 37 Late by Abraham Raisen It was in a sad and hopeless mood that Antosh watched the autumn making its way into his peasants' heart. The days began to shorten, and the evenings to lengthen, and there was no more petroleum in the hut to fill his humble lamp. His wife complained too. The store of salt was giving out, there was very little soap left, and in a few days he would finish his tobacco. And Antosh cleared his throat, spat, and muttered countless times a day, no salt, no soap, no tobacco, we haven't got anything, a bad business. Antosh had no prospect of earning anything in the village. The one village Jew was poor himself, and had no work to give. Antosh had only one hope left. Just before Sukkos, the feast of tabernacles, he would drive a whole cart full of fur boughs into the little town, and bring a tidy sum of money home in exchange. He did this every year since buying his thin horse in the market for six roubles. When shall you have tabernacles? He asked every day of the village Jew. Not yet, was the Jew's daily reply. But when shall you, Antosh insisted one day? In a week, answered the Jew, not dreaming how very much Antosh needed to know precisely. In reality there were only five more days to tabernacles, and Antosh had calculated with business accuracy that it would be best to take the fur boughs into the town two days before the festival. But this was really the first day of it. He rose early, ate his dry black bread dipped in salt, and drank a measure of water. Then he harnessed his thin starved horse to the cart, took his hatchet, and drove to the nearest wood. He cut down the branches greedily, seeking out the thickest and longest. Good wear is easier sold, he thought, and the cart filled, and the load grew higher and higher. He was calculating on a return of three gulden, and it seemed still too little, so that he went on cutting and laid on a few more boughs. The cart could hold no more, and Antosh looked at it from all sides and smiled contentedly. That will be enough, he muttered, and loosened the reins. But scarcely had he driven a few paces when he stopped and looked the cart over again. Perhaps it's not enough after all, he questioned fearfully, cut down five more boughs, laid them onto the already full cart, and drove on. He drove slowly, pace by pace, and his thoughts travelled slowly too, as though keeping step with the thin horse. Antosh was calculating how much salt, and how much soap, how much petroleum, and how much tobacco he could buy for the return for his wear. At length the calculating tired him, and he resolved to put it off until he should have the cash. Then calculating would be done much more easily. But when he reached the town, and saw that the sookers were already covered with furbows, he felt a pang at his heart. The booths and the houses seemed to be twirling round him in a circle and dancing. But he consoled himself with the thought that every year when he drove into town he found many booths already covered. Some cover earlier, some later. The latter paid the best. I shall ask, higher prices, he resolved, and all the while fear tugged at his heart. He drove on. Two Jewish women were standing before a house. They pointed at the cart with their finger and laughed aloud. Why do you laugh? queried Antosh excitedly. Because you are too soon with your furbows, they answered, and laughed again. How too soon, he asked, astonished. Too soon, too soon, laughed the woman. Pah! Antosh spat and drove on, thinking, Berko said himself, in a week, I'm only two days ahead. A cold sweat covered him, as he reflected he might have made the wrong calculation found in what Berko had told him. It was possible that he had counted the days badly, had come too late. There is no doubt all the booths are covered with furbows. He will have no salt, no tobacco, no soap, no petroleum. Sadly, he followed the slow paces of his languid horse, which led his weary head drew as though out of sympathy for his master. Meanwhile the Jews were crowding out of the synagogues in festal array with their talism and prayer-books in their hands. When they perceived the peasant with the cart of furbows, they looked questioningly one at the other. They made a mistake and begun the festival too early. What a view there! Someone inquired. What? answered Antosh, taken aback. Furbows, buy, my dear friend, I sell it cheap! He begged in a piteous voice. The Jews burst out laughing. What should we want it for now, fool? The festival has begun, said another. Antosh was confused with his misfortune. He scratched the back of his head and exclaimed, Weaking, buy, buy, I want salt, soap, I want petroleum. The group of Jews who had begun by laughing were now deeply moved. They saw the poor, starving peasant, standing there in his despair, and were filled with a lively compassion. Poor Gentile, it's pitiful, said one sympathetically. He hoped to make a fortune out of his furbows, and now observed another. It would be proper to buy up that bit of fur, said the third. Or else it might cause a chil-hu-la-shem, a desecration of the name of God. On Yom Tov, objected someone else. It can always be used to firewood, said another, contemplating the cart full. Whether or no, it's a festival. No salt, no soap, no petroleum. It was the refrain of the bewildered peasant, who did not understand what the Jews were saying among themselves. He could only guess that they were talking about him. Oh, he doesn't want money, he wants where. Where without money can be given, even on Yom Tov, called out one. The interest of the bystanders waxed more lively. Among them stood a storekeeper, whose shop was close by. Give him chai am a few jars of salt and other things that he wants, even if it comes to a few gulden, we will contribute. All right, willingly, said chai am. Oh, poor Gentile! Amitzvah, amitzvah, it would be carrying out the religious precept as surely as I'm a Jew, chimed in every individual member of the crowd. Chai am called the peasant to him. All the rest followed. He gave him out of the stores two jars of salt, a bar of soap, a bottle of petroleum, and two packets of tobacco. The peasant did not know what to do for joy. He could only stammer out in a low voice. Thank you, thank you. And there's a bit of Sabbath loaf, called out one when he had packed the things away. Take that with you. There's some more! And a second hand held some out to him. More, more, and more! They brought Antosh bread and cake from all sides. His astonishment was such that he could scarcely articulate his thanks. The people were policed with themselves. And Yankel Levis, a cheerful man who was well supplied for the festival, because his daughter's intended was staying in his house, brought Antosh a glass of brandy. Drink and drive home in the name of God. Antosh drank the brandy with a quick gulp, bit off a piece of cake, and declared joyfully, I shall never forget it. Not at all a bad gentile, remarked someone in the crowd. Well, what would you have? Did you expect him to beat you up? Queer it another, smiling. But the words to beat made a melancholy impression on the crowd, and it dispersed in silence. End of late by Abraham Raison. Section 38 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Prezellus. Section 38 The Cadish by Abraham Raison. First Reader's Note. Among orthodox Jews, Cadish, the prayer for the dead, was and is only recited by men, so in this story the Cadish is a boy who would eventually recite the prayer for his parents. End of my first Reader's Note. My second Reader's Note. At a time when many died in infancy, superstitious people wouldn't call their child by his or her name, but Alta, meaning Old Man. The idea being to trick the Malakham office, the angel of death, into taking somebody else. End of Second Reader's Note. The Cadish by Abraham Raison. From behind the curtain came low moans and low words of encouragement from the old and experienced Bobby. In the room it was dismal to suffocation. The seven children, all girls between twenty-three and four years old, sat quietly, each by herself, with drooping head, and waited for something dreadful. At a little table near a great cupboard with books, sat the patriarch, Reb Selig Hannis, a tall, thin Jew with a yellow, consumptive face. He was chanting in low, broken tones out of a big Gamora, and continually raising his head, giving a nervous glance at the curtain, and then, without inquiring what might be going on below the low moaning, taking up, once again, in his sad, tremulous chant. He seemed to be suffering more than the woman in childbirth herself. Reboina shall oil'em! It was the eldest daughter who broke the stillness. Let it be a boy for once! Help, Reboina shall oil'em! Have pity! Aye, thus may it be, Reboina shall oil'em! Chimed in the second, and all the girls, big and little, with broken heart and prostrate spirit, prayed that there might be born a boy. Reb Selig raised his eyes from the Gamora, glanced at the curtain, then at the seven girls, gave vent to a deep, drawn eye, made a gesture with his hand, and said, with settled despair, she will give you another sister. The seven girls looked at one another in desperation. Their father's conclusion quite crushed them, and they no longer even had the courage to pray. Only the littlest, the four-year-old in the torn frock, prayed softly, Aye, please, God, there will be a little brother. Aye, shall die without a caddish, groaned Reb Selig. The time drags on, and the moans behind the curtain grow louder, and Reb Selig and the older girls feel that, very, very soon, the grandmother will call out in despair, Aye, little girl! And Reb Selig feels that the words will strike home to his heart like a blow, and he resolves to run away. He goes out into the yard and looks up at the sky. It is midnight. The moon swims along so quietly and indifferently. The stars seem to frolic and rock themselves like little children, and still Reb Selig hears, in the grandmother's husky voice, Aye, girl! Well, there will be no caddish, the Fallon, he says, crossing the yard again. There's no getting it by force. He's trying to calm himself, he's useless. The fear that it should be a girl only grows upon him. He loses patience and goes back into the house. But the house is in a turmoil. What is it, Aye? A little boy! Tati, a boy! To tinker, as surely may I be well. With this news the seven girls fall upon him with radiant faces. Aye? A little boy! Asked Reb Selig as though bewildered. Aye? What? A boy, Reb Selig, a caddish! Announced the grandmother, as soon as I have bathed him I will show him you. The boy! Stammered Reb Selig in the same bewilderment, and he leant against the wall and burst into tears like a woman. The seven girls took alarm. That is for joy! Explained the grandmother, I have known that happened before. A boy, a boy! sobbed Reb Selig, overcome with happiness, a boy, a boy, a caddish! The little boy received the name of Jacob, but he was called by way of a talisman, Alta. Reb Selig was a learned man, and inclined to think lightly of such protective measures, he even laughed at his haka for believing in such foolishness. But at his heart he was content to have it so, who could tell what might not be in it after all? Women sometimes know better than men. By the time Alta was three years old Reb Selig's cough had become worse, the sense of oppression on his chest more frequent. But he held himself morally erect, and looked to death calmly in the face as though he would say, Now I can afford to laugh at you, I leave a caddish. What do you think, haka? He would say to his wife, after a fit of coughing, Would Altaka be able to say caddish if I were to die to-day or to-morrow? Go along with you, Meshugana cup! Altaka would exclaim in secret alarm, You are going to live a long while! Is your cough anything new? Selig smiled. Foolish woman, she supposes I'm afraid to die. When one leaves a caddish, death is a trifle. Altaka was sitting playing with a prayer-book, and imitating his father at prayer. Ah, num-num, num-num! Listen to him praying, and haka turned delighted to her husband. His soul is piously inclined. Selig made no reply. He only gazed at his caddish with a beaming face. Then an idea came into his head, Altaka would be a tzaddik, will help him out of all his difficulties in the other world. Mama, I want to eat! wailed Altaka, suddenly. He was given a piece of the white bread which was laid aside for him only every sabbath. Altaka began to eat. Motsi! Motsi! called out Reb Selig. Can't! answered the child. It is time you taught him to say grace, observed Haika, and Reb Selig drew Altaka to him and began to repeat with him. Say boruch. Buruk, repeated the child after his fashion, eto, eto. When Altaka had finished Motsi, Haika answered piously, omain, and Reb Selig saw Altaka in imagination, standing in the synagogue and repeating caddish, and heard the congregation answer omain, and he felt as though he were already seated in the Garden of Eden. Another year went by, and Reb Selig was feeling very poorly. Spring had come, the snow had melted, and he found the wet weather more trying than ever before. He could just drag himself early to the synagogue, but going to the afternoon service had become a difficulty, and he used to recite the afternoon and later service at home, and spend the whole evening with Altaka. It was late at night, all the houses were shut, Reb Selig sat at his little table, and was looking into the corner where Haika's bed stood, and where Altaka slept beside her. Selig had a feeling that he would die that night. He felt very tired and weak, and with an imploring look he crept up to Altaka's crib and began to wake him. The child woke with a start. Altaka! Reb Selig was stroking the little head. Calm to me for a little. The child, who had had his first sleep out, sprang up and went to his father. Reb Selig sat down in the chair which stood by the little table with the open Gamora, lifted Altaka onto the table, and looked into his eyes. Altaka! What, Tati? Did you like me to die? Like, answered the child, not knowing what to die meant, and thinking it must be something nice. Will you say, Caddish, after me? Answered Reb Selig in a strangled voice, and he was seized with a fit of coughing. Will say, promised the child. Shall you know how? Well, now say, Yiskadar. Yiskadar! repeated the child in his own way. The Yiskadar. The Yiskadar. And Reb Selig repeated the Caddish with him several times. The small lamp burned low and scarcely illuminated Reb Selig's yellow corpse-like face, or the little one of Altaka, who repeated wearily the difficult and to him unintelligible words of the Caddish. And Altaka all the while gazed intently into the corner where Tati's shadow and his own had a most fantastic and frightening appearance. End of The Caddish by Abraham Raison. When he first came to the place, as a boy, and went straight to the Besameh Duresh, the House of Study, and people greeted him and asked, Where did you come from? I said, I came from the house of the Lord. I came from the house of the Lord. I came from the house of the Lord. I came from the house of the Lord. I came from the house of the Lord. And the little boy asked, Where did you come from? And he answered, Not without pride, from the Government to Vilna. From that day until the day he was married they called him the Vilna. In a few days' time however when the Besameh Duresh had married him to the daughter of the Samreeder, a coarse, undersized creature, Six months bored with his father-in-law he became a teacher, the town altered his name to the Vilner Teacher. Again a few years later, when he got a chest infection and the doctor forbade him to keep school and he began to deal in fruit, the town learned that his name was Avraham, to which they added the Orchard Keeper, and his name is Avraham the Orchard Keeper to this day. Avraham was quite content with his new calling. He had always wished for a business in which he need not have to do with a lot of people, in whom he had small confidence, and in whose society he felt ill at ease. People have a queer way with them, he used to think. They want to be always talking. They want to tell everything, find out everything, answer everything. When he was a student he always chose a place in a corner somewhere where he could see nobody, and nobody could see him, and he used to murmur the day's task to a low tune, and his murmured repetition made him think of the ruin in which Rabbi Hosea, praying there, heard the bass-coal, the voice of heaven mourn, cooing like a dove over the exile of Israel. Then he longed to float away to that ruin somewhere in the wilderness, and murmured there like a dove with no one, no one to interrupt him, not even the bass-coal. But his vision would be destroyed by some hard question which a fellow student would put before him, describing circles with his thumb and chanting to a shrill Gomorrah tune. In the orchard at the end of the gas, however, which Avraham hired of the Gentiles, he had no need to exchange empty words with any one. Avraham had no large capital and could not afford to hire an orchard for more than thirty rubles. The orchard was consequently small, and grew about twenty apple trees, a few pear trees, and a cherry tree. Avraham used to move to the garden directly after Chivoos, the feast of weeks, although that was still very early, the fruit had not yet set, and there was nothing to steal. But Avraham could not endure sitting at home any longer where the wife screamed, the children cried, and there was a continual fear. What should he want there? He only wished to be alone with his thoughts and imaginings, and his quiet tunes which were always weaving themselves inside him, and were nearly stifled. It is early to go to the orchard directly after Chivoos, but Avraham does not mind. He is drawn back to the trees that can think and hear so much, and keep so many things to themselves. And Avraham betakes himself to the orchard. He carries with him, besides to Philin and Talus, a siddha with the psalms and the stations, two volumes of the Gomorrah which he owns, a few works by the later scholars, and the tales of Jerusalem. He takes his wadded winter garment and a cushion, makes them into a bundle, kisses the mazuzah, mutters farewell, and is off to the orchard. As he nears the orchard his heart begins to beat loudly for joy, but he is hindered from going there at once. In the yard through which he must pass lies a dog. Later on when Avraham has got to know the dog he will even take him into the orchard, but the first time there is a certain risk. One has to know a dog, otherwise it barks, and Avraham dreads a bark worse than a bite. It goes through one's head, and Avraham waits till the owner comes out and leads him through by the hand. Back already, exclaims the owner, laughing and astonished. Why not, murmurs Avraham, shame-facedly, and feeling that it is indeed early. What shall you do, asks the owner, graver, there is no hut there at all. Last year's fell to pieces. Never mind, never mind, begs Avraham, it will be all right. Well, if you want to come. And the owner shrugs his shoulders and lets Avraham into the orchard. Avraham immediately lays his bundle on the ground, stretches himself at full length on the grass, and murmurs, good, good. At last he is silent, and listens to the quiet rustle of the trees. It seems to him that the trees also wonder at his coming so soon, and he looks at them beseechingly as though he would say, trees, you too, I couldn't help it, it drew me. And soon he fancies the trees have understood everything, and murmur, good, good. And Avraham already feels at home in the orchard. He rises from the ground and goes to every tree in turn, as though to make its acquaintance. Then he considers the hut that stands in the middle of the orchard. It has fallen in a little certainly, but Avraham is all the better pleased with it. He is not particularly fond of new, strong things. A building resembling a ruin is somehow much more to his liking. Such a ruin is inwardly full of secrets, whispers, and melodies. The tears fall quietly, while the soul yearns after something that has no name and no existence in time or space. And Avraham creeps into the fallen in hut, where it is dark, and where there are smells of another world. He draws himself up into a ball, and remains hid from everyone. But to remain hid from the world is not easy. At first it can be managed, so long as the fruit is ripening he needs no one, and no one needs him. When one of his children brings him food he exchanges a few words with it, and asks what's going on at home and how the mother is, and he feels he has done his duty if, when obliged to go home, he spends there Friday night and Saturday morning. That over, and the hot stew eaten, he returns to the orchard, lies down under a tree, opens the tales of Jerusalem, goes to sleep reading a fantastical legend, Dreams of the Western Wall. Under Rachel's grave, the cave of Machpala and other holy quiet places, places where the air is full of old stories such as are given in such easy Hebrew in the tales of Jerusalem. But when the fruit is ripe, and the trees begin to bend under the burden of it, Avraham must perforce leave his peaceful world and become a trader. When the first wind begins to blow in the orchard and covers the ground thereof with apples and pears Avraham collects them, makes them into heaps, sorts them, and awakes the market women with their loud tongues, who destroy all the peace and quiet of his garden of Eden. On Sabbath he would like to rest, but of a Sabbath, the trade in apples, on credit of course, is very lively in the orchards. There is a custom in the town to that effect, and Avraham cannot do away with it. Young gentlemen and ladies come into the orchard and hold a sort of revel. They sing and laugh, they walk and they chatter, and Avraham must listen to it all and bear it and wait for the night, when he can creep back into his hut, and need look at no one but the trees, and hear nothing but the wind, and sometimes the rain and the thunder. But it is worse in the autumn when the fruit is getting overripe, and he can no longer remain in the orchard. With a bursting heart he bids farewell to the trees, to the hut in which he has spent so many quiet, peaceful moments. He conveys the apples to a shed belonging to the farm, which he has hired ever since he had the orchard for ten gulden a month, and goes back to the gas. In the gas at that time there is mud and rain. Town-dues drag themselves along, sick and dishearted. They cough and groan. Avraham stares round him, and fails to recognise the world. Bad, he mutters, and he spits, where is one to get to? And Avraham records the beautiful legends in the tales of Jerusalem. He records the land of Israel. There he knows it is always summer, always warm and fine, and every autumn the vision draws him. But there is no possibility of his being able to go there. He must sell the apples which he has brought from the orchard, and feed the wife and the children he has outside the land. And all through the autumn and part of the winter Avraham drags himself about with a basket of apples under his arm, and a yearning in his heart. He waits for the dear summer, when he will be able to go back and hide himself in the orchard, in the hut, and be alone, where the town mud and the town-dues with dull senses shall be out of sight, and the weak-day noise out of hearing. of Avraham the Orchard Keeper, by Abraham Raison, section 40 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Hirsch David Nelmberg, born 1876, in Moschuchinov, Mshanev, government of Warsaw, Russian Poland, of Hasidic parentage, traditional Jewish education in the house of his grandfather, went to Warsaw in 1898, at present, 1912, in America. This literary work appeared in 1900, Writer of Stories, etc., in Hebrew and Yiddish, co-editor of HaZoufe, de Freund, Habalker, contributor to HaZamen, Hint, HaDor, HaShalawa, etc. It works five volumes, Warsaw, 1908 to 1911. The Rav and the Rav's Son, by Hirsch David Nelmberg. The Sabbath midday meal is over, and the Saken Rav passes his hands across his serene and pious countenance, pulls out both payers, straightens his skull-cap, and prepares to expound a passage of the Torah as God shall enlighten him. There sit with him at table to one side of him a passing guest, a LibriVich Chocid, like the Rav himself, a man with yellow beard and ear-locks, and a grubby shirt-collar appearing above the grubby yellow-cut chief that envelops his throat. To the other side of him his son Sholom, an eighteen-year-old youth with a long, pale face, deep rather dreamy eyes, a velvet hat, but no ear-locks, a secret maskill, who writes Hebrew verses and contemplates growing into a great Jewish author. The Rabbitson has been suffering two or three months with rheumatism and lies in another room. The Rav is naturally humble-minded, and it is no trifle to him to expound the Torah. To take a passage of the Bible and say, The meaning is this and that, is a thing he hasn't the cheek to do, it makes him feel as uncomfortable as if he were telling lies. After twenty-five years of age he was a misnugged, but under the influence of the Sake and Rabbitson he became Chocid bit by bit. Now he is over fifty, he drives to the Rebbe, and comes home every time with increased faith in the latter's supernatural powers, and moreover with a strong desire to expound a little of the Torah himself. Only whenever a good idea comes into his head it oppresses him, because he has not sufficient self-confidence to express it. The difficulty for him lies in making a start. He would like to do as the Rebbe does long life to him, give a push to his chair, a look stern and somewhat angry at those sitting at the table, then a groaning sigh, but the Rav is ashamed to imitate him or is partly afraid lest people should catch him doing it. He drops his eyes, holds one hand to his forehead while the other plays with the knife on the table, and one hardly hears, When thou ghost forth to war with thine enemy, thine enemy, that is the inclination to evil. He nods his head, gathers a little confidence, continues his explanation of the passage and gradually warms to the part. He already looks the stranger boldly in the face. The stranger twists himself into a correct attitude, nods ascent, but cannot for the life of him tear his gaze from the brandy bottle on the table, and cannot wonder sufficiently at so much being allowed to remain in it at the end of a meal. And when the Rav comes to the fact that to be in prison means to have bad habits and that well-favoured woman means that every bad habit has its good side, The guest can no longer restrain himself, seizes the bottle rather awkwardly as though in haste, fills up his glass, spills a little onto the cloth, and drinks with his head thrown back, gulping it like a regular tipler, after a horse and sleepy, dear health. This has a bad effect on the Rav's enthusiasm. It mixes his brains, and he turns to his son for help. To tell the truth he has not much confidence in his son where the law is concerned, although he loves him dearly, the boy being the only one of his children in whom he may hope with God's help to have comfort, and who, a hundred years hence, shall take over from him the office of Rav of shaken. The elder son is rich, but he is a usurer, and his riches give the Rav no satisfaction whatever. He had had one daughter, but she died, leaving some little orphans. Sholom is, therefore, the only one left him. He has a good head and is quick at his studies, a quiet, well-behaved boy, a little obstinate, a bit opinionated, but that is no harm in a boy, thinks the old man. True to that last week people told him tales. Sholom, they said, read heretical books, and had been seeing carrying burdens on Sabbath. But this the father does not believe. He will not and cannot believe it. Besides, Sholom is certainly to have made amends. If a Talmud Chokham commits a sin by day, it should be forgiven by nightfall, because a Talmud Chokham makes amends. It says so in the Gomorrah. However, the Rav is ashamed to give his own exigenesis of the law before his son, and he knows perfectly well that nothing will induce Sholom to drive with him to the Rebbe. But the stranger and his brandy drinking have so upset him that he now looks at his son in a piteous sort of way. Hear me out, Sholom! What harm can it do you? says his look. Sholom draws himself up and pulls in his chair, supports his head on both his hands and gazes into his father's eyes out of filial duty. He loves his father, but in his heart he wonders at him. It seems to him that his father ought to learn more about his heretical learnings. It is quite time, he should, and he continues to gaze in silence and in wonder, not unmixed with compassion, and never ceases thinking, upon my word, Tati, what a simpleton you are! But when the Rav came in the course of his exposition to speak of death by kissing by the Lord, and told how the righteous, the holy Tzadikim, die from the very sweetness of the blessed one's kiss, a spark kindled in Sholom's eyes, and he moved in his chair. One of those wonders had taken place which do frequently occur, only they are seldom remarked. The chassidic exposition of the Torah had suggested to Sholom a splendid idea for a romantic poem. It is an old commonplace that men take in of what they hear and see, that which pleases them. Sholom is fascinated. He wishes to die anyhow, so what could be more appropriate and to the purpose than that his love should kiss him on his deathbed, while in that very instant his soul departs. The idea pleased him so immensely that immediately after Grace, the stranger having gone on his way, and the Rav laid himself down to sleep in the other room, Sholom began to write. His heart beat violently while he made ready, but the very act of writing out a poem after dinner on Sabbath, in the room where his father settled the cases laid before him by the town's folk, was a bit of heroism well worth the risk. He took the writing materials out of his locked box, and the pen and ink pot in one hand, and a collection of manuscript verse in the other, he went on tiptoe to the table. He folded back the table cover, laid down his writing apparatus, and took another look around to make sure no one was in the room. He counted on the fact that when the Rav awoke from his nap he always coughed, and that when he walked he shuffled so with his feet, and made so much noise with his long slippers, that one could hear him two rooms off. In short there was no need to be anxious. He grows calmer, reads the manuscript poems, and his face tells that he is pleased. Now he wants to collect his thoughts for a new one, but something or other hinders him. He unfastens the girdle round his waist, rolls it up, and throws it into the Rav's soft stuffed chair. And now that there is nothing to disturb from without, a second and third wonder must take place within. The Rav's Torah, which was transformed by Shalom's brain into a theme for romance, must now descend into his heart, thence to pour itself onto the paper, and pass by this means into the heads of Shalom's friends, who read his poems with enthusiasm, and have sinful dreams afterwards at night. And he begins to imagine himself on his death bed, sick and weak, unable to speak, and with staring eyes. He sees nothing more, but he feels a light ethereal kiss on his cheek, and his soul is aware of a sweet voice speaking. He tries to take out his hands from under the coverlet, but he cannot. He is dying. It grows dark. A still brighter and more unusual gleam comes into Shalom's eyes. His heart swells with emotion, seeking an outlet. His brain works like running machinery. A whole dictionary of words, his whole treasure of conceptions and ideas, is turned over and over so rapidly that the mind is unconscious of its own efforts. His poetic instinct is searching for what it needs. His hand works quietly, forming letter on letter, word on word. Now and again Shalom lifts his eyes from the paper and looks round. He has a feeling as though the four walls and the silence were thinking to themselves, hush, hush, disturb not the poet at his work of creation, disturb not the priest about to sacrifice to God. To the Rav, meanwhile, lying in the other room, they had come a fresh idea for the exposition of the Torah, and he required to look up something in a book. The door of the reception room opened, the Rav entered, and Shalom had not heard him. It was a pity to see the Rav's face. It was so contracted with dismay, and a pity to see Shalom's when he caught sight of his father, who, utterly taken aback, dropped into a seat exactly opposite Shalom, and gave a groan, was it, or a cry. But he did not sit long. He did not know what one should do or say to one's son on such an occasion. His heart and his eyes inclined to weeping, and he retired into his own room. Shalom remained alone with a very sore heart and a soul oppressed. He put the writing materials back into their box, and went out with the manuscript verses tucked away under his talus katon. He went into the Beshamederesh, but it looked dreadfully dismal. The benches were pushed about anyhow, a sign that the last worshippers had been in a great hurry to go to dinner. The shamas were snoring on a seat somewhere in the corner, as loud and as fast as if he were trying to inhale all the air in the building, so that the next congregation might be suffocated. The cloth on the platform reading desk was crooked and tumbled. The floor was dirty, and the whole place looked as dead as though its Sabbath sleep were to last until the resurrection. He left the Beshamederesh, walked home and back again, up and down, there and back, many times over. The situation became steadily clearer to him. He wanted to justify himself if only with a word in his father's eyes. Then again he felt he must make an end, free himself once and for all from the parental restraint, and become a Jewish author. Only he felt sorry for his father. He would like to do something to comfort him. Only what? Kiss him? Put his arms around his neck? Have his cry out before him and say, Tartisha, you and I, we are neither of us to blame. Only how to say it so that the old man shall understand? That is the question. And the rave sat in his room, bent over a book in which he would feign have lost himself. He rubbed his brow with both hands, but a stone lay on his heart a heavy stone There were tears in his eyes, and he was all but crying. He needed some living soul before whom he could pour out the bitterness of his heart, and he had already turned to the Rebbetson. Zelda, he called quietly. Ah, sighed the Rebbetson from her bed. I feel bad. My foretakes. Rebina shall oil them. What is it? Nothing, Zelda. How are you getting on, eh? He got no further with her. He even mentally repented, having so nearly added to her burden of life. It was an hour or two before the rave collected himself, and was still able to think over what had happened. And still he could not, would not, believe that his son, Shalom, had broken the Sabbath, that he was worthy of being stoned to death. He sought for some excuse for him, and found none, and came at last to the conclusion that it was a work of Hasatan, a special onset of the tempter. And he kept on thinking of the Hasidic legend of Arabi, who was seen by a Hasid to smoke a pipe on Sabbath. Only, it was an illusion, a deception of the evil one. And when, after he had waited some time, no Shalom appeared, his heart began to beat more steadily. The reality of the situation made itself felt. He got angry and hastily left the house in search of the Sabbath-breaker, intending to make an example of him. Hardly, however, had he perceived his son walking to and fro in front of the house of study with a look of absorption and worry, then he stopped short. He was afraid to go up to his son. Just then Shalom turned. They stole each other, and the Rav had willy-nilly to approach him. Will you come for a little walk? asked the Rav gently, with downcast eyes. Shalom made no reply and followed him. They came to the Eruv. The Rav looked in all his pockets and found his handkerchief, tied it round his neck, and glanced at his son with a kind of prayer in his eye. Shalom tied his handkerchief round his neck. When they were outside the town, the old man coughed once and again and said, What is all this? But Shalom was determined not to answer a word, and his father had to summon all his courage to continue. What is all this? A Sabbath-breaking? It is. He coughed and was silent. They were walking over a great broad meadow, and Shalom had his gaze fixed on a horse that was moving about with hobbled legs, while the Rav shaded his eyes with one hand from the beams of the setting sun. How can any one break the Sabbath? Come now, is it right? Is it a thing to do? Just to go and break the Sabbath? I knew Hebrew grammar and could write Hebrew too once upon a time. But break the Sabbath? Tell me yourself, Shalom, what do you think? When you have bad thoughts, how is it that you don't come to your father? I suppose I am your father, huh? The old man suddenly fired up. Am I your father? Tell me, no. Am I perhaps not your father? For I am his father. He reflected proudly. That I certainly am. There isn't the smallest doubt about it. The greatest heretic could not deny it. You come to your father? He went on with more decision, and falling into a Gomorrah chant. And you tell him all about it? What harm can it do to tell him no harm whatsoever? I also used to be tempted by bad thoughts. Therefore I began driving to the Red Bee of Libovitch. One mustn't let oneself go. Do you hear me, Shalom? One mustn't let oneself go. The last words were long drawn out. And the Rav emphasizing them with his hands and wrinkling his forehead. Carried away by what he was saying. He now felt all but sure that Shalom had not begun to be a heretic. You see, he continued very gently. Every now and then we come to a stumbling block. But all the same we should not. Meanwhile, however, the manuscript folio of verses had been slipping out from under Shalom's talus katon, and here it fell to the ground. The Rav stood staring, as though startled out of a sweet dream by the cry of fire, he quivered from top to toe and seized his earlocks with both hands. But there could be no doubt of the fact that Shalom had now broken the Sabbath a second time by carrying the folio outside the town limit. And worse still, he had practised deception by searching his pockets when they had come to the Eruv as though to make sure not to transgress by having anything inside them. Shalom too was taken by surprise. He hung his head and his eyes filled with tears. The old man was about to say something, probably to begin again with what is all this. Then he hastily stopped and snatched up the folio as though he were afraid Shalom might get a hold of it first. Ha, ha, a zoi, he began panting, a zoi, a heretic, a goi. But it was hard for him to speak. He might not move from where he stood as long as he held the papers it being outside the Eruv. His ankles were giving way and he sat down to take a look at the manuscript. Ha, writing, he exclaimed as he turned the leaves. Come here to me, he called to Shalom who had moved a few steps aside. Shalom came and stood obediently before him. What is this? asked the Rav sternly. Poems? What do you mean by poems? What is the good of them? He felt that he was growing weak again and tried to stiffen himself morally. What is the good of them, heretic? Tell me. They're just meant to be read, Tartisher. What do you mean by read? A Jeroboam son of Nebat. That's what you want to be, is it? A Jeroboam son of Nebat. To lead others into heresy. No, I won't have it, or no account will I have it. The son had began to disappear. It was full time to go home, but the Rav did not know what to do with the folio. He was afraid to leave it in the field, lest Shalom or another should pick it up later. So he got up and began to recite the afternoon prayer. Shalom remained standing in his place and tried to think of nothing and to do nothing. The old man finished sacrifices, tucked the folio into his girdle, and without moving a step looked at Shalom, who did not move either. Say the Mincha, Shagets, commanded the old man. Shalom began to move his lips, and the Rav felt as he went on with the prayer that his anger was cooling down. Before he came to the Shimona Esrae, he gave another look at his son, and it seemed madness to think of him as a heretic, to think that Shalom ought to by rights be thrown into a ditch and stoned to death. Shalom, for his part, was conscious for the first time of his father's will. For the first time in his life he not only loved his father, but was in very truth subject to him. The flaming red sun dropped quietly down behind the horizon, just before the old man broke down with emotion over Thou art one, and took the sky and the earth to witness that God is one, and his name is one, and his people Israel one nation to the earth to whom he gave the Sabbath for a rest and an inheritance. The Rav wept and swallowed his tears, and his eyes were closed. Shalom, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off the manuscript that stuck out of his father's girdle, and it was all that he could do not to snatch it and run away. They said nothing on the way home in the dark. They might have been coming from a funeral, but Shalom's heart beat fast, for he knew his father would throw the manuscript into the fire where it would be burnt, and when they came to the door of their house he stopped his father, and said in a voice eloquent of tears, Give it me back, Tatisha, please give it me back. And the Rav gave it him back without looking him in the face, and said, Look here, only don't tell mother. She is ill, she mustn't be upset. She is ill, not of you be it spoken. End of The Rav and the Rav's Son by Hirsch David Nelmberg