 Section 16 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzellus. Section 16. Eliezer David Rosenthal. Born 1861 in Hottin, Bessarabia. Went to Braslov, Germany in 1880 and pursued studies at the university. Returned to Bessarabia in 1882. Co-editor of the Bibliotheque Dossleben. Published at Odessa 1904 and Kishnev 1905. Writer of Stories. Sabbath by Eliezer David Rosenthal. Friday evening. The room has been tidied. The table laid. Two sabbathloves have been placed upon it and covered with a red napkin. At the two ends are two metal candlesticks, and between them two more of earthmoyer, with candles in them all ready to be lighted. At the small sofa that stands by the stove lies a sick man covered up with a red quilt. From under the quilt appears a pale emaciated face, with red patches on the dried up cheeks and a black beard. The sufferer wears a nightcap which shows part of his black hair and his black earlocks. There is no sign of life in his face and only a faint one in his great black eyes. On a chair by the couch sits a nine-year-old girl with damp locks, which have just been combed out in honour of Sabbath. She is barefoot, dressed only in a shirt and a frock. The child sits swinging her feet, absorbed in what she is doing, but all her movements are gentle and noiseless. The invalid coughed. Came from the sofa. What is it, tatty? asked the little girl, swinging her feet. The invalid made no reply. He slowly raised his head with both hands, pulled down the nightcap, and coughed and coughed and coughed. Horsely at first, then louder, the cough tearing at his sick chest and dinning in the ears. Then he sat up and went on coughing and clearing his throat till he had brought up the phlegm. The little girl continued to be absorbed in her work and to swinging her feet, taking very little notice of her sick father. The invalid smoothed the creases in the cushion, laid his head down again and closed his eyes. He lay thus for a few minutes. Then he said quite quietly, Laia, what is it, tatty? inquired the child again, still swinging her feet. Tell mother it is time to bless the candles. The little girl never moved from her seat, but shouted through the open door into the shop. Mother, shut up shop. Father says it's time for the candle blessing. I'm coming, I'm coming! answered her mother from the shop. She quickly disposed of a few women customers, sold one copax worth of tea, the other two copax worth of sugar, the third two tallow candles. Then she closed the shutters and the street door and came into the room. You've drunk the glass of milk? she inquired of the sick man. Yes, I have drunk it, he replied. And you, Laia, daughter? she turned to the child. Made the evil spirit take you, couldn't you put on your shoes without my telling you? Don't you know it's Sabbath? The little girl hung her head and made no other answer. Her mother went to the table, lighted the candles, covered her face with her hands, and blessed them. After that she sat down on the seat by the window to take a rest. It was only on Sabbath that she could rest from her hard work, toiling and worrying as she was the whole week long with all the strength and all her mind. She sat lost in thought. She was remembering past happy days. She also had known what it is to enjoy life, when her husband was in health, and they had a few hundred roubles. They finished boarding with her parents, they set up a shop, and though he had always been a close frequenter of the Bessa Midoyesh, the house of study, a bench-lover, he soon learned the Torah of commerce. She helped him and they made a panasah, a livelihood, and ate their bread in honor. But in course of time some quite new shops were started in the little town. There was great competition. The trade was small, and the gains were smaller. It became necessary to borrow money on interest, on weekly payment, and to pay for goods at once. The interest gradually ate up the capital with the gains. The creditors took what they could lay hands on, and still her husband remained in their debt. He could not get over this and fell ill. The whole bundle of trouble fell upon her. The burden of a livelihood, the children, the sick man, everything, everything on her. But she did not lose heart. God will help me. He will soon get well and will surely find some work. God will not desert us, so she reflected, and meantime she was not sitting idle. The very difficulty of her position roused her courage and gave her strength. She sold her small store of jewellery and set up a little shop. Three years have passed since then. However it may be God has not abandoned her, and however bitter and sour the struggle for a panasa, a living, may have been, she had her bit of bread. Only his health did not return. He grew daily weaker and worse. She glanced at her sick husband, at his pale, emaciated face, and tears fell from her eyes. During the week she has no time to think how unhappy she is, panasa, housework, attendance on the children and the sick man. These things take up all her time and thought. She is glad when it comes to bedtime, and she can fall dead tired onto her bed. But on Sabbath, the day of rest, she has time to think over her hard lot, and all her misery, and to cry herself out. When will there be an end of my troubles and suffering? she asked herself, and could give no answer whatever to the questions beyond despairing tears. She saw no ray of hope lighting her future, only a great wide, sureless sea of trouble. It flashed across her, when he dies things will be easier. But the thought of his death only increased her apprehension. It brought with it before her eyes the dreadful words, widow, orphans, poor little fatherless children. These alarmed her more than her present distress. How can children grow up without a father? Now, even though he's ill, he keeps an eye on them, tells them to say their prayers and to study. Who is to watch over them if he dies? Don't punish me, Reboina Shalloelum, Lord of the world, for my bad thought. She begged with her whole heart. I will take it upon myself to suffer and trouble for all. Only don't let him die. Don't let me be called by the bitter name of widow. Don't let my children be called orphans. He sits upon his couch, his head a little thrown back and leaning against the wall. In one hand he holds a prayer-book. He is receiving the Sabbath into his house. His pale lips scarcely move as he whispers the words before him, and his thoughts are far from the prayer. He knows that he is dangerously ill. He knows what his wife has to suffer and bear, and not only is he powerless to help her, but his illness is her heaviest burden. What with the extra expense incurred on his account and the trouble of looking after him, besides which his weakness makes him irritable, and his anger has more than once caused her unmerited pain. He sees and knows it all, and his heart is torn with grief. Only death can help us, he murmurs. And while his lips repeat the words of the prayer-book, his heart makes one request to God, and only one. That God should send kind death to deliver him from his trouble and misery. Suddenly the door opened, and a ten-year-old boy came into the room in a long Shabbos cloak with two long payas and a sitter under his arm. A good Shabbos says the little boy with a loud ringing voice. It seemed as if he and the whole Sabbath had come into the room together. In one moment the little boy had driven trouble and sadness out of sight, and shed lights and consolation round him. His a good Shabbos reached his parents' heart, awoke their new life and new hopes. A good Shabbos answered the mother. Her eyes rested on the child's bright face, and her thoughts were no longer melancholy as before, for she saw in his eyes a whole future of happy possibilities. A good Shabbos echoed the lips of the sick man, and he took a deeper, easier breath. No, he will not die altogether. He will live again after death in the child. He can die in peace. He leaves a caddish behind him. End of Sabbath by Eliezer David Rosenthal Section 17 of Yiddish Tales This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 17 Yom Kippur by Eliezer David Rosenthal Yom Kippur by Eliezer David Rosenthal Yom Kippur by Eliezer David Rosenthal Mincha Time by Eliezer David Rosenthal Eve of the Day of Atonement by Eliezer David Rosenthal at Afternoon Prayer Time by Eliezer David Rosenthal A solemn and sacred hour for every Jew. Everyone feels as though he were born again. All the weekday worries that Tapney-Hapney interests seem far, far away, or else they have hidden themselves in some corner. Every Jew feels a noble pride. An inward peace mingled with fear and awe. He knows that the yearly judgment day is approaching, when God Almighty will hold the scales in his hand and weigh every man's merits against his transgressions. The sentence given on that day is one of life or death. No trifle. But the Jew is not so terrified as you might think. He has broad shoulders. Besides, he has a certain footing behind the upper windows. He has good advocates and plenty of them. He has the akida, the binding of Isaac, and a long chain of ancestors and ancestresses who were put to death for the sanctification of the Holy Name, who allowed themselves to be burnt and roasted for the sake of God's Torah. Nishkosh, things are not so bad. The Lord of all may just remember that, and look aside a little. Is he not the compassionate, the merciful? The shadows lengthen and lengthen. Jews are everywhere in commotion. Some hurry home straight from the bath, drops of bathwater dripping from beard and earlocks. They have not even dried their hair properly in their haste. It is time to prepare for the dovening, the praying. Some are already on their way to Shul, robed in white. Nearly every Jew carries in one hand a large, well-packed talus bag, which today, besides the prayer scarf, holds the whole Jewish outfit, a bulky prayer book, to hill him, a book of psalms, a l'kutzevi, and so on. And in the other hand two wax candles, one a large one that is the light of life, and the other a small one, a shrunken-looking thing, which is the soul-light. The Tumshavat Besamederesh presents at this moment the following picture. The floor is covered with fresh hay, and the dust and smell of the hay fill the whole building. Some of the men are standing at their prayers, beating their breasts in all seriousness. We have trespass, we have been faithless, we have robbed, with an occasional sob of contrition. Others are very busy setting up their wax lights in boxes filled with sand. One of them, a young man who cannot live without it, betakes himself on the platform and repeats a bless ye the Lord. Meanwhile another comes slyly and takes out two of the candles standing before the platform, planting his own in their place. Not far from the ark stands the Shamus, with a strap in his hand, and all the foremost householders go up to him, lay themselves down with their faces to the ground, and the Shamus deals them out thirty-nine blows apiece, and not one of them bears him any grudge. Even Reb Groynum, from whom the Shamus never hears anything from one Yom Kippur to another, but may you be and rascal imputants brazen face, spendthrift, carrion, dog of all dogs. And, not infrequently, Reb Groynum allows himself to apply his right hand to the Shamus' cheek. And the latter has to take it all in a spirit of love. This same Reb Groynum, now humbly approaches the same Shamus, lies quietly down with his face to the ground, stretches himself out, and the Shamus deliberately counts the strokes up to thirty-nine malcoats. Covered with hay, Reb Groynum slowly rises. A piteous expression on his face, just as if he had been well thrashed. And he pushes a coin into the Shamus' hand. This is evidently the Shamus' day. Today he can take his revenge on his householders for the insults and injuries of a whole year. But if you want to be in the thick of it all, you must stand in the anti-room by the door, where people are crowding round the plates for collections. The treasurer sits beside a little table with the directors of the congregation. The largest plate lies before them. To one side of them sits the chasun, the cantor, with his plate, and beside the chasun, several besamederesh youths with theirs. With every plate lies a paper with a written notice, visiting the sick, supporting the fallen, clothing the naked, Talmud Torah, refuge for the poor, and so on. Over one plate marked the return to the land of Israel, presides a modern young man, a Zionist. Everyone wishing to enter the besamederesh must first go to the plate marked called to the Torah, and seat in the shul, and put in what is his due, and then throw a few co-pecs into the other plates. Beryl Tsop bustled up to the plate seat in the shul, gave what was expected of him, popped a few coppers into the other plates, and prepared to recite the afternoon prayer. He wanted to pause a little between the words of his prayer, to attend to their meaning, to impress upon himself that this was the eve of the day of atonement. But idle thoughts kept coming into his head, as though on purpose to annoy him, and his mind was all over the place at once. The words of the prayers got mixed up with the idea of oats, straw, wheat, and barley, and however much trouble he took to drive these idle thoughts away, he did not succeed. Blow the great trumpet of our deliverance, shouted Beryl, and remembered the while that Ivan owed him ten measures of wheat. Lift up the ensign to gather our exiles! And I made a mistake in Stephen's account by thirty co-pecs. Beryl saw that it was impossible for him to pray with attention, and he began to reel off the Shimonah Esrae, and not until he reached the vedui could he collect his scattered thoughts, and realize what he was saying. When he raised his hand to beat his breast that, we have trespassed, we have robbed, the hand remained hanging in the air halfway. A shudder went through his limbs. The letters of the words, we have robbed, began to grow before his eyes. They became gigantic. They turned strange colors, red, blue, green, and yellow. Now they took the form of large frogs. They got bigger and bigger, crawled into his eyes, croaked in his ears. You are a thief, a robber, you have stolen and plundered. You think nobody saw, that it would all run quite smoothly, but you are wrong. We shall stand before the throne of glory and cry. You are a thief, a robber! Beryl stood some time with his hand raised midway in the air. The whole affair of the hundred rubles rose before his eyes. A couple of months ago he had gone into the house of Red Moshechaufen. The latter had just gone out. There was no one else in the room. Nobody had even seen him come in. The key was in the desk. Beryl had looked at it, had hardly touched it. The drawer had opened as though of itself. Several hundred rubles notes lay glistening before his eyes. Just that day Beryl had received a very unpleasant letter from the father of his daughter's bridegroom, and to make matters worse the author of the letter was in the right. Beryl had been putting off the marriage for two years, and the Machutton, the father of the groom, wrote quite plainly that unless the wedding took place after Suckus he should return him the contract. Return the contract. The fiery letters burnt into Beryl's brain. He knew his Machutton well. The misnugged. He wouldn't hesitate to tear up a marriage contract either, and when it's a question of a by no means pretty girl of twenty and odd years, and the kind of bridegroom anyone might be glad to have secured for his daughter, and then to think that only one of those hundred rubles notes lying tossed together in that drawer would help him out of all his troubles. And then the Yatahara, the evil inclination, whispers in his ear, Beryl, now or never, there will be an end to all your worry. Don't you see it's a godsend. He, Beryl, wrestled with him hard. He remembers it all distinctly, and he can hear now the faint little voice of the Yatsatov, the good inclination. Beryl, to become a thief in one's latter years, you, who so carefully avoided even the smallest deceit, fie for shame, if God will, he can help you, by honest means too. But the voice of the Yatsatov was so feeble, so husky, and the Yatsahara suggested in his other ear, do you know what, borrow a hundred rubles, who talks of stealing. You will earn some money before long, and then you can pay him back. It's a charitable loan on his part, only that he doesn't happen to know of it. Isn't it plain to be seen that it's a godsend? If you don't call this providence, what is it? Are you going to take more than you really need? You know your machuten, have you taken a good look at that old maid of yours? You recollect the bridegroom, where the machuten will be kind and mild as milk. The bridegroom will be a silk and sun-in-law, the ugly old maid, a young wife. Fool! God and men will envy you! And he, barrel, lost his head. His thoughts flew hither and thither, like frightened birds, and he no longer knew which of the two voices was that of the Yatsatov, and no one saw him leave Moshi Khaofen's house, and still his hand remains suspended in mid-air. Still it does not fall against his breast, and there is a cold perspiration on his brow. Beryl started as though out of his sleep he had noticed that people were beginning to eye him as he stood with his hand held at a distance from his person. He hastily rattled through the alkate, concluded the Shimona Esrei, and went home. At home he didn't dawdle. He only washed his hands, recited Hamotsilechem, and that was all. The food stuck in his throat. He said grace, return to shul, put on the talus, and started to entone tunefully the Ashamnu, the prayer of expiation. The lighted wax candles, the last rays of the sun stealing in through the windows of the Besse Medaesh. The congregation entirely robed in white and enfolded in the talism. The intense seriousness depicted on all faces the harm of voices and the bitter weeping that penetrated from the women's gallery. All this suited Beryl's mood, his contrite heart. Beryl had recited the Ashamnu with deep feeling. Tears poured from his eyes. His own broken voice went right through his heart. Every word found an echo there, and he felt it in every limb. Beryl stood before God, like a little child before its parents. He wept and told all that was in his heavily laden heart, the full tale of his cares and troubles. Beryl was pleased with himself. He felt that he was not saying the words anyhow, just rolling them off his tongue, but he was really performing an act of penitence with his whole heart. He felt remorse for his sins, and God is a God of compassion and mercy who will certainly pardon him. Therefore is my heart sad, began Beryl, that the sin which a man commits against his neighbour cannot be atoned for, even on the day of atonement, unless he asks his neighbour's forgiveness. Therefore is my heart broken and my limbs tremble, because even the day of my death cannot atone for this sin. Beryl began to recite this in pleasing artistic fashion, weeping and whimpering like a spoiled child, and drawing out the words, when it grew dark before his eyes. Beryl had suddenly became aware that he was in the position of one about to enter through an open door. He advances. He must enter. It is a question of life and death, and without any warning, just as he is stepping across the threshold, the door is shut from within with a terrible bang, and he remains standing outside, and he has read this in the ashamnu. With fear and flattering he reads it over again, looking narrowly at every word. A cold sweat covers him. The words prick him like pins. Are these two voices his pitiless judges? Are they the expression of his sentence? Is he already condemned? Ah, ah, you are guilty! flicker the two verses on the page before him, and prayer and tears are no longer of any avail. His heart cried to God, have pity, merciful father, a grown-up girl, what am I to do with her? And his father wanted to break off the engagement. As soon as I have earned the money, I will give it back. But he knew all the time that these were useless subterfuges. The ruboyne shall oil him, can only pardon the sin committed against himself. The sin committed against man cannot be atoned for, even on the day of atonement. Beryl took another look at the ashamnu, the prayer of expiation. The words, unless he asks his neighbour's forgiveness, danced before his eyes. A ray of hope crept into his despairing heart. One way is left open to him. He can confess to Moishechalfen. But the hope was quickly extinguished. Is that a small matter? What of my honour? My good name! And what of the match? Mercy, oh father! he cried. Have mercy! Beryl proceeded no further with the ashamnu. He stood lost in his melancholy thoughts. His whole life passed before his eyes. He, Beryl, had never licked honey. Trouble had been his in plenty. He had known cares and worries. But God had never abandoned him. It had frequently happened to him in the course of his life to think that he was lost. To give up all his hope. But each time God had extracted him unexpectedly from his difficulty. And not only that, but lawfully, honestly, Jewishly. And now he had suddenly lost his trust in the providence of his dear name. Donky! Thus Beryl abused himself. Went to look for trouble, did you? Now you've got it. Sold yourself, buddy, and sold for one hundred rubles. Thief! Thief! Thief! It did Beryl good to abuse himself like this. It gave him a sort of pleasure to aggravate his wounds. Beryl, sunk in his sad reflections, has forgotten where he is in the world. The congregation has finished the Ashamnu, and is ready for Kol Nidre. The Khazan is at his post at the reading desk on the platform. Two of the principal well-to-do Jews with Torahs in their hands, on each side of him. One of them is Moshe Khalfan. There is a deep silence in the building. The very last rays of the sun are slanting through the window, and mingling with the flames of the wax candles. With the consent of the all present, and with the consent of this congregation, we give leave to pray with them that have transgressed, startled Beryl's ears. It was Moshe Khalfan's voice. The voice was low, sweet and sad. Beryl gave a side glance at where Moshe Khalfan was standing, and it seemed to him that Moshe Khalfan was doing the same to him, only Moshe Khalfan was not looking into his eyes, but deep into his heart. And there, reading the word, Thief! And Moshe Khalfan is permitting the people to pray together with him, Beryl the Thief! Mercy! Mercy! Compassionate God! cried Beryl's heart in its despair. They had concluded Myriv, recited the first four chapters of the Tehillim, and the Song of Unity, and the people went home to lay in new strength for the morrow. There remained only a few who spent the greater part of the night repeating Mismorim, intoning the Mishnah and so on. They snatched an occasional dose on the bare floor, overlaid with a wisp of hay, an old cloak under their head. Beryl also stayed the night in the Bessamidvesh. He sat down in a corner in a robe and talus, and began reciting Mismorim with pleasing pathos, and he went on until overtaken by sleep. At first he resisted. He took a nice pinch of snuff, rubbed his eyes, collected his thoughts, but it was no good. The covers of the Tehillim seem to have been greased, for they continually slipped from his grasp. The printed lines had grown crooked and twisted. His head felt dreadfully heavy, and his eyelids clung together. His nose was forever drooping towards the Tehillim. He made every effort to keep awake, started up every time as though he had burnt himself. But sleep was the stronger of the two. Gradually he slid from the bench onto the floor. The Tehillim slipped finally from between his fingers. His head dropped upon the hay, and he fell sweetly asleep. And Beryl had a dream. Yom Kippur. And yet there was a fair in the town. The kind of fair one calls an earthquake. A fair such as Beryl does not remember having seen these many years. So crowded is it with men and merchandise. There is something of everything. Cattle, horses, sheep, corn, and fruit. All the tum-shevot Jews are strolling round with their wives and children. There is buying and selling. The air is full of noise and shouting. The whole fair is boiling and hissing and humming like a kettle. One runs this way, and one runs that. This one is driving a cow, and that one leading home and horse by the rain. The other buying a whole cartload of corn. Beryl is all astonishment and curiosity. How is it possible for Jews to busy themselves with commerce on Yom Kippur on such a holy day? As far back as he can remember, Jews used to spend the whole day in shul in linen socks, white robe, and talus. They prayed and wept. And now what has come over them that they should be trading on Yom Kippur as if it were a common weekday in shoes and boots? This last thing struck him more than anything. Perhaps it is all a dream, thought Beryl in his sleep. But no, it is no dream. Here are my strolling round the fair wide awake, and the screaming and the row in my ears. Is that a dream too? And my having this very minute been bumped on the shoulder by a gentile going past me with a horse? Is that a dream? But if the whole world is taking part in the fair, it's evidently the proper thing to do. Meanwhile he was watching a peasant with a horse, and he liked the look of the horse so much that he bought it and mounted it. And he looked at it from where he sat astride and saw the horse was a horse. But at the self-same time it was Moiseach Alphon as well. Beryl wondered, how was it possible for it to be at once a horse and a man? But his own eyes told him it was so. He wanted to dismount, but the horse bears him to a shop. Here he climbed down and asked for a pound of sugar. Beryl capped his eyes on the scales and a fresh surprise. Where they should have been weighing sugar they were weighing his good and bad deeds. And the two scales were nearly equally laden and oscillated up and down in the air. Suddenly they threw a sheet of paper at the scale that held his bad deeds. Beryl looked to see. It was the hundred ruble note which he had appropriated at Moiseach Alphon's. But it was now much larger, bordered with black, and the letters and numbers were red as fire. The piece of paper was frightfully heavy. It was all two men could do to carry it to the weighing machine. And when they had thrown it with all their might onto the scale something snapped and the scale went down, down, down. At that moment a man sleeping at Beryl's head stretched out a foot and gave Beryl a kick in the head. Beryl awoke. Not far from him sat a grey-haired old Jew huddled together, enfolded in a talus and robe, repeating Mismorim with a melancholy chant and a broken, quavering voice. Beryl caught the words. Mark the perfect man and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace. But the transgressors shall be destroyed together. The latter end of the wicked shall be cut off. Beryl looked round in fright. Where is he? He had quite forgotten that he had remained for the night in the Besse-Medèche. He gazed around with sleepy eyes, and they fell on some white heaps wrapped in robes and talism, while from their midst came the low, hoarse, tearful voices of two or three men who had not gone to sleep and who were repeating Mismorim. Many of the candles were already sputtering. The wax was melting into the sand. The flames rose and fell and rose again, flaring brightly, and the pale moon looked in at the windows and poured her silvery light over the fantastic scene. Beryl grew icy cold, and a dreadful shuddering went through his limbs. He had not yet remembered that he was spending the night in the Besse-Medèche. He imagined that he was dead and astray in limbo. The white heaps which he sees are graves, actual graves, and there among the graves sit a few sinful souls, and bewail and lament their transgressions, and he, Beryl, cannot even weep. He is a fallen one, lost forever. He is condemned to wander, to roam everlastingly among the graves. By degrees, however, he is called to mind where he was and collected his wits. Only then he remembered his fearful dream. No, he decided within himself. I have lived till now without the one hundred rubles, and I will continue to live without them. If the rebuiners shall oil them, wishes to help me, he will do so without them too. My soul, and my portion in the oil them haba, are dearer to me. Only let Moishech Alphon come into pray, I will tell him the whole truth, and avert misfortune. This decision gave him courage. He washed his hands, and sat down again to the Mismorim. Every few minutes he glanced up at the window, to see if it were not beginning to dawn, and if Reb Moishech Alphon was not coming along to shore. The day broke. With the first sunbeams, beryls, fears, and terrors began little by little to dissipate and diminish. His resolve to restore the hundred rubles weakened considerably. If I don't confess, thought Beryl, wrestling in spirit with temptation, I risk my world to come. If I do confess, what will my chantsalaya say to it? He writes, either the wedding takes place or the contract is dissolved. What shall I do when his father gets to hear about it? There will be a stain on my character, the marriage contract will be annulled, and I shall be left without my good name and with my ugly old maid. What is to be done? Help! What is to be done? The people began to gather in the shore. The reader of Chakris, the morning service, intoned, he is Lord of the universe to the special Yom Kippitun. A few householders and young men supported him, and Beryl heard through it all only, help! What is to be done? And suddenly he beheld Moishech Alfen. Beryl quickly rose from his place, he wanted to make a rush at Moishech Alfen, but after all he remained where he was, and sat down again. I must think it over and discuss it with my chantsalaya, was Beryl's decision. Beryl stood up to pray with the congregation. He was again wishful to pray with fervour, to collect his thoughts and to attend to the meaning of the words. But try as he would, he couldn't. Quite other things came into his head. A dream, a fair, a horse, Moishech Alfen, chantsalaya, Otspali, this world and the next, were all mixed up together in his mind, and the words of the prayers skipped about like black patches before his eyes. He wanted to say he was sorry, to cry, but he only made curious grimaces and could not squeeze out so much as a single tear. Beryl was very dissatisfied with himself. He finished the shakaris, stood through the additional service, and proceeded to devour the long Piyutim. The question, what is to be done, left him no peace, and he was really reciting the Piyutim to try and stupefy himself, to dull his brain. So it went on till Unisanatoikov. The congregation began to prepare for Unisanatoikov, coughed to clear their throats, to clear their throats, and pulled Tillisim over their heads. The chasen sat down for a minute to rest, and unbuttoned his shroud. His face was pale and perspiring, and his eyes betrayed a great weariness. From the women's gallery came a sound of weeping and wailing. Beryl had drawn his talus over his head, and started reciting with earnestness and enthusiasm, Unisanatoikov Kadushayom. We will express the mighty holiness of this day, for it is tremendous and awful, on which thy kingdom is exalted, and thy throne established in grace, whereupon thou art seated in truth. Beryl, it is thou who art judge and arbiter, thou knowest all and art witness, writer, siglator, recorder and teller, and thou recallest all forgotten things, and openness the Book of Remembrance, and the Book reads itself, and every man's handwriting is there. These words open the source of Beryl's tears, and he sobbed unaffectedly. Every sentence cut him to the heart, like a sharp knife, and especially the passage, and thou recallest all forgotten things, and openness the Book of Remembrance, and the Book reads itself, and every man's handwriting is there, and at that very moment the Book of Remembrance was lying open before the Lord of the Universe with the handwritings of all men. It contains his own as well, the one which he wrote with his own hand that day when he took away the hundred ruble note. He pictures how his soul flew up to heaven while he slept, and entered everything in the eternal Book, and now the letters stood before the throne of glory, and cried, Beryl is a thief, Beryl is a robber, and he has the impudence to stand and pray before God. He, the offender, the transgressor, and the shawl does not fall upon his head. The congregation concluded Unesan Ataykov, and the chasen began, and the great trumpet of Rem's horn shall be sounded, and still Beryl stood with the talus over his head. Suddenly he heard the words, and the angels are dismayed. Fear and trembling seize hold of them as they proclaim, as swiftly as birds and say, Hina yo, Mahdeen, this is the day of judgment. The words penetrated into the marrow of Beryl's bones, and he shuddered from head to foot. The words, Hina yo, Mahdeen, this is the day of judgment, reverberated in his ears like a peel of thunder. He imagined the angels were hastening to him with one speed, and with one swoop, to seize and drag him before the throne of glory, and the piteous wailing that came from the women's court was for him, for his wretched soul, for his endless misfortune. No, no, no! he resolved. Karmot may let him annul the contract. Let them point at me with their fingers as at a thief if they choose. Let my Hansa Leia lose her chance. I will take it all in good part, if I may only save my unhappy soul. The minute the Kedusha is over, I shall go to Moishechaufen and tell him the whole story, and beg him to forgive me. The chasen came to the end of Unesan Atokov. The congregation resumed their seats. Beryl also returned to his place, and did not go up to Moishechaufen. Help! What shall I do? What shall I do? he thought, and he struggled with his conscience. Hansa Leia will lay me on the fire. She will cry her life out. The mechut and the bridegroom. The additional service and the afternoon service were over. People were making ready for the conclusion service. The shadows were once more lengthening. The sun was once more sinking in the west. The shul-goy began to light candles and lamps and place them on the tables and the window ledges. Jews with faces white from exhaustion sat in the anti-room, resting and refreshing themselves with a pinch of snuff or a drop of heartshorn, and a few words of conversation. Everyone feels more cheerful and in better humour. What had to be done has been done and well done. The ruboyne shall olem has received his due. They have mortified themselves a whole day, fasted continuously, recited prayers, and begged forgiveness. Now surely the Almighty will do his part, accept the Jewish prayers, and have compassion on his people Israel. Only Barrel sits in a corner by himself. He also is weary and exhausted. He also has fasted, prayed, wept, and mortified himself like the rest. But he knows that the whole of his toil and trouble has been thrown away. He sits, troubled, gloomy and depressed. He knows that now they have reached Nayla, that he is still time to repent, that the door of heaven will stand open a little while longer. His repentance may yet pass through. Otherwise, yet a little while, and the gates of mercy will be shut and too late. Ah, open the gate to our sieve, and while it is closing, sounded in Barrel's ears and heart, yet a little while, and it will be too late. No, no, shrieked Barrel to himself, I will not lose my soul, my will to come, led Hansa Leia burn me and roast me. I will take it all in good part, so that I don't lose my oil on her bar. Barrel rose from his seat and went up to Moishech Elfen. Moishech, a word with you. He whispered into his ear. Afterward, when the prayers are done. No, no, no, shrieked Barrel below his voice. No, now at once. Moishech Elfen stood up. Barrel led him out of the Bessamid Resh and aside. Red Moishech, kind soul, have pity on me and forgive me, cried Barrel and burst into sobs. God be with you, Barrel. What has come over you all at once? asked Red Moishech, in astonishment. Listen to me, Red Moishech, said Barrel, still sobbing. The hundred rubles you lost a few weeks ago are in my house. God knows the truth. I didn't take them out of wickedness. I came into your house. The key was in the drawer. There was no one in the room. That day I had a letter from my Mechuten that he'd break off his son's engagement if the wedding didn't take place to time. My girl is ugly and old. The bridegroom is a fine young man, a precious stone. I opened the drawer in spite of myself and saw the bank notes. You see how it was. My Mechuten is a misnugged, a flint-hearted screw. I took out the note. But it is shortening my ears. God knows what I bore and suffered at the time. Tonight I will bring you the note back. Forgive me. Let the Mechuten break off the match if he chooses. Let the woman fret away her years, so long as I am rid of the serpent that is gnawing at my heart and gives me no peace. I never before touched a ruble belonging to anyone else, and become a thief in my latter years I won't. Moisechofen did not answer him for a little while. He took out his snuff and had a pinch. Then he took out of the bosom of his robe a great red handkerchief. Wiped his nose and reflected a minute or two. Then he said quietly, If a match were broken off through me, I should be sorry. You certainly behaved as you should not have in taking the money without leave, but it is written, Judge not thy neighbour till thou hast stood in his place. You shall keep the hundred rubles. Come to night and bring me an IOU, and begin to repay me little by little. What are you, an angel? exclaimed Beryl, weeping. God forbid! replied Moisechofen quietly. I am what you are. You are a Jew, and I also am a Jew. End of Yom Kippur by Eliezer David Rosenthal Section 18 of Yiddish Tales This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 18 Isaiah Lerner, born 1861 in Zvonyak, Podolia, southwestern Russia. Co-editor of the Bibliothek Dos Laban, published at Odessa 1904 and Kishnev 1905. Betsy Vassafur by Isaiah Lerner The first night of Passover. It is already about 10 o'clock. Outside it is dark, wet, cold as the grave. A fine, close, sleety rain is driving down. A light, sharp, fitful wind blows, whistles, sighs and whines, and wanders round on every side like a returned and sinful soul seeking means to qualify for eternal bliss. The mud is very thick and reaches nearly to the waist. At one end of the town of Kamenevka, in the poor people's street, which runs along by the Mikva, it is darkest of all and muddiest. The houses there are small, low, and overhanging, tumbled together in such a way that there was no seeing where the mud begins and the dwelling ends. No gleam of light, even in the windows. Either the inhabitants of the street are all asleep, resting their tired bones and aching limbs, or else they all lie suffocated in the sea of mud, simply because the mud is higher than the windows. Whatever the reason, the street is quiet as a God's acre, and the darkness may be felt with the hands. Suddenly the dead stillness of the street is broken by the heavy tread of some ponderous creature walking and plunging through the Kamenevka mud, and there appears a tall, broad figure of a man. He staggers like one tipsy or sick, but he keeps on in a straight line at an even pace like one born and bred and doomed to die in the familiar mud, till he drags his way to a low, crouching house at the very end of the street, almost under the hillside. It grows lighter. A bright flame shines through the little window-pains. He has not reached the door before it opens, and a shaky, tearful voice full of melancholy pain and woe breaks the harshest second time this night. Bersi, is it you? Are you all right? So light! Has there been another accident, and the cart and the horse, Fusenin? All right, all right, a good Yontiff. His voice is rough, horse, and muffled. She lets him into the passage and opens the inner door, but scarcely is he conscious of the light, warmth, and cleanliness of the room, when he gives a strange, wild cry, takes one leap like a hair onto the eating couch spread for him on the red painted wooden sofa, and he lies already in a deep sleep. The whole dwelling, consisting of one nice, large, low room, is clean, tidy, and bright. The bits of furniture and all the household essentials are poor, but so clean and polished that one can mirror oneself in them if one cares to stoop down. The table is laid already for Passover, the bottles of red wine, the bottle of yellow Passover brandy, and the glass goblets of different colours reflect the light of the thick tallow candles, and shine and twinkle and sparkle. The oven, which stands in the same room, is nearly out. There is one sleepy little bit of fire still flickering, but the pots, ranged round the fire as though to watch over it and encourage it, exhale such delicious appetizing smells that they would tempt even a person who had just eaten his fill. But no one makes a move towards them. All five children lie stretched in a row on the red painted wooden bed. Even they have not tasted of the precious dishes, of which they have thought and talked for weeks previous to the festival. They cried loud and long, waiting for their father's return, and at last they went sweetly to sleep. Only one fly is moving about the room. Roktsy, Bertsy Vassifila's wife, and rivers of tears, large clear tears, salt with trouble and distress flow from her eyes. Although Roktsy has not seen more than 30 summers, she looks like an old woman. Once upon a time she was pretty, she was even known as one of the prettiest of the Kamanifka girls, and traces of her beauty are still to be found in her uncommonly large dark eyes, and even in her lined face, although the eyes have long lost their fire, and her cheeks their color and freshness. She is dressed in clean holiday attire, but her eyes are red from the hot salt tears, and her expression is darkened and sad. Such a festival, such a great holy festival, and then when it comes the pale lips tremble and quiver. How many days and nights, beginning before Purim, has she sat with her needle between her fingers so that the children should have their holiday frocks, and all depending upon her hands and head. How much thought and care and strength, as she spent on preparing the room, their poor little possessions and the food. How many were the days, Sabbaths accepted, on which they went without a spoonful of anything hot, so that they might be able to give a welcoming reception to that dear, great holiday visitor, the Passover. Everything, the Almighty forbid, that she should sin with her tongue of the best, ready and waiting. And then, after all, he, his sheepskin, his fur cap, his great boots, are soaked with rain and steeped with thick mud. And there, in this condition, lies he. Betsy Vassifura, her husband, her Passover king, like a great black lump, on the nice clean white draped eating couch, and snores. The brief tale I am telling you happened in the days before Kamenevka had joined itself, by means of the long, tall, and beautiful bridge, to the great high hill that has stood facing it from everlasting, thickly wooded, and watered by quantities of clear, crystal streams, which babble one to another day and night, and whisper with their running tongues of most important things. So long as the bridge had not been flung from one of the giant rocks to the other rock, the Kamenevka people had not been able to procure the good, wholesome water of the wild hill, and had to content themselves with the thick, impure water of the river Smotrich, which has flowed forever round the eminence on which Kamenevka was built. But man, and especially the Jew, gets used to everything, and the Kamenevka people, who are nearly all grandfather Abraham's grandchildren, had drunk Smotrich water all their lives, and were conscious of no grievance. But the lot of the Kamenevka water carriers was hard and bitter. Kamenevka stands high, almost in the air, and the river Smotrich runs deep down in the valley. In summer, when the ground is dry, it was bearable, for then the Kamenevka water carrier was merely bathed in sweat, as he toiled up the hill, and the Jewish breadwinner has been used to that for ages. But in winter, when the snow was deep and the frost tremendous, when the steep, scusny hill, with its clay soil was covered with ice, like a hill of glass, or when the great rains were pouring down, and the town, and especially the clay hills, are confounded with a deep, thick mud. Our Betsy Vassafura was more alive to the fascinations of this Parnasa, this livelihood, than any other water carrier. He was, as though in his own despite, a pious Jew, and a great man of his word, and he had to carry water for almost all the well-to-do householders. True that in face of all his good luck, he was one of the poorest Jews in the poor people's street. Only, eh! Lord of all the world, Reboina Shaloylam, may there never again be such a winter as there was then. Not the oldest man there could recall one like it. The snow came down in drifts, and never stopped. One could, and might have sworn on a scroll of the law, that the great Jewish God was angry with the Kamenevka Jews, and had commanded these angels to shovel down on Kamenevka all the snow that had laid up by in all the seven heavens, since the sixth day of creation, so that the sinful town might be a ruin, and a desolation, and the terrible fiery frosts. Frozen people were brought into town nearly every day. Ay, Jews! How Betsy Vassafurga struggled! What a time he had of it! Enemies of Tzion, it was nearly the death of him, and suddenly the snow began to stop falling all at once, and then things were worse than ever. There was a sea of water, an ocean of mud, and Passover coming on with great strides. For three days before Passover he had not come home to sleep. Who talks of eating, drinking, and sleeping? He and his man toiled a day and night, like six horses, like ten oxen. The last day before Passover was the worst of all. His horse suddenly came to the conclusion that sooner than live such a life, it would die. So it died, and vanished somewhere in the depths of the Kamenevka clay, and Betsy, the water carrier, and his man had to drag the cart with the great water barrels themselves the whole day till long after dark. It was already eleven, twelve, half past twelve at night, and Betsy's chest, throat, and nostrils continued to pipe, and to whistle, to sob, and to sigh. The room is colder and darker. The small fire in the oven went out long ago, and only little stumps of candles remain. Roxy walks and runs about the room. She weeps and rings her hands. But now she runs up to the couch by the table, and begins to rouse her husband with screams, and cries fit to make one's blood run cold, and their hair stand up in one's head. No, no, you are not going to sleep any longer, I tell you. Betsy, do you hear me? Get up, Betsy. Unto a Jew, a man, the father of children. Betsy, have you god in your heart? Betsy, have you said your prayers? My husband, what about the Seder? I won't have it. I feel very ill. I'm going to faint. Help, water. Have I forgotten somebody's water? Who's where? But Roxy is no longer in need of water. She beholds her king on his feet, and has revived without it. With her two hands, with all the strength she has, she holds him from falling back onto the couch. Don't you see, Betsy, the candles are burning down. The supper is cold and will spoil. I fancy it's already beginning to dawn. The children, long life to them, went to sleep without any food. Come, please, begin to prepare the Seder, and I will wake the two elder ones. Betsy stands bent double and treble. His breathing is laboured and loud. His face is smeared with mud, and swollen from the cold. His beard and earlocks are rough and bristly. His eyes sleepy and red. He looks strangely wild and unkempt. Betsy looks at Roxy at the table. He looks round the room and sees nothing. But now he looks at the bed. His little children, washed and in their holiday dresses, are all lying in a row across the bed. And he remembers everything, and understands what Roxy is saying, and what it is she wants him to do. Give me some water. I said Mincha and Mayoviv, by the way, while I was at work. I'm bringing it all ready. May God grant you a like happiness. Good health to you. Hershella, get up, my caddish. Father has come home already. Shmuaqil, my little son. Go and ask Father the Monistinah, hallelujah, has there. Betsy fills a goblet with wine, takes it up in his left hand, places it upon his right hand, and begins. His head goes round. We're going to show them, I'm a Jew. It grows dark before his eyes. The first night to pass over, I ought to make caddish. His feet fail him, as though they had been cut off. And I ought to give the sader, halakhma anya, rabbina shall Ilam. You know how it is. I can't do it. Have mercy. Forgive me. A nasty smell of sputtered-out candles fills the room. Roxy weeps. Betsy is back on the couch, and snores. Different sounds like the voices of winds, cattle and wild beasts, and the whir of a mill are heard in his snoring, and her weeping. It seems as if the whole room was sighing and quivering and shaking. End of Bertsy Vassafur by Isaiah Lerner. Section 19 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 19. Esri Elk the Scribe by Isaiah Lerner. Forty days before Esri Elk descended upon this sinful world, his life partner was proclaimed in heaven, and the heavenly council decided that he was to transcribe the books of the law, prayers, and mezuzas, for the Kabs and Ifka Jews, and thereby make a living for his wife and children. But the hard word went forth to him that he should not disclose this secret to anyone, and should even forget about it himself for a goodly number of years. A glance at Esri Elk told one that he had been well lectured with regard to some important matter, and was to tell no tales out of school. Even Minda, the Kazbanifka Bobby, testified to this. Neve, in all my life, all the time I've been bringing Jewish children into God's world, Thou know a child scream so loud at birth as Esri Elk, a sign that he had had it well rubbed into him. Either the angel who has been sent to Philip little children above the lips when they are being born was just then very sleepy, Esri Elk was born late at night, or someone had put him out of temper. But one way or another, little Esri Elk, the very first minute of his Jewish existence, caught such a blow that his top lip was all but split in two. After this kindly welcome, when God's angel himself had thus received Esri Elk, slaps, blows and stripes rained down upon his head, body and life, all through his days, without pause or ending. Esri Elk began to attend Haida when he was exactly three years old. His first teacher treated him very badly, beat him continually and took all the joy of his childhood from him. By the time this childhood of his had passed and he became married, he began to wear talisman to fill in on the day of his marriage. He was a very poor specimen, small, thin, stooping, and yellow as an egg pudding. His little face dark, dreary and wizened, like a dried lender herring. The only large, full things about him were his payas, which covered his whole face and his two blue eyes. He had about as much strength as a fly. He could not even break the wine glass under the marriage canopy by himself, and had to ask for help of Rembianckif Butz, the shamus of the old shul. Among the German Jews a boy like that would have been left unwed till he was sixteen or even seventeen, but our Esri Elk was married at thirteen, for his bride had been waiting for him seventeen years. It was this way. Reb Seinwall Basis, Esri Elk's father, and Reb Selik Taksit, his father-in-law, were Hostera Chassidim, and used to drive every year to spend the solemn days at the Hoster Rebbi's. They both, and not of you may it be spoken, lost all their children in infancy, and as you can imagine they pressed the Rebbi very closely on this important point, left him no peace, till he should bestow himself on their behalf, and exercise all his influence in the higher spheres. Once on Erev Yom Kippur, before daylight, after the Caporus, when the Rebbi long life to him was in somewhat high spirits, our Taksitim made another set upon him, but this time they had quite a new plan, and it simply had to work. Do you know what? Arrange a marriage between your children. Good luck to you. The whole company of Kassidim broke some plates, and actually drew up the Katuba, the marriage contract. It was a little difficult to draw up the contract, because they did not know which of our two friends would have the boy. The Rebbi long life to him was silent on this head, and which the girl, but a learned Jew is never at a loss, and they wrote out the Katuba with conditions. For three years running after this, their wives bore them each a child, but the children were either both boys or both girls, so that their vow to unite the Son of One to the daughter of the other born in the same year could not be fulfilled, and the documents lay on the shelf. True, the little couple was departed for the real world within the first month, but the Rebbi consoled the father by saying, We may be sure that they were not true Jewish children, that is, not true Jewish souls. The true Jewish soul once born into the world holds on, until, by means of various troubles and trials, it is cleansed from every stain. Don't worry, but wait. The fourth year the Rebbi's words were established. Reb Selik Taksit had a daughter born to him, and Reb Seymour Bassis Ezrielk. Hanala Ezrielk's bride was tall when they married as a young fir tree, beautiful as the sun, clever as the day is bright, and whiter snow with sky blue star-like eyes. Her hair was the colour of ripe corn. In a word she was as fair as Abigail, and our mother Rachel in one, winning as Queen Esther, pious as Leia, and as upright as our grandmother Sarah. But although the bride was beautiful, she found no fault with her bridegroom. On the contrary, she esteemed it a great honour to have him for a husband. All the Capscanifka girls envied her, and every Capscanifka woman who was expecting desired with all her heart that she might have such a son as Ezrielk. The reason is quite plain. First, what true Jewish maiden looks for beauty in her bridegroom? Secondly, our Ezrielk was as full of excellencies as a pomegranate is of seeds. His teachers had not broken his bones for nothing. The blows had been of great and lasting good to him. Even before his wedding, Seymour Basis's Ezrielk was deeply versed in the Torah, and could solve the hardest questions so that you might have made a rabbi out of him. He was, moreover, a great scribe. His, in honour ofs, and his blessed bees, were known not only in Capscanifka, but all over Kemenifka. And as for his singing, when Ezrielk began to sing, poor people forgot their hunger, thirst and need. The sick, their aches and pains, the Capscanifka Jews in general, their bitter exile. He mostly sang unfamiliar tunes and whole things. Where did you get them, Ezrielk? The little Ezrielk would open his eyes. He kept them shut while he sang his two big blue eyes, and answer, wonderingly, Don't you hear how everything sings? After a little while, when Ezrielk had been singing so well and so sweetly and so wonderfully that the Capscanifka Jews began to feel too happy, people fell a-thinking, and they grew extremely uneasy and disturbed in their minds. It's not all so simple as it looks. There is something behind it. Suppose a not-good one had introduced himself into the child, which God forbid. It would do no harm to take him to the Alice Kevrabi, long life to him. As good luck would have it, the Hoster Rebbe came along just then to Capscanifka, and after all, Ezrielk belonged to him. He was born through the merit of the Rebbe's miracle-working, so the Chassidim told him the story. The Rebbe, long life to him, sent for him. Ezrielk came and began to sing. The Rebbe listened a long, long time to his sweet voice, which rang out like a hundred thousand crystals and gold bells into every corner of the room. Do not be alarmed. He may, and he must sing. He gets his tunes there, where he got his soul. And Ezrielk sang cheerful tunes till he was ten years old. That is, till he fell into the hands of the teacher, Rebiankel Vitis. Now the end and object of Rebiankel's teachings was not merely that his pupils should know a lot, and know it well. Of course, we know that the Jew only enters this sinful world in order that he may more or less perfect himself, and that it is, therefore, needful that he should, and indeed he must, sit day and night over the Torah and the commentaries. Rebiankel Vitis' course of instruction began and ended with trying to imbue his pupils with a downright, genuine, Jewish, chassidic enthusiasm. The first day Ezrielk entered his hayda, Rebiankel lifted his long, thick lashes, and began, while he gazed fixedly at him, to shake his head, saying to himself, no, no, he won't do like that. There is nothing wrong with the vessel, a goodly vessel. Only the wine is still very sharp, and the ferment is too strong. He is too cocky, too lively for me. I wonder too, for he's been in good hands. Tell me, weren't you under both moisture, Eusis? And it's a pity when you come to think that such a goodly vessel should be wasted. Yes, he wants treating in quite another way. And Rebiankel Vitis set himself seriously to the task of shaping and working up Ezrielk. Rebiankel was not in the least concerned when he beat a pupil, and the latter cried and screamed at the top of his voice. He knew what he was about, and he was convinced that when one beat, and it hurts, even a Jewish child, which must needs get used to blows, may cry and scream, and the more the better. It showed that his method of instruction was taking effect. And when he was thrashing Ezrielk, and the boy cried and yelled, Rebiankel would tell him, That's right, that's the way, cry, scream, louder still, that's the way to get a truly contrite Jewish heart. You sing too merrily for me. A true Jew should weep, even while he sings. When Ezrielk came to be twelve years old, his teacher declared that he might begin to recite the prayers in Shul before the congregation, as he now had within him that which be seems a good chesidic Jew. So Ezrielk began to dove in in the Kazbanivka Old Shul, and a crowd of people, not only from Kabsganivka, but also from Kabanivka, and Ibyonkanivka used to fill and encircle the shul to hear him. Rebiankel was not mistaken. He knew what he was saying. Ezrielk was indeed fit to daven. Life and the joy of life had vanished from his singing, and the terrible weeping and fearful wailing of a nation's two thousand years of misfortune might be heard and felt in his voice. Ezrielk was very weakly, and too young to lead the service often. But what a stir he caused when he lifted up his voice in the shul. Kabsganivka, Kabanivka, Ibyonivka will never forget the first Dumeepnecha Toinu led by the twelve-year-old Ezrielk, standing before the presenter's desk in a long, wide talus. The men, women and children who were listening inside and outside the Old Shul, felt a shudder go through them. Their hair stood on end, and their hearts wept and fluttered in their breasts. At the time when Ezrielk was distinguishing himself on this fashion with his chanting, the Jewish doctor from Kamanivka happened to be in the place. He saw the crowd round the Old Shul, and he went in. As you may suppose, he was much longer in coming out. He was simply riveted to the spot, and it was said that he rubbed his eyes more than once while he listened and looked. On coming away, he told them to bring Ezrielk to see him on the following day, saying that he wished to see him and would take no fee. Next day Ezrielk came with his mother to the doctor's house. A blow has struck me, a thunder has killed me, Rebiankel, do you know what the doctor said? You silly woman, don't scream so. He cannot have said anything bad about Ezrielk. What is the matter? Did you hear him intone the Gomorrah, or perhaps sing? Don't cry and lament like that. Rebiankel, what are you talking about? The doctor said that my Ezrielk is in danger, that he's ill, that he hasn't a sound organ. His heart, his lungs are all sick. Every little bone in him is broken. He mustn't sing or study. The mikvah will be his death. He must have a long cure. He must be sent away for air. God, he said to me, has given you a precious gift, such as heaven and earth might envy. Will you go and bury it with your own hands? And you were frightened and believed him? Nonsense. I've had Ezrielk in my cater two years. Do I want him to come and tell me what goes on in there? If he were really a good doctor and had one drop of Jewish blood left in his veins, wouldn't he know that every true Jew has a sick heart, a bad lung, broken bones, and deformed limbs, and is well and strong in spite of it, because the Holy Torah is the best medicine for all sickness, and he wants Ezrielk to give up learning and the mikvah. Do you know what? Go home and send Ezrielk to Haida at once. The Kamanivka doctor made one or two more attempts at alarming Ezrielk's parents. He sent his assistant to them more than once, but it was no use, for after what Rev Yankel had said, nobody would hear of any doctoring. So Ezrielk continued to study the Talmud, and occasionally to lead the service in Shul, like the Hasidic child he was, had a dip nearly every morning in the mikvah, and at thirteen, good luck to him, he was married. The Hostra Rebbe himself honoured the wedding with his presence. The Rebbe, long life to him, was fond of Ezrielk, almost as though he had been his own child. The whole time the saint stayed in Kamskonivka, Kamanivka, and Ebyonivka, Ezrielk had to be near him. When they told the Rebbe the story of the doctor, he remarked, It what do they know? And Ezrielk continued to recite the prayers after his marriage, and to sing as before, and was the delight of all who heard him. Agreeably to the Katuba, Ezrielk and his Khanala had a double right to board with their parents for ever. When they were born, and the written arrangements were filled in, each was an only child, and both Rebbe Seinwil and Rebbe Selik undertook to board them for ever. True, when the parents wedded their one and only children, they had both of them a household of little ones, and no Parnasa, no living, they really hadn't. But they did not go back upon their word with regard to the board for ever. Of course it is understood that the two everlasting boards lasted nearly one whole year, and Ezrielk and his wife might well give thanks for not having died of hunger in the course of it, such a bad, bitter year as it was for their poor parents. It was the year of the great flood, when both Rebbe Seinwil Bassis and Rebbe Selik, had their houses ruined. Ezrielk, Khanala, and their little son had to go and shift for themselves, but the other inhabitants of Kabsganivka, regardless of this, now began to envy them in earnest. What other couple of their age, with a child, and without a fathering, could so easily make a livelihood as they? Hardly had it come to the ears of the three towns that Ezrielk was seeking a Parnasa, a living, when they were all a stir. All the shawls called meetings, and sought for means and money whereby they might entice the wonderful chazan and secure him for themselves. There was great excitement in the shawls. Fancy finding, in a little, thin, Jewish lad, all the rare and precious qualities that go to make a great kantoor. The trustees of all the shawls ran about day and night, and a fierce war broke out among them. The war raged five times twenty-four hours till the great shawl of Kavenivka carried the day. Not one of the others could have dreamed of offering such a salary. Three hundred rubles, and everything found. God is my witness! Thus Ezrielk opened his heart as he sat afterwards, with the company of Hostre Chassidim over a little glass of brandy, that I find it very hard to leave our old shawl where my grandfather and great-grandfather used to pray. Believe me, brothers, I would not do it, only they give me one hundred and fifty rubles earnest money, and I want to pass it on to my father and father-in-law, so that they may rebuild their houses. To your health, brothers, drink to my remaining and honest due, and wish that my head may not be turned by the honour done to me. And Ezrielk began to dove in and to sing, again without a choir in the great shawl in the large town of Kavenivka. There he entoned the prayers as he had never done before, and showed who Ezrielk was. The old shawl in Kavenivka had been like a little box for his voice. In those days Ezrielk and his household lived in happiness and plenty, and he and Khanala enjoyed the respect and consideration of all men. When Ezrielk led the service, the shawl was filled to overflowing, and not only with Jews, even the richest Gentiles, I beg to distinguish, came to hear him, and wondered how such a small and weakly creature as Ezrielk, with his thin chest and throat, could bring out such wonderful tunes and whole compositions of his own. Money fell upon the lucky couple through circumcisions, weddings, and so on, like snow. Only one thing began, little by little, to disturb their happiness, as Ezrielk took to coughing, and then to spitting blood. He used to complain that he often felt a kind of pain in his throat and chest, but they did not consult a doctor. What a doctor? fumed rare yankle, nonsense. It hurts does it, wears the wonder. A carpenter, a smith, a tailor, a shoemaker works with his hands and his hands hurt. Cantors and teachers and matchmakers work with their throat and chest, and these hurt. They are bound to do so. It is simply hemorrhoids. So Ezrielk went on intoning and chanting, and the Kamenivka Jews licked their fingers and nearly jumped out of their skin for joy when they heard him. Two years passed in this way, and then came a change. It was early in the morning of Tisha Ba'av, the fast of the destruction of the temple. All the windows of the great shul were open, and all the tables, benches and desks had been carried out from the men's hall and the women's hall the evening before. Men and women sat on the floor, so closely packed a pin could not have fallen on the floor between them. The whole street in which was the old shul was chucked full with a terrible crowd of men, women and children. Although it just happened to be cold, wet weather, the fact is Ezrielk's lamentations had long been famous throughout the Jewish world in those parts, and whoever had ears, a Jewish heart and sound feet came that day to hear him. The sad epidemic disease that, not of our days may be spoken, Swallow's men up, was devastating Kamenivka and its surroundings that year, and everyone sought a place and hour wherein to weep out his oppressed and bitter heart. Ezrielk also sat on the floor reciting Echa lamentations, but the man who sat there was not the same Ezrielk, and the voice heard was not his. Ezrielk, with his sugar-sweet, honeyed voice, had suddenly been transformed into a strange being with a voice that struck terror into his hearers. The whole people saw, heard, and felt how a strange creature was flying about among them with a fiery sword in hand. He slashes, hues, and hacks at their hearts, and with a terrible voice he cries out and asks, Sinners, where is your holy land that flowed with milk and honey? Slaves, where is your temple? A cursed slave, you sold your freedom for money and Calmini for honors and worldly greatness. The people trembled and shook, and were all but entirely dissolved in tears. Upon Zion and her cities sang out once more Ezrielk's melancholy voice, and suddenly something snapped in his throat, just as when the strings of a good fiddle snap when the music is at its best. Ezrielk coughed and was silent. A stream of blood poured from his throat, and he grew white as the wall. The doctor declared that Ezrielk had lost his voice forever, and would remain hoarse for the rest of his life. Nonsense! persisted Reb Yankel, his voice is breaking, it's nothing more. God will help, was the comment of the Hoster Tzadik. A whole year went by, and Ezrielk's voice neither broke nor returned to him. The Hoster Chassidim assembled in the house of Elkeneh the Butcher to consider and take counsel as to what Ezrielk should take to in order to earn a livelihood for wife and children. They thought it over a long, long time, talked and gave their several opinions till they hit upon this. Ezrielk had still one hundred and fifty rubles in store. Let him spend one hundred rubles on a house in Kapsonivka and begin to traffic with the remainder. Thus Ezrielk became a trader. He began driving to fairs and traded in anything and everything capable of being bought or sold. Six months were not over before Ezrielk was out of pocket. He mortgaged his property, and with the money thus obtained, he opened a grocery shop for Khanala. He himself, nothing satisfies a Jew, started to drive about in the neighborhood to collect the contributions subscribed for the maintenance of the Hoster Rebbe long life to him. Ezrielk was five months on the road, and when torn, worn, and penniless he returned home, he found Khanala brought to bed of her fourth child, and the shop bare of wear and equally without a grotion. But Ezrielk was now something of a trader, and is there any straight in which a Jewish trader has not found himself? Ezrielk had soon disposed of the whole of his property, paid his debts, rented a larger lodging, and started trading in several new and more ambitious lines. He pickled gherkins, cabbages, and pumpkins, made borscht, both red and white, and offered them for sale, and so on. It was Khanala again who had to carry on most of the business, but then Ezrielk did not sit with his hands in his pockets. Towards Passover he had Shmora Motsas. He baked and sold them to the richest households in Kamenevka, and before the solemn days he, as an expert, tried and recommended cantors and prayer-leaders for the Kamenevka shawls. When it came to Sukkos he trafficked in citrons and palmfronds. For three years Ezrielk and his Khanala struggled at their trades, working themselves nearly to death, of Zion's enemies be it spoken till with the help of heaven they came to be twenty years old. By this time Ezrielk and Khanala were the parents of four living and two dead children. Khanala, the one so lovely Khanala, looked like a beaten Hashana, and Ezrielk, you remember the picture drawn at the time of his wedding, well then try to imagine what he was like now after those seven years we have described for you. It's true he was not spitting out blood any more, either because Reb Yankal had been right when he said that that would pass away, or because there was not a drop of blood left in the whole of his body. So that was all right. Only how were they to live? Even Reb Yankal and all the Hostrah Hasidim together could not tell him. The singing had raised him and lifted him off his feet, and let him fall. Do you know why it was and how it was that everything Ezrielk took to turned out badly? It was because the singing was always there in his head and his heart. He prayed and studied singing. He bought and sold singing. He sang day and night. No one heard him because he was hoarse, but he sang without ceasing. Was it likely he would be a successful trader when he was always listening to what heaven and earth and everything around him were singing to? He only wished that he could have been a Shoikat or a rabbi. He was apt enough at study. Only first Rabonim and slaughterers don't die every day, and second they usually leave heirs to take their places. Third, even supposing there were no such heirs, one has to pay privilege money, and where does it come from? No, there was nothing to be done. Only God could and must have pity on him and his wife and children, and help them somehow. Ezrielk struggled and fought his need hard enough those days. One good thing for him there was, his being a Hostre Chassid. The Hostre Chassidim, although they have been famed from everlasting as the direst poor among the Jews, yet they divide their last mouthful with their unfortunate brethren. But what can the gifts of mortal men and of such poor ones into the bargain do in a case like Ezrielk's? And God alone knows what a bitter end would have been if Rebschmiel Bar, the Kapsgenivka scribe, had not just then Baruch Dianemes met with a sudden death. Our Ezrielk was not long in feeling that he and only he should, and indeed must, step into Rebschmiel's shoes. Ezrielk had been an expert at the scribe's work for years and years, why his father's house and the scribe's had been nearly under one roof, and whenever Ezrielk as a child was let out of Haida he would go and sit any length of time in Rebschmiel's room. Something in the occupation attracted him and watched him write. And the little Ezrielk had more than once tried to make a piece of parchment out of a scrap of skin, and what Jewish boy cannot prepare the veins that are used to sew the phylacteries and the scrolls of the law, nor was the scribe's ink a secret to Ezrielk. So Ezrielk became scribe in Kapsgenivka. Of course he did not make a fortune. Rebschmiel Bar, who had been a sofa all his days, died a very poor man, and left a room full of hungry half-naked children behind him. But then what a Jew I ask you, or has the Mashiach come ever expected to find a panosah with enough, really enough, to eat. End of Ezrielk the scribe by Isaiah Lerner.