piercing gaze fixed on the people. Then he deliberately pulled aside the curtain before the Arunhakodash, opened the arc doors, and turned to the congregation. Listen, Jews, I know that many of you are thinking of something that has just occurred to me, too. You wonder how it is that I should set myself up to expound the Torah to a town full of Jews, when my own children have cast the Torah behind them. Therefore I now open the arc and declare to you, Jews, before the holy scrolls of the law, I have no children any more. I am the last Rav of our family. Hereupon a piteous wail came out of the women's shawl, but the Rav's sonorous voice soon reduced them to silence, and once more the Torah was being expounded in thunder over the heads of the open-mouthed assembly. Years, a whole decade of them passed, and still the old Rav walked erect, and not one silver hair showed in his curly beard. And the town was still used to see him before daylight, a tall, solitary figure, carrying a stick and a lantern on his way to the large old Beshamedresh to study there in solitude. Until Moravanka began to ring with the fame of her Charef, her great new scholar. He was the son of a poor tailor, a pale, thin youth with a pointed nose and two sharp black eyes, who had gone away at thirteen or so to study in celebrated distant academies. Hence his name had spread round and round. People said of him that he was growing up to be a light of the exile, that with his galastic achievements he could outwit the acutist intellects of all past ages. They said that he possessed a brain power that ground mountains of Talmud to powder. News came that a quantity of prominent Jewish communities had sent messages to ask him to come and be their Rav. Moravanka was stirred to its depths. The householders went about greatly perturbed, because their Rav was an old man. His days were numbered, and he had no children to take his place. So they came to the old Rav in his house to ask his advice, whether it was possible to invite the Moravanka Charef, the tailor's son, to come to them, so that he might take the place of the Rav on his death, in a hundred and twenty years, seeing that the said young Charef was a scholar distinguished by the acuteness of his intellect, the only man worthy of sitting in the seat of the Moravanka Ravonim. The old Rav listened to the householders with lowering brows, and never raised his eyes, and he answered them one word. No. So Moravanka sent a messenger to the young Charef, offering him the Rabinet. The messenger was swift, and soon the news spread through the town that the Charef was approaching. When it was time for the householders to go forth out of the town to meet the young Charef, the old Rav offered to go with them, and they took a chair for him to sit on, while he waited at the meeting place. This was by the wood outside of the town, where all through the week the Jewish town folks earned their bread by burning pitch. Begrimed and toil-worn Jews were continually dropping their work, and peeping out, shame-facedly, between the tree-stems. It was Friday, a clear day in the autumn. She appeared out of a great cloud of dust, she, the travelling wagon, in which sat the celebrated young Charef. Sholom Alekhem's flew to meet him from every side, and his old father, the tailor, lent back against the tree, and wept aloud for joy. Now the old Rav declared that he would not allow the Charef to enter the town till he had heard him, the Charef, expound a portion of the Torah. The young man accepted the condition. Men, women, and little children stood expectant. All eyes were fastened on the tailor's son. All hearts beat rapidly. The Charef expounded the Torah, standing in the wagon. At first he looked fairly scared, and his sharp black eyes darted fearfully, hither and thither, over the heads of the silent crowd. But then came a bright idea and lit up his face. He began to speak, but his was not the familiar teaching such as everyone learns and understands. His words were like fiery flashes, appearing and disappearing one after the other, lightnings that traverse and illuminate half the sky in one second of time, a play of swords in which there are no words, only the clink and ring of finely tempered steel. The old Rav sat in his chair, leaning on his old knobbly knotted stick, and listened. He heard, but evil thoughts beset him, and deep hard wrinkles cut themselves into his forehead. He saw before him the Charef, the dried-up youth with the sharp eyes, and the sharp, appointed nose, and the evil thought came to him, those are needles, a tailor's needles, while the long, thin forefinger with which the Charef pointed rapidly in the air seemed a third needle wielded by a tailor in a hurry. You prick more sharply even than your father, is what the old Rav wanted to say when the Charef ended his sermon, but he did not say it. The whole assembly was gazing with caught breath at his half-closed eyelids. The lids never moved, and some thought, wonderingly, if he had fallen into a dose from sheer old age. Suddenly a strange, dry snap broke the stillness. The old Rav started in his chair, and when they rushed forward to assist him, they found that his knotted, knobbly stick had broken in two, pale and bent for the first time, but a tall figure still. The old Rav stood up among his startled flock. He made an leisurely motion with his hand in the direction of the town, and remarked quietly to the young Charef, new, now you can go into the town. That Friday night the old Rav came into the best Hamidrash without his satin cloak, like a mourner. The congregation saw him lead the young Rav into a corner near the Arona Kodesh, where he sat him down by the high old Beemer, saying, you will sit here. He himself went and sat down behind the pulpit among the strangers, the Sabbath guests. For the first minute people were lost in astonishment. The next minute the house of study was filled with wailing. Young and old lifted their voices in lamentation. The young Rav looked like a child sitting behind the tall desk, and he shivered and shook as though with fever. Then the old Rav stood up to his full height and commanded, people are not too weep. All this happened about the solemn days. Muravanka remembers that time now, and speaks of it at dusk, when the sky is red, as though streaming with fire, and the men stand about pensive and forlorn, and the women fold their babies closer in their aprons. At the close of the day of atonement there was a report that the old Rav had breathed his last in kittle and talus. But the young Hariff did not survive him long. He died at his father's, the tailor, and his funeral was on a wet Hoshana Raba day. Ageid Folk said he had been summoned to face the old Rav in a lawsuit in the heavenly court. End of The Last of Them by Isaac Dov Berkovitz Section 49 The Last Section of Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Section 49 The Clever Rabbi, A Folk Tale by Anonymous The power of man's imagination, said my grandmother, is very great. Hereby hangs a tale which, to our sorrow, is a true one, and as clear as daylight. Listen attentively, yingola. It will interest you very much. Not far from this town of ours lived an old count who believed that Jews require blood at Passover, Christian blood too, for their Passover matzah. The count in his brandy distillery had a Jewish overseer, a very honest, respectable fellow. The count loved him for his honesty, and was very kind to him, and the Jew, though he was a simple man and no scholar, was very well disposed, and served the count with heart and soul. He would have gone through fire and water at the count's bidding, for it is in the nature of a Jew to be faithful and to love good men. The count often discussed business matters with him, and took pleasure in hearing about the customs and observances of the Jews. One day the count said to him, Tell me the truth. Do you love me with your whole heart? Yes, replied the Jew, I love you as myself. Not true, said the count, I shall prove to you that you hate me even unto death. Hold, cried the Jew, why does my Lord say such terrible things? The count smiled, and answered, Let me tell you. I know quite well that Jews must have Christian blood for their Passover feast. Now, what would you do if I were the only Christian you could find? You would have to kill me, because the rabbis have said so. Indeed, I can scarcely hold you to blame, since, according to your false notions, the Divine Command is precious, even when it tells us to commit murder. I should be no more to you than was Isaac to Abraham, when, at God's command, Abraham was about to slay his only son. No, however, that the God of Abraham is a God of mercy and loving kindness, while the God the rabbis have created is full of hatred towards Christians. How, then, can you say you love me? The Jew clapped his hands to his head, he tore his hair in distress, and felt no pain, and with a broken heart he answered the count and said, How long will you Christians suffer this stain on your pure hearts? How long will you disgrace yourselves? Does not my Lord know that this is a great lie? I, as a believing Jew, and many beside me, as believing Jews, we ourselves, I say, with our own hands grind the corn. We keep the flour from getting damp or wet with anything, for if only a little dew drop onto it, it is prohibited for us, as though it had yeast. Till the day on which the matzah is baked, we keep the flour as the apple of our eye, and when the flour is baked, and we are eating the matzah, even then we are not sure of swallowing it, because if our gum should begin to bleed, we have to spit the piece out, and in face of all these stringent regulations against eating the blood of even beasts and birds, some people say that Jews require human blood for their Passover matzah, and swear to it as a fact. What does my Lord suppose we are likely to think of such people? We know that they swear falsely, and a false oath is of all things the worst. The count was touched to the heart by these words, and these two men, being both upright and without guile, believed one the other. The count believed the Jew. That is, he believed that the Jew did not know the truth of the matter, because he was poor and untaught, while the rabbis all the time most certainly used blood at Passover. Only they kept it a secret from the people. And he said as much to the Jew, who in his turn believed the count, because he knew him to be an honourable man. And so it was that he began to have his doubts, and when the count on different occasions repeated the same words, the Jew said to himself that, perhaps after all it was partly true, that there must be something in it, the count would never tell him a lie. And he carried the thought about with him for some time. Now the Jew found increasing favour in his master's eyes. The count lent him money to trade with, and God prospered the Jew in everything he undertook. Thanks to the count he grew rich. The Jew had a kind heart and was much given to good works, as is the way with Jews. He was very charitable and suckered all the poor in the neighbouring town, and he assisted the rabbis and the pious in all the places round about, and earned for himself a great and beautiful name, for he was known to all as the benefactor. The rabbis gave him the honour due to a pious and influential Jew, who is a wealthy man and charitable into the bargain. But the Jew was thinking, now the rabbis will let me into the secret which is theirs, and which they share only with those who are at once pious and rich. That great and pious Jews must have blood for the Passover. For a long time he lived in hope, but the rabbis told him nothing. The subject was not once mentioned, but the Jew felt sure that the count would never have lied to him, and he gave more liberally than before, thinking, perhaps after all it was too little. He assisted the rabbi of the nearest town for a whole year, so that the rabbi opened his eyes in astonishment. He gave him more than half of what is sufficient for a livelihood. When it was near Passover the Jew drove into the little town to visit the rabbi, who received him with open arms, and gave him honour unto the most powerful and wealthy benefactor, and all the representative men of the community paid him their respects. Thought the Jew, now they will tell me of the commandment which is not given to every Jew to observe. As the rabbi, however, told him nothing, the Jew remained to remind the rabbi, as it were, of his duty. A rabbi, said the Jew, I have something very particular to say to you. Let us go into a room where we two shall be alone. So the rabbi went with him into an empty room, shut the door, and said, Dear friend, what is your wish? Do not be abashed, but speak freely, and tell me what it is I can do for you. Dear rabbi, I am, you must know, already acquainted with the fact that Jews require blood at Passover. I know also that it is a secret belonging only to the rabbis, to very pious Jews, and to the wealthy who give much arms. And I, who am, as you know, a very charitable and good Jew, wish also to comply, if only once in my life, with this great observance. You need not be alarmed, dear rabbi, I will never betray the secret, but will make you happy forever, if you will enable me to fulfill so great a command. If, however, you deny its existence and declare that Jews do not require blood, from that moment I become your bitter enemy. And why should I be treated worse than any other pious Jew? I too want to perform the great mitzvah which God gave in secret. I am not learned in the law, but a great and wealthy Jew, and one given to good works, that I am in very truth. You can fancy, said my grandmother, the rabbis' horror on hearing such words from a Jew, a simple countryman. They pierced him to the quick, like sharp arrows. He saw that the Jew believed in all sincerity that his co-religionists used blood at Passover. How was he to uproot out of such a simple heart the weeds sown there by evil men? The rabbi saw that words would just then be useless. A beautiful thought came to him, and he said, So be it, dear friend. Come into the synagogue tomorrow at this time, and I will grant your request. But till then you must fast, you must not sleep all night, but watch in prayer, for this is a very grave and dreadful thing. The Jew went away full of gladness, and did as the rabbi had told him. Next day, at the appointed time, he came again, worn with hunger and lack of sleep. The rabbi took the key of the synagogue, and they went in there together. In the synagogue, all was quiet. The rabbi put on a tallis and a kettle, lighted some black candles, threw off his shoes, took the Jew by the hand, and led him up to the ark. The rabbi opened the ark, took out a safer Torah, and said, You know that for us Jews the scroll of the law is the most sacred of all things, and that the list of denunciations occurs in it twice. I swear to you by the scroll of the law, if any Jew, whosoever he be, requires blood at Passover, may all the curses contained in the two lists of denunciations be on my head, and on the head of my whole family. The Jew was greatly startled. He knew the rabbi had never before sworn an oath, and now, for his sake, he had sworn an oath so dreadful. The Jew wept much, and said, Dear rabbi, I have sinned before God and before you. I pray you, pardon me, and give me some hard penance, as hard as you please. I will perform it willingly, and may God forgive me likewise. The rabbi comforted him and told no one what had happened. He only told a few very near relations, just to show them how people can be talked into believing the greatest foolishness and the most wicked lies. May God, said my grandmother, open the eyes of all who accuse us falsely, that they may see how useless it is to trump up against us things that never were seen or heard. Jews will be Jews while the world lasts, and they will become, through suffering, better Jews with more Jewish hearts. End of The Claver rabbi, a folktale by Anonymous. End of Yiddish Mises, Yiddish Tales, translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis in Santa Rosa, California, 21st of Nissan in the year 5771. That's equal 25th 2011.